Slave Jay (Photo: Marcel Wagner)

Meeting Lord of Pleasure

Slave Log: 22.01.2021

There’s a sense of anticipation thrumming underneath my skin all day. 

It’s Friday and later that day, I would meet Sir for the first time. Being this excited about a first meeting is uncommon for me, but I do my best to push the skeptical thoughts that flare up in response to the back of my mind. I’ve learned over the past year – and especially these past months – that having set expectations rarely helps or leads to desired outcomes. I want to be present in the moment and go with the flow, for lack of a less clichéd phrase. 

When we meet on the platform, his hair is darker than I expected, but the positive vibe I got from our messages and phone calls is the same. I think I can sense his nervousness, but can’t be certain. Old voices in my head scoff at the thought – ‘You’re nothing special, why should he be nervous?’ – yet it’s easier by now to ignore their jibes. 

Conversation between us flows at a leisurely pace. I don’t ever feel like the silence between us is uncomfortable, so I don’t try to fill it with random things. 

It’s only after we leave the S-Bahn and approach his flat that he pounces. A hand in my hair pulls my head back and his lips are on mine. My surprise is positive, and I try to get a sense of what kind of kisser he is. He said he likes it, and I’m pleased to find I enjoy kissing him, too. 

It feels like the action eased something in the air between us – though at the same time, there seems to be more tension. We get to his flat and I meet his roommate-slash-landlord, chance a glimpse around Sir’s tidy room, quickly use the bathroom and then we’re off again on a quest for food. 

We kiss at the bus stop and his hands slide underneath my winter jacket. It’s nice and pleasant, just kissing without any endgame in mind, even though the exposed position keeps nagging on my mind. Public displays of affection are foreign to me, and I don’t know how I feel about them yet. 

I’m a bit embarrassed when we get to the burger place (or rather, the alternative one) and the PDA continues. I can feel people’s gazes – not as a weight on me, nor as something that ignites a fire anywhere. My instinct is to keep going, though, so I do.

Sir tips well, which earns him a wave of brownie points in my book. If he hadn’t tipped, I would have asked about it – as a former employee in the service industry, my attitude towards tipping your server is a strong one, and in my view, someone’s approach to it says a lot about one’s character. 

Dinner is another pleasant surprise. As a vegan, I’m used to comments and questions, but Sir has none. His accepting attitude is starting to grow on me already. It permeates his discussions of kinks and fetish life, in which he’s incredibly knowledgable. 

He even knows what hucow means, damn. 

Once back on the bus, he pulls me close again. I’ve known to feel confined sometimes, in such positions, yet with him it’s nice. A large part of it, I think in retrospect, is that we’re just very clear on the dynamics of the situation. Going in, I couldn’t tell whether he is aiming for something casual, if he’s looking for a ‘sugarbabe’ (I met him on a sugardating site, after all), or wants to see about something different. My instincts already figured out that he’s not in it for paysex and I’m glad I made the decision for myself to approach the meeting without that in mind. As I told my friend before heading out, I genuinely want to meet him – not because there’s prospective payment involved but because my gut is nudging me in that direction. 

Anyway. Back to the flat. 

By now it’s clear that we’re going to explore our dynamic in a scene. I ask which outfit I should put on and gladly slip into my tight black dress. Wearing it feels like a costume, as does the skirt I brought, but I’ve always enjoyed dressing up. When Sir compliments me, the usual counter-narrative in my head starts asap (He’s just saying that, etc.) but I ignore it. 

Just like you shouldn’t feed the trolls, don’t listen to the self-critical voices in your head.

As we kiss, I notice he’s hard in his jeans – a sensation that never ceases to amaze me. Like, this person is aroused because of me. Surreal and empowering at the same time. 

Before he grabs my ass and pushes me down onto my knees, however, he shares how some partners have been surprised by how strongly he’d handle them. Never mind that he said he likes it rough… And I find myself yearning to find out how rough he can get. 

I get my first taste of it, pun intended, as I expose his cock and blow him for the very first time. 

Blowjobs are something I genuinely enjoy, have been ever since I tried it for the first time with a youth camp fling. It’s even better when the erection I’m sucking is nice, and damn. My first thought when I saw Sir’s penis was, ‘Hello, yes please’. I try not to dick shame people, but there are certain things I find more aesthetically pleasing than others. 

Then there’s this slight curve towards his body, which I have learned feels best in my vagina. Something about the curve fits well against my g-spot and it’s wonderful that Sir happens to have a similar build. 

I know from our conversations that Sir loves facefucking, so I try to take him deep. Some days, this works better than most, and I guess that moment wasn’t ideal. He pushes into my mouth, against the back of my throat and deeper, but somehow it doesn’t work as intended. I can’t help but feel like I failed – which only serves to make me go, ‘challenge accepted’ in my head. 

(Later that night, I’m thrilled when the ring-gag facilitates a really nice facefuck. But one thing after another….)

Well, that would require me being able to relive the night chronologically. I find myself skipping between moments as I recall, trying to parse together how they connect and what happened in between. 

I know that he undresses me fully then and puts leather cuffs around my wrists and ankles. Two silver nipple clamps are applied, the pain strong but not too much yet. The blindfold he uses is a long, black cloth that is soft and incredibly pleasant against my skin. The lack of sight does something to me that I find hard to put into words. He gives the chain of the clamps to me to hold between my teeth, which pulls and hurts, though still at a level I can take. 

The clamps come off before he bends me over the bed. Which… ouch. I definitely didn’t expect that to hurt as much as it did. I’ve never worn clamps for longer than five minutes, and the ones I use at home are a lot kinder. 

Sir moves on to a paddle of some sort that he uses on my ass. It’s a classic, and the writer in me perks up even more than before. It smarts, I have to say. In the moment of impact, my instinct is to want it to stop, but once the first sting fades, the comedown from the pain is… quite fucking nice. 

The cane he uses next is much better, though. He doesn’t apply it too hard, and I find the reduced pain makes it a lot more pleasurable. I like the limited scope of the cane and the marks it leaves. It somehow feels more personal, more intimate, though I can’t exactly explain why. 

Afterwards, Sir removes the blindfold and pulls me close for a kiss. He says he won’t tie me up and take me rough just now – he wants to enjoy me first. 

I’m not quite sure what to expect, but it’s not to have one of the loveliest (best?) sex in recent memory. It just… works. Sir pushes in and fucks me slow and steady, the slide of his cock wonderful inside of me. I’ve had sex like that before, but not outside a paysex situation. The knowledge that this isn’t work but pleasure allows me to relax into it even better, to fully soak up the joy it brings. 

He switches things up, too. Fucks into me hard and faster (which I definitely love), and has me ride him. It’s rewarding to see how he enjoys that – for me, being on top is more work without much pleasure given the angle, so the appreciation in his gaze and tone of voice go a long way to make this enjoyable. 

What surprises me most about the entire “first time” is the lack of urgency. Or rather, the fact that it’s not about reaching orgasm. Since I personally don’t experience much of a climax that I can tell, I tend to exaggerate a lot when people want me to finish too or come ahead of them. When I mention the topic, Sir explains his perspective – that it’s about the experience, not the result. Orgasms are nice, but not a must. Internally I’m cheering so hard during that moment, because HELL YES, I knew people who think like this do exist, and how lucky am I to have met one of them?

I guess this moment plays a huge part in why I agreed to spend the night. 

Thing is, I need certain routines. My morning routine is one of them, and I haven’t dared to change things up much. Even when I stay with my sister or my family, I have the space to go through my mornings in peace and alone. 

But that night, the thought of getting up and tracking across Berlin for an hour in exchange for the comfort of my routine doesn’t motivate me enough to actually go through with it. Part of me is curious, too: Everything about the evening has been great… up to and including the conversations we have during sex… so maybe the night will go in a similar vein?

The answer turns out to be both “yes” and “no”. No, I can’t really sleep. The mattress is way too soft for my taste and I can’t move around that much given that we’re cuddled together. Or rather, I could… but I don’t want to? Which is weird in its own right. As I said, I can feel confined and uncomfortable quickly in such positions, but with Sir, it’s not like that. Or not too intense that it makes me want to get away. 

We use the inability to sleep to talk, and I find out more about his life and personality. He strikes me as ‘infinitely interesting’, i.e. someone who will keep surprising me even after having known him a long time. He’s full of stories and experiences, has interesting perspectives and I doubt we’d run out of things to talk about at any point soon. 

The session with the vibrator is a nice touch, too, though I find I’m having a bit more difficulty letting go. Especially when he allows me to come and I try to figure out if I need to flick a switch in my head or if my body just isn’t capable of experiencing the type of climactic orgasm that fanfic and porn have led me to believe. The only one whose experience of orgasm comes close to mine is that of my best friend Leigh, who describes their sensations as mini-orgasms when reached at all. 

Sir keeps saying that, as his sub, he can simply use me when he wants. No matter if I’m asleep or awake. I find that the idea resonates with me on a profound level. The lack of control is heady, another form of when Sir choked me and denied me to breathe. 

I’m not sure I fully get the difference between sub and slave. He explains, but the idea of not being able to say no to something, the idea of giving up consent for good as a slave… it makes me want to run in the opposite direction. 

And still, I decide to call this journal of sorts “Slave Log”. I circled through a few options but settled on it because it sounds cooler than journal or diary, and ‘slave’ packs a better punch than ‘sub’. It’s more evocative and feels better to me as a writer. 

Still, the concept of becoming a slave is strange. But maybe that will change, or there will be a middle ground that accommodates us both. The fact alone that I’m entertaining this thought surprised me to the core. At the same time, it feels natural, authentic. There’s no effort required on my part, and my instincts beckon me to follow this thread. So I do. 

I leave for my return home after a comfy morning, a bit hungry and tired, but more content than I can remember being for a long time.

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