Full text available at www.LoveVoodooNooz.com
The 100% true story of my re-acquaintance with BDSM and myself.
by NovaSmut
Read Part 1 HERE
We walk in the door of this fabulous loft and he introduces me to Jonathan and January. She’s a pro domme and he’s her hot professional hacker (er, security consultant) boyfriend who reminds me of someone I can’t quite place, and I can’t wait to ask her all sorts of questions, but I never get the chance. She busts out champagne. MT and I commence with fucking around, J and J do the same. Eventually more toys come out, including a cane. Basically, I’ve never been caned before (at least not by someone who was doing it for the sake of play rather than horrible punishment), and I express interest at trying out this new thing while I’ve got a resource of such immense talent, experience, and care sitting in front of me.
At some point, while I’m gagged with a big yellow rubber ball, wrists cuffed behind my back, cane being applied to my calves and feet, I realize that there are more of them than me. It dawns on me that these three people are virtual strangers and I could be in seriously deep shit, and I experienced a brief moment where I was truly afraid for my wellbeing. So I do my best to indicate I’d like the gag off, and they oblige. I am grateful, and tell them I can handle a lot more without the gag. They really are sweethearts, and I can tell they care how I feel, but are nonetheless quite entertained by torturing me. Moreover, it was incredibly freeing to experience that kind of pain for the sake of the physical sensation and the subsequent (invigorating) effects on my psyche, instead of taking a beating for something I’d done wrong, and feeling guilty and pitiful before, during AND afterwards.
That’s when I realize that this man is Doing It Right.
But this will not be without challenge (and would it be any fun if it wasn’t?!). Every limit I mention, they push. He indicates that he’d like me to call him Sir. I mention my baggage and subsequent reluctance to use that word, he says it’s alright, that he’ll take care of me. And so I call him Sir. It feels wrong at first. It’s difficult to remember to say, because I don’t really want to; I don’t feel an overpowering urge to address him with a title. I want this to be equal, I don’t want to be insulted constantly while having to show respect and gratitude (and I realize, now, that baggage is expecting what’s in front of you to be exactly like what’s in your past. I’m going to have to work to overcome this habit). And so I swallow my pride, I remind myself that this is voluntary, not compulsory, and this is supposed to be fun.
I tell them I hate cattle prods. They bring out something that’s somewhere in between a tens machine and a prod. It’s got two points and delivers a stimulating but not overly disconcerting charge. Just enough tingle to make it slightly uncomfortable, but definitely pleasurable in a weird way. They run it up and down my legs, on the bottoms of my feet. They mercifully avoid my flanks, but shock my nipples. They dare me to hold myself open and relax while they apply this thing to my cunt. I am made to feel brave, instead of like someone who deserves punishment, and it’s a huge relief. MT gets a glove, lubes it up, and gets almost his whole hand up my cunt, and onto my g-spot. I work my clit. I squirt, but don’t come. I surf the wave for a long time, eventually flailing about so much that he probably thinks I had like three orgasms and we eventually stop.
They bring me upstairs and stick me on the sybian. I get fucked by a robot for the first time. It’s almost *too* much: it feels great, but I don’t come. Everyone comments on how insatiable I am.
Eventually we all gather downstairs and just sortof collapse onto the furniture, talking. MT has to go home, so Jonathan and January set me up on the couch with a sleeping bag. It’s 6am.
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