Today is, almost to the day, the one-year anniversary of the first time W and I met. And what a year it’s been! I started this blog soon after that auspicious beginning, and have chronicled our relationship and many of the things we have done in that time, right here. I never posted on the first play date we had, though. At the time, it was so new and scary, I couldn’t even bring myself to write it out here. What if my friends saw? What would they think of how it had all come about? They’d tell me I was crazy.
It wasn’t that I was new to the lifestyle, not at all. But I had never simply given up control to anyone else the way I had, almost immediately, with W. It just felt right. Even as my logical mind said, “go slow, be cautious,” this other part of me responded instinctively to him, and I have never once regretted that choice.
That first meet, I was properly safety-minded. We met at a restaurant; I had a friend with me. He was a perfect gentleman, and we talked and laughed and all those things that had drawn me to him via email were borne out in person. It was all safe, sane and consensual…well, except when my friend left me there alone with him to conclude our date and he and I went out into the dark, empty parking lot. And then things got interesting, and all those other things that had drawn me to him in his emails, that hint of danger, that glimpse of the dark edges that lived in him and in me, well, those were borne out too.
In trying to figure out when exactly our actual anniversary date was, I ran across an early exchange of emails. Before I share the details of our first play date, I want to share parts of one of those first email exchanges, give you an idea of what I mean by all that above.
So I had some time to myself yesterday evening, and…perused [Bondage Demons], with particular curiosity about your [pictures] (of course). This was the first time I’d actually seen some of the things, some of the “darker” side of you, and what you have done with/to others. I had a lot of mixed reactions…!
The first reaction was “flight.” “Oh my god, what have I got myself into, I can’t do that, and even if I could I don’t want to!” And, “I just want to play, and I don’t like to be hurt, and I just want kinky sex!” And a couple more, “OH MY GOD what have I got myself into??” So yeah, straight-up panic-mode.
In addition to those thoughts, I realized that what I have been doing, and what I have had done to me in the past, has been nothing even close to the types of scenes, the length and intensity and sheer brutality of some of the scenes you have done. That I have played “without safewords” has only been b/c those I have played with are playing, using it (even pain) as play, as teasing, and I have always known they would never go further than what I wanted/could handle. It’s easy to say, “I don’t need a safeword” when I know that I never WILL need a safeword, because it’ll never get to that point. If I said to A, or even to L (who was a lot more intense) when they were playing with me, “Okay no, that’s it, I can’t go further, that is TOO much,” I knew they would stop. But more likely they would never get me to that point anyway.
And I also got to thinking about when you asked me about public play and private. I realized (looking at that “Chains” scene you did) that when I play privately, I am doing it because I know the “reward” for it in the end is that I am going to get fucked, or perform a sexual act, and/or get loved on, that that is the purpose of that scene, that sex–and connection–is what it revolves around. That is always the “connection” in private play for me. If we were playing privately that intensely (and maybe that isn’t intense to you, I don’t know), well, I’d be scared to death.
Scared of the pain, and what more you might do, and of not being able to deal with it, and of things like, “What if those weights rip the rings right through my labia?” Or, “What if I can’t breath in that gag and that mask?” What if what you want really is that much farther/harder/crueler than what I want–how do I know that, how do I know where it will stop? And I was also scared because I don’t see the “humanizing” element in all that…the connection that makes going there, doing that, “okay” in my head. The limitations in only seeing a few photos is that I can’t see how you interact with her, I can’t hear what you say to her, I can’t know the connection you have with each other.
From my perspective…the reason I scene with someone is the connection I have during that scene with whomever I am sceneing with (which usually manifests itself sexually, but not always. Sometimes it comes out in loving aftercare, in touches or words or actions that let me know that I/we’re okay, and what I have done is good.) Maybe that is why you talked to me about how G wants to be objectified…perhaps that is part of it….that she really isn’t connected to you during a scene like that? Or maybe she/you are, but I just can’t see it because I only see a few photos.
And I thought about public sceneing, and realized that the kinds of things I am willing/able to do/endure are more intense/different in public play, because then it is an exhibition, and rather than getting what I need from the sexual connection between me and whomever I am playing with, I am getting it from something else entirely…knowing I am pleasing the Top by “putting on a good show” for him/her, knowing I am the center of attention and people are admiring his “handiwork” and my willingness to go there, etc. It’s a totally different feeling. I still don’t know if I could endure what you put her thru in that one scene, but I do know it would be a lot easier mentally to do in a public scene.
I thought that maybe I am not really the right person for you to scene with. I don’t know if I can do those things…and I don’t like pain that much…and in order to get to that point, if I ever could, I think I’d have to be deep in willing submission to that person, not just bottoming, otherwise I’d just as likely say, “Fuck no. Ouch. Nope, not going there.” And if I was to get anywhere near there, it would probably take a LONG time of working with me, of building trust, and building depth in a relationship. Maybe that isn’t anywhere you want to go.
So…I sound pretty freaked out, I am sure. I am actually not so much, now (no, really!) That was all last night, all my initial reactions. I waited til this morning to email you because I didn’t want to just vomit up everything as I was thinking/feeling them. And I knew by today I would have some control back to my racing thoughts… But I also wanted to share those thoughts with you (well I have to because maybe you will read all this and realize we aren’t that suited as play partners.) Actually, as I write this, I realize that I was thinking last night that I didn’t want to go any farther, that I’d just say, “Um, thanks but no thanks,” but already, today, that is not where my thoughts are. Mixed reactions, indeed.
So…? What do you think? Have I totally disappointed you??
He responded with:
I think we are perfect for each other.Remember when I said it’s all about the girl? I mean that. I get off on getting you off – whatever form that takes.
[Lots of good stuff cut having to do with other play partners. Needful for me to have read, but not appropriate for me to share here.]
We will find our own style. I’m willing to bet our scenes will be every bit as spectacular as what you’ve seen on the site. I also bet (and hope) that they will involve lots of sex. Things will happen to you. But they will be your encounters. My objective is to get into your head and share some really intimate and thrilling things with you. At first you may say “Fuck no. Ouch. Nope, not going there.” And I’ll respect that, and perhaps over time we’ll explore why and after more trust and closeness has developed go there again. Or not.
I still feel I will be able to read you. If not we will use safewords until I can. I also bet you won’t need to use them because I’ll know when to back off. But we did talk about that edge thing.
So why are we perfect for each other? We get each other, we like each other and we will find out own unique style of play that is hot for both of us.
And we did, and we do, and we are. And it has been the most amazing fucking year of my life.
Shortly after that email exchange, I went over to his house, and we played for the first time. Sans further negotiations, sans safeword. Following, as chronicled on Bondage Demons, is an account of that first encounter. You can go check out the full pics and more stories about those early encounters by going there and clicking on “Jade.”
I show up, and he does things to me.There are all those things people talk about: negotiations, “safe sane consensual,” safecalls and safewords and even consent, and really, they mean nothing. I show up, and he does things to me.
I don’t ask what he’s going to do. We don’t talk about what’s okay and what’s not. I don’t say this or that is a “hard limit,” in fact we never had a conversation about limits. There is no safeword, there aren’t any negotiations. If I don’t like what happens to me, I suppose I won’t go back. Or maybe I will anyway.
It began like this.
One day I came to his house. It’s an old house, in a “recovering” part of the city, a house where screams might not seem that out of place. He invites me in. There is a moment, as I stand on his porch, when I hesitate. I don’t know this man. No one knows I am here. All I know is that he wants to tie me up and do things to me, things that will probably hurt me, possibly degrade me, and maybe, if I am very very lucky, transform me.
He doesn’t know it is transformation that I seek. Or perhaps he does. Perhaps, like me, he seeks transformation as well.
I step inside.
It’s possible that I thought there might be more “conventional” conversation once I was inside. We would talk about what we liked and didn’t like, what he wanted to do to me, what I would allow and not allow, maybe throw that “red, yellow, green” thing in there. Maybe I would have some sense of “choice”, even though we would both know that I had none. There are conventions to be observed, after all.
None of those things happened. He knew and I knew I made my choice when I walked through the door, and that was the only choice or consent there would be.
I remember him standing behind me, his hands on my neck, light and firm, and then he was shoving a ball gag in my mouth and tightening the strap around my head. It was that simple. No more talking (had there been any?) no more choice. He put handcuffs on my wrists and he put a thick, heavy chain around my neck, locked it, and chained me to a bolt in the floor.
And then he left me there, without a word (except, maybe, “Don’t go anywhere,” with a kind of quirk to his mouth that I have come to know well.)
I had a pillow to sit on. I thought about myself as a dog, and wondered if that would be my role. I didn’t want to be a dog. I wanted to be beaten and fucked.
Handcuffs…they are cold and hard and though they are circular and appear smooth, they have edges, and no matter how you try to keep your hands still they grind against the delicate bones in your wrists, not softly, not gliding, but unforgiving, causing bruises to bloom beneath the skin and raw spots to open before you know it. I looked down at them, hanging heavy on my wrists, felt the links in the chain heavy and implacable around my neck, and felt my first fissure of true uncertainty.
I was afraid of a man that liked something so cold, so unnatural, so—ugly. Because they are. Not beautiful, elegant, sensuous, in spite of their silver color, their smooth appearance. These are meant to hold you and humble you and make you feel helpless and small, and they did.
He came back with a camera. I knew he “might” want to take pictures, he had said so, and I had seen pictures of other women he had tortured, though they had scared me so I had only glanced at them and then away, like looking at the blinding glare of a blowtorch out of the sides of your eyes…you have to look because you can’t not look, even knowing the consequences.
There were ropes on my wrists then, and then there was a hood over my head. I think there is part of me that has blanked out the hood…the feeling of it going over my head, the realization that it WAS going over my head, executioner-style. And then…the stairs…endless rickety downward stairs, his hands on my arms, helping me to negotiate down them blind, with my hands tied and a ballgag in my mouth and my head in a hood and my breath coming hard because suddenly I am so damn afraid…afraid of him, afraid of the stairs (terrified of the stairs, memories of that hard “accidental” shove backwards, of falling and not being able to stop, hands scrabbling against the wall and) and then I am down on the ground and it must be the basement and of course I think of women killed in basements and I laugh at myself, though the fear is there on the edge of thought. (“But how could he hurt me again, use me again, if he kills me?” I think, and am content with that logic, because I know he wants me, I know he wants to use me and tie me up and hurt me and fuck me, and so I am, absurdly, “safe.”)
And besides, I’ve seen pictures of women he has tortured, and I know what I really need to fear is pain.
Because here is the truth: I don’t like pain. You will think this is a lie, when you see more, when you get to know me, when you see what I have allowed to be done to me, what I return for and ask for, simply by being there, again and again. You will think I must love pain, but you will be wrong. I hate it and fear it. I cry and I cringe and I whimper and…eventually, I beg. Sometimes…I beg for more. But that is for later, when you have gotten to know me better, when you really truly want to know more.
So yes, I was afraid, though not properly of the right things (like being in some stranger’s basement, bound and gagged, unable to defend myself.) I was afraid of being hurt. Now, though, I am more afraid, because I know what he can do, and he knows what I can do, and he knows me well enough to know how and when to push me, even when I don’t know myself. And he knows that I will keep coming back, even if he does push me.
Maybe what I am most afraid of is myself, and that I will keep coming back.