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“Are those fingerprints on your ceiling?”

Anna and I were laying on my bed, recovering from a fine round of sex.

“Huh. I suppose so,” I answered, offering nothing more.

“Hmmm.” She logged this detail.

Anna was raised by scientists . She has an inquisitive mind.

Anna knows that I am bisexual and that I am sexually active with other people. I don’t offer details beyond that. She would spend her energies worrying that I might like someone better than her.

I knew better than to explain that the fingerprints were due to my using the ceiling as a brace when standing to feed my cock to hungry mouths.

I certainly wasn’t going to volunteer that mine are not the only fingerprints to be found on my ceiling.

She knows my penchant for honesty as well as I know the limits of what she truly wants to hear about my life.

My reticence does not stop her from prying.

She recently opened a drawer to get a condom, and asked, “Who is Mitzi?”

“Why do you ask?”

“She wrote you this note—‘Thanks for the lovely evening. I didn’t mind the snoring! Kisses, Mitzi.’”

“Mitzi is someone who writes notes. You want to review my correspondence or do you want to have sex?”

She closed the drawer. “You should do a better job of hiding the evidence.”

“You shouldn’t read notes in other people’s drawers.”

Another time, she found an unfamiliar bundle of rope in my cabinet.

“New rope? Is this for anyone special?”

“Yes, it is new rope.”

“Anyone special?”

“I have new rope.”

This is a delicate game we have been playing for a while. For a year, in fact: our on again/off again relationship has just passed its first anniversary.

We had a date to commemorate the occasion. Dinner and bondage. On the menu: my submission.

She wanted to take a turn at dominating me.

Anna had once rebuffed the encroachments of kink into our sex, and that was fine with me—the vanilla sex is plenty good.

But then, she missed the ropes.

Once the ropes were in place, a spanking ensued. She came hard as I fucked her, slapping her ass and thighs.

She treasured the welts that resulted, sending me snapshots of them two days later. The photos were delivered in an email entitled “remembering you.”

She brought thigh-high hose and vintage black pumps to our next encounter.

As we ate our anniversary dinner, she revealed that she had been doing a little research about kink—or rather, BDSM, as she said, using the current preferred term for “bondage/discipline/sadomasosochism.”

I took the fork from my mouth. “You have?” I chewed.

Of course she has. It is very in keeping with her character that she would apply herself to this new subject as a diligent student.

“What do you think of role play?” she asked.

“No interest. I think that’s more for people who like Dungeons and Dragons.”

“I didn’t think you would be into that kind of play,” she said.

“I don’t even like the use of the word ‘play.’ That whole West Coast sexpert lingo—where sex is ‘play’ and fuck buddies are ‘friends with benefits’—is an adulteration. There are perfectly good words for all of that. There’s no need for neologisms.”

“You’ve given this some thought.”

“Thinking is what I do best.”

“And safe words?”

“I’m all for that. You have to communicate, and respect boundaries. But ugh, please, talk about it in a common language.”

She put a shrimp on my plate. “And what will be your safe word when I spank you tonight?”

“It will be the phrase ‘quit it.’”

“Not much imagination.”

“It will get the job done.”

Back at her place, I poured a bourbon as she repaired to the bathroom.

“Oh no,” she said upon her return, taking the glass from my hand. “The book said no liquor during play . . . I mean, bondage.”

“Did it? Well, it’s your show.”

Those helpful, useful books. Sometimes, I tell you, the advice of sexperts has as much to do with fucking as rock criticism has to do with a Metallica concert. It has its place, but when it comes right down to it, I’d rather be banging my head in the mosh pit.

Apollo pisses on Dionysus's fire.

Tonight, I undressed and rested my head on her bed.

She put my arms over my head. “Now let me know if this is too tight,” she said, binding my wrists.

“That’s fine.”

“Okay, and now this . . .” she said, slipping a blindfold over my eyes. “Can you see anything?”

“Nope.”

“Nervous?”

“Nope.”

“Good.”

Actually, as I lay there naked and exposed, my arms lashed behind my head, my eyes blinded, unsure of what to expect, I felt . . . bored.

I might have to fake this for Anna. I just wasn’t into being submissive.

I felt her bare legs across my chest. She raised them one at a time, covering each of them in stockings.

She rubbed her strong calves across my chest, focusing the nylon on my sensitive nipples.

This I liked. My cock responded, throbbing in air.

Her legs vanished from my chest.

Her mouth was on my cock. I could hear the wetness of it as she drew her head up and down my shaft.

Her fingers found my nipples. My body twisted involuntarily.

There was a sharp tug on my right nipple—she had fastened a clamp to it.

“Unh!” I would have balked if I weren’t blind.

“Okay?”

“God yes. That’s so good!”

“Good. Now turn over.”

I did as my mistress instructed. Maybe I could get into this.

Her fingers caressed my ass in anticipation of my spanking.

The first slap came, quickly followed by two more. I moaned into the pillow. More slaps followed.

My dick grew limp.

As the stinging of each slap subsided, I felt annoyance. She was doing a yeoman’s job on my ass. But getting spanked hurt and just felt ridiculous. Still, I was ready to ride it out to please her.

“Okay,” she said after a few moments. “I’m done.”

“You’re done?”

“Yes . . . unless you want more?”

“No, no, I’m fine.”

“Did you enjoy that?” she asked, untying my wrists.

“Not so much. It was okay,” I pulled off the blindfold. “Did that get you going?”

“I liked sucking your cock.”

“Then do it again.”

“You can have your bourbon now, too.”

“That can wait. Suck my cock.”

“Yes.”

A couple of hours later, she admired her ass in the mirror. “I think these marks are going to be redder than the last time you spanked me,” she smiled.

“Damn straight,” I said, sipping my bourbon.


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