Unpacking

   You guys.  I’m nervous to post the rest.

    Not sure why.  On this little slice of blog, I pretty much let it all hang out.  

                          *                          *                          *   

    I’m back.  I was back yesterday, in fact, but the internet was down at the house and I could not post.

      I’ve written down quite a bit about the trip and I’ll start posting it tomorrow when I have more privacy.  Some of it might be too explicit or personal for the blog.  Might need to edit.  I know that he reads it now, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.  He says that he won’t read if I ask him not to, but I trust that about as much as I trust that he didn’t read my telephone-book-sized file of correspondence with Professor T-Rex, which is to say: it’s possible that he’d keep his promise, but let’s get real. 

     I was nervous getting on the airplane.  I was apprehensive about several things, as we will see in the first installment.  I thought there were three, maybe four possible outcomes, ranging from excruciatingly awful to cautiously optimistic.  

      The trip was not what I expected.  


      …but it was, I think, what he expected.  He denies it, and it’s true that I am paranoid (can you blame me?), but I think he had plans.  He’s a calculating man, this one.  I’m surprised that I never noticed it before.  

      I’ll start posting tomorrow.  Now I need to unpack my luggage and secure a lift to work tomorrow–I’m still too sore to ride the bike. 

        I had more sex this week than I did all of 2014.  And, again, I did not anticipate that, and it was not what I expected. 

       I have no idea what I’m going to do.

New Year’s Trip to New York

       I’m going to visit New York for a few days after New Year’s.  Specifically, I’m going to visit Heinrich.  He got me a nice hotel room in Midtown.    He has a spare bedroom in his apartment in Brooklyn, but he hasn’t invited me to stay overnight with him and he booked the hotel room for me (and yes, the name on the room is mine, I checked), which is a very proper thing to do, and, I think, for the best.  It takes the pressure off me, and if things go bad, at least I’ll feel safe with a place to stay (ever been trapped overnight with someone on a date gone wrong?  I’m sure you have.  It’s one of the worst situations to be in).  It’s a fun hotel, too.  I could invite my New York domme friends to hang out with me if I end up there alone–it’s not too far from the Studio.  

      I’m nervous.  He’s flying back to Germany to visit his family for Christmas, and it’s a bit of a relief because I know he’ll be busy and distracted.  

      I miss New York very badly.  Sometimes I think it was a big mistake to move back here.  It took about five months, but I’m starting to feel the restlessness, the stir-crazy dissatisfaction of living in such an isolated, provincial place.  I’m wary of trying to get closer to my old friends here again because I’ve changed so much since I left, and also because I have no intention of staying here for the long-run.  I’m teaching next semester at the local college, but I’m afraid to look for other, more serious employment here, because I don’t want to put down roots here.   I came here to save myself from myself.  I don’t know what I thought would happen.  Like I thought that maybe if I got out of the Studio and quit sex work cold turkey, all of a sudden I’d be normal and happy or something. 

        I went to the doctor and asked for a prescription for Antabuse because I feel like drinking sometimes.  I take it every day.  I take my medicine so that I don’t have to take my medicine, if you catch my drift.  Some people in AA say that Antabuse is a crutch and it doesn’t fix the problem in your head, but so fucking what.  Pass the crutches and call me Tiny Tim.  

        I finished my Christmas shopping.  Today on the way to work, I got a flat tire.  I had to walk the bike half a mile to the office, so I was late for work.  I called my brother and he helped me change the tube in the parking lot when I finished at 5.  It was already dark out, and getting cold.  I almost told him about Heinrich, but I didn’t. 

Heinrich

      Heinrich wants to speak with me in person.  He’ll take care of the airfare, put me up in a hotel, all that.  He says that he doesn’t want to have this serious conversation on Skype.

        What can I say about him without compromising his anonymity…?  He’s a beautiful man, a hairy dark-blonde 6-footer.  Middle-class.  Elegant, actually.  Not upper-class, but middle-class, the German intelligentsia, to whom my father always aspired.  He has a modest, Lutheran religious heritage.  When he bought a new car, he had the dealership pry off the decals so that other people couldn’t tell what he spent on the car.  

         He has a good job.  He has two jobs.  Sometimes three jobs.  He’s a good Burgher.   

         He is a sadist.  He runs cold, like the Mathematician.  The Surgeon and The Attorney (and Professor T-Rex) ran hot.  

        What do I do…?

         Oh, yeah: he’s never been married and has no kids.  He’s only ten years older than me.  Given that I am almost exclusively attracted to dudes old enough to be my father, that makes Heinrich very age-appropriate.  

Heinrich Meets the Surgeon: “Everything They Say About You Is True.”

       Heinrich met my Ex, the Surgeon, exactly one time.    

        Most of my friends never met the Surgeon because our differences in age and stations in life made it impossible for me to integrate him into my social life.   He would have been impossible to explain, because the dungeon was literally the only place we ever could have met in New York, outside of a chance encounter on the street around his neighborhood on the Upper East Side.  For his part, when I went with him to his conferences, he usually passed me off as a pharmaceutical representative or a colleague of the professional statistician he hired to edit his academic publications. 

       So, most of my friends never met him (in fact, most of them didn’t know that he even existed).  I protected him very well.  My Canadian friend, who was my roommate for a few years when we lived in that shitty neighborhood close to campus (God, it was awful), admitted to me later that he periodically overheard both the phone sex and the rare argument.  Aside from my therapist (and, of course, the readers of this blog), that roommate was the only person with front-row tickets to the Surgeon and Margo show.  Everyone else just got bits and pieces.

        Among those who knew of his existence, he won no popularity contests.  Even my Canadian friend, who found constant amusement in the Surgeon’s sexual antics, egotism, and obsessive womanizing, didn’t think he was good for me.  

        Heinrich didn’t like him at all.  I was freer to talk about him with Heinrich than I was with my other friends, because Heinrich knew about my secret job and about my sadomasochism.   Heinrich nicknamed him “Jaws” because of his aggressive personality and his predilection for biting (I’d show up from time to time with bite marks, actual tooth imprints, on my neck or the undersides of my arms).  

         Heinrich is also one of my only friends to have actually met him.  In the flesh.

         It was an accident.  Heinrich was in the East Village and stopped by my apartment to retrieve a book he’d lent me.  We were sitting on my couch, having a chat, when I heard a knock at the door.

          The Surgeon, the Surgeon.  The Surgeon and his house calls.  I was startled when I opened the door, because I wasn’t expecting him.  

         The Surgeon, always suspicious, took my surprise for dismay…and, following that, guilt.

          He was right about the dismay.  I knew that I was going to be in trouble the minute he found a man in my apartment who wasn’t one of my students or hideously ugly. 

        Heinrich was neither. 

        The Surgeon looked over my shoulder and saw the German sitting on my couch.  

          “Well hello, darling.  Who’s this?” he asked, while keeping his eyes locked on Heinrich.  The Surgeon smiled.  That smile made my stomach clench up.  It was his fake, scary smile.  The Surgeon’s real smile is absolutely winning and adorable, but his scary smile is not.  He often smiles the scary smile right before he does something terrible.     
        Then, as he is wont to do (as he did three years later, the final time I saw the man, when he made his final house call to me), he stepped over the threshold, inviting himself inside. As if the place was his.

         Heinrich stood up.  Because my living room was so narrow and the couch was opposite the door, there was not much space between the two men.  A small coffee table.

         “This is my friend Heinrich.  I told you about him!” I said, already sounding scared and defensive, even though I had nothing to hide regarding my relationship with Heinrich.  I’d never dated him, never had sex with him.  

          “I see,” smiled the Surgeon.  Neither man offered to shake hands.   Heinrich had put his hands in his pockets.  The room was filling up with tension.  I noticed that my birds had stopped chirping.  Parrot had stopped playing on top of her cage and was standing, frozen, on the edge, watching us.  Only the fish were oblivious, swimming back and forth in their great lush aquarium.  

            “He came by to pick up a book!” I offered, by way of explanation.  My voice sounded high and reedy to my own ears.  I snatched the book up from the top of the coffee table and shook it.  Evidence!   

             “How nice,” smiled the Surgeon, not taking his eyes off Heinrich’s face.  Heinrich did not smile back.  He had his Easter Island Statue face going on, but he wasn’t blinking.  

              “I had no idea you were coming over,” I said, not realizing how bad that sounded until the words were out of my mouth.

              They just stood there, staring at each other.  I’ve seen enough spaghetti Westerns to know what I was looking at.  I was scared to death.

              “Get lost,” said the Surgeon.  “I want to be alone with my girlfriend.”  

             “Margo has not asked me to leave,” said Heinrich.  He didn’t take his eyes off the Surgeon’s face.

             “I told you to leave,” said the Surgeon.  He actually said that. He can be so rude.  He has no shame, no qualms, about rudeness or confrontation whatsoever.  

          I had to get Heinrich out of there. 

          I held out the book at shoulder level and said,  “Thanks for lending it to me.”

            He turned his head and looked at me, finally.  He didn’t move to take the book.  He left it there, dangling in mid-air, as if he didn’t see it. 

            “Margo, are you going to be okay?”

             “Pardon me?” I asked, as if I had no idea what he was talking about.   But I knew.  Of course I knew.  Later, when I thought of it, I would feel humiliated, but now I could only think of getting Heinrich out of there before I made it worse for myself.  Or for him.  

          Heinrich finally reached out and took his book.  The Surgeon moved to one side to clear a path to the door, which was still open. 

        Heinrich brushed past me and out, and the Surgeon slammed the door behind him.

          Then we were alone together.

          Most of the scary smile disappeared, but he still had a smirk, a half-smile.  It is difficult for me to describe what he’s like when he’s in this mode, but I can recall it vividly, even now, years later.  He had all this energy…but he always had energy, he was indefatigable, like a humming bird or a bee.  It felt like being close to a hot oven.  He neglected me so much, so often, in the course of our relationship…but when he turned the full force of his attention to me, it was…well, it was an experience.  The Surgeon has a surgeon’s eye.  He sees everything.  Fucking everything. 

        He shucked his suit coat and hung it on the coat rack by the door.  Then he loosened his necktie.  

        “Who the fuck was that, Darling?” he asked.  To an outsider, his voice would have sounded friendly, but I knew it wasn’t.  He was taking off his cufflinks.  

       “That’s my friend, Heinrich,” I repeated, my mouth going dry.

       “Heinrich?  What sort of name is that?  He has an accent.” The cufflinks went into the pocket of his trousers.

         “He’s German.”  

         “I never liked them,” said the Surgeon. (To be fair, I never liked them was exactly the same thing he said about the nationality, profession, or religious affiliation of whomever he was presently at odds with).                
          He walked straight to my bedroom, passing by the birds, who were still quiet.  Not eating, not drinking, not playing.  Frozen.  Looking.  They are prey animals, sensitive, and they know when a threat is in the vicinity.  

          “Margo?  Let’s talk,” his voice, from my bedroom.  I heard the sound of the suitcase being slid out from underneath the bed.  The special green suitcase.  With all the special tools.  And then the sound of the drawer on the nightstand.  Which contained a bottle with something he liked to take.  

           I stood, frozen, rooted to the spot, right by the front door.  

           “Make me a drink, honey.  My girl looks so pretty today.  Who did you dress up for, pretty?”

          I went to the fridge, and took the vodka out of the freezer.  I made him a drink.  My hands were shaking.

          And then, I carried it to my bedroom, to meet my fate. 

                             *                               *                             * 

           Two hours later, Heinrich texted my cell phone. 

            I couldn’t answer it, because I was tied up on my bed.  I heard it beep and light up, though, and when it did, the Surgeon went to fetch it from the top of my dresser.  He always went through my phone whenever he felt like it. 

            “Who’s this?” he asked.  The glowing screen illuminated his face.  “Oh, look.  It’s your little German boyfriend.  Margo, he asks, ARE YOU OKAY?”

             (note: “little” is interesting, given that Heinrich was significantly taller than the Surgeon.  But, to the Surgeon, almost everyone else is “little.”) 

            Then, get this: the Surgeon fucking called Heinrich back, ON MY PHONE!

           “Surgeon, don’t!” I immediately started begging, from the bed.  I was fuckin mortified.  “Please don’t call him!  Don’t!  Surgeon, please don’t embarrass me in front of my friend!”

          The Surgeon pushed the CALL button.  He really did it.

         I heard Heinrich pick up: “Ja?  Margo?”

         “Fritz?  Hi, Fritz!” said the Surgeon.  I remember him very clearly.  He was standing at my bedroom window, by my desk.  He was naked save his underpants.  It was dark outside and the traffic lights from the street below reflected off the glass and onto his torso, which was moist with sweat.  

        The Surgeon knew Heinrich’s name.  Unlike me, he is excellent with names, and never needs reminding.  He was calling Heinrich by the wrong name to antagonize him and trivialize him.  

        “Fritz, we got your text message.  Margo is okay.  She’s just fine! Okay?  She can’t talk right now, though, because she’s busy sucking my dick.  I thought I would respond, instead.”

          I wanted to die. 

          There was a pause, and then the Surgeon put the phone down on my desk.

          “He hung up on me,” he said.

         “I can’t believe you did that,” I said, although I actually could believe it, very well.  I was so ashamed and embarrassed.  I felt hot angry tears spring up.  Angry tears are a very rare phenomenon for me.  

          “He said to me, ‘Everything they say about you is true,’ and then he hung up on me.”              
        He came to sit on the edge of the bed.  My wrists were cuffed to either side of the wrought-iron bed frame.   My feet were immobilized.  The fine pale skin of my breasts and thighs  and abdomen was covered with bite marks and hickies and bruises.   He was very deliberate about marking his territory when he was feeling possessive.  

        ” ‘Everything they say about you is true?’  What have you been telling him about me, Margo?” he asked.
              
         “Very little, and certainly nothing personal, or anything that would invade your privacy or threaten your practice,” I said.

           He accepted that, because he knew it was true.  It was always true.  I protected him better than I protected myself.  I know how to keep secrets for men. 

                  *                                 *                           * 

           Heinrich waited two weeks to contact me.  He sent me a text announcing his intention to call and rang exactly fifteen minutes later.

         “Heinrich…?”

         “Margo.  I….I want to say to you, that I am yet your friend.  This is the same, between us.”

         “I AM SO SORRY HE TALKED TO YOU LIKE THAT AND I WAS NOT ACTUALLY GIVING HIM A BLOWJOB!  HE HAD ACCESS TO MY PHONE!  I DID NOT LET HIM!”
             
        “I would not care if you did.  He has force on you.  I understand.  He is not a question for me.  I see, very clear, who he is.  I was afraid for you.  That he would harm you when alone.” 

“He Has Female Friends. You Know That Most Men Can’t Handle That, Sadly.”

      From a letter of recommendation I wrote for Heinrich in 2008.  He was about to take on a new sub he met on Fetlife.   

  I have known him almost two years and I recommend him unequivocally.  He is safe and trustworthy.  I have never known him to misrepresent his skill set or attempt to do things that he does not know how to do.  He has put me in partial and full inversions and they were all well-executed. 

      The only thing I would caution you about is to be very clear and explicit about your limits and things that are unacceptable to you.  He is a very good service top, but when he takes control for himself, you will know it, and the session will go in places that you do not necessarily want it to go.  I’ve never discussed it with him, but I get the distinct feeling that he thinks all that stuff about the sub being the one with all the real control is a lot of bullshit.  Some male doms I have met are all about fulfilling your fantasies and making sure that you have a great time and blah blah blah.  Heinrich will do that sometimes, but you have to remember that he’s doing this for himself, and that real power is selfish.  You will not always be having fun and you will not always be doing stuff you like to do.  If you have buttons you really don’t want to be pushed, you need to tell him that beforehand.  Me, I didn’t know that I hate to be slapped.  It never even occurred to me that someone would do that.  He went right for my face and he wasn’t gentle about it, either.  I was stunned and humiliated and it made me cry.  It was an ugly feeling.  So I discovered a limit that I didn’t even know I had.  My advice to you is to take responsibility for looking after yourself.  It’s never fun to learn the hard way in BDSM.  

He is very conscientious.  I’ve known tops who were jerks and boundaries-pushers, or who joked about violating the rules while I was vulnerable or compromised.  Heinrich’s not like that.  Nor is he sleazy, rape-y, or molest-y.  I’ve never had sex with him, but he’s had me in suspension in my underwear, and he never groped me or tried to get me nude or pulled out his dick.  You’re a female sub on Fetlife, so I don’t need to tell you what exemplary male behavior this is.  I’d go so far as to say that he’s the only male top I can think of who won’t try to fuck you if you don’t ask him to.  I know that people act differently in different relationships sometimes, but, for what it’s worth, I’ve talked to two other femsubs who’ve known him in personal life, and they both report similar experiences with his sexual fastidiousness.  He has female friends.  You know that most men can’t handle that, sadly.  I consider myself to be his friend, but I am absolutely loyal to women, and I would never misrepresent my opinion of a man’s safety to another woman.  

Herr Romer is safe, but he will make you suffer.  Be prepared for that.  He has a mean streak I never would have anticipated (though he is in control of it).  He’s not a daddy dom and does not present himself as such.  He’s good, though.  Just remember that he’s serious.  

Boots as Inspiration

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         In a recent email, Heinrich asked why I hadn’t finished posting the events of my going-away party, my last S/M session in New York.  

         Well, I was depressed and stressed out about my employment situation, and not in much of a mood to write.  Also, frankly, I felt a little awkward and self-conscious writing about jennings gags and getting your buddy’s splooge on my face, I wrote. 

           He wrote back:  I think the blowjobs were the least controversial activity of the evening.  Not that we did not enjoy them, so thank you for that.

           The pleasure’s all mine, I said. 

           Yes, that is at least somewhat true, for an eager cocksucker like yourself.  Your next master should withhold it as punishment, but most men would not have the restraint.  Anyway: write it all.  I liked to read it. 
        
            It might take a few days.  It’s partially written already, but I need to finish it, I responded. 

            The next email contained only a picture of his boots.  The subject line had one word: Inspiration.  

             And it was, and it has.

                      *                             *                       *                      

            I have a lifelong fascination with the male uniform, and none of it attracts me more than footwear and belts.  I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a fetish, but it definitely captures my attention.

           The psychological appeal is obvious: shoes and belts are used as handy weapons by household tyrants around the world, and the boot is both part of the hunting uniform and a symbol of institutional authority.  The men in my family are ex-military and take the appearance of their shoes seriously, and maintaining the shine on my father’s shoes was one of my childhood chores.  

The Policeman’s Daughter, Paula Rego c. 1987

             Getting kicked around on the floor, or groveling at someone’s feet, is humbling in a way I have seldom experienced and have difficulty describing.   Let’s just call it what it is: it’s fucking humiliating.  There are many activities in BDSM that a person (bottom) can do while assuring themselves–correctly!–that they are not actually being dominated or humiliated.  Getting your neck pinned to the floor with a boot is not one of those things.  Nope, nosiree.  There’s no way that you can experience that and be able to unpack it from its tremendous cultural baggage: since antiquity, if you wanted to humiliate a person, humble them, or publicly demonstrate your superiority, you got them up close and personal with your shoes.  


       It’s also a little scary, as anyone who’s taken a swift kick to the ass–or, worse, the ribs–can attest (if you listen closely, you’ll hear the dogs of the world yip in solidarity).  The Surgeon’s loafers had metal plates under the toes that left crescent-shaped imprints in my skin for hours, like little brands.   

        Because the act is so authentically submissive and personal, I almost never did it for money.  Enduring practically any sort of pain or corporal punishment I could take (if I so chose) as impersonally as if I was doing manual physical labor, but kissing someone’s shoes or letting him kick me was just too psychologically loaded for me to do at work.  Fortunately, it was almost never requested…

        ….which interests me, because, as a Top, it’s a huge fucking power rush.  Boner city, man.  Some of the hottest sadistic memories I have involve getting some poor fucker on the floor and leaving a dirty boot mark on his face.  This is entirely distinct from a typical foot/shoe-worship session–if the guy was kneeling up and had a hardon while drooling all over my heels, it did absolutely nothing for me.  Making a boy get on the ground, though, especially when he doesn’t particularly like being there, is something else entirely.  Extra points if he’s fastidious and the floor or my boot is gross.   Extra extra points if he’s not into humiliation and there are a few other people around to witness his debasement.   Yeah, seeing a scared eyeball roll up at you from the floor is quite a charge, all right.  Very fapp-worthy.  Miss Margo highly recommends this experience.  It definitely gets my Mistress Stamp of Approval.  

         I remember every time I’ve been stepped on by a man, worshiped his boots, or had some other devastating encounter with his footwear.  It’s interesting that the memories are important to me, but they are not purely, or even primarily, pleasurable.  Some of the emotion I feel about it is negative, apprehensive…there is even some shame, which I almost never feel in relation to my sexuality.  There is some shame here, though.  I admit it.  When you clean the dirt off your cheek or rinse out your mouth, you inevitably have to ask yourself exactly what sort of a sick fuck you must be to voluntarily let yourself be degraded like that (and on the heels of that: What does my partner really think of me?).    

           But the pull, the allure, is very, very powerful, the excitement undeniable.  It’s a wonderful, precious thing, that level of intensity.  I enjoy it so very much…even when I don’t.

         Here’s another pair of boots I have known…and unabashedly adored: Mr. Wolf’s.  Gosh, that was a fun session. 

Heinrich Throws a Going-Away Party (II)

Heinrich is a great Top.   He’s creative and he has a rare knack for cruelty and intimidation.  When he turns on, he’s serious as a heart attack—you’d think the guy was a prison warden instead of a book collector and art geek.  He never flinches.  He is not swayed by screams, and he is not swayed by pleas.  Heinrich has the courage of his convictions. 
          
  I’ve been his friend and apprentice and worked with him for years, and I still don’t understand him.  In many ways, he is a very private person.  He is the rare sort of man who can have real, meaningful platonic friendships with women.  He also identifies strongly with other men and bonds with them through mutual sexual interest in a woman.  It really gets him off, for reasons that I do not entirely understand—there’s no homoerotic undertone that I can discern.
          
When I left the Studio at the end of the day shift, I knew that there might be more than one man waiting in Heinrich’s apartment.  The anticipation was making me sweat and shiver.  I was hoping that he would be in a good mood—Germany was playing Argentina in the World Cup. 
          
  I took the train to Brooklyn.  En route, I received a text message from Heinrich telling me to walk into his apartment when I arrived—he left the door unlocked.
            
Anticipation.  Feels so good.  Sometimes I think that I’d walk into hell to know what it really feels like.  In 48 hours, I was cutting myself off at the knees—leaving New York and moving back to my hick home town, on purpose.  To get away from exactly what I was indulging in.
          
  I announced myself to the doorman—“I’m here to see Mr. Romer”—and he let me through.
          
  Sure enough, when I tried the knob on his door, it slipped easily in my hand.  I still gave the door a tentative knock before I let myself in.
            “Hello…?” I closed the door behind me and tip-tapped cautiously through the hallway and into the living room.
            
“Here!  We are in the office!” Heinrich shouted, and I made my way towards it. 
            
Brahms on the stereo.  Not Bach.  And over it, two voices—Heinrich and another man.  I recognized the language as German, and I did not understand.  I know words and some phrases, and I can read a little of it, but I don’t understand when they talk fast.
           
I entered the office and stopped just inside the doorway.  His office is small-ish, looks like a converted bedroom.  Heinrich and his friend were seated across from each other over a small table. 
        
    They stopped their conversation and stared at me.  Neither one greeted me, or stood up, or formally acknowledged my presence.
           
I was on fire, just like that.
            Heinrich was dressed in grey trousers and an off-white button-up (I don’t think I’ve ever seen the man wearing a shirt that didn’t have buttons).  The other man was wearing a suit, a dark blue pinstriped suit.  Looked like he was coming from work, but it was Sunday.  He seemed about ten years older than Heinrich, and his light brown hair was parted on one side and combed severely back, giving his head the round, sleek look of an otter.  He had glasses with gold wire rims.  Little bit handsome, in a bland sort of way.   
          
  Heinrich said: “Please bring us the wine.  It is on ice in the kitchen.”

        
    The servant.  

Heinrich Throws a Going-Away Party (I)

      The day after I gave notice at the Studio, I contacted my friend Heinrich and told him that I was leaving town. 

      “You are moving?  Why?  You do not like it there!”  I could hear his voice echoing a bit over the phone.  It sounded like he was in his kitchen.  His kitchen has tiles and weird acoustics.  Not like his living room, which is soundproofed (I’ve never seen a private home that was as tricked out for BDSM as Heinrich’s place.  I mean, it should be covered by Home & Garden‘s annual perv issue or used as a marketing point if he ever decides to sell the place.  It’s faultlessly executed–everything either blends in with the decor or is hidden from view.  For instance, the curtain rods are heavy metal and sunk deep into the beams behind the wall…perfect to use as bondage anchor points.  One of his coffee tables is screwed securely to the floor. The most conspicuous thing is the O-ring on the ceiling.  Unlike the ugly one in my apartment, his collapses flat against the ceiling so it doesn’t hang down when not in use.  If anyone inquires about it, he says he uses it to suspend a punching bag.  For training.  He says this with a straight face.  Quite a little inside joke, that).  

       “I’m overworked  and the Studio isn’t good for me.  I can’t handle it anymore!  I need to at least take a break and get some perspective!  It’ll be like pouring all the booze down the sink and moving thousands of miles away from the nearest liquor store.”  

       “Is it because your lease almost finished?  I thought you had found a place to sublet for two months.  Have you house difficulty?  Do you need a place to stay?”

          We talked for a while longer.  I explained that no, I had to go.

          “There is one thing that you can do for me that I would really appreciate,” I said.

          “Yes?  I will help if I can.”

          “I want us to have a going-away dinner and I want to get on the airplane with something to remember you by.  One last fix, for Lord knows how long.  There’s nobody like you where I’m going.  You are the only one here I know and trust to do this for me.”

           He barked laughter into the phone.  Heinrich’s mannerisms are fairly understated, unless you pay special attention to how he carries the tension in his body and his face.  You’d think his laughter would be understated, as well, but the sound of the laugh is either a smiling chortle he’s trying to repress, or a big bark.  It’s startling and sounds almost like a cough. 

     “Oh, Margo,” he laughed, “I knew that it would not be a lift to the airport.”  

        “I know it’s short notice.  I didn’t expect everything to happen so quickly.”  

         Long pause.  Then: “Shall we arrange for Sunday evening after the game?  That will give time for planning.  I will call you soon.  My place, this is okay with you?”

        “Of course.  I love your apartment.” 

        “Any special requests?  What experience do you want to have?”

        “You know what I like.  Surprise me.”

        “Miss Adler, that is a very dangerous thing to tell a sadist such as myself.  You should be more careful.”  The tone of his voice was joking rebuke.

         “You’re not dangerous.  You’re safe.  That’s why I trust you.”

         “Oh dear.  I think you trust me too much, then.   We will have to talk about this.  We will have to talk about this very much.”  No joke at all in his voice this time.

         In the interest of full disclosure, I will confess that when I heard him say that, I started to get turned on.  My heartbeat sped up.  But…I couldn’t help but egg him on a little bit:

        “It’s okay, Heinrich!  We’re friends.  And besides, it’s not like you need to inspire fear in your subject to be a great Top.  It doesn’t mean that they don’t take you seriously or anything.”  

        He laughed again.  This time, it was a sarcastic, fake laugh.  You know, the laugh you make when the joke is stupid or not funny.

        We talked a while longer, and made plans to keep in touch while I was gone.

        Approx. 27 hours later, Heinrich sent me a text message: May I invite a guest to our party?

         Me: Uhhh….what kind of guest?  A guy, right?

         H: Yes, a guy.  

         Me: Hell, yes, you can bring him!  Did you really need to ask? Bring them ALL!

         He wrote back: Good, thanks!

         It wasn’t until later that evening that I realized what I might have just gotten myself into. 

              TO BE CONTINUED

Dudebro Teaches Margo

     I despised Dudebro, which is exactly why Heinrich invited him.  Dumb boy with hair product and that stupid tribal tattoo (one time I lost my manners and scoffed, “Nice ink! If you had a puka-shell necklace, we could pretend it was 1997 again!”  Oh boy, was I punished for that).  If I’d met him in public, I wouldn’t have given him the time of day.  I can’t stand meatheads. 

      I couldn’t have anticipated it in a million years, but Dudebro actually had something to teach me: hatefucking. 

       I was on my back on the dining table.  Dudebro was holding my ankles (above the shackle) and pounding into me, like a piston.  He had his stupid Ray-bans on his stupid hair.  My humiliation was complete. 

       I was coming.  Hard.  Again. 

       Heinrich was standing over me, with my hair wrapped in his fist.  He’s always been big on the hair-pulling, has Heinrich–I think I appropriated that technique from him.  When I closed my eyes, he slapped my face.  He was wearing his gloves.  The leather smelled good.

        “Look at me.  You are not going anywhere,” he said. He pronounced going as go-ink.  He was leaning over me and his face was illuminated from behind by the overhead lamp hanging from the ceiling.  I understood what he meant.  A lot of subs–hell, people in general–get lost in their orgasms.  They go away.  Not necessarily a bad thing, but not always desirable, if one is being controlled. 

         “I’m gonna come,” I gasped.

          Dudebro started laughing and pumped me harder.

          “But Red, I thought that you hated me!  I thought that you hated me, Red!”

            “Ja, I thought she hated you!” said Heinrich, smiling now. 

           “Do you hate my dick, Red?” asked Dudebro.

            “CAN I COME PLEASE?”

            “I am bored with the bad grammar,” Heinrich said, and stuck his fingers into my mouth.  All the way to the back, just around the gag reflex.  My eyes started to tear up. There was leather in my mouth and in my nose and I was being held at both ends, and two men over me, and that was all there was to it. 

           “Watch her go!  Too bad you hate this dick, right, Red?”

           You know that feeling when you stand in the surf in the ocean, and the wave sucks the sand over your feet and ankles…?  Emotionally, it felt like that.  Pulled away.  Out of control. 

         Bliss.