It was different the second time.
The first time had been — although I only really comprehended so in retrospect — nerve-wracking.
Would we be a “fit”? Would we be compatible?
Would he like my body? Would I like his?
Would it be like it was with PreviousDom, where i was restricted to the point of not daring to open my mouth except when presented with an upstanding dick to suck? (Incorrectly believing that this was “the one twue way” to submit.)
It had been none of the above, and all my fears had been proved groundless. The experience the first time had been absolutely incredible — and I intend no hyperbole here. I was calm, reassured, and in no way wracked with nerves — on the contrary; rather excited and anticipating the endless possibilities of new experience that lay ahead.
Taking care not to harm a still-swollen cheek after a painful tooth extraction a day or so ago, i kissed him hello carefully. What we have is still very new, but not so new that the shine hasn’t rubbed off a little (in the nicest possible way), and I can sense a certain warm familiarity about the way his lips meet mine — a familiarity that pleases me and gives me a big old warm and fuzzy.
That, in and of itself, was different.
We began the same way as last time, with him spreading out the truly comprehensive collection of toys, ticklers, teasers and floggers that he owns — and Purrrrvert is a man who believes in pervertibles to an unbelievable extent. He told me that once I’d seen and experienced his collection, I’d never be able to go shopping for anything else again without looking through a BDSM filter at just about every item on the shelf.
(Except, perhaps, condoms. Heh.)
I chose what toys I fancied playing with, taking care not to err on the side of big-girly-wussiness and caution, as I had done previously, and adding to my usual choices of skin-sensation fun-and furry things, several floggers, some rubber and silk binding wires, the blindfold, and bondage (aka hiking) rope. And a vibrating smurf. (Swear to god.)
Then the session began.
He stood me in front of him, and made it clear that he was in charge by removing my clothing and handling my body, piece by piece. Once I was stood before him, naked and trembling with excitement, he bound each breast individually, and began playing with them.
Having never experienced breast-binding before, i was astounded to learn that it heightened the sensations in my boobs more than ever, and the nipple-to-clit hotline along which an electric current usually travels, had suddenly become even more sensitive – resulting in an awareness of my cunt being awash as soon as he pulled me towards him by the tippy-tip of my nipple.
It hu-u-u-rt… but it felt so good.
I brought my eyes level with his — i know how much he loves to look deep into my eyes.
“I’m wet. In fact, I’m soaking.”
His baby-blues twinkled a faux nonchalance at me.
“I’ll check in a minute” he said, almost too dismissively.
I squirmed as I stood there in front of him, his hands groping, stroking and palpating bits of me — none of it reducing the wetness; on the contrary, all of it contributing to yet more gushage.
Suddenly i wanted nothing more than to have him touch me, stroke me, make me come. And he knew, oh how he knew! I could tell, from how slowly he was taking things. He had no need to hurry. This was being done on his timescale, not mine.
“Will you undress me, please?”
Mutely, I did as I was told. Shirt, shoes, socks, pants and underwear. I knelt before him naked, and he took me firmly by the hair.
“I like having you kneeling in front of me,” he smiled, and kissed me again.
(The wetness factor upped itself threefold. I felt like a classic Bon Jovi album.)
He leaned forward and unbound my breasts, only to pull out a long, orange hiking rope, and begin to truss me like a chicken.
“Did you bring your camera with you?” I asked him, as I turned this way and that, surveying myself critically in the mirror.
“No, not today — why?”
“This looks hot. My tits look fabulous. The girls have never been this well dressed. I want to commemorate the occasion.”
“Next time, dear. OK?”
Later, after he had indeed discovered how utterly awash with arousal I was, and a fisting that brought tears of joy to my eyes with the intensity of the orgasm (although strangely no gush this time… anyone got any idea why?), he bade me snuggle into him, while he held me and stroked every bit of me he could reach.
“Relax, Kitten. You’re always so busy — I want you to relax and be calm and still.”
“But … I’m not good at being passive… and I just want to make you happy… and –”
“That’s fine, but let me pamper you. You’ll have your turn later, I promise.”
So, once again, I did as I was told, although he relented and allowed me to gently stroke his chest and torso. I wasn’t surprised that he did, I believe he likes to be stroked as much as he likes to stroke.
And as I lay there, I reflected on my good fortune. I’d fallen into BDSM, as an experiment, and it had led me to meet this wonderful person who dominated me as much as i wanted or needed, and genuinely cared for me also. And indulged me, and liked talking to me, and discussing stuff with me, and understood me and all my quirky foibles, and contradictions, and all of the other things that define me as me — good and bad.
I’d not only found a wonderful lover, I’d found a friend. A really good friend. A rarity in any walk of life, but especially within the confines of BDSM to find one with whom each others pet perves click a happy fit, and you also get on like a house on fire.
I’m so lucky. I can’t wait until next time.