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Monday, Mar 22, 2010 9:11 PM UTC

My girlfriend, the dominatrix

It took her forever to convince me to try BDSM. But when I finally got into it, she was the one who couldn't deal

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Topics: TMI, Sex,

My girlfriend, the dominatrix

I consider myself a thoroughly modern fellow. I’m young enough to be comfortable with novel things and old enough to have visited many of the world’s odder nooks and crannies. So when Leena revealed that she had a part-time job outside her work at a London museum, I was struck dumb for only a moment.

I admit, the whole domination-submission thing is beyond my ken. I’ve administered a measured spank or two, when it seemed appropriate. And I’m aware that there exists a widespread subculture of BDSM enthusiasts. But I’ve never devoted any thought to the practice. It holds no interest for me.

Still, I congratulated myself that, as Leena’s warm brown eyes tracked my face, I displayed no sign of dismay, disorientation or disapproval. Instead, I asked her to please tell me more about her sideline business.

Apparently, it involved no actual sexual contact. Apparently, there is a kind of therapeutic value to what she does for her clients. Apparently, there is surprisingly high demand for such services in the City. And apparently, Leena rather enjoyed her work.

We’d met a month previously, at a cigar terrace in Belgravia. I was in town for a few months, working on a project, and some colleagues decided to end the week by wasting our hard-earned money on unhealthy things shipped in from Scotland and Cuba. 

I’d noticed Leena, of course, the instant we walked in. She was alone, wearing a simple yet spectacular summer dress and open-toed heels. Looking up from the fashion magazine on her lap, she treated me to a brilliant and very direct smile, as my friends and I sat at an adjacent table. I was disappointed to find myself seated with my back to her.

Scotch in hand, my guests and I loosened our ties, and I asked a passing server for a box of wooden matches. 

“Why wait?” I heard from behind me. I turned. “May I?” she asked, reaching for my cigar. “Certainly,” I replied, uncertainly. 

She produced a torch lighter, put my cigar between her lips and rotated it over the flame until the tip was glowing cheerfully, then handed it back to me with a smile of mischief. 

“Won’t you join us?” I offered, crossing my legs.

Leena was fun and interesting. Widely read and opinionated, she relished debate. Athletic and energetic, she brought vigor and creativity to our evenings together. 

Things were going swimmingly, until she broached her surprise, for although I was willing to shrug off her non- museum-related activities, she didn’t want to. Leena wanted to bring her expertise into my bedroom. And thus began a painful episode.

“No,” I said.

“You’re just afraid to give up control,” she insisted. “You’ll find it liberating.”

“No.”

“It’s exciting! You’ll see.”

“No, thank you. I find what we’ve spent the afternoon doing plenty exciting.”

“You’re just being stubborn.”

“Perhaps. Anyway, no.”

For weeks, she refused to drop the subject. Just when I thought she’d accepted that my proclivities did not extend in that direction, I’d see that particular light in her eye. She’d try again to convert me.

“I’m very good at it,” she said, with pride.

“I’m quite sure you are. No.”

“Let me just tie you to the bed, won’t you?”

“No.”

She even dressed up in her full dominatrix regalia. She looked ravishing. My arousal was fierce. But I wanted to spend the next hour relieving her, piece by piece, of her garments. And she wanted to spend the next hour striking me in different places with various implements. 

Our relationship began to resemble nothing so much as the Dr. Seuss book “Green Eggs and Ham,” with Leena as my own personal Sam-I-Am, obsessively eager to persuade me to taste of the particular delights she was promoting.

Leena:
Will you let me tie you up? Will you let me whip your butt?
Can I fit you with this ring? Can I bind you in this sling?

Me:
I will not let you tie me up, I will not let you whip my butt.
You cannot use your rings or slings.
I’ll not be bound by anything!
I do not like that, can’t you see?
That third degree is not for me.

Leena:
I will make you wear this mask, but I will free you if you ask.
You can crawl and kiss my boot. I will force you to stay mute.

Me:
No mute, no boot! That’s absolute.
No mask, don’t ask!
What’s wrong with you?
And put away that nipple screw.
I have no taste for shame or pain.
You really are a crazy dame.

We settled briefly on a compromise that involved inventive positions, my introduction to elements of tantra, the creative use of substances of different viscosity, as well as ample biting, hair-pulling and face-slapping. I had to acknowledge that these rituals certainly stoked Leena to great heights, and I was the direct beneficiary of her enthusiasm.

And then I made a fatal misjudgment.

Deep into one joyful Saturday night, we were thrashing about in my bedroom loud enough to cause Mrs. Hurlburt next door to call the landlord again. 

Leena threw herself at me, sinking her teeth into my shoulder muscle, growling, adding new marks to the existing array. I growled back, pinned her wrists with one hand and dropped her across my thighs. I grinned, raised my arm high, cocked it and let fly with my palm. 

A delightful, satisfying “Smack!” right on the fleshy sweet spot of her bottom.

Her reaction was not what I’d expected. “OW!” She pulled away, her olive face turning red. “That hurt, you git!”

Brusquely, she stood, gathered her clothes and stalked from the room. Seconds later, I listened to the front door of my flat slam shut.

In a state of confusion and gradual decline, I sat in my shambles of a bed and pondered. It seemed that in the convoluted world into which I’d had a glimpse, there are rules I’d not properly considered. 

Leena believed devoutly that it is better to give than to receive.  Sadly, I was of the same mind.

More Man Talk Now.

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