La première session I

I know the rules. I’ve searched, on Incognito Mode, ‘dom/sub session’; ‘what to do dom/sub’; ‘domming for the first time’; ‘how long dom/sub session’. I’ve joined a secret Facebook group full of beautiful, supportive freaks who recommend The New Topping Book. I’ve read this, cover to cover, delighted by its lyricism, thoughtfulness and utter joy in sex. I’ve read and re-read Flint’s messages detailing his experiences of BDSM and how he imagines the session to go. I’m ready and not ready, but I have Flint’s voice in the back of my mind: in order to sub, you first have to dom. In order to understand this particular vulnerability, I have to experience it through someone else. 

There is wine when he comes round, which I drink far too quickly to stave off how jittery I am. He is calm and patient – claiming to be nervous too, but he hides it well. At this point in time, I can’t think of anybody else I’d rather be starting this journey with – how could this possibly work with two newbies?

I don’t remember when the switch happens, but I do remember slipping the collar round his neck and tugging it tight, but not too tight. My voice is suddenly low and calm, deeper than I imagine it normally is. I’m not nervous anymore.

In my bedroom, I take his clothes off. I want to admire him without embarrassment or fear of objectifying or insincerity; to take in everything about him and his body that makes me smile or turns me on. I’m still fully clothed and he is nearly naked. He turns in a circle and I know I’m frowning in concentration as I drink in his chest – big enough to crush me, to make me feel small and vulnerable when he’s on top – which tapers to a small waist; his thighs and calves sculpted through cycling. His ass, which I covet constantly, even in jeans, in trousers, in nothing at all. The subtle dip of his collarbone and the dimples at his lower back. 

I make him choose between baby oil and lotion and tell him to give me a foot massage. I am sitting on my bed; he is kneeling beneath me, and the power of control hits me for the first time. I dictate where I want him to rub, and he does. ‘Yes, mistress.’ He’s submissive, but not obviously so; different from how male subs are portrayed in media. It’s a turn-on. He presses hard on my arches, which would normally make me squirm, but I feel completely in control. If he looks up at me, I tell him to keep his eyes on my feet. If his touch weakens, I tell him to work harder. Before his hands can get too sore, though, I order him onto the bed, on his hands and knees. I leave the room.

In my living room, I’ve hidden various components of my dom ‘outfit’. Wet-look stockings are in the box next to the sofa. My fuck me heels are in the cupboard. A figure-hugging leather corset dress hangs above them. Dark lipstick and eyeshadow in the bathroom. I shake my hair out. I feel hot as fuck.

The crop in my hand matches the collar round Flint’s neck. My vibrator is hot pink. I open the bedroom door.

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