I can still smell him even after all this time.  It has been years since I was there with him, but I can still smell him.  Surely I am smiling at the memory of our time together.  I did not know him long.  We could not be called friends by any means; perhaps we were simply acquaintances bound by the art of bondage.  Bondage scares people who are not familiar with it.  They do not attempt to understand it much less actually participate in the arts.  And it is an art form just like painting or sculpting that requires hard work and practice, but that argument is for another time. 

 The dinner engagement was one of those social graces we all attend even though we complain silently within our hearts for days that we really do not wish to go.  We paste false smiles upon our lips and make bright conversation to those we don’t know or don’t really want to know.  There is always someone at these types of social gathers that will draw you for whatever reason into their circle.  Perhaps it is their laughter, or their looks, maybe it’s their occupation, one never knows.  I don’t know what drew to me to him in the first place.  I didn’t know him.  He was not handsome or full of bright cheer.  But there was something about him.  It was his elegance or maybe his silent grace that made me want to know more about him.  My heels clicked against the cool marble floor as if being led on some invisible chain until I reached him. 

 I have never been one who simply can walk up to someone who attracts me and simply begin some meaningless conversation about the weather, Shakespeare, sports, or music.  I much prefer men to speak to me first.  When he spoke his quiet ‘hello’ I was finished.  I melted all the way down to my lace when his voice and became one with his smile.  He knew it instantly.  There is an invisible connection with those who practice the erotic arts that no words can explain.  Unless it happens to you, you will be forever lost to wonder of it.  It is terrifying.  It is sensual.  It is everything you ever wanted yet never thought of all at once.  It is not magic.  It is not a dream.  It is a combination of both and it is very, very real. 

 Without saying another word he placed his hand in mine.  His hand was not overly large but it was strong.   It was not the strength that comes with working outdoors, but the strength that comes with wisdom, trust, and self-confidence with knowing one’s self and being secure in that knowledge.

 We stopped to have coffee at a small café.  Each of us lost in our own thoughts of what was to come if anything at all.  It is still amazing to me how we communicated without words.  Someone I can’t quite place at the moment wrote a poem I once read.  I remember only a line of it.  “If we could not move our lips could we communicate with our eyebrows?”  When you find the person that you can do this with.  Never let them go.  This type of thing only happens every so often in a lifetime.  But I digress from my original intent of which was to tell you a story.

 Within the BDSM (acronym for Bondage, Sado-Masochism) community there are many variations of domination and submission.  Dominators (Sadists, Tops, Dom, Domme (female), Masters, Mistresses), submissives (Masochists, slaves, bottoms, submissives), S/switches (male or female who like both topping and bottoming) all come together getting what they need from one another.  For every one person that is actively practicing these erotic arts, there are perhaps hundreds that simply dream what other people are living.

 We left the café and spoke openly as we drove in the city with no particular destination in mind for the moment.  His voice lulled me into the sensual web that I knew was simply waiting for me.  He asked questions.  I answered.  (Typically in society’s “dating”, this is called “getting to know one another”.  We don’t call it this in the arts, we call it interviewing and is usually simply about sex.  What a sub likes, doesn’t like, their limits, what they will or will not do, what feels good, what doesn’t, whips, chains, binds, ropes, gags, paddles, nipple clamps, crops, gloves, safety.  Safety is a primary concern of the bdsm community because of the nature of the art itself.  Just like a painter will only use the best paints, a practicing bdsmer wants to know every intimate detail about their partner before the “scene” so that it can be pleasurable for each if it is to succeed into the sensual, sexual playground it can be.)

 I was led into the playground blindfolded with a soft silver scarf from the car as to contain his privacy or perhaps to allow me to fall more into the person I would become in a few moments.  His hand still in mine guided me down corridors, up a staircase.  The iron was cold on my fingertips.  I remember this.  My heels clicked on the hardwood floor.  I had no doubt they were at a high polish.  I remember his hand leaving mine and for a moment, just a moment, I felt scared until his voice called to me. 

 I had not heard him cross the room.  When one of your senses is deprived, your other four kick in overdrive to make up for the deficiency yet I still had not heard him.  I could see nothing but blackness.  I felt a shiver of cold pass through my spine but there was also desire slivering through my bloodstream and I felt my wetness upon my own inner thigh.

 “Come”  he bid me.

 “Yes Master”  I obeyed.  There was no question that I would in his mind or my own.

A door opened.  I heard him turn the handle.  It was not one of those round doorknobs I could tell, but one of those with a handle that is long and slim to your palm and turn downward.  Senses make up for loss of sight.  My ears detected the faint sounds of chant like music playing somewhere in the distance.  The melody was not far off, but turned down very soft as not to overpower the conversation of voices I could hear now. 

We were moving closer to people.  My mind whirled.  How many people?  What was he planning?  What had I gotten myself into?  Who were these people?  Did I know them?  Were they all going to play with me and if so, sexually?  

“Fear not girl”  Master’s voice softly whispered from behind me.  I could feel his breathe on my neck faintly and I could smell his cologne that had blended into his natural male scent and was having a devastating effect on my inhibitions.

 “I trust you.”  Without hesitation my lips moved and answered quickly.  I knew that he was not a man for small talk and rather enjoyed short and complete sentences that left nothing to the imagination or to be misinterpreted.  This is very important in the arts.  Communication is paramount and second only to absolute trust.  Partners, in some forms of erotic play (fireplay, bladeplay, edgeplay), must have both, for the slave’s very life may depend on it.

 At times like this, somewhere in the back of your mind when you are a submissive you are confronted by society’s views of what you are doing or about to do.  Are you really insane?  What self-respecting woman/man would allow herself to be blindfolded and treated as if property for a man/woman’s pleasures?  My answer to myself is always the same.  One that is secure in who she is.  One who knows her desires and her passions.  Her reasons are her own for what she does.  She is secure in herself, her body, her confidence, and knows that the submissive actually holds the truest form of power in the scene.  They have the ability to say no at any moment and it stops.  It all stops.  It is safer in bdsm than it is in normal dating these days.  And society calls us freaks.  Go figure.

 “What a lovely tart you have brought us.”  A woman’s voice penetrates the haze of my thoughts.  I am surprised but not overly so. 

 “Isn’t she just the thing for dessert?”  A man’s baritone voice chimes in.

 My sane mind wonders how many people are actually here and the slut inside me doesn’t even care.  She just wants to be fed, to be nourished, to be used and to feel the use tomorrow as she bathes and looks over the bruises that are sure to come.

 Pain is a difficult thing to explain.  There are degrees of pain much like the temperature on the thermostat outside in the summer.  There is the soft pain of a slightly pinched nipple or the sting of a hard slap on your ass over and over and over again until there is no creamy flesh that is not tinged with red.

 I am not a pain slut like some others who are.  They are those that are truly into s&m.  There are needles, razor blades, and a variety of instruments (like the artist’s paintbrushes) that are made for those.  A slap on the ass, a hard fucking, a nipple clamp here and there take me where I need to be.  It is a need that is down inside.  It is not a want.  It is a need.  The need for food when one is hungry does not compare to the need to be bound and helpless for the entertainment and pleasure of another for a good hard fucking.

 I felt his hand slide down the back of my stocking releasing the garter in one well-practiced movement.  His fingertips slid across the warm flesh.  I quivered.  The talk went on around me as if I were not in the room.  But I could feel their eyes searching, seeking, and penetrating me to my very core.  I wondered who of the group would wish to play or who would simply voyeur in this little adventure.  I lost track of thought as in the middle of a sentence he ordered me to part my legs. 

 Quickly my legs parted and his fingertips slid up the back of my dress gathering its folds as if it was made of breakable glass.  He knew if he touched the backs of my thighs at that moment I would melt.  He didn’t touch me.  I almost groaned aloud in frustration.  I wanted his hands on me.  I wanted his lips on mine.  I wanted him to fuck me good and hard.  A slave has no wants.  It is not up to them to dictate anything.  It is up to the slave to obey.  There can be no half way.  It’s all or nothing.

 The light almost blinded me as her fingertips slid the silver scarf from my eyes.  I could smell my own sex hot and wet.  I could smell his cologne.  I could smell her as her body pressed behind my own.  I felt his fingertips leave my dress only to be replaced by hers as she held the fabric upwards.  My ass was exposed.   The black and gold panties offered little cover to the heat that was building up.  She softly laughed as he reached and pinched her nipple through the silky corset that she wore. 

 “Undress slut.”  I heard her say to me.  Her voice was loving and warm.

 I did not move.  I was unsure (as she was not my Master/Mistress) as exactly what I was to do.  He felt my hesitation and lightly pushed me towards the small table.  A coffee table one could say.  With the removal of the blindfold I could now make out the two settee’s and the oblong wooden coffee table.  I did not lift my eyes to look any further as I obeyed.

 You must understand the terminology in bdsm has not the same connotations as society deems them to be.  Slut, whore, fucktoy are used as terms of endearment and only enhance the scene in which one finds themselves.  Why?  Because we are taught as children that these words are “bad” words and we take them into the erotic arts and turn them into sensuality.

 I saw trousers and shoes.  I saw legs and heels.  My mind whirled as it fully registered there were four people here including myself.  Were there only four?  Would more come?  These thoughts flashed through my mind as I reached behind me and unzipped my dress.  Clad only in the black and gold panties and heels the dress slid easily to the floor.  I had not been told to step out of it or to move any further.  I did not. 

 “Lovely dress.  Your fucktoy has good taste.”  I heard another woman’s voice speak to Master.

 “I chose her didn’t I?”  He laughed.  “Don’t I have good taste too?”

 “How does she taste?” Said the stranger in the tweed pants.

 “Find out for yourself.” Master answered as his head turned towards me. 

“Lie down upon the table so that we may all share of you.  You are dessert this night my pretty bitch.”

White, hot desire licked through my bloodstream unstoppable and unchecked.

 To be continued...