Breadcrumbs

Shame and pleasure have always been kissing cousins for me. I liken the depths of my psyche, where arousal lies, to a pinball game. The ball can orbit aimlessly through the obstacles without pinging and lighting up its targets until it drops disgracefully to the gutter beneath the flippers. Or someone can skillfully propel the ball into the game, hitting all my tender mental spots along the way, lighting me up, and owning my desire. 

Insecurity.

Ping.

Yearning.

Ping.

Struggle.

Ping.

Desperation.

Ping.

Degradation.

Ping.

I met Tony the summer before my senior year of high school. With a buzzed head, piercing blue eyes, and an impish smile, he had the blinding confidence I was always drawn to. I had just moved again to a new state before school started, so I didn't know anyone yet. An opportunity to reinvent myself—no one knew my past. Tony invited me to a party, and I was excited for some teenage normalcy. We left on a beer run and couldn’t keep our hands off each other. One thing led to another, and I blew him in his truck. He tried to leave me high and dry after he came, like most clueless young men. But instead of leaving an encounter empty-handed, I directed his fingers to show him what I liked, eventually taking care of myself, masturbating in front of him. 

We went back to the party, and Tony smiled ear-to-ear as we walked in the door, high-fiving his friends. I felt the hateful and diminishing eyes of all the girls who clearly knew what we had been up to. The lustful and judging eyes of the other boys devoured me whole, hoping for their turn. At my core, I felt like I was the liberated one that fucked and sucked as she pleased, but still, I internalized the stigma.

During my first week at this new school, a long-haired Latina with giant hoop earrings, who stood nearly twice the size of my petite frame, approached me in the cafeteria while I ate lunch.

"Why did you blow my boyfriend, you nasty slut."

I was frozen, looking for someone to save me. "Who is your boyfriend?" I asked, genuinely confused, adrenaline building, hands trembling, as I tried to swallow a dry french fry already in my mouth.

"TONY!! How many people have you blown? You don't even know who it is?!?" She laughed at me and then pounded her fists into my lunch tray on the table, like King Kong, squirting an open packet of mustard all over my shirt in the process. My favorite shirt. Ruined forever. My mouth hung open, my words froze, my body froze. My heartbeat threatened to burst straight out of my throat, I couldn't believe this blowjob was still haunting me. I felt the entire cafeteria looking at me, waiting to see what I would do. 

"ANSWER ME!" she screamed. 

I stood up to meet her eyes, and she shoved me in the chest. Instinctively, I pushed her back. We locked in a brawl with fistfuls of each other's hair, and somebody yelled FIGHT. That was the last thing I remembered before I was seated in the principal's office being suspended while covered in mustard, like the Belle de Jour of midwestern cafeterias. 

I have never told any Doms this story. Maybe I have never trusted them enough. Or maybe I like my secrets hidden in plain sight. I don't want to write it into a sex scene like a prescription for my pleasure. I am more complicated than that. A script doesn't help me with the suspension of disbelief. I don't expect them to be mind readers, I am not unreasonable. I will keep dropping hints in our messaging and "vibe check drinks." It's up to them to listen. Be intuitive. Creative. I want to know I am safe and in good hands, but still experience an adrenaline surge. A euphoric explosion. The kind I only get from specific dynamics. From anticipation. Insecurity in comparison to other women. Or an intellectual power struggle. If they can't challenge me, I'll get bored. I need a desire to impress, or come out on top. Even though I don't actually want to. I want them to win. This will stir up my desperation. My ultimate turn-on. It will open the floodgates and have them wishing they had laid a towel under me as I soak through all the sheets to the mattress. I'm a feminist who needs a tinge of toxic masculinity. I want to hate their arrogance, or I won't believe their dominance. I am not so easy to break into submission. But once someone knows what rots deep in my core, they can tap into it. Teaching me something new about myself. They need to tell me how to please them. Make me beg for what I want. Then give me exquisite shame and punish me for needing it.

I'll leave breadcrumbs. What will they do with it?

~~~

My friend and kink-confidant set me up with Jason via Instagram. I noticed my new Dom had a considerable following. A photographer whose whole feed was of gorgeous girls in lingerie, in what seemed to be mid-sexual encounter. I immediately wanted to be one of them. We started messaging, and he had just enough arrogance to keep me engaged. Days of flirty chit-chat later, we ended up in a small and stupid debate about his distaste for a newly popular term on Feeld—Pleasure Dom, which he called a misnomer for a Service Top. His elitist standpoint as Mr. Kink-know-it-all made me mildly irate.

"So you're a service slut. Got it. I know what to do with you." He said almost immediately after some initial conversation about my kink likes and dislikes.

Although entirely correct (!), minimizing and reducing me to a one-note human summary irked me. Suddenly, my personal complexity became common. A mere kink label. And I am not a simple woman. I almost wrote him off, thinking that he was going to liken me to the baby kinksters he photographed and flaunted all over his Instagram. Surely I was superior and knew myself better. He was smart, attentive, and flattering, don't get me wrong—he entered that perfect space keeping me challenged, creating just enough tension to want to be desired and validated, yet still want to smack him. 

"No drink, just come over. I already know I want to fuck you," he messaged me a week later, an hour before the night of our unconfirmed plans. I was also sure I wanted to fuck him, but I loved a warm-up drink before a hook-up to build tension. I followed his orders with an internal pout. 

My Uber arrived at his place precisely on time. He opened the door to his classic 1920's deco-style Hollywood apartment. I hugged and kissed him warmly in the doorway as if he were an old friend I was happy to see. 

"Nope," he said with a nasty chuckle, stopping me at the door with a hand pushing against my chest as I tried to walk into his place. He pointed to the ground.

I rolled my eyes and handed him my designer handbag and leather jacket, as if he were some type of sadistic coat check, and assumed my position on my knees in the doorway. 

On all fours now, my hands and face were halfway in the apartment, and my ass and legs were dangling out on the dark cement landing of the entrance. The dim, sour, yellow hue of the single lightbulb above his door exposed my submission to any potential neighbors or onlookers from the street below. I wondered if anyone saw me there and anxiously counted the seconds until I could enter. I'm sure he knew it and made those seconds last longer. After I languished in embarrassment in the doorway, he let me crawl in, albeit awkwardly, while my knees and heels were catching up in the long clingy dress I wore for him. He walked slightly before me, slow and confident, how my dog trainer taught me to walk my dog off leash in "heel,” then sat on the sofa in front of me.

"Wait there," he insisted while adjusting and leaning back on the pillows behind him in complete ease in his space. 

His bluesy record played, while he sipped tea from the side table. At the same time, I waited in slight pain as my mildly arthritic dancers' knees tried to reposition themselves on the wood floors, buckling in for however long my patience would be tested. 

"How was your day?" he asked me in a shockingly sincere way as if he really wanted to know. A playful smile appeared in the corners of my mouth at the absurdity of answering humdrum questions while in a state of submission. I told him all the inconsequential details of my day like it was the most natural way to have a conversation until he grew bored and interjected.

"Ok, enough talking. Sit up."

I perched on my knees and calves while he circled his prey, deciding what to do with me. Hinging down over my tiny frame now, he guided my mouth up with his hand on my chin and delivered a long, deep kiss. It was delicious. My eyes shut, and mouth paused, half open, waiting for more. He leaned over me again, running his fingernails along my back, raking them across my body, face, and head until every bit of my skin was electric and aching for more touch. Still tingling with my face between his legs, he reached down and brutally smacked my ass with both hands. I yelped and fell forward on all fours, stunned and mouth agape. He swatted my ass cheeks again double-handed a few more times, making crisp noises that cut the air. I panted, catching my breath while my flesh grew warmly ripe.

"Cute dress, but it's time to take it off." My arms floated up, and he pulled it off over my head and went to sit down with it on the sofa again, leaving me on the other side of the room, half naked and exposed in his window. 

"You can crawl over and suck my cock now."

I sauntered over, exaggerating the wag in my hips, offering catlike pawing on the ground with my palms and red nails until I reached his open lap. 

"This little get-up is cute but silly. Take it off," he remarked about my lingerie.

Angered slightly by this—I felt sexy in my bondage bodysuit until he made a mockery of it—I still complied.

"Do I need to ask permission to pull your cock out?" I toyed sarcastically, and a little smirk came out of me. Still pissed about the insult to my wardrobe. A bridge too far, perhaps.

He smacked my face, which broke the rabbit hole I had meandered down, but it did not end my smile. I traced my mouth over the outline of his hard dick through his pants, hot air and drool escaping me.

"Take my belt off," he said, and I fumbled with the buckle. "Oh god, can you not figure it out?" He rolled his eyes and snorted.

I wanted to smack him back by now, but I ached inside, getting wetter by the minute until I leaned on my calf to not leave a puddle on his floor. 

He instructed my blowjob as if it were the most awful one he had ever received, taking time out to smack me in the face with his cock. Then he stopped me abruptly, zipping up his pants and declaring, "Time to move to the bedroom."

Leading me by a bundle of gripped hair, I crawled on all fours, hobbling at some moments. My knees were surely red and bruised by this point. His bedroom was like a funhouse of giant mirrors. I counted at least 3 and wondered if they captured a view of every angle in the bedroom you could fuck in. Stopping me at one mirror, hair still clutched in his fist, he forced his dick down to the back of my throat until I gagged. 

"Watch yourself blow me.” 

Turning my head to view myself around his legs, I expected to see myself looking sexy, but instead, I saw drool, tears, and a red face, gasping for air. Guiding me to the bed next, he laid me on a waterproof mattress cover and began to eat me out. A nice surprise. I tensed up at first, but his tongue was slow and deliberate, letting me know there was no rush and I could relax into his mouth. This was no spit shine to get the surface wet enough for penetration to finish himself off like so many selfish lovers. Every couple minutes, or seconds, or hours, who knows how time elapses in pleasure, he would look at me, face buried in my pussy, with a solid stare reminding me he was controlling my orgasm. He edged me a few times, frustrating me, until he grabbed my wrists down by my thighs while I squirmed into a rolling orgasm, leaving his face glossed and sticky. He wasn't finished and stuck two come-hither fingers deep inside me and began to tease my g-spot. My pelvis squirmed around the bed, following his fingers independent of the rest of my body. 

"Stay on the cover I'm going to be pissed if I have to clean these sheets" I felt the momentary agony of having to pee until I ballooned, then released all over his arm, mattress cover….. and the bed. Oops.

I lay there like a starfish, motionless and panting like weights dragged my limbs into the bed. 

He knocked my legs open and into position with his knees and was getting ready to enter me when I reached for my lube. 

"You don't need that. It's like Niagara Falls down here.” He scoffed with an eye roll like I had done something wrong. “You didn't stay on the mattress cover," he said while clicking his mouth in a tisk-tisk manner.

"Oh, sorry," a soft apology was all I could muster when I suddenly became embarrassed at the mess my body made. "I want you to fuck me in the ass now," I demanded and flipped over, desperate for my favorite way to cum.

"It's funny that you think you are in control here. Get on top of me." He laid down, and I rode him, ass towards his face, while he watched us in a mirror. I was still melted from my release, but he made me work until I was completely winded. He let out a couple of "oh fuck's" and “damn” with deep moans here and there but maintained such command over his pleasure that he almost had me wondering if he was even enjoying himself. I decided to work harder, grinding down on his pelvis like I was in the reverse cowgirl Olympics. 

He flipped me over, head down into the pillows, yanking my hips up towards him, and pulled my butt plug out. I arched toward him in anticipation while a warm glow surrounded my body as if it could draw him in. 

The wait was intolerable. "Please," I whispered. 

Seconds drew out, waiting for him to enter me, and time became incongruent again. I grew impatient, which turned to craving, then anger, then back to craving again. Nervousness and insecurity had dissipated entirely, replaced with a primal raw yearning to be penetrated again the way I wanted it. 

He entered me, finally, and did not hesitate or go in slowly to make sure I could take it. 

The intensity made me slightly nauseous, yet I still bucked back for something deeper, fuller, and all-consuming. I slapped a hand at the bedside table, thrashing around for my vibrator until I heard "looking for something?” as he placed it in my hand. I was a throbbing, sweaty mess by now, carnal in my need to cum. Overwhelmed with a glowing heat on my head and face, moisture gathering around my hairline and lower back, I was desperate. 

"Wow, she really likes her anal." He said with a snide chuckle. 

The smug laugh set me off. I exploded into waves of orgasm that had no peak but trembled through my body in one long, intense surge. He left me face down to rinse off, returning to have me blow him on my knees in front of the mirror again. This time for his view. But he could see my eyes disappearing and my enthusiasm diminishing.

"I can keep going as long as you can. Just say when and I'll cum."

I nodded in agreement. 

“Where do you want it?"

I pointed wordlessly to my face and open mouth. I closed my eyes, reaching my hand down to touch myself like I did in the truck, and many more times before, and many more times after that. I flicked through a mental database of horrid embarrassing moments, times I was in my power, feelings of shame, times I felt my sexiest, and times I was punished for having a man-sized amount of desire in a woman's body. I swirled them all together. The good and the bad. Now in full surrender to him and myself, I came one last time by my own hand.

“WHEN," I said.