Content warning: explicit erotica
I was on the pull that night, and I did warm a bloke’s sheets by day’s end, but it was also the evening I met him.
He is out of place, I thought. He didn’t fit the room.
The pub was crowded with Canary Wharf city-boys — and he was one of the clique too — but unlike his colleagues, his suit fit. But it wasn’t just his tailoring that set him apart, or his stature and easy charisma for that matter.
No, there was something… Arg! It’s hard to articulate.
He wasn’t the centre of attention in his group, but his friends worked for his approval — most likely without even realising it. He wielded a subtle power. And it was no accident, I knew. He was in complete control.
Everything he did was calculated and precise: how he spoke, what he said, how he moved, the way he surveyed the room…
Of course, he knew I was studying him. Those eyes (God, I’m getting wet just thinking about them), those eyes didn’t miss a thing.
Now, I’m used to boys staring at my tits (I like that they do, I admit) but invariably they’ll continue to smirk, baring wolves’ teeth. And some irreverent, rabid pup will bark a lewd, no doubt well thought-out, reflection about my character while the pack howls.
Fuck the patriarchy!
His consideration, however, was altogether different. He saw me. And he knew that I saw him.
It freaked me out.
In hindsight, I believe my reaction belied my sense that he knew something about me that I did not.
For the rest of the evening, my friend and I flirted, enjoying the attention of men, but I avoided the man who seemed to know me, affording him only a few glances. Okay, more than a few. But we didn’t speak.
That is, until last orders, when I hugged my bestie good night and locked arms with the handsome twenty-something who I intended to bed. This is the moment he decided to approach me.
“Here is my number,” he said, handing me a folded piece of thick, white paper (seriously, it felt like cardboard), and then he said farewell to the both of us. “Enjoy your evening.”
What? My night-partner and I laughed at the incident. “Can you believe that guy?”
But I knew this very well: I was going to phone.
The next morning, when I woke up in a foreign bed, I reached for my purse and opened the folded paper. It read, “Christopher F.,” followed by a number, written neatly with a fountain pen.
I worked up the courage and phoned him two days later. Let’s see what you got, Mr. F.
His voice was warm and deep.
“Hi, Christopher? My name’s Sam. Samantha.” Why was my voice quivering? “You gave me your number—”
“At the Fox and Wasp.”
“I’m pleased you called, Samantha.”
Those words made me stupidly giddy. What the hell? I thought.
“I’d like to meet,” he said. “Would you be comfortable with that?”
Yes, I thought.
“No,” I said. “Not yet.”
Look, I’ve seen American Psycho and Britain has their fair few. You never know what people are capable of. I needed to make an effort at due diligence, right? Unlike my one-night stands, I didn’t fully know Christopher’s intentions. I mean, I was pretty sure he wanted to fuck me, but there was obviously something more. God, it’s funny to think what I would have done had I known the extent of his desires!
As much as I wanted to ride out the silence, I couldn’t do it. “Can we talk?” I said. “Before we meet. Get to know each other a bit.”
“That is an excellent idea, Samantha.”
“Just Sam. Please.”
“Sam… I like that.”
I swear my cunt gushed.
“What do you want to talk about?” he said.
“I can’t now,” I said quickly. “Need to go. I’ll text you my email. Mail me.”
“Of course,” he replied.
I fell backwards onto my bed. Smooth as fuck, I thought wryly.
After tapping my phone on my forehead for ten minutes, I messaged him my email. And then I went for a long-ass run in the rain.
His email arrived that very evening.
I’m happy to share intimate details with you. I’m a heart-on-my-sleeve kinda gal, in case you were wondering. But his email is private.
Let me tell you, rather, what surprised me.
Given our brief interaction, I totally expected his email to be a one-liner. “Tell me about yourself.” Or, “Why were you watching me?” Instead, his letter was a proper letter, elegant and engaging.
Christopher can string a sentence together. I fancy myself a writer (I do creative writing courses and shit) and I recognise style when I see it. He’s a proficient writer, and I really liked that.
He asked a ton of questions about a variety of topics, subjects that were mostly of interest to me (fancy that), and his queries hinted at his own knowledge and curiosity. He genuinely cared about my opinion, or so it felt. I was sceptical, of course. I’ve had enough showoff men feign interest as a means to an end.
I’m happy to say, now that we’ve been in a relationship for six months, Christopher is a caring, humble man. He’s also the most self-assured person I know.
How he manages his confidence without arrogance remains a mystery to me. I’m an arrogant, feisty bitch. I know best, see, and I’ll cut you if you cross me. Yes, it’s a temperament that gets me in a world of pain sometimes.
But I digress.
What surprised me most, I think, was how deeply personal his email turned out to be. He shared a great deal about himself. He wasn’t just fishing for information about me, he was offering up himself. I would never have called that.
In short, I loved his letter. There was enough there to unpack and keep us busy for weeks. It lacked only in humour. Bless, Christopher is not funny. But then, every man is a comedian, and he doesn’t need to be.
Our written correspondence spanned all the way through July, and you know, I fell in love with him.
And that’s before I knew: he is the actual GREATEST fuck.
Sex came up in his third email.
“I’m active in the BDSM community,“ he wrote. “I’m a dominant male. A Dom.”
Here we go, I thought.
To be honest, my heart sank. Now, I enjoy my hair being pulled and ass slapped while a guy fucks me hard from behind. But I’ve watched BDSM porn. I’ve seen women hurt and degraded and it didn’t sit well with my feminist self. Submit? Fuck. You.
For the sake of the civility, I wrote a snarky reply instead of voicing my full-force disapproval. “You fancy yourself a real-life Mr Grey?”
His response is best described as an essay on the awfulness of 50 Shades. A rant, basically.
But I learned a lot about BDSM and the kink community. And it piqued my interest. There was so much to it that I didn’t know. I mean, I think there’s a lot of bullshit. But there is depth too. And the more I learned, the more I recognised things in myself.
I have a sadistic nature, for sure, and I have Domme qualities that I’m exploring. But what surprised me were my sub qualities and that I actually wanted to explore it.
“Precious few things in life are black and white,” Christopher wrote in one email. “You may not take to power dynamics, although I suspect you would. And if my suspicion proves correct, I bet you’re a Switch,” — he was right on the money there — “but none of that matters. Labels can get in the way. What I want is to explore sex with you.”
Vigorous masturbation preceded my return email.
“It’s high time we meet, Mr. F.”
On the morning of August the 5th, a grey but warm Saturday, I met Christopher in a coffee shop in Kensington.
He was gorgeous, casually dressed in Levi jeans, ironed shirt, and polished shoes. Not a single hair out of place, designer stubble… Screw it! Clichés still have a place. He was tall, dark, and so goddamned handsome.
He kissed my cheek in greeting and we ordered coffee. The morning fell away without my noticing.
At about noon, we went for a walk in Hyde Park. And as he held my hand, he told me what he was going to do to me in the bedroom come next Saturday. It was hot (panties wet, military grade turn on, understand?), but it also served a function. Mixed in through the sex talk, we discussed limits and preferences, defining exactly how we’d communicate.
It was during that conversation that I really came to understand the power of a submissive. That a sub grants dominance to a trusted person, for the benefit of both, and that this privilege is the sub’s to extend or revoke.
We said our farewells under an oak tree. Then Christopher paused and said, “I want to slide my hand up your neck, grab a fistful of your hair, pull your head back, and kiss you. May I?”
“Yes,” I breathed eagerly.
My body instantly engaged a primal alert protocol as he pulled my hair. And then he kissed me. It was…transcendent.
Afterwards, I stumbled through a goodbye and watched him walk away. I had finally met the Dom.
Oh. My. God.
It was a long week. For some reason my mind couldn’t focus on work.
Saturday came, finally.
I cleaned my flat. Christopher had offered the option, his place or mine, but he suggested mine to help reduce any anxiety. The planned scene was pretty vanilla, to ease me in, but still, there was a sense of danger, which is good and exciting, provided that it doesn’t overwhelm you. Being in my own space helped me feel safe.
I devoted the rest of the morning to grooming. I shaved my pussy (in the shower), epilated my legs and underarms (not in the shower), and plucked two stray hairs out of my right nipple. You can be hairy if you want. Your choice. Personally, I feel more comfortable and sexy when I’m as naked as a babe. So sue me! Makeup on the other hand. That can fuck right off. Well, some occasions warrant powder-usage, and fine, it makes me feel beautiful. Blah, blah, blah.
With half-an-hour to go, I got dressed: all black knickers (my racy lacy’s, as I like to call them), hold up stockings, pencil skirt, button shirt, and thick-rimmed glasses. With five minutes to go, I stepped into my high heels.
Exactly on time, he knocked.
From the moment I opened the door, Christopher assumed control.
He entered, walked into the lounge, and put a black leather case on the table.
I stood and observed him.
He took off his Tom Ford jacket, draped it carefully over a chair, and then popped his case open.
“Come here,” he said.
Inside, meticulously stowed, was an impressive array of kink toys. Rope, ball-gags, butt plugs, dildos, candles, handcuffs, nipple clamps, and things I couldn’t even name… But none of those were for our play. I was to be eased in, remember.
On the table, on a black strip of satin, Christopher laid out the following items: three paddles — two leather, one wooden — two floggers, a riding crop, a tickler, a pinwheel, a blindfold, lube, latex gloves, condoms, and a wireless Hitachi Magic Wand.
“Are you comfortable,” he said, “with everything on the table?”
“Yes,” I replied. Bring it! I thought.
“I may use my belt, if it comes to that. But I’ll ask you before I do. That sound good?”
I ought to have been nervous. But I wasn’t. Christopher’s communication and competence reassured me. I trusted him.
He looked at me, smiled, and said, “Are you ready?”
He rolled up the toys, and said, “Show me your room.”
“Take off your shirt and skirt,” Christopher commanded.
His words sent chills down my spine. I don’t generally like being told what to do, especially by a man, but Christopher’s instruction thrilled me. My body responded in kind, nipples tightening, pussy wettening (it should be a word). I tried not to over-think it and just be in the moment.
He watched me undress. His lust was evident, and seeing his desire made me tingle. I gush when I turn men on.
“Leave the shoes,” he said when I reached to take off my high heels.
Then, he put his hand on my lower back and guided me to the left side of my bed. Without saying a word, he positioned me on the duvet, on all fours, facing the headboard.
“You can lie on your arms if they get tired.”
With this, he removed my glasses and blindfolded me.
We had decided earlier to forgo playing out a narrative. Role-play can be fun, and we’ve acted out scenes since to great success, but there’s something to be said about keeping things simple.
The plan was essentially this: he was to beat and then fuck me. Why? Does there need to be a reason?
“I’m going to spank you now,” he whispered in my ear. “First with my hand, then with the toys. To start, I’ll let you know what I’m going to use. I’ll mix it up when you’re familiar with the sensations. Not knowing what and when enhances the experience.”
He ran his hand down my back, all the way to my thong. Next, he softly rubbed each of my butt cheeks, before spreading them ever so slightly. I felt his hand rub softly up over my cunt. Suddenly, he grabbed the back of my neck. Not hard, but firm enough that my body sensed danger. I felt dominated. And I LOVED it.
“Remember the scale we spoke about?”
“Yes,” I whispered, biting my lip.
“We’re aiming for sixes and sevens, occasional eights. I’ll ask you for a number from time to time, but you can let me know at any time.”
And then he spanked me. A soft tap on my left cheek. Another on my right. Soon he was slapping me all over my bottom and thighs.
“Six,” I answered his question, shortly before he delivered his first honest whack.
“Ah!” I yelped. “That was an eight.”
Why does the sting feel so good? I can’t tell you. It just does.
He rubbed ground zero, kissed it gently, and then proceeded with the spanking.
Occasionally, he’d fondle my left breast and pinch my nipple through my lace bra. God, it felt good. There is a direct line between my tits and cunt, in case you’re looking for advice on how to get me wet.
Christopher held my throat once, but I didn’t take to that, which I let him know, and he stopped. But I did like (I mean, really liked) when he grabbed my hair and pulled my head back, much like he did in the park. My body just responds to that. He would spank me extra hard when he held me like this — quick successive taps on the same spot, each strike a little harder until the final slap, which stung like a motherfucker.
My pain threshold seemed to increase as the beating progressed.
At one point, he put his arm around my midriff, pulled me into his body, and slapped each of my butt cheeks respectively. After a while, my body instinctively tried to shy away, but Christopher had a firm grip on me. “Nine,” I shouted, and he stopped. Fuck, this is intense!
A soft tickle soothed my bottom. Feathers, I realised. Soft hands followed, making circle motions on my skin, and then the lightest of touches with his fingertips — a kind of torture in its own right.
“I’m going to use the pinwheel,” he said.
I decided that I liked the prickly sensation, as he ran the wheel over my thighs. The toy that looked so scary was quite comforting. But then, he was being gentle with it.
At this point, Christopher removed my thong. I briefly lifted my knees as he slid the garment over my legs. Next, he deftly drew his fingers through my wet lips and circled his fingers teasingly over my pussy. Just two turns, and then he bit my ass. I swear I heard him growl! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
“This is a paddle,” he announced. “Soft leather.”
He gave me an almighty whack. The impact, and sound, was harder than anything he’d dealt before. But it didn’t sting that much. The sensation was completely different. How interesting, I thought.
“This paddle is harder. Thinner. It’ll hurt more.”
The man is not a liar.
The wooden paddle hurt the most, and the riding crop stung like a bee. I thoroughly enjoyed the floggers. Unlike the other toys, Christopher stood behind me to deliver the flogging. I rested on my arms for this, shouting my pain and ecstasy into my pillow.
Who could say how long he sustained my thrashing? I wanted it to end, and I didn’t. When he finally did cease, I felt a pang.
Christopher removed my blindfold and raised my torso upright so that I sat on my calves. He held the back of my head, his eyes bright and eager, and then he kissed me with a passion so fierce all rational thought fled my brain.
“Samantha,” he breathed. “You can take a beating with the best of them.”
Hearing Christopher’s pride and approval… God, I was putty in the man’s hands. And hells yes, I can take a beating! Not many people could take that punishment, I’d like to think, and that gave me a great sense of pride and accomplishment.
“I want to belt you,” Christopher said.
“Please,” I replied.
He ripped off his shirt (literally, I swear), revealing a ripped, athletic body. Swoon.
I undid his belt, yanked it off with one forceful pull, and then offered it up to him.
He grabbed my hand holding the belt and led me to an exposed part of my bedroom wall. There, he removed my bra and took the belt. Then, he positioned me, legs spread wide (tricky, with high heels!), and palms against the wall.
From behind, Christopher hugged me tight, arm across my chest, a strong hand gripping my right breast, while his other hand cupped my pussy.
“Count,” he said, “after each lash. I’m going to hit you five times.”
He stepped back and whipped me.
“One,” I said.
The pain of the leather belt put everything that had come before to shame. By the time the last stroke fell, I barely whimpered the number, “Five.”
And then he said to me the words that I still yearn to earn, “Good girl.” Those two words made all the pain worth it. I pleased him. Fuck my wayward brain, but I love to please him.
I remained by the wall, palms on the wallpaper. Christopher deployed kisses down my neck and back, laser-targeted caresses that fired my loins.
For a moment, he was gone. Over my shoulder, I saw him pull on a latex glove and squirt lube on his fingers. This was something we’d discussed. I was an anal play virgin. But I’ve always been curious.
Next, he grabbed the Magic Wand, and came to me…
Christopher circled a finger around my asshole. Why have I never done this before! I thought. He massaged my ass for a solid minute before inserting the tip of his finger. I tried to relax, but it was almost as if I couldn’t control my muscles. He lingered here, drawing small circles, softly stretching, and then I relaxed, and he entered me slowly. Before long, he had two fingers up my arse!
As he massaged and finger-fucked my ass, he turned on the Hitachi. The Magic Wand truly is a gift to women. He teased me with the vibrating head, moving it over my cunt, before he finally positioned it where God ordained it to be, right on my clit.
My orgasm wasn’t far away when Christopher withdrew from my ass. Off came the glove, and then he pushed his fingers into my cunt. My knees nearly buckled.
With vibration on my clit and stimulation on my g-spot, I came. I came for what seemed an age.
When my awareness returned, I registered that Christopher was holding me steady from behind, arm under my breasts, and again, one hand cupping my pussy, applying gentle pressure.
The carpet below had a wet stain. Did I squirt? Did I wee? Is there a difference? I have no idea, and I don’t really care.
We remained standing like that for a while, but then Christopher picked me up, and set me down on the bed so that I sat on the edge.
He unzipped his trousers, undid the waistband button, and released his cock. Woah! Rock hard and pointing 45 degrees towards the ceiling, his penis was perfect — thick shaft with a slight curve that tapered gently to a big, fat head with the foreskin pulled all the way back. Hmm, yummy, I thought.
I’m a self-confessed cock-worshiper, if that wasn’t sufficiently clear. I went to work immediately, grabbing Christopher’s shaft to begin my worship.
Here are my tips for a giving good head.
1) Wet is good. I licked his beautiful cock all over, delivering as much saliva as I could muster.
2) Use your hands. Gripping tightly, I vigorously stroked my hand over his slippery shaft. Then, I gave him several short strokes right over his head. His reaction was priceless.
3) Lick and suck, don’t hold back on the sucking; cocks are robust. I put him in my mouth and swirled my tongue around his head. And then I sucked it while moving my lips up and down his shaft.
4) Keep using your hands while you suck. I found a rhythm, stroking and sucking him.
5) Softly play with his balls. I gently tickled his testicles, letting him know I’m there without distracting from the main event.
6) Look up. With wide eyes, I stared up at him. The effect was telling. Guys love those hentai eyes.
7) Deep throat if you can. I let go of his shaft and shoved him as far down my throat as I could. He grabbed my head and throat fucked me, which is something we had discussed as I had never done that before. The slurpy noises sound pretty disgusting to me, but dominant men love that shit.
8) Show enthusiasm.
9) Variety is king.
Christopher approved of my worship, but he didn’t want to come just yet. No, he still wanted to fuck me.
He shoved me onto the bed, and while I lay on my back, he removed my high heels and stockings before undressing himself. We were both fully naked now.
He ripped open a condom packet, rolled the latex cover over his glorious cock, and applied lube. Then, he picked me up by my thighs and tossed me back a bit. Like a predator, he stalked over me, and as he moved, he lifted my right leg up, his arm sliding up under my knee.
“Hold my neck and pull me close,” he said as we came face to face.
I tried to pull him close, but Christopher resisted. When he put his hand behind my neck and pulled, I did likewise.
And it’s in this tension that he entered me. How he found my womanhood is a mystery. Echo location? Things don’t work so smoothly in real life. Nevertheless, he was in me. And sweet baby Jesus, his dick was tailor-made.
Christopher fucked me — hard thrust in, slow withdraw, over and over. I squealed with every hit.
“Fuck me,” I uttered as I looked into his animal eyes. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. Aaaargh, you feel so good. Ah! Ah! Ah!”
My sex talk has never been great. But it had an effect, because Christopher had upped the tempo to a more regular beat. And each thrust came harder than the one before.
We remained in the same position, muscles straining to maintain our push and pull stalemate, but my other leg had come up too, curled around Christopher’s lower back. His cock struck so deep now that we reached that beautiful equilibrium between pain and pleasure, a state no doubt reflected on my agony face.
“I’m coming,” I said, as if it needs an announcement. But even to me, my octave-higher voice sounded sexy as fuck. “I’m coming! Oh God…”
Soon after, Christopher spent himself inside me. His manly moans were immensely pleasing to me.
All tension relieved, he half-lay on top of me. We were both breathless, but that didn’t stop our kissing. We enjoyed each others’ lips until our heart rates settled.
I would’ve stayed in his arms forever if it wasn’t that I desperately needed to pee.
Christopher stayed the night. And he took care of me, rubbing cream on my heavily bruised bottom (you should see the photos!), feeding me, making me tea, watching movies, and snuggling. So much snuggling.
Oh, and we fucked four more times before he left late Sunday afternoon.
That weekend was six months ago. Sorry that it’s taken me so long to write about it.
I’ve come a long way since that night at the Fox and Wasp. I’m active in the kink scene, regularly play with men and women, and I’ve just taken on my own male sub (daunting!). Not bad, eh?
You may call me WaspSting or BelongsToFox. Yes, I belong to Mr. F, and I’ve got the collar to prove it. I am his. Because in this moment, I choose to be.
Now, it’s probably time to let my sub out of his cage.