Sunday morning found me clutching my soulmateclone in the Orlando airport, repeating over and over again that I didn’t want to leave her. Our visit cemented what I had known all along–we were two parts of a whole and the idea of separating again broke my heart. Two men watched us with interest as we smooshed our boobs together one last time (That was all me. Nikki’s boobs are amazing.) and declared our undying love for each other. Then I dutifully stepped into line with the sea of tanned families embarking on their trips home.
I had barely two hours sleep and my borrowed tank top was hiding red rope marks across my chest. My neck and cheek were decorated with bite marks, and I wore bruises on my ass and thighs. My nipples were sore from the friction of the jute traveling over my areolas, and if I moved a certain way, my skin still smelled of the Dom who had topped me hours earlier. I maneuvered through security in a golden haze of contentment, and not even the obnoxious woman with four overstuffed carry-on bags could penetrate my goodwill.
My faith in Doms had been restored.
Please don’t misunderstand. I know that there are thousands of good Dominants out in the world, and I know a handful of them personally. My faith was shaken regarding the right Dom for ME. I was haunted by the final conversation with my ex-Dom. He predicted that I would never find another Master with our kind of chemistry, and I believed him. My logical mind knew this couldn’t be true, yet the submissive in me, the slave that wished to be owned and possessed was afraid. Of course it won’t ever be exactly the same. Each Dominant and submissive possesses their own styles and personalities, but since my split from my ex-Dom, part of me despaired that I would ever find that spark again.
Although I was in the land of commercial princesses, there was no Prince Flogger, riding out of the swamp on his partially trained alligator to whisk me off to his dungeon where I’ll live happily ever after, chained to his bedpost. I was OK with that, because I had my soulmateclone and a never-ending supply of vodka tonics. No, what happened, my darling vagina readers, was that I had an amazing scene. A-fucking-mazing! Let me tell you why…
Nikki and I had been planning to visit The Woodshed, a BDSM club in Orlando, ever since we began our blog. It was going to be one of the highlights, we hoped, of our first weekend together as naked, power-ballad-loving bffs. I packed my black corset, black ruffled panties and platform heels and crossed my fingers that we would make the dress code. And we would have–if Nikki and I hadn’t put the damn things on upside down. During the ride to The Woodshed we’re both thinking, why is this corset digging into my thighs? Because that’s the sweetheart neckline, you dipshits!
God bless kind, kinky strangers. As we stood in the crowded lobby of The Woodshed, filling out paperwork, two women approached us and asked in hushed voices if we were aware that our corsets were upside down. Nikki and I could only look at each other and laugh. We laughed until we cried while they hustled us into a dressing room to correct our fashion emergency. In the four hours we spent at The Woodshed, I learned more about corsets than I did from the website where I purchased the damn thing.
The club was busy that night, because there were several birthdays being celebrated. There was cake EVERYWHERE and that reassured me. Because people who love cake can’t be awful people. It’s a proven scientific fact. The kindness didn’t end with our corsets. The first Dungeon Monitor (DM) we met gave us a tour and answered a ton of questions. So did the second one. They weren’t kitted out in Kill Bill leather outfits and thigh-high boots, looking like Barbie and Ken doing the Magic Kingdom the dirty way. They were real people who were generous with their time, indulgent of newcomers and educated about the lifestyle. As much as Nikki and I felt like clueless newbies, they welcomed us and offered to help in any way they could. Trust me, I had some ideas about that.
So there we were, standing in an ocean of BDSM and trying not to ogle the various scenes going on around us. There was a Domme whipping her boy tied to a whipping post. One lucky birthday girl was tied to a shibari wheel dangling from the ceiling as five sadists circled her and struck her with various ouchy things. There was a shibari frame with women tied to it for spankings and padded tables for needle and wax play. Off in a quiet corner was a circle of couches where Doms and subs cuddled in blankets for aftercare. It was amazing and a bit overwhelming.
Then we met Master Cecil.
We had spoken briefly in passing when Nikki and I were in the lobby, but I didn’t know who he was. I remember looking at him and trying to figure out what had caught my attention. I don’t talk about energy between people for fear of sounding like a hippie freak, but something about Master Cecil made me sit up and pay attention. It wasn’t until an hour later that we were all introduced (I believe I yelled, “we’re Vagina Antics!” at the top of my lungs or something), and then the three of us ended up in the parking lot having a chat.
I have to give the man a lot of credit, because I grilled him. The only thing missing was the interrogation room and the bright light in his face. He answered everything with humor and candor, and after asking “what kind of scene would you recommend for a newbie?” I found myself agreeing to do a rope scene with him. It wasn’t until my naked body was being shoved against the St. Andrew’s Cross that I remembered that I had a safeword. Oops…
Master Cecil explained to me that a rope scene would consist of him figuring out what the rope wanted to do based on the energy between us. He also warned me that if it went well, I would never look at rope the same way again. I had plenty of opportunity to negotiate and state my preferences, but I didn’t. His honesty and emotional integrity during our impromptu Q&A session convinced me that I was speaking with an honorable man and an experienced Dom. The slave part of me was jumping up and down and clapping her hands with glee. My verbal reaction was, HOLY FUCK YES!
It was arranged so that Nikki would be seated four feet away on a couch, and she was in charge of any aftercare I needed. I was naked because I’ll get naked at the drop of a hat, but also because I didn’t want there to be any impediment to the rope. I felt safe and respected by Master Cecil. I trusted that whatever he dished out, it was going to be good for both of us.
Inside the dungeon, Master Cecil was barefoot and had removed his shirt. He opened his arms and beckoned me forward. I was a little nervous, but the skin on skin contact erased it. I melted into him, and the way we came together, I was able to bury my nose in the crook of his neck. He took a deep breath that I matched, and his voice rumbled deep in his chest.
“Good girl,” he said.
I’m not certain that I have the words to adequately describe what I felt. There was an echo of my old Master-slave dynamic in that touch, that moment of openness. That unspoken communication that I would offer him everything, he only had to take it. I told Nikki later that Master Cecil could have done practically anything to me in that scene, and I would have met him willingly and given every ounce of myself. It was as if his touch had opened a door inside me, one that had been padlocked shut and ignored.
The instructions he gave me were simple. I was to keep my eyes shut, listen to his voice and feel the rope. The jute rope was scratchy and rough. He wrapped it around my torso three times with my breasts sandwiched between the loops. It felt pleasant, the rope humming against my skin as he worked. I was safe within those bonds. Then he grabbed me by the hair and swung me around, shoving my chest against the cross. The rope tightened and the pain began in earnest. There was his deep voice, his broad hand striking my ass, gripping my thighs, and the rope. Always the rope singing its own tale.
There was no sexual component to the scene (both the club and Master Cecil have strict rules about that), but his spanking made me orgasm. I was up on my tiptoes, my skin rubbing against the wood of the cross as his hand made contact with my ass. The pain blossomed, and my clit responded. The throbbing between my legs joined the impact of his spanking, and I was lost. Don’t worry, I always ask for permission to orgasm first.
When we were saying our goodbyes, Master Cecil told me that I was what he had suspected. When I asked what that was, he replied, “you’re a very good girl.” I couldn’t help but feel pleased. I had an amazing scene, because for the first time since being un-collared, I felt that spark to open myself up again. I am deeply grateful to Master Cecil for working with me. Maybe it was personal chemistry, his experience, confidence or skill…maybe it’s a combination of all those things… What matters is that I felt the spark, and I now know without a shadow of a doubt, that I will someday find another Dom that shares that amazing chemistry with me. Yeah, I’m still grinning like the Cheshire Cat.