Driving east, I’m oddly at ease. Bryan is the most honest man I’ve ever met and he’s in his element on a night like this. Confidence soothes my nerves. I have every right be apprehensive. As transformative moments go, this party has potential to make the Top 5. Not that I keep track of that sort of thing. (Puberty, Yoga, Prozac, Storytelling, Driving alone across America – if you do keep track of that sort of thing.) Tonight is a friendly gathering of kinksters at my leather daddy’s house. Four days ago I texted Marten, “If you wanna tie me up Saturday night and make me a party favor for select guests it would make my weekend ;-)” 

That’s as far as my mind has truly explored the concept. My curiosity falls on a fine line between objectification and humiliation. Most pornography we enjoy is an exaggerated version of the truth. Real sex is ugly and boring compared to the media we consume. I’m a conceptual person. I’d rather live one great night that I can fantasize about for weeks than get laid more often the regular way. Moving to Seattle freshly divorced and completely alone is the best time to figure out exactly what I want. Finding someone I trust enough for this particular fantasy this soon took me by surprise. It all started with the hair.

I met Marten on Tinder. He’s the equivalent of kink royalty and looks the part in his profile. Not overt or eager, his pictures are sincere and he confidently states he can entertain curiosity with a variety of kinks. No sales pitch or seduction. He doesn’t need it. Even discloses his actual age (53, for those that keep track of that sort of thing). Shaving is the part that caught my eye. At the time, I remembered fondly when my boyfriend in college tenderly shaved my pubis because I was afraid of cutting myself. That memory is how I ended up with my first mohawk. Tonight the sides of my head have a soft fur similar to a horse’s nose.

Pulling up the house, the nerves catch up with me. Usually, I drink alcohol to prep for social situations but my gut knew better this time. I prepared the same way I do for an LSD trip – light meal, hydration and some decent indica (or xanex, if you’re so inclined). A shot of whiskey would loosen up my nerves but also my platelets. Not ideal before repeatedly impacting the body and I already bruise like a peach. Tonight is the first time I’m not putting limits to the marks left on my body. The goal is to find out what my skin can take.

It’s only 8:30 and the adults-only part of the night starts at 9pm. I didn’t research the appropriate attire for this social situation, so I went with tradition – tits and tight jeans. At the last minute I decided to put on a pretty bra, in a fit of demureness. My ample breasts look younger and perkier in a boulder holder. Tonight, I want to feel sexy. At nine on-the-dot Marten sidles up to me and whispers, “I have everything set up for you downstairs,” beaming a smile, he continues, “who would you like to invite?”

I gulp and squeak, “You mean me?” He nods. My heart seizes. I assumed Marten would take care of all the arrangements. It took me 30 minutes compose my vaguely worded text. I’m not prepared to be more specific. I should have known better. The first rule of kink is consent and a proper top won’t willingly hit me without hearing me ask. I nervously list the people I’d like to invite and let Marten know how much it scares me. To compromise I’m allowed to ask Trinity, a gorgeous 28-year old, if she will proxy my invites to most of the guests. When it comes to Sir, I am required to extend my own formal invitation. That’s what I get for hanging out with royalty.

I already know why the idea scares me. There’s one specific person at the party I didn’t anticipate. A mythical creature in my world, I’ve seen Sir at the sex club before. He was always with other people and some interest was cast my way. The attention of such a powerful person is titillating but I remained aloof, having met Marten by then. If I learned anything at the sex club it’s that you shouldn’t look eager. With a moniker of Sparrowhawk I know not to let down my guard. I am many things but never intend to be someone’s prey.

Sir is attended by a beautifully androgynous young thing. The type of person I am attracted to and have no idea what to do with. Marten attends the conversation as my support. After all the cotillion training I expected to be better at this. Facing Sir is the first time I notice he’s shorter than me. I feel my femininity more strongly in that moment than ever before. Standing between us like a referee, Marten says it is customary to engage over a compliment appropriate to the length of the relationship. I open with, “Hello Sir, it’s wonderful to see you after such a long time.”

Smiling, he accepts my overture with a polite smile. Marten instructs me to explain what I am looking for and extend a verbal invitation to join. This is the part making me nervous. Talking is something I’m usually good at. I never expected my sexual repression to have such a strong hold over me. I face forward and begin a sentence where I choose my words slowly, like selecting produce at the market. Pausing every few seconds I stutter, “Would you… like to join us downstairs… where I am… hoping… to be tied up… and subjected to various forms of impact play.”

Marten prompts, “Is that all you are looking for?”

I glance at him with a pained expression, “How specific do I need to be?”

“If you can’t ask for what you want, you’ll never get it,” he says with a tsking lilt.

I turn back to Sir and take a deep breath. All at once, sputtering, “I would also like for people to put things inside my vagina and stimulate me until I have many orgasms.”

Sir’s eyes light up at that moment. He says, “May I ask you a few questions before I respond to your invitation?”

At this, I relax. I can assent to being honest without even glancing at Marten. Sir then gives me a list of Yes or No questions reminiscent of 50 Shades but much more practical. With the austerity of a doctor, he ascertains my mental and physical condition while touching on any hard limits and safe words. It’s the interview I’ve been preparing for all my life. When asked I confess, “There was whiskey in my coffee at 4pm today.” Sir looks to Marten and gets the nod that this is within acceptable limits. In this moment I know why I didn’t drink.

The last question is very direct, “Are there any areas of your body that are off limits?” a rubber glove snapping in place as he asks. Without hesitation I stammer, “I would prefer if nothing goes in my anus. Please.” A glimmer of disappointment, followed with understanding. I’d thought about this question in advance. I’m familiar with the stimulation potential inside that sphincter but don’t need to push my limits in an already overwhelming situation. If things go well there’s opportunity for more in the future.

Once everyone has accepted their invitation I’m told we can go downstairs. I scurry into the secret back room ahead of everyone. I want to see what “all set up for me” means. Peeking inside, the red lights are on and there’s one white light illuminating a crosshatch leather sling in the center of the room. I inhale sharply, somehow surprised. I don’t know what I expected but getting put in a sex hammock is beyond my wildest dreams. Marten knows what I want better than I do. I’m tip-toeing around the space hiding my silly grin when the rest of the party walks in.

Marten takes the lead immediately and asks me jovially, “So do you just want to be tied up or do you want to be wrestled around a little first?”

My cockiness is spurred by the audience and I assert loudly that wrestling sounds fun. Marten immediately sweeps my legs and knocks the breath out of me with a controlled take-down onto the padded floor. A rush of fear and endorphins overtakes me. Swallowing my panic because I know I won’t get hurt, I also don’t struggle. My submissive identity involves doing what I’m told to the best of my ability. I want to please and avoid further punishment. It creates a great emotional dynamic when I’m asked to do things beyond my measure. I don’t stop until I’ve reached a state of pure exhaustion. That’s when I can truly let go.

Of course, understanding myself this well doesn’t make the current intensity easier. My relationship with Marten provides security even during something that scary. Roughly strips me down, he mentions my jeans look too new to cut off of me. So when he comes across my thong I teasingly chirp, “Well, you can cut that off if you want.”

“Oh really?” He flips me over onto my back to face him. Holding a pocket knife right in front of my face he slowly clicks it open. Watching my reaction carefully as he handles the blade Marten drags the sharp edge softly against my cheek. My breathing is shallow and quick. I don’t like knives. The cold blade travels along my chest, between the breasts and across my stomach. A slight scratching sensation lets me know the knife is sharp. By the time he reaches my crotch I’m trembling.

A loving stroke along the inside thigh before he catches the crotch of my panties with the blade’s tip. Putting his hand against my belly he instructs me to hold very still. Twist and yank, I feel a slight wedgie before the fabric splits open with a pop. Releasing a breath I didn’t know I was holding, I assume he’s done. Then the hand on my stomach pushes down and he quickly catches and pop the elastic waistband all in one motion. The surprise makes me yelp and then I’m giggling at my own reaction. Marten smiles and pockets his knife.

So far the other party guests are only spectators. Their reticence probably derives from my own inexperience.  Just having a group of people watching me is erotic, it’s not always about level of participation. Having me naked, Marten begins his specialty, tying me up. A rope aficionado he requests an assistant to help hold me down. This is more for my comfort than his. Sir takes this opportunity to have a seat and cradle my head against his crotch. I can feel his thick, soft cock against my cheek. I nuzzle in and he clamps the back of my head firmly. Marten manhandles me like a rag doll but I have no time to notice while I breath hard into Sir’s crotch.

Strung up with only my left toes touching the ground, my right leg is bound and lifted exposing my inner thighs and crotch. My breasts are clamped between the loops of rope supporting my chest. I clutch tethers supporting me with my free hands, thankful for the chance to occasionally counterweight my tenuous footing. Immobilized without being completely bound, I have a chance to take in my surroundings gradually. The boys chatting in the corner and Marten checking the knots securing my harness. Sir is unpacking his bag of magic tricks.

My open-ended instructions for tonight are intended to get the best people are willing to give. Too many specifics could limit my experience and not knowing is part of the thrill. I believe if you do something you should do it right. At least the first time. Marten steps back and asks who would like to go first. The boys defer as Sir smiles and says, “I would love to have a go.”

He approaches casually and I have no idea what to expect. Sir’s hands gently rub against my body and he compliments my physique. I relax at the gentle, soothing tone of his voice. He marvels at the strength of my muscles, running hands down my standing leg. Despite my anxiety, I’m flattered by the appreciation. It’s followed by sharp thuds of a fist against my calf and thigh.

I whimper dissatisfaction. The change in tone catches me off guard. I grunt and try to keep standing, saying thank you to the praise that is now intermittent with slams along my major muscle groups. At first I’m distraught. This is NOT the type of thing I had in mind. I’m used to spanking and light paddling. This is just violence. At the same time I enjoy the feeling. My whimpers develop a guttural quality as well-placed punches start to relax me. This kind of impact has a psychological effect I don’t understand. It’s over before I can even start.

Eventually, each guest took their turn torturing me in different ways.  Shawn uses a dogging bat on my breasts, leaving small red stripes. Every moment he’s near me I tense up, not sure where the next blow will land. The pain is sharp and uncomfortable. It reminds me of getting spanked as a child. Each individual blow doesn’t hurt that much but continuous smacks against the same spot creates a sensitivity that escalates like a slow burn. Always harder, testing my threshold. It’s enough to bring tears to my eyes.

Bryan’s style varies in exuberance. He paddles my bottom with a rhythmic flogger, showing more restraint than his friend. Bringing out a spiky Wartenberg wheel that I think is used by seamstresses, he circles me thoughtfully before each touch, accentuating the psychological torture. His hands have the light touch of a tender soul. I can tell he’s received the same punishment he doles out. When asked, I want to please him. That’s important when choosing a good top.

After everyone has a turn with me, Marten sidles up to check in. Pressing his warm body against my skin, nerves sing at the gentle pressure. He whispers quietly to ascertain my stamina. No matter how much I want to keep testing my threshold for pain, I admit to some exhaustion. Giving me a knowing look, he replies, “What if I restrain your arms?”

He knows this is sensitive territory. I don’t like losing the use of my hands. For whatever reason it makes me feel helpless. Restraining my legs and torso fills me with a lifted sensation. I can strain against the ropes to adjust my position, generally keep control of my composure. Once my arms are held above my head I lose all leverage. I don’t have the upper body strength to do a pull-up. My body weight changes and I feel vulnerable.

One of my goals for this event is testing my limits so I nod, unable to vocalize my assent. He tilts his chin and gazes over his glasses at me, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I croak quietly with a sly smile. I’m always willing to try something new with someone I trust.

Marten crafted the cuffs he laces me into. I know because I asked him when I saw them on the shelf in May, the first time I toured the dungeon. There’s a leather-working station upstairs with the scraps to back up his claim. I’m not sure I’d want a leather daddy that doesn’t make his own restraints. That would seem unnatural somehow. Two sheaths of supple black leather wrap around each hand and wrist. The cuffs are attached in a way that cradles my wrists instead of causing direct pressure. I’m sensitive about my wrists.

At this point, Trinity has joined the party. Shawn’s partner and Marten’s paramour, I admire her ability to command attention. She hasn’t even hit her prime and is already an Amazonian goddess. Alabaster skin and legs for days, she’s in a set of garters that accentuate every curve. Marten announces that she will choose the implements that are used from that point on. She immediately grabs the longest leather paddle I’ve ever seen. Studded with metal buttons it looks practically medieval. She is about to hand the toy to her husband when her eyes light up. “Can I have a turn?”

She’s looking at Shawn but I answer. Of course it’s okay. She lets out a little squeal and skips over with her weapon of choice. I confidently state that she can’t be worse than Shawn’s abuse. The men chuckle gently. They know better. Trinity is like most women, soft and mean-spirited. Under her hand I discover playing with me is just like brushing a cat. I like it until I don’t and I’m quick to let you know. She only gets one smack before I cry uncle. Fully satisfied, she hands the paddle to her husband. He tries to tease lightly but I’m already keyed up and squirming at the lightest touch. It isn’t long before I cry mercy.

Marten steps in attentively and begins dismantling the ropes. “Now,” he purrs, “We’ll get you in the sling.”

I giggle nervously. It sounds so surreal, talking about sex swings while I’m still regaining feeling in my glutes. Strong arms lift me into the leather cradle. My ankles and wrists are secured with fur-lined cuffs. I watch the proceedings like this is happening to someone else. I am the center of attention the same way virgins are sent as offerings for a dragon. I’m not even sure I’m able to enjoy this much focus in a room full of people. Fortunately, I am too exhausted to worry.

I’ve mentioned fisting as an interest ever since I met Marten. His meaty paws aren’t a good introduction but this is one area Sir has plenty of experience with. He gloves up and smears the cold lube against my fuzzy opening. I eagerly accept the fingers, something I’m very familiar with. He works every digit inside my with a crab claw position. I feel full. I feel the stretch of my skin and my muscles complaining. My screams are half pleasure, half pain. I try to relax as Hawk soothes me in a soft voice. He wants me to relax. I want to obey but my body won’t listen.

I tolerate the pressure inside my pussy until I feel a deeply sharp pain. The grinding of bone on bone is unmistakable. I release a scream that is all pain, no pleasure. At that point I squeak “red flag” with tears in my eyes.  Hawk leans over and put a hand on my cheek. Demanding my full attention he says, “You did good. That was great. You did good.”

Sniffling back tears I croak, “Thank you Sir.”

I know he’s trying to comfort me because I tried something new. I also feel like a failure. There is no law that says fisting is everyone’s kink but I still wanted to try it. It seems like something I’d enjoy and not being able to experience it properly makes me feel like I don’t get to call myself queer. I’m already not good enough for most women because my primary attraction is toward men. But really I just like people that like me back. Women don’t ever show interest. My tastes are conventional by default.

Everyone there wants me to enjoy myself, so my self-doubt is quickly eradicated by the proper encouragement. Marten takes a seat at my stern like he’s about to milk a cow. One specific request I made of him involves squirting. I have had orgasms that result in quite a lot of liquid. I want him to decidedly prove that I’m a squirter once and for all. After the aborted fisting my vaginal canal is pulsing with over-stimulation. I’m not sure I can even feel anything let alone enjoy it. He chuckles at the idea.

Gloved and lubed he inserts two fingers into me and presses against my cervix. Adjusting his pressure based on my moans, he finds just the right spot. This is the benefit of having a long-term lover. A few strokes along the roof of my pussy and I’m panting harder than a sled dog. The equation Marten describes is thumping the cervix while massaging the clitoral sponge. This will make most any woman squirt. Feeling his motions with that description ringing in my head triggers a transcendental moment for me. For the first time, I consciously feel my own ejaculation, right at the root.

It’s glorious and overwhelming. I immediately descend into a post-coital coma. All the hands lovingly petting me are suddenly annoying. I just want to roll over and go to sleep. Sensing my quick decline in energy, my wrists and ankles are untied and the crowd melts away. It’s just me and Marten as he offers me an arm to help exit the sling. He instructs me to bring my towel and lie down on the nearby bed. I obey and he asks whether I’d like to be alone or have company. I grin and blurt out, “Cuddle Pile!” while holding my arms out for him.

Everyone laughs and I collapse onto my designated spot. Marten spoons me from behind and prompts me to invite more people. I grin and reach for Trinity. I want to cuddle someone soft and good-smelling. I also invite Bryan because, you know, he’s my date. He spoons Trinity from the other side and I smile, very content. The next few minutes is about closing my eyes and enjoying the love around me. I can already feel some of the bruises surfacing and my entire ass is tingling but I have no worries. I feel sated for the first time in a long while.

The bruises bloomed for two days after that night. Red and purple stripes followed by bluish black circles of broken blood vessels.  Yellow tinges at the edges as everything starts to heal, it’s a week before I can sit comfortably. The place where Sir ground against my pelvic bone aches as a bittersweet reminder of my adventure. Based on my experienced that night, I’m ready to spank my own subs. I know more about pleasurable pain and want to share what I’ve learned.