So last night was my first time as a submissive.
Jordan was about half an hour late – he left a voice message for me at about 5:30-- which of course gave me ample time to get exceptionally nervous. When he did show up he was carrying a backpack (Is that full of … props? I thought, looking at it like it was Bluebeard's locked room) and wearing ridiculous tartan wool pants. Those are not seduction pants. We’re not playing golf, I thought, scowling. I bravely ignored the trousers, and we sat at the bar of the restaurant. I downed a glass of Reisling as quick as I dared. His arm barely brushed mine. We talked a bit about his work, and a bit about how nervous I was.
“I’m really excited to see what it’s like for an inexperienced female submissive,” he said.
“Well,” I laughed awkwardly, “You’ll find out!” I drank some more. “I’m really nervous.”
“You’re not going to do anything wrong," he said, gently, "And I’ll check in with you, OK?” he said.
“What are you afraid of?”
I considered. “I’m afraid that I won’t want to do something and…”
“You’re afraid that I’ll force you to?”
“No…” I wasn’t afraid of that … “I’m afraid I will say no, and we’ll just stop and stare at one another. Or maybe I’m afraid I really will like it. I dunno.” I shook my head.
Jordan took a couple of phone calls from work. By this time it was after 7:00, and I figured he needed to leave by 9:00 to be home at 10:00. I caught him glancing at his watch. Nevertheless, he’d spent more than an hour plying me with alcohol and had been prepared to bide his time and soothe my fears while I ate dinner. Of course, I was too fretful to eat. At this point I was anxious to get moving—the anticipation was taking its toll. Meanwhile he was arguing with a coworker, like the cliché of a obsessed businessman who keeps his mistress waiting. Eventually we left the restaurant and headed back to my place. His phone rang while we were walking up the dark streets, and he kept talking as he followed me to my place, I tried not to laugh. It felt so weird and formal.
Eventually we made it to my house, and I sent Jordan to my room while I went to the bathroom. When I went inside, he was sitting on my bed. I joined him. He slid back against the wall and pulled me towards him. We sat, facing one another.
He took my face in his hands, hard, like he was trying to fit my face into a square. Then he slid his hands underneath my top, and under my bra, grasping my breasts and tweaking my nipples. Hmm. “Take off your top,” he said. I obliged, and he unhooked my bra. He was fully clothed, in the tartan trousers I found so inexplicable. “Now take off your skirt.” I stood up, and did. I hadn’t said a word. I liked it, that I was getting naked while he was fully dressed. “And the rest ofdmsffll..” he mumbled.
“What?” we were whispering, even though no one else was home.
He gestured for me to take off my underwear – pink cotton bikinis. I had given some thought to my underwear. I didn’t have a matching black bra to go with my black underwear (the default color for seduction, I’d say), and I thought pink would be in keeping with my avowed personality: a good girl, inexperienced but submissive. I took everything off. “Now come here,” he said. I climbed back onto the mattress and straddled him. He took my face in his hands, hard, holding me close to him. I said nothing.
“Do I have your permission to spank you?” he whispered.
I hesitated, and he dropped it. “Stroke my cock,” he said.
He was hard and thick underneath his pants. I rubbed my hand along his dick, enjoying it. Eventually he put his mouth on mine, hard, and pushed me onto my back. As he kissed me, or rather rubbed his mouth into mine, I thought, Wait, this is dominance? I had thought the kissing, at least, would be light and teasing, even cruel, working me up. Instead he was mashing his face against mine like a horny ninth grader. I felt like I was recording what we were doing for later, taking notes.
“Open your legs,” he said, so I did. I was totally naked, and he was still dressed. I liked feeling exposed, and defenseless. He slid a finger inside me, and I inhaled sharply. “Ask my permission before you come,” he said. His voice was low and soft.
Fat chance. I knew I wasn’t going to come. It was weird, I was wet but my brain wasn’t turned on. I was a participant, but I felt detached, and strange. He slowly massaged me internally, and I watched him. His expression was, I don’t know, bored? Curious? Calculating? I closed my eyes and whipped my head to one side when his fingers flicked up against me in a teasing way I liked. I could hear that I was wet. For a moment I considered faking an orgasm, but I’m always afraid it’ll be obvious. Sometimes I watched him. Without his glasses, Jordan looked different, and less handsome. His face was rounder.
I know that detachment is a coping mechanism. I read that women who are being raped sometimes recount that during the act they feel like they’re outside of themselves, not involved at all. Of course, everything I was doing was consensual, it wasn’t at all a traumatic experience, but at the same time, I think I was putting that distance there. All along I'd been afraid that I'd be overwhelmed. I hadn't expected to feel outside myself.
Jordan pulled me up again and leaned back against the wall. “Do you want to be a good whore and suck my cock?”
I couldn’t help it: I nodded, beaming. I liked that: whore. “Undo my pants,” he commanded, and I fumbled with his belt and sighed as I touched his cock: it was nice and thick. I leaned down and slipped my mouth around him, my hair getting in the way. He took off his shirt. He wasn’t lean and muscular, like I like, but I wasn’t repelled by his body; it was just different.
“Now lie down on your stomach,” he instructed me after a bit, “I want to look at your ass.” I lay down. I liked it when he used words like ass, and pussy. “And stretch your arms out.” I did, my face buried in my pillows. I still felt peculiar: curious and excited without actually being aroused, maybe. You know, I think recalling this is turning me on more than the actual event. Or maybe I wasn’t prepared to actually enjoy it while it was happening…?
“Spread your ass with your hands, and hold it there.” That I’d never done before. I obeyed, tugging at my skin so that he could get a good view. He slipped a finger inside my asshole, and I jerked, for a moment I was terrified that he’d just begun fucking my ass without a condom. But it was just his finger, slipping in and out of my hole. I think Eddie might have done that before, but never for a sustained period. As Jordan’s other hand slid around to my pussy, I think I moaned.
This went on for a bit. “Do you want me to fuck you?” Jordan whispered at last.
“Get me a condom.” I struggled out of bed and found the condoms (and the lube, this time). “Now put the condom on me,” he directed. I always fumble this bit. But, following Roger’s lead, when I opened the condom I blew on it to see the tip turn out. Then, without further difficulty, I slipped it over Jordan’s dick. He pushed me back onto my stomach.
“I need some lube, too,” I ventured. He slid some on me and I gasped at the coldness.
He fucked me, doggy style. That is such a vulgar expression, but that about sums it up. He pounded away, breathing against my ear. I enjoyed it, in my minimal way.
“I’m going to slap your ass,” he announced, and I didn’t protest. He slapped me. It didn’t hurt. It stung, but it didn’t feel bad. While I was considering this he slapped me again, and once more. I wondered if he was holding back, if he could have hit much harder. My Dad occasionally belted me when I was a kid. It’s taboo now, but this was the early 1980’s, and besides, my dad is from an older generation. No doubt his dad smacked his ass, too, on occasion. Not that being slapped by Jordan was an incest thing… my mind was wandering.
He pumped against me and I was relaxing into the motion when he came. I was a little disappointed that it was over so quick. I probably could have handled a few more slaps on my ass; I probably would have liked a few more.
Afterwards we both sat slumped against the wall, like two wallflowers at a party. “How was that?” Jordan asked.
“Good,” I said. I was a little breathless. And still felt so remote from the whole experience. We talked a bit, and Jordan detailed some of his inclinations:
“I know you said how that guy [he meant Pete] told you he wanted you to wear something, and how you said you were so wary of being dominated in any non sexual way, so I didn’t tell you this before, because I knew it would freak you the fuck out,” he said.
“Thanks for sparing me,” I grimaced.
“But, I’d like it, if, say, we were out, and I told you not to cross your legs.”
“Oooh,” I said, thinking about this.
“So you’d have to think about not crossing your legs, and you'd know you couldn't and would have to think about it. Maybe you’d cross your arms instead, and I’d touch them… that really turns me on,” he said. "And I liked having my finger in your ass, knowing that you were..."
"Yeah, I've never had anal sex," I said.
"You're a good girl," he said. "I liked that .... I wasn't holding back, when I spanked you," he offered. "I don't like holding back, it's a real turn off."
I was glad I'd been able to take it. Just writing that last sentence makes me feel very submissive. But I felt sort of like I'd proven myself, like when I deny myself a mild curry and order something spicier than I'm used to.
"And I like it when women shave their pussies," Jordan said, looking at my neatly trimmed but not fully shaven crotch.
"I've never done that," I said, as if he couldn't have guessed. We both stared at my unshaven pussy.
"Would you do it?"
"I don't know," I said. "It would probably itch a lot, growing back."
"Yeah," he said, and I heard the subtext: I'd like that.
I have mixed feelings about the Brazilian. First of all, I'm not into pain. I've never even had my bikini line waxed (though that would be tolerable, I suppose) and I can't imagine the way a full Brazilian would hurt. Also, of course there's the feminist ideological issue: why should I make my sex look childlike? Why do we fetishize the pre-adolescent look? I'm a grown woman, it's not shameful or unattractive to have pubic hair, right? So why should I cater to society's infantalizing fantasies about women? Blah, blah, blah.
Really, when did anyone other than strippers and centerfolds start waxing themselves bare? Not until I was old enough to think it was a silly trend. If I was twelve, maybe I would think it was an unexceptional, rather than a bizarre idea. But I'm not a centerfold or a stripper, and although I can respect (though not really admire) sex work and the people who perform it, I wouldn't want to be thought of as either. I don't even wear thongs because a) they're uncomfortable and b) when they're visible to the people walking behind you -- as they often seem to be -- it just seems inappropriate and suggestive. Suggestiveness belongs in strip clubs, not on the subway platform. I think. Like I think a thong or a g-string that's meant to be seen is a nod not to sexuality, but to the idea of objectification. It glorifies objectification. I kind of like being objectified (or at least told I'm gorgeous) but I think it's pushy and wrong to titillate on a public thoroughfare, you know? I also think coiffed pubic hair in the shape of hearts and Swavorski-crystal decorated pussies are exceptionally tasteless, too. Or, what the hell, maybe I'm turning into my mother. Oh, fuck it, I don't know.
I had to pee, but it sort of had translated into horniness. I wanted him to put his hand between my legs. He was very up front about the fact that it is domination, it is about control. He didn't dress it up or make it sound more palatable, although politically he's liberal, not a chauvinist, and, indeed, a nice man. “Although part of my pleasure is that you’re getting pleasure out of it,” he added. “I liked it when you sucked my cock.”
“I liked sucking your cock,” I said. Cause I had. I didn’t tell him to touch my pussy, instead I stood up, and started to dress. I really had to pee.
“Do you mind if I call a car service?” he asked.
“Not at all,” I said. I was relieved. I wanted to be alone, to process this. “I’ll get the yellow pages.”
He called a cab and I gave him my address, knowing that when he left I would crumple up the piece of paper, not wanting any evidence of tonight. When he left, I decided, maybe I’d take a shower. He hadn’t smelled bad, not at all, but I think he smelled wrong to me. I didn’t like the idea that his scent would be noticeable in my bed. Of course, he’d never turned down the covers: we’d fucked on top of my quilt. I considered dropping it off at the Laundromat on the way to work.
“So what did you think? Want to do it again?” he asked. I hesitated, “Or give it some thought?”
“Yes,” I said, relieved. Then we got onto the topic of whether or not blow jobs were submissive. “At first I thought it’s about a woman having power over me, but now I see it as a submissive act, all for my pleasure,” Jordan said.
“I think it’s a submissive act if you don’t like it,” I said thoughtfully. “I’m lucky, I enjoy it.” And I do mean lucky. Women who don’t like – or refuse to give – blowjobs are often dismissed as frigid, or prudes. I’m sure lots of women give head without really enjoying it. I love the sensation of a cock in my mouth. I love feeling filled up. I don’t think that necessarily makes me sexually open or mature, it’s just cause I have an oral fixation. I sucked my thumb well into childhood, after all. That being said, I don’t like the taste of cum. I find it acrid and bitter, but who doesn’t? I rarely swallow (in fact I’ve only done it once, with Eddie). I suppose that puts me in the middle of the oral sex continuum of depravity.
“At first I thought it was really submissive, but now I like going down on a guy and knowing I’m the one responsible for that pleasure, for his moans and whatnot,” I said at last.
A car honked outside.
“That was quick." We stood up. "Going to see me to the door?” he asked.
“Of course.” I accompanied him downstairs, and while he put on his shoes I waved out the door at what I took to be his car. He kissed me, and once again slid his hands underneath my shirt and pinched my nipples. I still wasn’t sure what I thought of this.
“Get home safe,” I said, and shut the door behind him.
My roommates were about by this time, so I joined them in the kitchen. I ended up giving them a brief resume of my evening. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. But I was in that weird place where you don’t pay attention to a habit of discretion, I guess. “I don’t know if I am submissive, or if it’s him,” I sighed to Jenny and Anna as I cut us slices of the sour cream cake I’d made on Sunday. Anna brought in her space heater, since our heat is on the fritz. We sat there, eating cake with raspberry jam and waiting for the hot water to boil for tea.
“What about that other guy?”
“He was your type,” said Anna.
“He was totally your type,” Jenny agreed. I didn't say anything. We just sat there, and drank our tea.
This morning I had an email from Jordan, thanking me for last night and asking if I wanted to do it again. Last night I thought absolutely not, but I’m wavering a bit this morning. Now that I've had time to get over the initial terror, I can see the possibilities. I’m grateful to him. He made it easy for me, was totally generous and thoughtful. Maybe I’m not really ready for a submissive relationship. I have no idea. All I know is that I’m looking forward to seeing Daniel tonight. And I have to change my sheets ASAP.