I didn’t give the Rockette what I’d led her to expect.
We’d never met, or spoken. She was dressed as I’d asked, and prepared to do precisely as I asked. She expected I would use her. Wordlessly. At great length. I had encouraged her to expect this, had told her it was coming.
Turns out, though, I’m, in her words, “a nice guy.” She didn’t expect that. I don’t think she meant this quite as the insult it reads as here. I hope not. I think she just meant that she didn’t expect to get to know and like me; she just expected to be used by me.
She didn’t expect me to be curious about who she is, about what she does. She expected to be my fuck toy. And nothing more.
To be clear, she was my fuck toy. I did things to her, with her, that she’d never done before.
I left her battered and bruised. Sated and sore.
Her ass (“What an exciting question! Yes!” she had replied when I asked if she bruised easily) was latticed with hand-prints, belt marks, welts, bruises. I didn’t break the skin, but I came close. Her pussy was sore. She was exhausted. She had come how many times? I’m not sure.
But I also learned a bit about who she is, what she does. Slut though I may be, I want to know and like the people I sleep with.
The moment she realized I wasn’t going to deliver on my promise of a stylized Christian Grey encounter was when I smiled in the bar, just after meeting her. My smile somehow communicated something other than the hardness she had anticipated.
And moments later, I said something like, “I’m going to book a hotel room. Ok?” She said, “You’re making the decisions.” I insisted on explicit consent. I told her that this was the last time I (ever) would ask her for permission. But I needed it this time.
True, utter, wordlessness for me is really not a first-date kinda thing. Maybe I’m just a wuss that way.
But our next date?
Not a word.
She hadn’t had sex in six months. I threw her on the bed, hard. Her tiny black dress had ridden up far enough that I could dive into her cunt without touching the dress. She arched her back, thrusting her pussy into my face hard. She breathlessly asked me my last name. “I don’t even know your last name!” she exclaimed as I pressed my tongue against her clit.
“You don’t even know my first name,” I countered. And dove back down.
I admired her curves, her freckles, her eyes. She wanted me to admire her legs. (They’re spectacular, but they weren’t what I noticed.)
I had her position her ass for a spanking. Her answer to my question about bruising had convinced me I needed to leave some bruises, some marks. Boy, did I.
She didn’t use the word she’d specified to stop me then, but I think she regrets not having done so. After, she wrote me, “Also, I’m a little scared of you now & I’m not sure I want to be hit like that again.” Not sure, eh? Perhaps we should work to reach some certainty.
I like that she’s scared of me. Offering trust and compliance to someone of whom you’re scared is even more valuable a gift than offering it to someone with whom you feel completely safe. Said differently, I trust that she knows she is completely safe with me. But that I will dangle her over ledges, take her on scary rides, all while protecting her.
The best rides are the scariest ones, no?