A Second Date

Slave Log: 23.01.2021

I don’t expect to see Sir again today. I left his flat that morning and was planning on a relaxed evening to process everything. Yet when we talk – since he wants to suggest me writing these Logs as a way to process and for him to understand me better – he offers once more to shave me. 

Okay, one thing after the other.

*** 

I’ve never shaved intimately in my active years. I tried it once as a teenager, hated the feeling, and never did it again. During our memorable first time, though, Sir asked about it and said that he likes to finger people and eat them out, which he genuinely can’t enjoy if there’s hair. I found I can’t argue with the logic, especially since I would be allowed to keep some hair above my clit. Knowing that the sight of my nether regions wouldn’t be too different put me more at ease and I ended up agreeing to at least try.  

So on day two of our face-to-face acquaintance, I bought some shaving cream and intimate washing lotion with the intention of shaving tonight in preparation for our second date on Sunday.  

I didn’t expect him to call, nor to suggest something as sweet and considerate as writing down my experiences and sharing the results with him. As far as tasks for me to complete go, this one resonates much deeper with me than the request to write him when I wake up or when I head to bed. It confirms my assumption that he takes being a Dom/Master very seriously and cares on a personal level, not just a physical one. 

During the phone call, he also offers to come by my place and shave me himself. 

I blink. That’s the second time he offered. Last night (or was it this morning?), I thought he was just saying it, but I’m starting to believe he doesn’t simply say things he isn’t prepared to follow through on. 

I glance at my daily To-Do-list. I could make time – quite easily, in fact. 

Alright, I say, and send him my address.

I still have about two hours before his arrival and I use it to finish up loose threads… and to oscillate between wanting to panic-clean the flat top-to-bottom (a habit my mother impressed upon me over the years, because your place has to be spotless when you get visitors, right?) and talking myself out of the shaving.  

It’s a huge change for me. While I don’t view my pubic hair from a feminist perspective, I do like how it sets me apart from ‘the norm’. I already have to explain that yes, you can be read by every stranger as ‘female’ and even have sex in the body of a woman but not identify as such. I’m nonbinary, and my pubic hair helped me feel comfortable when gender dysphoria would get to me. 

But well. I am a big believer in compromise, and if Sir is so keen on me shaving, then at least I can try and see how it feels. 

He arrives around 7pm, decked in winter clothes to guard against the cold. He described some scenarios to me that first night, about surprising me with a slap right off the bat or ordering me on my knees asap, and I find myself curious if he will go that far already. I’m not sure how I would have handled it. 

He does none of these things, simply kisses me. We do more of that in my studio apartment, next to the clothes on the drying rack that I only put in the wash since I would certainly not receive a visitor today, right? Not that he would mind, but hey, long-learned patterns of self-doubt and anxiety don’t simply vanish over night. 

Or my years of therapy. 

Anyway, we end up on the bed and I think I initiate the blowjob that I give him, but I can’t recall for certain. He might have nudged me, but I go down on him gladly. 

I take my time. He isn’t fully hard yet, barely half-way there, and I feel the urge to change that, to prove (to myself? To him?) that I can make him hard and give him pleasure. Deepthroating him works better this time, maybe because I get to work my way up to him at full size, which is not exactly small. 

As he hardens, my mind flashed back to a recent scene in one of my stories, where a character gives his new partner a first blowjob and comments how he loves getting someone hard with just his mouth. Sometimes the way my Muse takes my own hidden wants or desires and puts them in the open is staggering to me. 

The blowjob ends not with him coming down my throat but… I can’t even say exactly. The atmosphere changes, I pull off to kiss him and we move onto something else. Or maybe he choked me with his cock and I spluttered so hard that I took a break? Or was that the next date? It’s only been three days since then, but my memory remains a blur. 

“Let’s get you shaved,” he says then, and I swallow. I can’t imagine someone else shaving me, especially down there. He’s matter-of-factly about it, though. I can’t tell if he enjoys it or if he sees this as a necessary step he has to cycle through, but I at least found it weird. Better than having a pedicure with a total stranger (which I did only once), but still… peculiar. 

My single-use razor isn’t ideal for the task, unfortunately, but he makes the best of it. I  shower off the residue of the shaving foam when he joins me under the spray, which I find I don’t mind at all. Apart from wasting water, which I do my best to keep to a minimum.

Back on my bed, Sir breaks out some toys. He asked what to bring and I said, “Surprise me.” He definitely did – a clothes hanger with clamps as nipple clamps? Nice one!

He also brought the electric collar that he showed me the night before but that wasn’t fully charged back then. I’m surprised by how much I like it – the pain is bordering on too much if he presses the button too long, but it’s still on this side of the edge. 

On top of that, he packed the Lovesense toys I’ve read about but never witnessed. The butt plug is large and the stretch hurts, almost too much without more prep, but my body surprises me by accommodating the black monstrosity with ease after several seconds. 

Its vibrations feel nice, for lack of a better word. Genuinely nice. Sir adds a vaginal vibe, Lush, and switches them all on. When there’s an issue, he doesn’t let it phase him or make him frazzled. As I watch from my position underneath him on my back, I can’t help but admire how at peace with himself he seems to be. 

People accepting themselves fully is a foreign concept to me – they’re unicorns from where I’m standing, rare and barely sighted. He seems to be one of them, though. 

The toys don’t distract us too long, however, since all their batteries aren’t fully charged. We get one session of a few minutes where both plugs and the collar work, which is nice already. But then Sir starts choking me and I… It’s hard to describe. Like my body sends out “HELP!” signals, but my mind knows it’ll be okay. The lack of control does something to my brain, the trust in someone else to… well, basically hold my life in their hands. If he wanted, he could suffocate me, after all. I wouldn’t notice anything had changed before it’s too late. When he lets me breathe again, it’s heady. Air rushes back into my lungs and bloodstream, a high that tops every sensation that previous behaviors have managed to give me. 

What’s more, he obviously loves how much I enjoy it. The grin on his face is another type of rush entirely. 

He tries out the whip he brought, a sleek one with leather straps (if that’s the right word). It feels good against my ass and leaves the hint of marks. To my surprise (and hey, don’t you realize a pattern here?), I truly like him leaving marks on me. They’re a token of the moment, a reminder for when the moment is long gone. 

For some reason, he also shows me how hard he’ll hit when it’s meant as punishment. I expected it to hurt, and damn, it does… Too much to feel pleasurable, which I guess is the point. 

“What would warrant punishment like that?” I ask, curious. 

“If you don’t complete a task I give you,” he says. “Or refuse an order.”

The example he paints is of us on a fetish train (which actually exist? How rad is that?!), and he orders me to blow another dom but I refuse or don’t. This constitutes disrespecting my Master (which I am to call him in public), and warrants punishment.  

All that feels quite fair to me. He also strikes me as a Dom (Master?) who would listen to me if I had profound objections. 

Our cuddling time gives way to me making food, since Sir hasn’t eaten much today and I know how to be a good host. To both our surprise, it’s already 10.30pm when I put the rice on the stove. 

After he eats, we end up on the bed again. Gentle caresses bleed into sex – not as rough but definitely lovely. Once again, the end goal isn’t orgasm, and neither of us reaches it. We both are sated, though, smiling as we lie in each other’s arms. 

In my notes, what happens next is transcribed as “A Talk About FEELINGS (TM)”. From what I took from the conversation, we both voiced that we feel something more is going on between us. He said something along the lines of, ‘I wouldn’t call it love after just two days, but there’s definitely more between us.’ 

And there is. I can feel it. 

I’m not good with knowing what I feel about things, or at least that’s how it used to be before my recovery. Seems like I’ve improved? I have yet to grasp the concept of love in a romantic setting, but I understand what he means with ‘more’. It seems to fit in ways that I’ve never known before, in my short albeit eclectic dating history. Things that usually seemed a chore (phone calls) are something I enjoy with him. It’s strange and unfamiliar, but also feels too good to let my own worries and self-doubt stop me from exploring. 

I do kick him out of my flat that night, though. Having someone stay the night is different than staying elsewhere, and I need a morning to myself, I feel. He has no problem with it. Like, genuinely. Once again I marvel at how uncomplicated he is about life. 

That night, I fall asleep with a smile, unsure of what the future will bring, but very excited to see what it holds in store.