New to London and new to being dominated, one writer throws themselves into a tantalising adventure
Source: Cosmopolitan.com
UK – I’ve got the requested outfit on: fishnets, a leather collar, and a little black dress. (No jacket — apparently it ruins the desired effect.) It’s 8pm in November and my breath is shuddering out into a cloud of white. With each shiver, I’m trying to muster up the courage to reach out and press the buzzer to Flat B. Unsure of what lies in wait, I brace myself and ring the bell.
I’ve only been in London for a few months and have been furiously cycling through the apps trying to build up my dating roster, which is how I came into contact with Lauren*. Her bio read like a secret code, all acronyms (‘D/S only’, ‘ENM domme’) and chain emojis, but I couldn’t look away from her photos: a nonchalant stare, toned arms, a tumble of glossy black hair, and a snake tattoo circling its way across her abdomen and up her sternum. It was an instant right swipe. When we matched a few days later, she skipped the pleasantries, instead opening with: ‘Ever been dominated?’
So here I am, in the outfit Lauren has instructed me to wear, waiting outside her flat for her to appear at the door. When she does, our eyes meet and a smile breaks out between us. She strides forwards, towards a short, stone wall in front of the building. Sitting down, she pulls out a bag of tobacco. I scurry over, sitting down just as she lights her cigarette. Her eyes, so dark they’re almost black, lock into mine. “I take it you’re new at this,” she says. I blush, nodding. “I’ll look after you. This is how it’s going to go,” she adds, exhaling. “Tell me any boundaries up front. I’m going to take you upstairs and make you my little slut.” I gulp, and nod once more.
15 minutes later, we’re in her flat. Next to the bowl where she tosses her keys is a framed picture of her with a waifish blonde woman. “Is that your girlfriend?” I ask, gingerly. “It’s my wife,” she replies. “Are we done with the questions?”
Downstairs we lay things out neatly: I’m not looking to do anal and can’t do blood or bodily fluids — not yet at least. Upstairs, as I strip on Lauren’s command, I can’t believe that I’m entrusting my body to a total stranger. I’m naked, she’s fully clothed — is that weird? But my inner monologue quickly dissipates when she pushes me on to her bed, enveloping me in a scent of leather, sweat, and smoke.
Leaning over me, her hands start to caress my body. It begins with a jolt: a scratch at the nape of my neck as she digs her nails into my scalp and drags them down towards my shoulders. I gasp. She keeps going, her fingertips trailing the outline of my curves. I feel full, fleshy, and brimming with possibility. But each time I try to sit up to meet her lips, she pushes me back on to the mattress. “Bad girl,” she coos.
I’m itching to feel her skin on mine, to luxuriate in the weight of her body pressing against me. So used to pleasuring others — I came out young, so my entire sexual history was an exercise in giving inexperienced lesbians their first orgasm — I’m not used to this feeling. My desire sits uncomfortably, wanting to spill over, until Lauren pushes me on to the bed once more. Finally peeling off her trousers, then her pants, then her top, I see the snake tattoo in the flesh for the first time, eating into her skin. But try as I may to take in the impressive display of body art, my gaze just won’t move away from her nipples: firm and hard, nestled in a pair of dark areolas.
She digs her nails in and drags them down, her fingertips trailing the outline of my curves
Catching my gaze, she grins knowingly before springing into action. Prising my mouth open with one hand while grasping the back of my head with the other, Lauren brings my lips around those nipples, encouraging me to suck and lick. Her hand travels down between my thighs, parting my labia and softly massaging my vulva. “You’re so wet,” she whispers. She removes her hand from my vulva and places her fingers — slick from my fluids — into her mouth. “You taste good,” she says.
“Please… spit in my mouth,” I whimper. “I thought you said no bodily fluids? Are you already breaking your rules?” she asks. “Please,” I beg, looking up into her eyes. “Only because you asked nicely,” she purrs. “Open wide,” she says, punctuating the order with a decisive, aggressive spit into my mouth. I gratefully swallow.
From there, the dynamic switches and the focus goes from my pleasure to Lauren’s. She kneels in front of me on the bed and roughly pulls me towards her, before leaning over and ever-so-slowly lowering herself over my body. Seconds later she’s dangling inches above me; I can feel her nipples grazing against my bare skin. There’s a sense of anticipation rising in my chest as I try not to move, wondering what she’s going to do next. Then it begins: she starts rocking back and forth, rubbing her clit against my pubic bone. It starts slow, gradually building speed alongside her breath. I open my mouth to say something but she silences me with a kiss. It’s the first time her lips have touched mine. “How does it feel to be my personal clit-rubbing post?” she whispers. Before I can say anything, a flush explodes across Lauren’s cheeks: she lets out a moan and crumples on my chest, her desire fully satiated.
I get up, ready to back out the door and catch the night bus. But Lauren surprises me again. As I search for my skirt, she grabs me by the wrist and pulls me into her. “Haven’t you heard of aftercare?” she asks with a laugh. Aftercare, to her, looks like naked cuddling and kissing my skin. An hour passes and she orders me an Uber back to my place, where I crawl into bed with a smile on my face — tired but taking stock of the evening and all the new sensations that I know I want to feel again.
*Name has been changed
Read more from Megan Wallace at PULP.
