A female submissive writes about her thoughts and fears during a first face to face meeting with Saxon after connecting on the Internet.
Here I lie across a stranger's knees on the back seat of a car in the middle of a wood. [*1] What does this feel like? It feels dangerous. Embarrassing. Exhilarating. Erotic. And absolutely right. I have been so hungry for this ritual humiliation, to hand myself over to another's power and desires. And this is the right one to control me. Quick-witted and mischievous on screen, able to cut through all my hesitancies, anxieties, and leave me longing for his hand. And what will follow that exposure, that domination through punishment.
All day I have been fluttering between warm and wet arousal, and nerves so powerful I shake as though palsied. And the moment has come. That long moment of having my dress slowly raised. I've stopped breathing. Is he pleased or disappointed with what he sees? I tried hard to get it right, have felt all but naked since I abandoned my jeans and t-shirt for this unfamiliar dress, stockings and suspender belt. And the wind kept catching the dress and giving the world glimpses of thigh; and then it would keep riding up on the train, causing the adolescent next to me to lift his eyes from his FHM -- so much attention to my body is unfamiliar, embarrassing, so I could not forget that I am dressed as I am .....and why. I had my instructions, my role, travelling towards my disciplinary interview. Already controlled over distance, how controlled would I feel in his presence?
But there was never any question of backing out, turning around and going home. I wanted to meet this man who had so successfully turned my fears to desire, my sense of unacceptability to a wanton need to be spanked by a man again for the first time in years. I'd fallen for that quirky, kinky Dom's brain that had so precise a sense of my responses and needs. I felt safe. All my instincts were that this man was to be trusted. And in that --as in all other things -- he did not disappoint.
Sitting on my stool at the railway station, trying to calm myself with the traffic reports and sports news on the radio, he seemed to swoop down on me, catching me completely by surprise. So much for my carefully planned poise, and intention to check him out as he approached. [*2] There he stood, in his stern black sleeves with his A-Z (our agreed signal of recognition), smiling at me. The world became a blur. The two policemen who had been stood nearby, making me feel like something guilty, became a delicious joke. If only anyone else in that place might know what there was in this seemingly innocent meeting. Simultaneously in complicity and in a carefully modulated challenge to my self-defences, we went to the bar. Of course an awkward silence or two.
And then the fantasy begins to come to life, that this man will force me past my reserve and embarrassment to humiliating admissions and confessions -- about my underwear, my level of desire, my acute sense of vulnerability. I can barely speak connectedly, I am so stirred by this game, in this public/private place, with this sexy, commanding man who has such presence that everything around me becomes part of the stage set on which we are, step by cautious step, performing these erotic roles. He suggests, and I mutely agree, that the time has come to move on. I think he partly expects me to disappear between the loos and the car, and I know I have every intention of going through with this, of allowing him to take me to a quiet, remote place and to put me across his knee. A thread of steel is leading me to this place where I can be chastised, freed from control and given another taste of the submissive's unique pleasure, of total safety and total vulnerability.
I remember nothing of the drive, beyond following a truck out of the city on a hunch, and then driving down a long, narrow, tree and bracken-lined track until we arrive at a stopping place. I cannot read him, his thoughts at all, a disconcerting experience for me, but I also know I do not need to second guess him. This is very simple. The moment has arrived. He sits in the middle of the back seat, I slide across his lap and hide my eyes, trying not to think about how I look, and managing to think of little else. His hand rests lightly on my bottom. He asks if I am ready. I say I am (am I?). And then that slow drawing up of the dress, the first exposure more embarrassing than any other kind. I know he's looking down and I wonder what he's seeing. I wonder if it is obvious just how wet I am. I wonder if he knows I can feel how hard he is. I wonder what it's going to be like, having him spank me, and how hard it will be.
But this man is a master at his craft. Both cautious and totally in control, he begins to explore both my tolerance and my submissiveness. And finds neither lacking. Those first spanks are gentle and slow, a reminder of that posture, of being overpowered, of feeling like a child again under the chastising hand of a firm man. I am wondering too if I will lose the protection of not very substantial panties, if I will be compelled to expose myself completely. (But that will come later, a deferred humiliation kept in reserve.) Every part of my consciousness is focussed on the connection between his hand and my bottom, waiting for the next time it will fall on barely-covered flesh. I have no will beyond submitting myself to his next whim. And then he increases the stakes. "The next, the last ten will be stingers", he tells me, "and you will ask for each one". That makes me swallow very hard indeed; to be required to request what is intended to be painful is a challenge to my pride. But that, of course, is the point.
Those ten are more painful, it is true, but it is the humiliation of the request, repeated and then repeated again, which drives me out of all pride and any poise I have left, and into some secret place where I give up myself to sensation and loss of control. I do not rise until I am given leave to (some old lessons are too well learnt to ever be forgotten), and look, with trepidation and deep, wet arousal, at this man smiling down at me, wickedly, and yet reassuringly, as he still works to gauge my responses to this. And my reward takes the form I have been fantasising about for days and days. Nerves have been replaced by excitement and anxiety by peaceful contentment. And the desire for more. I am set free by the humiliation (that old paradox) and steeped in sensuality.
If that happened the first time, then imagine how those responses grew as we continued to play these erotic serious games, and the trust and our experience of each other's quirks and kinks deepened. I got much more than I ever expected, but never more than I signed on for. (He'd mutter something about "no more than I deserved", but I don't *quite* see it that way).
It is true that what you read above is the result of an assignment, set by me. However, you may be sure that the content is entirely unprovoked, and exactly as it left the lady's pen.