Chapter 1: Unsatisfied

Her bottom is blushing pink under my palms, despite her dark skin; she is warming up quite nicely. She’s starting to move her hips in that undulating, pulsing desirous way that makes me ache to rip open the buttons of my fly and shove hard into her, bury myself up to the hilt. She’s still a little delicate for that. She wants romance, coaxing.

I’m getting a little tired of having to titrate my urges.

Her thighs are thick and her calves are strong, she’s up on her tiptoes bent over the small leather-covered horse in my dungeon, the spare room I’ve been working on building up into an SM space for the past year or so. She’s the one who asked for a spanking tonight, after pouting through dinner and not quite pouring my wine right, even though I’ve trained her to do it before. Maybe it’ll remind her for next time. If there is a next time.

“Harrison,” she whimpers, pushing her heavy dark hair out of her eyes and looking back at me. Her eyes are watery and big, wide-open and that deep brown sparkly gold color that has me enamored of her beauty. The way she would blink those long lashes and look up at me from under her bangs and toss it, just a little, out of her face—oh that gets me. That gets me good.

“That’s ‘Sir’ to you, young lady,” I growl in reply, smacking her ass again with my open palm. My hand is getting tired, palm is getting more sensitive, but she’s not quite that shade of red that I want her to be, so I have to keep going. No way to back off now. She’s pushing her ass back into my hands and breathing heavy, writhing on the horse and raising up onto her toes and back to her feet as she tries to get me to touch her between the legs, her arousal already visible.

But this isn’t for her, this is for me.

Except, it kind of is for her. She’s the one who wanted this. She’s the one who thought a spanking after screwing up the wine would absolve her of her missteps. Me, I don’t really believe in punishment—it’s proven not to work, after all, as a long-term strategy of training. Plus, these things that we play with should be fun, pleasurable, reward—not given as a negative. But, I do think it can absolve some guilt, if one is actually feeling guilt. Perhaps I can smack some guilt into her. Perhaps if I hit her hard enough, she’ll remember that she’s in trouble. No, no, bad idea—I don’t want to play from some place of anger or frustration. I want the intention of love and care behind every swat. I want this to be the time we connect most deeply—to ourselves, and to each other.

But Tally is off in her own world, writhing and biting the leather horse, swaying her hips back and forth and grinding into the leather like it might jump up and caress her if she does it well enough. This isn’t about pleasure, except that it is.

If she wasn’t just so damn sexy, I would have a lot more will power. I would resist the ways she’s trying to get me to do particular things and instead impose what I want, deny her, attempt to make her earn what it is she wants only to take it away at the last minute. But she pouts and whines, and she gets that look in her eye like I’m being so completely unreasonable, and it isn’t just play.

She tosses her hair again. It falls down her upper arm on the left side in a cascade that looks like a blanket, it’s so dense I can’t see her skin through it. I shift my body over hers so I can grip it and take as much as I can into my small hand and fist it, pulling her head up by it, just a little bit of pressure, pulling her neck long, as I rub her ass with my right hand. I hit her ass again, this time with the heel of my hand, almost a punch. Cupping my hand and more smacks. She lifts herself a little onto her hands to support her weight and gasps, eyes closed, mouth open. Her teeth are crooked in the front and it makes her smile look just a little bit lopsided, just a little stronger on the left than on the right, like a little kid who lost a tooth. Her lips are full and red from all the kissing, from the arousal, from the leather she’s been rubbing them against. Her cheeks are flushed. Her ears are pinned to her head by her long hair which I still have in my fist, pulling just a little too hard, she’s not sure she likes it but she does, so she doesn’t protest. Her neck stretched like this makes her back arch and her ass flip into the air, those girl-curves so exaggerated. Her body is already full of curves, her ass and thighs and breasts and stomach, plump and pudgy, something to grab on to, something to cuddle against.

“You look so pretty like this,” I say into her ear, soft and low, letting that growl come out of my throat. I kiss her neck and jaw and she swoons, opens her throat wider for me to reach her. She tastes like honey and sweat and I want to devour her. Want to rip at her throat.

I can’t. I can’t. Don’t get carried away.

“Mmmm I like that … that feels good,” she coos, reaching for my jeans and trying to get closer to my body. It’s hot in here, I’ve taken my shirt off, the light brown fur on my chest only slightly damp from sweat and work, my nipples hard. My light brown hair is just tickling the tops of my ears—it’s time to get a haircut. I keep it shaved short on the sides, just long enough on top to push it back and style it in some modern masculine style that makes me look older than I really am. It makes me feel strong, official. Still have my shoes on, the soft brown leather loafers that I’ve broken in so well over the years. I like to have the click of a sole against the hardwood floor while I play. I like the effect, the intimidation.

“Tally, wait,” I order, impatient already. “Not yet.”

“But I want to!” she immediately replies, her lower lip coming out just a little in that pout that I can’t resist. I want to smack her face. I almost bring my hand up to do it, but I know she’d get mad about it. Feel punished, but in the bad way. I can feel how she wants to. I know what she wants—my dick—though I have continuously refused to give it to her. First, I tried to ensure her that she had to earn it; then I tried to explain that I wasn’t ready; then I just flat-out denied her. She doesn’t seem to get it. It’s not all about that, for me. She’d asked me if I was one of those “tantra guys who never come.” No, I replied. I just don’t do that with everyone. We’ll see how far we get, you and me. Maybe it’ll happen eventually. But don’t count on it. “Do you still want to fuck me, though?” She’d asked with that wide-eyed stare up at me. Of course.

Fuck, of course I do. The way she writhes and coos and comes while biting her lip and thrashes and her hair goes everywhere. The way she breathes out and reaches for me. The way she softens. I crave it, I crave girls in that state, I wake up thinking about her face and my fingers inside her and when it’s going to be my hand and when it’s going to be my dick. I’m just not ready.

Women aren’t really used to men who don’t use their dicks. Or men with these kinds of boundaries, for that matter.

“Just a little longer, girl,” I reply, pushing her head back down to the leather horse and focusing again on her ass, smacking her with my fingers, small upward swats that make her gasp and sting my fingertips. I keep her hair in my hand and push her into place, lean against the horse gently in the curve at her side between her hips and shoulders. She leans into me, just enough to shift her position on the horse.

“Harrison, that’s not fair!” she protests again, but gives in, sighing down onto the leather. She tucks her arms under her and it feels like a protesting pout again, an annoyance.

I’m just about done with this back-and-forth game. I don’t know how to get what I want when she is only interested in getting what she wants. It’s just not the game I want to play. I consider telling her to get up and get her clothes and get out, but I’m not that mean. Plus, I really like her, and the way her ass is reddened and her sex is all swollen is making me salivate. Maybe I can at least help her get off, before she goes.

“You’ve done a good job, Tally,” I compliment, trying to boost her up a little more so she can take it. Come on, just a little more, girl. You can do it. I want more, dammit, why can’t I have more.

“You mean it?”

“I do. I appreciate you taking this for me, though I do want you to be able to take more, and with less protest. Maybe that will come with time. You’ll get there.”

She relaxes a little more, reaches out to touch my jeans again, but just for contact, not a request.

“I’m going to go get a vibrator for you. Stay here, don’t move. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes? Yes what?”

She sighs and rolls her eyes. Actually rolls them! At me! For enforcing a protocol we have set up, for expecting her to do the things we’ve agreed upon. This girl, this girl.

“Yes, sir,” she offers reluctantly.

I get up to retrieve the Magic Wand from my toy box against the wall and plug it in. That eye roll is just about the last straw. What am I going to do with her? I can’t just do whatever I want, she needs too much hand-holding. I want to explore the side of me that needs, that wants, that could lose myself in another’s body, in a woman’s body, in a submissive’s obedience. I want to be able to follow my impulses. I want to be met and held there. There’s something down underneath that, but I’m not sure what it is. I want to find out.

Sliding up against her body, I turn on the Magic Wand so she can hear it. She gasps. She knows that sound. Not everyone loves the Magic Wand, the mother of all vibrators, but once you get used to it, it becomes an essential piece of the toy box. Don’t think it’s just for the girls, either—it feels amazing on my balls. I keep one handy for those who can handle the lawn mower intensity of vibration. When Tally came to me, she rarely came any other way—which was fine, it meant that I could really control when and how she came. She protested that kind of play, however, despite that she had dropped to her knees and declared her determination to “become your favorite submissive” on our second date. But three months in? I, well, I have doubts.

This Magic Wand has to stay plugged into the wall, but the leather horse is strategically placed such that it reaches just fine. She’s moaning and writhing, she knows what’s coming; I’m glad she can’t really see me, or perhaps she’d be clued in to how bored I am. Would she care? Who knows. I can’t help that we aren’t the right match, I just can’t.

Tally is arching her back, showing off her fabulous ass, stretching up on her toes trying to reach her hips back into me, into the Wand, into anything that remotely resembles sensation so she can get off, and get off now. I want to scold her for it, point out her desire and embarrass her with it, but I’m not sure how she’ll respond to that. Considering how she thinks of herself as such a super-sub, she really hasn’t laid out what it is that she likes and dislikes, so I’ve had to come across it during our scenes, which is a lot less fun for me. I wish she could be clearer about it. Wish she could just tell me outright. We’ve played enough, it should be easier now to be clear with me, but she’s still evasive, acts shy and giggly when we start talking about sex, as if she is so innocent and can’t possibly know what it is that she likes. It is such an act, and I hate it.

Maybe it’s rude of me to keep playing with her when it’s so clear that I’m not into her. I don’t mean it as a pity-fuck, I really don’t. I want it to work. She’s so fucking sexy. Her body … her body. And I haven’t been with a woman in a long time, a very long time really. I’ve been meeting with my mentor X for the past six years and before that, well, let’s just say I didn’t have any luck. It’s just that, now, after all the work with X over the years, I know what I’m looking for. Call it a character flaw, if you wish, but I generally think that I deserve to get what it is that I want, and I’m not really afraid to make some waves while I’m trying to get it.

Still, I mean Tally no disrespect. I do genuinely have fun playing with her—or, I usually have, up until tonight. For some reason, I just don’t have the patience tonight. I just don’t find her quirks as charming as I did before. Maybe some of the novelty of a willing, gorgeous woman has worn off, and I’m remembering all of those things that make my dick hard and my mouth water, all of those traits of obedience and discipline, assistance and service. I crave someone with devotion, with willingness, who will strive along side me as I figure out what’s next. And not just someone—a woman, an incredible woman, someone open and good and giving and game and I just don’t know where to find her.

I try to focus. I will my hands to be present, will my mind to stay and be with Tally, with this body, with her skin and her naked vulnerability. She is vulnerable here, she is still naked here, despite my desire for more, this is as much as she can give me in this moment and I want to take it willingly, gratefully. I want to earn it, deserve it. My negative thoughts are certainly not helping my own focus or presence. I breathe, run my hands gently over her ass and thighs, soft, soft touches where she’s pink and swollen and a few little finger imprints are starting to darken. Electricity runs through me as soon as I focus, as soon as I gather my energy back to me and direct it to her. Her body softens and I can feel her focus, too. In response to me, or just out of coincidence, I don’t know, but I like it. I feel attuned. I feel more connected. Maybe it’s me, maybe I’m the disconnect. Maybe I’m asking for too much. Maybe I have unrealistic expectations. Who really wants to give over like that? Honestly, wouldn’t they all rather be submissives when it suited their own needs? Who wants a strict Dominant, barking orders, demanding perfection? Perhaps someone. But what if I never find her? There must be someone. It is my belief that our desires are not that unique, that we all fall within the range of human desire and expectation and experience, so thus there must be our equal and opposite out there somewhere. “Just make sure your scars line up, equal and opposite,” that’s what X says.

The Magic Wand buzzes in my hand, I can feel it vibrating my shoulder and the bones of my arm, even the right side of my chest and neck and face. There’s less buzz in the handle than there is in the head, that soft plastic bulb the size of a tennis ball. I suppose it’s good for working kinks out of the body, too—the big muscles, the thighs, the back, the bottoms of the feet. X even told me that he got a little addicted to pressing it against the side of his temple or on his ear, and it felt just so so good, but it started to feel like he was rattling his brain. He probably was.

I press it against the backs of Tally’s knees, first. Just barely touching, a whisper. Just a little zzzt and then gone, just to surprise her, just to get her ready and remind her of the feeling. She yelps, jumping and jerking her body, her thighs jiggling. Oh I want to grab them, grip them hard, claw into their softness. I press it again into the backs of her thighs, harder this time, for longer, but then taking it away, moving up the back of her legs, alternating between the left and the right. She wants it on that sweet spot between her legs, she’s rubbing them together and I can see how it’s rubbing her pussy lips, too. She’s so wet.

“Good girl,” I whisper, more to myself than to her. I’m not sure she can hear me. Her head is down, hair falling over her shoulders and past her ears. It’s so thick I think it probably blocks the noise fairly effectively. She’s breathing heavy. Her skin is flushing, her cinnamon color is a little pink.

“Please, Harrison, please give it to me, I’ve been good, I promise I’ve been good, I need it, please … please, sir!” She remembers the “sir” at the last moment. I do like it when she begs. She hasn’t been good, but hearing her promise like that makes me want to coo to her how good she’s been, even if it isn’t true. The game of it, the play, is sometimes more powerful than the truth.

I position the toy right over her cunt, bouncing it gently off of her ass cheeks and that sensitive spot where her thigh meets her ass, just so she can feel how close it is. She gasps, begging some more.

“This what you want?” I growl in her ear, leaning over her body. I get a whiff of her shampoo, something floral and clean that reminds me of the girls in the early-morning classes I used to take in college. Intoxicating, for some reason. What is it about that girl shampoo that is always distinctive, always inciting desire?

“You have been very good, Tally. I’m proud of you, baby girl.” I don’t call her that often, or lightly. She mewls a little and softens, relaxing into the leather horse and rubbing her skin of her arms against mine where they overlap. “I want you to know how much I appreciate you. You know I do, right?” I touch the toy softly, as softly as I can manage, to her vulva directly, letting its bounce and vibration shift the sensation. I try to hold it still as she writhes and tries to get it in the right spot. She tries to nod and say yes but it comes out hmmmm , but I get the message. “You’re gorgeous, girl. Glorious. Your body is so fucking sexy.” I’m growling in her ear, starting to undulate my body on top of hers, she’s getting a rhythm down against the leather and against the vibrator, I can feel her thighs against my jeans, we’re getting a rhythm together and it’s working, it’s working. “I like the noises you make. You’re so incredibly hot. You know it’s hard for me to keep these jeans zipped, don’t you?” She nods, says mmmm in agreement. (This is what she wants to hear.) “You want my dick, girl? I know you do. You’ve asked for it before. You’re not going to get it tonight, but I know you want it. This is what you get, Tally, this right here, this vibrator and this orgasm, this is what you get. Go ahead and come girl, I know you want to. Can you do it yet? Can you do it for me?” She moans and thrusts harder, she’s getting the right spot finally and I can tell she’s so close by the way her whole body tightens and clenches. I don’t know if what I’m saying is going to help, but it probably won’t hurt. Probably. Though who knows what will set her off, sometimes it is the smallest thing I say.

We’re not a good match.

I try not to dwell on it while she’s coming. It might be the last time I get to watch her go through this tightening and releasing, this quake, le petite morte. That thought makes me immensely sad. She’s so lovely to watch. She should really do porn, I would watch her come all day. Maybe I should’ve had some orgasm endurance scenes with her before … before it became so obvious that we weren’t going to work. The way she cries out with her throat, pursing her lips and growling through her teeth, jaw clenched, hands gripping and tearing, she’s so gorgeous, collapsing everything down onto the horse when she comes.

I hold her and stroke her skin, getting lost in the magic of connection as my fingertips marvel against the curves of her and my head swims with the endorphins of endurance, of coaching someone through an ordeal scene that might be pushing just a little harder than they would like me to, but ultimately they are grateful for the encouragement. I can’t help it. I want to push, want her to take it for me, want her to want to please me with her body and her service and to take it just because I want her to. I suppose it’s lucky that our desires line up—that I want to spank her, and she wants to be spanked. That works, even if the games we’re playing underneath it or on top of those interactions don’t quite line up accurately. It feels dishonest. I can’t keep doing this. But her body … her beautiful lips, her smile, the way she kisses, the way she nestles into me and hums, content … I can’t get enough of it. I crave her when she isn’t around.

I crave something. I’m not certain it’s her.

Tally smiles up at me and peels herself off of the leather. “I’m ravenous!” she exclaims. “What have you got in your fridge?”

She putters around my kitchen wearing my button-down shirt. I didn’t know girls actually did that. When she raises her arms above her head, the shirt comes up just enough to show off her round, plump ass, and I find myself rubbing my lips with my thumb and watching intently. She has the sleeves rolled up to her elbows and only the bottom buttons buttoned. The crisp white of it contrasts against her skin.

After a few minutes she has a grilled cheese sandwich on the stove, smelling heavenly. She finds mustard and roasted red peppers, and adds those to the sandwich, pouring us both water and giving me quick kisses as she flutters around. I sit at the breakfast bar, my eyes following her every move. Am I staring? Is that rude? No, I’m paying attention, listening to her stories, connecting. This kitchen isn’t exactly the best place for that, but I’ll take it. The cabinets are cheap veneer, a light wood color that I’m certain isn’t real, and while I do feel lucky to enjoy many luxuries in this apartment, the kitchen isn’t really one of them. It’s cramped and not well laid out, with the stove against the refrigerator on one side and the sink on the other, with barely any counter space aside from this breakfast bar, which serves as my only table. But I love that I get to have my own dungeon, and I can’t afford most two-bedroom apartments. I’ve been here long enough to have rent control, so I won’t be leaving anytime soon.

“What was your favorite part?” Tally asks, pausing and resting her elbows on the counter across from me, swaying her ass side to side just a little.

“Of tonight?”

She nods.

“You know I like how you come. The way you thrash and cry out.”

She smiles shyly, reaching for my hand across the table and tracing one finger down one of mine. “I liked when you called me good.”

“When I said ‘good girl’?” I say softly, feeling that growl in my throat rising.

She nods again, steals a glance up at me from under her long lashes. “You don’t call me that very often.”

I nod a little in acknowledgment. “It seems like you want a daddy,” I say slowly. I don’t really want to open this up again, but it always seems to come up.

“I know. And you aren’t that.”

“More like, I don’t want to be. I can be, I have been. I want … more than that, now.” I want to own someone, I want to be your entire world, I want you to want it even more than I do, I want to tell her—but I swallow the words back down into my chest and hope they get planted there to grow something stronger tomorrow. I don’t know how to tell her what I want, and that she isn’t that. It doesn’t seem fair. She is so lovely, sexy, willing. I want that to be enough. But it isn’t.

She looks away and goes back to the stove, flipping the grilled cheese and moving it with the spatula, staring at it intently as if it’s going to do something brilliant any moment. “Why isn’t that me?” She asks in a small voice, still staring at the stove.

“I … really like you, Tally. You’re amazing. Plus, you make a mean grilled cheese,” I grin, trying to lighten things, but I can see it’s not going to blow over so quickly. Tally’s face doesn’t change, she has a whisper of devastation and a stripe of deep pain and rejection that I can’t overlook. I move over toward her and wrap my arms around her from behind, kissing her head. She’s almost as tall as me—probably at least 5’6” to my 5’8”—but I have a lot more bulk, and when I fold around her she seems so small. She leans her head back against my shoulder and nuzzles a little, but I can feel her upset.

She sighs and pulls away from me. “Yeah, well.” She flips the two grilled cheeses onto plates and sets them down on the breakfast bar, leaving me standing there, arms empty.

I guess there’s nothing else to say.

Tally takes a long drink from the water glass and picks up her grilled cheese, contemplating it as she takes a bite. The toasty bread crunches between her teeth and her eyes close a little, mouth turning up at the corners in a happy grin. I take a seat on the swivel bar stool next to her and try to focus on my sandwich.

We had fun. We’re not a match.

What else is there to say, really.

Tally and I finish our sandwiches mostly in silence, with the occasional polite post-sex conversation of lovers that are probably not going to see each other again. I second guess myself, and then make up my mind again. My dick is still hard and it doesn’t seem to be lessening anytime soon—I’m eager to take care of it. Maybe I’ll get some decent sleep tonight.

I wash the few dishes we’d used as she goes back into the dungeon to get dressed and get her things. Two small round blue plexiglass plates, the flat griddle from the stove, a quick rinse of the water glasses. I’m getting a little chilly, as midnight sets in and I’m still shirtless in jeans, but the warm water feels nice on my hands.

Walking back down the hall toward the dungeon, I snag my robe off of the back of the bathroom door where it’s hanging and slide my arms into it, wrapping it around me. It’s short, coming down just past my butt, and a dark blue terrycloth that feels like a big bath towel or a hug. It’s comforting. I don’t often wear it around other people, but then again, Tally isn’t just “people.” She’s always felt special.

See, there I go again. Ambivalent, wavering, weak. I need to make a choice and stick with it. There is part of me that is afraid of losing her, that I won’t find anyone better. I could enjoy her, I do enjoy her—I just have this craving for more. Is that unreasonable? Maybe I’m way out of my league here, maybe I shouldn’t be expecting so much. I don’t want to demand more than I deserve. And yet, in another way I kind of do. I want to be able to be so demanding and have someone else take it, figure it out, despite it being unreasonable or too much. Aren’t we all afraid of being “too much?” And aren’t we all, at some point, actually too much for someone else to handle? Maybe it’s wrong to turn that into a fetish, but I also can’t help what I like. X would say, “You are what you are. The trick is to figure it out, and be it, one hundred percent.”

I guess I’m just still figuring myself out, so no wonder it’s so hard to be it.

Tally is standing in the doorway at the dungeon, taking a long, forlorn look at the room like she knows she isn’t coming back here. She’s fine, I tell myself. I don’t have to protect her. I don’t have to make this anything other than what it is. She has her short red pencil skirt back on, her low T-strap heels, her white blouse and her black bomber jacket. She looks like a thousand bucks. Her purse is a patchwork of different colored leathers, sewn haphazardly together with a short strap. She gathers and flips her hair.

“Okay,” she says. “Time to go.”

I walk her to the front door. She turns in the doorway and looks at me, a crooked smile playing on her mouth, as if she isn’t sure what to say. I catch myself fidgeting with my robe and try to be a little more solid, a little more stoic. Come on, Harrison, you can do this. I step toward her and slide my hands around her waist, up under her shoulder blades, holding her close for a moment before pulling away to kiss her, tenderly, my lips on hers.

“Well, Tally …” I start.

“Yeah. It’s been real, Harrison. I’ll see you.” Her eyes are a little shadowy as she pulls away and slips out the door. I hear her shoes on the stairs down to the first floor and watch her cross the apartment building’s small lot to her car, a little two-door white 1980s BMW. The city has calmed down since the busy din of the day, but I can still hear the rush of cars from the nearby freeway, the hum of the streetlights, some people yelling drunkenly down the block. Tally gets into her car and pulls out of the lot, and I turn back into my apartment, locking the door behind me, and head into my bedroom to jerk off.

~*~

Chapter 2: Sir Snow

“Harrison, hello!” Sir Carter Snow says as soon as he sees me, sitting in his usual table at Cafe Flore, his favorite meeting place. He’s been reading the New York Times on his iPad, sipping an espresso (“No cream. Goodness, why would anyone ruin perfectly good espresso with cream?”) and watching the eye candy in the Castro.

He stands to give me a warm hug and I catch a whiff of his signature Murray’s hair grease, such a classic scent of petroleum and musk. Plus, his silver hair always looks perfectly in place. He’s wearing a black tee shirt with the insignia of a local leather contest and faded Levi’s with perfectly shined leather boots. I wonder what lucky kid got to do that for him. It hasn’t been that long since I saw X last, but as soon as he embraces me I realize that I missed him, really missed him, and just being near him makes me relax. Sometimes I think it would be easier if I could just go back to what we had before.

“Hello, Sir,” I offer, gesturing to the chair next to him.

“Join me!” He says. His booming voice turns heads in restaurants like this, even on the outdoor patio where the busy traffic of Market street muffles everything. I slide into the hard, metal chair and fiddle with the fork on the table, touching the tines to the pads of my fingers. “So! What’s been happening? It sounded like something serious when you called me earlier.”

I nod, hesitating, not sure where to start. The waiter appears and offers me a menu and a glass of water; I immediately decline the menu and order what I always do, the Croque Madame and an iced tea. The waiter, a young 20-something boy with slim designer jeans and a shaggy hair cut, smiles with a little bit of extra twinkle at the two of us before he walks away.

Sir Snow sees the look he gave us, too, and he smiles at me about it, as if to say, he wouldn’t know what he’s getting into. I grin, then finger the fork some more, somehow fascinated by the curve of the silver. “I just … don’t know where to begin. Tally came over last night, but I think it’s the last time.”

“You ‘think’?”

“I’m pretty sure. We didn’t part on the best of terms. We had a lovely scene, I just kept thinking that … I wanted more. It wasn’t enough, what she wanted to offer. I mean, she’s gorgeous, and really fun to be around, so don’t get me wrong. But I have this craving for more, for submission that is entire. It feels so unreasonable, what woman in her right mind would want to give over like that? But I do, I crave it.”

Sir Snow nods, listening.

“I feel so guilty, too, not being fully present with her, but instead wishing she was someone else or behaving a different way. It’s not fair to her.”

“So what did you do?”

“Well, I ended the scene, pretty much as soon as I realized that my headspace was getting in the way. We spent a little time in aftercare, had a snack … but then she went home.”

“She doesn’t usually spend the night, does she?”

“No, no. It wasn’t expected that she would.”

“I didn’t figure.”

“I just … feel like I’m sabotaging myself. Anyone else would be fucking thrilled to get the attention of a woman like Tally. She’s smart, brilliant really. Ambitious, funny, delightful company. I like her. I just want …”

“More?” Sir Snow asks, his blue eyes and warm smile shining across the table from me.

“Yeah. I don’t know why that all feels so unreasonable. But I’m having a hard time sitting with it. And besides, even if I found the right person, who’s to say that I would be her right person? It’s all such a crap-shoot.” I’m still fumbling with the fork and this time, drop it right on the floor of the dirty concrete outdoor patio with a clatter. Great. I sigh, picking it up and placing it back on the table.

“Hey, Harrison—just stop.” Sir Snow places his hand carefully over mine and leans over, looking deep into me with his eyes wide and clear. “Patience, friend. Take a breath.”

I nod. He’s right. I close my eyes and feel my body down to my toes, feeling some tightness in my calves that I try to breathe into and release. My hips, too. My lower back. Everything is tight. I hadn’t even been feeling that a moment ago, but suddenly it’s so clear. I try to relax into it, let it go. I feel a little bit of it sink and dissolve, and I take another breath. Connecting, clearing. It’s not the end of the world. It’s okay.

Sir Snow pats my hand gently and straightens up. “Now, again. Slowly. You ended things with Tally? And you’re ambivalent about that?”

“Yes … well, no.” I laugh. “Yeah, I guess I am ambivalent, aren’t I. I mean, you know how I felt about her. Feel about her. She’s really lovely, our first few dates were so … promising. But I just want to go deeper than she does.”

“Have you asked her about it?”

“Not really, not directly … no. I can just tell.”

“‘Just telling’ isn’t really good enough, my boy. You have to make those kinds of arrangements explicitly, especially with power dynamics.”

I nod. I’ve heard him say this a thousand times. “I know, I know. But see, that’s one of the problems—she never wanted to talk about it, never wanted to wonder what more we could do. None of that was fun to her. She’d get annoyed and impatient and leap into my lap and just … try to … do something else.”

Sir Snow raised an eyebrow.

“I know! As if that was so bad. But I had such a hard time getting clear on what she wanted, aside from that she’s always been little girl identified, and is looking for a Daddy. I don’t think I can be that for her. Or, I can be, but I don’t want to be only that. I want to get more firmly set up in this Master identity, that’s what is really calling to me.”

Sir Snow nods slowly, familiar with this new song and desire of mine. He’s heard it many, many times.

“But what if I don’t ever find a woman to be this for me? Are they really out there, women who are strong and so bad ass and who have a good solid sense of self, and who still can handle my sadistic tendencies, and my particular … proclivities … and who are also inclined to slavehood? What if I’m just asking too much?”

“Well, if you are, you can compromise a few pieces of it. But the slavehood piece might not be the first thing to go, in that equation, by my calculation.” Sir Snow sips his espresso daintily, punctuating his words.

I consider. “You’re right. This particular arrangement is really important to me. I have to try it for a while, at least. I’ll just always be curious if I don’t. Maybe she doesn’t have to be a masochist. Or … maybe I can be a Daddy some of the time, as long as the mastery can be there too.”

Sir Snow nods again, putting down his cup. The waiter appears with my sandwich and queries if we need anything else. Sir Snow requests a cup of the soup of the day without asking what it is, and turns back to me before the waiter has a chance to answer, clearly being dismissed. The poor boy stands there for an extra moment, mouth open, before spinning on his heel and walking off. From the way he adjusted his jeans as he walked away, I don’t think he minded being ordered like that.

The whole thing made my mouth water. If only commands came as easily to me as they did to Sir Snow.

He leans back in his chair and strokes his chin, elbow in his hand, contemplating me. “You want to know what I think?”

“Yes, yes I really do,” I say, taking a bite of my sandwich. It’s salty and buttery and perfect.

“I think you need a woman who is a slave. Someone who has experience with D/s, not just in a daddy/girl kind of way but with a 24/7 power dynamic, whether it’s with a dominant or master, or as a slave or submissive. Either way, the right person for you has got to have at least some experience, and she has to be chomping at the bit for more.”

I nod, chewing. Seems obvious, when he says it like that. Isn’t that what I have been looking for?

“I think submissive means a lot of different things to a lot of different people. It can mean that they generally want to receive sensations in SM scenes. It can mean they want to obey orders sometimes, when the orders are fun and when they consent. Or it can mean that they have a tendency toward letting others make decisions. But regardless of the varied colloquial use of the term, I think the kind of submissive you are looking for is very specific. You want someone who fetishizes being owned, and being controlled. You want someone who wants to move toward having no limits with you, and trusting you to hold her safely at all times.” Sir Snow is on a roll now, getting excited, sitting forward with his elbows on the table and his fingers interlaced. His eyes are strong and bright, and he’s watching me intently as I keep biting off mouthfuls and chewing. I tend to eat quickly. I was hungry, I realize. Famished, even. Perhaps I should’ve had more than that bagel and coffee this morning.

“Does that sound accurate, to you?”

I nod, swallowing a bite quicker when I realize he wants a verbal answer. “I think so. That’s what I keep talking about with you, anyway. And that’s what I see people like Dawn and Michael doing, and Laura and Maria. I admire those partnerships.”

“Yes. Right. And you probably aren’t particularly polyamorous, either,” Sir Snow adds. “Yet another area where you and Tally were not a good match.”

“I don’t have a problem with her having a boyfriend. I even met him, I told you that right?” I ask. He nods; I continue. “He kind of seemed like a nice guy. Clearly really loves Tally. They’ve been poly a long time, I think it’s a good fit for them. Gerald, that’s his name.”

“But it’s not necessarily a good fit for you,” he insists.

I hesitate. He’s probably right, but I feel like it cuts down my options even more. I don’t want to eliminate the right person just because of one little aspect. I don’t have to have someone all the time, do I? Maybe I do. I’ve had open relationships and mentorships—like this one with Sir Snow—for so long, I don’t quite know what it’d be like to be functionally monogamous, even if we were still, to some degree, open, and had arrangements that I can do things like loan her out. When she’s been good. And as a gift to my friends. Oh, that would be sexy. But really only if she liked it, too. If I could treat her like my property, like a precious and valuable tool that I owned, like a car. It would be different if she had poly desires of her own, though. I have a possessive streak. I would want pretty much all of our other sex or kink related connections to go through me.

And again: What smart, bad ass woman would, in her right mind, agree to that? Because she must be in her right mind, and she must agree, with fully disclosed, fully informed and enthusiastic consent. I won’t push anyone into anything. Where would I ever find someone whose fetish for this will match mine? Why does it seem so impossible?

“You’re right,” I agree. “I don’t necessarily want someone monogamous, but I want her to be devoted to our partnership. And to … always follow orders.” I grin at that last innuendo and he gets it, smirking a little bit back at me as he picks up his espresso and tips it back to drain the last of it.

“Your soup … sir,” the waiter sets a bowl down in front of Sir Snow with a little more flourish than he’d used with me: one hand behind his back, a little dip of his head. “Is there anything else you gentlemen need?”

“No, thank you,” I say, as Sir Snow shakes his head.

“Just let me know if you do. I’ll come back in a bit,” he bites his lip a little as he stands there just a moment too long, then turns back inside.

“Shameless boy,” I say with another smile, digging in to the fries on my plate, quickly getting cold. It’s chilly in San Francisco, the fog has fully rolled in by this time in the afternoon and there’s a moist cling in the air that snakes in under my clothes wherever there’s a gap and my skin is exposed. “You saw that, right?”

He exhales: a silent laugh. “Of course. Sweet little thing. He wouldn’t even know what hit him if he came home with me. Well, I suppose he would, if I insisted he pick the toys out before we got started.” Sir Snow sighs, taking a few spoonfuls of soup very steadily from the bowl to his lips. “I tell you, there are some ways that we have to be responsible,” he shakes his spoon at me like a finger.

“Responsible? Sir?”

“I mean, we who study this kind of thing. Power, and sex. We can’t just go around taking any hot little ass home with us to play with. They get attached. Let’s be honest, they get their minds blown. I don’t necessarily mean that to brag—certainly not everyone I’ve played with has had his mind blown, and of course my mind has been blown, plenty of times. I mean, most folks don’t spend the kind of time, energy, and effort studying power and sex like I have, like we have. Most folks don’t bring consciousness, or awareness, to the art of embodied connection. They just don’t. It’s easy for me to forget it, since I’m mired in the kink world, but most people live from the neck up. Especially in the computer and business driven culture that is the technology world these days. And those are the folks who are taking over San Francisco. But—let’s not turn this into another gentrification rant, shall we. My point is,” Sir Snow continues, “that I would never take that young man home and play with him, because it would have consequences I don’t want to deal with. I’ve done it enough times—in my less informed days, let’s not call it my youth—that I know that it is more likely than not that it would be a different kind of physical experience than he’s ever had before, that he would fall for me, in some way or another, regardless of whether or not he ever said it, and that I would probably need to end it there, which would be heartbreaking. I just don’t want to be in that position again.”

“What if you were just upfront about it being a one-night stand? Couldn’t you just do it once, just sleep with him or play with him once?”

He shakes his head sadly. “No. Despite forewarnings, the outcome of this experiment has almost always, without fail, been the same. That’s what I mean by being responsible. We have to be careful with whom we share these skills. If there is a large discrepancy between my ability and someone else’s, something tends to fill the distance, the gap, between us. And that tends to be infatuation.”

“Tends to be? What else could it be?”

He sips water and smiles at me. “Well, money I suppose is another way. If someone is paying me, I can be in a different position of teaching and guiding, and providing a learning environment. It can still lead to infatuation, but somehow it evens the playing field. I don’t quite get it. But it does tend to work.”

“But boys like that?” I gesture to the waiter. “I mean, he’s probably used to having any guy he wants when he goes clubbing or to the baths or wherever he goes to pick up men. Would he pay for it?”

“No, probably not. Rarely are my clients anything like that … very fine-looking young man.”

I ponder this responsibility: what it means to have an abundance of knowledge, how to hold my integrity around having it, and what it means when I offer to share it. It’s kind of like having an area of privilege, in a way, though a bit more invisible than the average identity politic category.

“Does this relate to the responsibility of topping, or dominating, do you think?” I ask.

Sir Snow takes a few last bites of soup—it’s some sort of vegetable noodle with a creamy broth, and he clearly enjoys it. The small cup it’s in is cute, almost comically small, like a doll’s toys, against his large hands. His knuckles are broad and wide, fingernails neatly cut square, filed and buffed, probably professionally. He does like his mani-pedis. “I think it’s a little different, but responsibility is a related tool in many fields,” he pauses to think about this a little more deeply. “Similar, though, yes. I think when we deliberately assist someone with changing their state of being, with arousal, or sensation, or whatever we might be using, there can be consequences to those kinds of transformations, and it will serve us best if we are aware of what some of them are, what their symptoms are like, and what kind of things will soothe them.”

I’m not sure I know what he means. It sounds a little abstract to me. I can feel the questioning look on my face—brow furrowed, frowning, eyes squinting. Sometimes X calls it my ‘concentrated face,’ or my ‘constipated face,’ because I suppose they are kind of the same. I try to have a more neutral look when I am thinking hard, but sometimes it’s just what happens and I don’t feel like I can control it.

The idea of assisting someone with a change of state reminds me of Tally’s ass last night, as it became slowly more and more red, as she writhed against that leather and then finally thrashed and came. She is lovely to witness, to behold. I feel a pang of regret, of concern with our going our separate ways.

“Is it okay if we go back to Tally for a little longer? I am still confused about my … ambivalence.” One minute it feels so clearly right to break up with her, the next minute, I’m not nearly as sure.

He nods. “Of course.”

“I guess I am looking for your opinion. Do you think I should be with her? Did I make a mistake? Should I apologize? Was I a jerk last night, oh God I hope I wasn’t a jerk. I really don’t want to be a jerk,” I start muttering, mostly talking to myself.

“I doubt you were a jerk, though I wasn’t there, so honestly I can’t tell you anything for certain. Sounds like you were not particularly proud of your behavior, so you probably feel a little guilt or remorse for how you behaved, which tells me that the subconscious you believes you were not behaving in integrity. That matters, even if the conscious you can rationalize what you were doing and thinking. From what you’ve told me, it sounds like you caught yourself when you noticed how much your monkey-mind chatter was taking you out of the scene with Tally and into thought experiments, and that’s a good start. Most folks can’t even do that, and you did not used to be able to do so. That is really good progress.” Sir Snow holds a focused presence that most folks around us around the patio can’t manage—we fidget, tap our heels, jiggle our legs, eyes darting around at whatever shiny, sparkling thing catches our eye. Some of them are obsessively checking their phones, even with a friend or lover or last night’s trick sitting across from them. He, on the other hand, holds his gaze gently on my face, and occasionally down to the table, but stays focused and quietly attentive. He isn’t watching the nearby traffic, or even the people who knock into our table or chairs as they walk by. He keeps his voice steady and calm, speaking somehow on a frequency between the din of the background noise and the high-pitched voices and clangs from the kitchen, and he comes across clear as a ringing bell.

“I appreciate that, Sir, thank you. That’s a good point. I have been working on noticing my own mental state more,” I try to cut myself a little slack. Everyone says I’m too hard on myself, though honestly I mostly feel as if I should be more strict, more disciplined. I suppose that’s what happens when one has a streak of perfectionism.

“I don’t think you made a mistake, Harrison. I really don’t,” he says softly, taking my hand again. Despite my best attempts to stay collected and not let him know precisely how much this has been bothering me, he clearly got the message. “I think you enjoyed that young woman’s company very much, and that you are looking for something different than what she has to offer. There is nothing wrong with what she has to offer, it just isn’t what you most ideally seek.”

“It sounds so simple, when you put it that way.”

“Well, I suppose it is that simple, in a way.”

“But what if I never find someone else?” God, are these words really coming out of my mouth? I am practically whining. These are a twenty-five year old’s questions, not a thirty-five year old’s. I should know better by now, shouldn’t I? I should have better faith. I don’t know if I quite believe that it’s true, though. Though I suppose that’s precisely the thing about faith: there is nothing concrete there to prove anything for certain, so faith itself is the deep trust that the concept is true, even without the proof.

“You know what I believe about that.”

“You believe that there is always someone out there, for everyone, with precisely the qualities we articulate and request. I know.” He says this so often, it is practically a mantra.

He nods. “And?”

I think. “And, I have to be willing to identify what it is I want, articulate what I want out into the world somehow, say no to the things that I don’t want, and then keep doing that cycle over and over again until I find it. Her. Until I find her.”

He snaps his fingers and points his finger at me, thumb straight up in a boyish gun gesture. “Bingo.”

I nod. Okay. I can do this. I can grow my resolve, be brave, step up. I can be diligent, keep going, keep the faith, give myself pep talks. “I know you’re right. I trust you on this, and I do have that kind of relationship faith. I don’t mean to keep harping about Tally, I really don’t. She just … is the closest I’ve come to having what I wanted. It feels so hard to give up.”

“Yes, I understand that. She was close. But this way, breaking things off with her, you are making room for someone new to come into your life and take up that space. If someone is already in that space, you really don’t have room for someone new, even if you are open to dating multiple people … it’s just not the same.”

“I know you’re right,” I say again. He’s always right. I sigh. “Alright. That space is open again. You know what I’m looking for, the universe knows what I’m looking for, my own damn mother practically knows what I’m looking for. Everybody knows. I’ll keep articulating, keep willing someone in to that space.” I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath, feeling in to the Tally-shaped hole that is opening up. I barely have time to begin to wonder who might be ready to enter, to fill that space, when Sir Snow interrupts.

“Good. Because there’s someone I want you to meet,” he pulls out his phone and clicks a few icons to make his photos appear, finding the shot he wants, and then he slides the phone on the table over toward me. There’s a beautiful woman with striking green eyes and dark purple hair down to her chin, bent slightly at the waist with her hands in her jeans pockets, leaning over just a little bit, black v-neck tee shirt just low enough show off the curve of her small breasts. She is laughing, eyes crinkled at the edges, mouth open, lips stretched over her teeth as the amusement ripples through her. It’s a stunning photograph, cutting off just below her knees, with a plain grey background behind her, possibly in a photographer’s studio.

I’m smiling, because the woman is laughing and I can almost feel how funny it is, whatever secret joke that she’s amused by, it’s almost contagious, but at the same time I am almost angry with X. Did he know I was going to end things with Tally? Has he been saving this photograph? Did he come here planning to show it to me? “What the hell?!” I say, skipping my series of questions and going right to the feeling, then catching myself. “I mean. Sir, uh, this is so curious …” I stumble. “Did you know I was going to end things with Tally? When were you going to tell me about … her?” I pick up the phone and study the photo a little closer. “Who is she? Is she single? Is she submissive?”

“Slow down, slow down. No, I didn’t know about Tally officially, but I had my guesses. When we spoke last week, things seemed to be sliding downhill. I wasn’t sure if you’d recognized that yet, but it seemed clear to me.”

I laughed, a few sharp sounds. “Next time, let me know, would you?”

X shook his head slowly, his perfectly waxed hair staying perfectly in place. “Not that way it works, my boy. You get to figure these things out for yourself. I’ll see what I can do to make some suggestions next time. You’re catching on, though. You’ll be on top of this kind of thing in no time.”

“God, I hope so.” Dating is exhausting. I feel like the rest of my life is on hold until I can find the right girl, the right partner, the right slave, and once I do, things can actually start up again. I want to remake my routines with another person in mind, delegating and disciplining and serving my greater purpose together.

“You’ll see. Now, about the girl,” Sir Snow clears his throat. “Her name is Sidra Marlin. She’s 32, and a teacher. She’s been in D/s relationships in the past, but she is single and has been for over a year. She grew up nearby, in the South Bay maybe, I’m unsure.” I keep studying the photo as X fills in a few details. Sidra. He continues. “She’s good friends with a dominatrix friend of mine, Annabella, I think you’ve met her a few times at play parties. Annabella and I sometimes consult about our wards and mentees, and she made it clear that Sidra is searching for something beyond the run-of-the-mill D/s that she is finding in the kinky club scene when she goes out. She’s beautiful, and she’s experienced; her standards are high. That’s not been a very lucrative position to be coming from, so far, for her.”

“Sounds … very promising,” I say slowly, taking it all in. “What does she teach?”

“I don’t want to tell you too much about her; I’d rather you heard it from her. I’ve probably said too much already.”

I shrug. I come from the social media and plugged-in generation who often Google someone before a first date, discovering their entire resume on LinkedIn, all of the photographs of friends and family and recent brunches on Instagram, their entire profiles on Facebook and whatever their quirky thoughts are on Twitter. I usually know a lot more than that about a girl when I’m going in to meet her. But I don’t mind a blind date. “I trust you. If you say we could be a possible match, I believe you.”

He nods. “I never can tell about chemistry. But she is very intriguing, with a beautiful countenance.”

I cock my head a little to the side. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost guess that you liked her.”

He clears his throat again. “Well. I wouldn’t. You know. Say it like that. But she does … intrigue me, yes.”

“So you said.” I grin, teasing him a little. He’s such a Kinsey 7 that it’s amusing to think of any woman catching his attention.

“There is someone else, as well,” Sir Snow mentions off-handedly, almost as an afterthought.

“Someone else?”

“To whom I’d like to introduce you.”

“Okay …” I look around a little bit. “Right now?”

“No, no. I think by email later. I don’t have all of her contact information yet, but Kai promised to deliver it to me tonight.”

“You had two different possible blind dates for me? And you let me go on about ‘how will I find someone else, is Tally the right one’?!”

His lips curled just a little into a playful smile. “Sometimes, you just have to play it until it’s over. Otherwise, it doesn’t end.” The cute waiter comes by and Sir Snow catches his eye, making a little squiggle in the air with his fingers, the universal sign for “check please.” The waiter nods.

“You can say that again,” I agree. “So, what’s the plan, about Sidra? Should I call her?”

“Oh, she’ll be here in—“ he checks his watch. “About ten minutes.”

I laugh out loud, shaking my head. “Come on, really? You’re too much. What if I couldn’t stay?”

“But you can, can’t you?”

“Yes, but that’s not the point—“

“That’s precisely the point.” He’s grinning ear to ear. I’m nervous and excited and feel a little undermined, but also taken care of and more relaxed than I have felt in days. I like meeting new people, regardless of our chemistry or whether or not we’re a match. Getting to know someone can be so thrilling. I suppose it’s the extrovert in me. I drain the last of my iced tea and suck down an ice cube just to feel it crunch and melt on my tongue and soft palette.

“Well, have it your way. I suppose I better go make sure my hair is okay. Will you be, uh, joining us?”

“No indeed. I’ll be taking my leave. Must get home to the family.” The waiter, still batting his eyes provocatively, delivers the check with more of a bend in the hip than necessary, showing off his round, meaty bubble butt. Sir Snow looks then looks back and makes eye contact. “Very good,” he says slowly.

“You dirty dog,” I mutter under my breath as the waiter walks away, beaming. “And how is everyone?”

X nods curtly. “Good, doing very well. Kai is dragging himself through carpentry school, but I’m confident he will be even more useful to me with a higher degree and the advanced skills. Plus, he’s just so damn good with his hands. He just isn’t much for school and rules, so that part of it is hard. Peter is still going through tests, they’re trying to figure out what kind of autoimmune disorder he has. It’s amazing, how common those all are these days, isn’t it? I know so many more people with unknown immune system damage than I ever have.”

I nod sympathetically. Those are his two closest family members, his boy Kai and his slave Peter, and there are at least half a dozen more folks included in his broader leather family.

“You just saw Laura and Maria at the meeting, right? They’re doing well. We don’t see each other often, but at least at Family Dinner. You should come this week.” Invitations to Family Dinner are never light, and I feel pleased to be included. Sir Snow puts on a dinner every Sunday, regardless of who comes. Kai and Peter are always there, as they live with Sir Snow. Most often Maria and Laura are there, but Chet and Luka come only sometimes. I used to go every week, diligently, back … before. I suppose we all needed a break. Part of me aches to be part of his family, and probably always will. Though I suppose another part of me knows that it just isn’t meant to be.

“I would love to, thank you.”

“I’ll leave you to get on with it,” Sir Snow says with a wink, rising from the table. I stand, too, and offer a hug. He holds me just a second too long and it feels good, his chest against mine, arm around me. Warm, solid. He’s at least four, maybe five inches taller than me and a bit broader in the shoulders, and I always feel enveloped so well, held safe, when he embraces me. “Have fun!” he teases as he walks off.

I head for the bathroom to check my hair and wash my face, and then find a new table to start fresh.

~*~

Chapter 3: Sidra I

“Harrison, right?” She appears right next to me, even though I was waiting for her and paying attention, not even staring at my phone while I wait.

“Uh, yes,” I stammer, thrown off.

“I’m Sidra,” she gives me the once-over, looking me up and down with a quirky smile on her lips, as if something is already funny. It’s not objectifying so much as just looking, drinking me in with her eyes. Her purple hair looks darker in the cloudy outdoor light, almost blue-black, but the purple is still there when she tilts her head and the light shines through. She’s wearing an Army-green jean jacket, loose white tank top with Blondie on it, faded jeans that are rolled up tight at the ankles, and short black boots that are folded down, also loose, tongues flopping out like they are making fun of me. She peels off her oversized, round sunglasses and I can see her green eyes are just as green as that photograph, and I think really are that color.

Sidra offers me her hand and I shake it, closing my fingers around hers, warm and tight. “Pleased to meet you. Join me?”

She nods, pulling out the chair. “Did you eat already? X said you two had a meeting here.”

“Yes, but I am glad to sip on something warm and chat. Do you need food, should I get the waiter?”

“He’ll come around, I’m sure,” she’s still grinning, like something is funny, like I’ve caught her laughing about an inside joke. Have we met before? Do I have mustard on my shirt? I look around, trying to decipher the source of her amusement, but her eyes are fixed on me with a focused stare. I feel myself impatient and starting to squirm in my seat and take a quietly deep breath to focus and calm myself that I hope isn’t too obvious.

San Francisco buzzes by outside of the quaint patio. A trolly goes past, down Market Street, full of tourists and those who know when to get on and when to get off. Everyone is searching—for the “eureka!” of finding gold, for each other, for that part of themselves they thought had been lost with that particularly deeply wounding heartbreak years ago. I suppose Sidra and I are searching too, both eagerly interested in D/s, both looking for our equal and opposite, both holding back.

“So you know Sir Snow … through Annabella?” I say, more of a statement than a question, but implying that perhaps there is more to that story.

She nods. “We’ve only met a few times, me and X. I adore Annabella, my ex was a good friend of hers and he introduced us. The three of us used to play a lot—she’s mean: knives especially. But I loved it, what can I say.”

My palms tingled. Knives. And, with a dominatrix. Fantastic. “Are they still … friends? Your ex and Annabella?”

“Oh, not exactly. I mean I think they are Facebook friends, but they’re not so much in touch anymore. After we broke up, he moved to Italy … well, that was partly why we broke up. He wanted to expand into European wines, and an opportunity came up, so he took it. Unfortunately, he didn’t take me,” she bit out the last few words with sharp steely undertones. Not exactly bitter, but certainly more than a hint of betrayal. But still, her ex being seriously out of the picture is an excellent bonus.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I offer sincerely. “I don’t know about you, but it feels to me like D/s break ups are even worse than egalitarian break ups. Maybe it’s because things feel so much more vulnerable, in a way.”

She nods. “Yeah, I think that’s true. Well, it’s been more than a year though, and honestly I’m not having much luck with the open market. So I figured I’d see if Annabella could loan me out.” Her eyes twinkled at the thought and she tilted her head, looking at me just slightly more sideways, from behind her hair, as if assessing me with her peripheral vision.

“So that’s where I come in,” I say, sitting back a little, crossing my arms. “Oh, I get it now. I’m just a pretty face.”

“Well … yes. But who knows what else you are,” she smiles coyly. The same flirtatious waiter comes along with two menus, two sets of silverware rolled up in napkins, and two lukewarm water glasses with no ice. The drought here has been so bad, I’m surprised they’re even serving water without request. He gives me a slightly puzzled look, as if he didn’t just see me get up from the other table and sit down at this one, but quickly washes it from his face.

“I’ll be right back to get your order,” he says, and disappears. Sometimes waiters are so fast.

“So let’s have it, Harrison. What else are you?” Sidra stays right where she landed and is waiting expectantly.

I raise one eyebrow. “What else am I,” I repeat.

She nods slowly. “That’s right.”

“I’m … a brother, I have two sisters and we’re very close in age, and still very close emotionally. We talk pretty much every weekend. They still live in my hometown in Colorado, so they see each other a lot more, their kids play. I came out here to … to explore, after high school, ended up going to college at UC Sacramento.” I pause. “Is this the kind of thing you mean?”

She tilts her head in a half-nod, half-shake. “Sure, good as any place to start.”

“I studied economics, statistics, mostly data analysis kinds of things. Got a job here, and have made a life for myself in San Francisco ever since.” That’s a very succinct version, but not untrue.

“So you work in the tech industry.” It’s almost a question, but not quite. It’s a pretty safe bet for just about anyone around here, especially someone with an economics degree.

I nod. Sometimes I don’t feel particularly proud of it, given what it’s been doing to the city that I love. It’s been a challenge to straddle the two worlds, the rising tide of influence of tech and the long-standing underground of kink and sexuality, which is so rooted in San Francisco. “Yeah.”

She nods back, quiet. I can’t tell if her quietude is judgment or approval or interest in having a boyfriend with money or just taking it all in.

“So what about you? Sir Snow said you’re a teacher, what do you teach?”

“Do you always call him that? It’s so formal.”

“Uh, yeah, I mostly do. Sometimes just ‘Sir’, but I find that somewhat awkward.”

“Well, is he?”

I pause. “Is he what?”

“Your sir.”

“… No.”

She tilts her head again, an endearing quirk that reminds me of the way a puppy rotates its head, still too big and out of proportion from its growing body. “Interesting,” she says, in a tone that makes me think she really is curious about what two grown men are doing calling each other “Sir” if they’re not in a D/s dynamic. She does have a point.

“I teach biology,” Sidra offers, still impeccably following the conversation and picking up the lost threads. “Human sexuality is the most fun, of course. But the animal world is really enjoyable for me, too. I’m kind of an animal whisperer. I’ve always had pets, sometimes lots of them. I only have a dog right now, but I’ve had parrots, mice, rats, ferrets, cats, a snake, a guinea pig, some chickens … those weren’t really pets, since they were working laying eggs too, but they kind of were.”

I smile. “To what age range?”

“Six through twelve,” she says. “High school and middle school.”

“That sounds like a lot of fun, getting kids interested in the human body, and in animals. So many kids are so fascinated with that anyway. Do you like the job?”

She shrugs a little again, her purple hair bouncing. She tucks a piece behind her ear daintily and her fingers are strong and precise. “Yes, but like any job it has it’s hardships. The school district and administration is really rough to deal with. Having my own classroom is pretty fun. Some of the students are so not ready, not reading at their grade level, not coming from stable homes. I’m in a public school now, but only for the last two school years. I was at a private school for the five years before that.”

“So are you the one that the kids come to when they want to ask questions about condoms, things like that?”

She laughs. “Yeah, actually. They seem to really like me, probably because I let them talk about frank adult things and I talk to them like they’re people, not like they need to be sheltered from the realities of the world. The GSA met in my classroom at my old school, that was really fun. I teach their sixth grade ‘your body is changing’ course, too, so they have me for that and then they stay in my biology classes after, so they get used to my crude humor.”

“And your purple hair.”

“Yeah, that too. That’s part of the reason why I keep it, they just love it so much. Did you ever see Blow Out?”

I’m not even sure what that is. “No, I don’t think so.”

“It’s a reality TV show about a really upscale salon in LA. One of the main girls on it had this cotton candy pink hair that I just loved, she made it look so classy and professional, like this look from a deliberate doll from a slightly altered reality. I fell in love with it. I went pink that summer and have been slowly darkening it until now it’s this.” She flips the ends of it in her fingertips, touches them to her chin and mouth, clearly an old and probably unconscious habit. It’s cute. I want to bite her fingers.

“It’s gorgeous,” I say. “I’m not one for hair dye, I’m kind of an au naturale kind of guy. But it does add a certain … something.”

She smiles, looking down at the table, getting a little shy. “So you’re newly single, right?”

I nod. “Yes, I suppose. I’ve been casually dating since my last significant relationship ended, about two years ago.” The reminder sends some pangs. But it was for the best, I remind myself. “I’ve been having fun, met some wonderful … people. But I’m feeling more ready to find someone to go deep with.” I lean forward a little, elbows on the table, and she does too, mirroring me. “I’ve been playing with D/s for a long time, and I want to go into the dynamics of owner/property more, to fetishize the possessiveness and ownership aspects. And I want more control than scene-only D/s can provide me. I just, still crave more.”

She gets a small hint of a wicked grin and shifts in her seat, crossing and re-crossing her legs. “I know the feeling.”

“Oh?”

She nods, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I crave more, too. I love submitting, I’m a very heavy masochist,” she stresses deliberately. “But I find myself day dreaming about being locked in a cage all day while my person is at work, or being left naked and in chains to do the housework, things like that. I don’t really know if I want them to stay a fantasy, or … not. But there’s still something I am craving, and want to explore.”

I nod too, our eyes locked on each other’s faces. Her lips are funny shaped, thick on the bottom and cupid-like on the top, red with an almost salmon colored hue. I want to kiss her. I wonder how soft her hair is, how it will feel in my hands. I wonder how she’ll feel pressed up against me. My hands ache to grab her hip, run my fingers along her arm. Good, this is a good sign, I tell myself. Attraction. Chemistry. Yes.

I clear my throat. “That sounds … like where I’m at, too. I love being a dominant, I love play, but I still want the deeper, more farther-reaching aspects of a power dynamic that I have only had glimpses of. Sometimes it has worked well, but sometimes not. I’m looking for a relationship that wants to explore all aspects of that exchange.” She nods. I continue. “Well, I’m also just generally looking for play partners, and meeting interesting people … seeing what kind of unique chemistry is between us and following it. I suppose I’ve been in the poly community long enough to believe the value in finding the points of connection and going after them.”

“Oh, are you poly?” She doesn’t seem surprised or judgmental, just seeking clarification.

He takes a swig of water. “No, well … I guess it’s complicated. Like I said, I’ve been dating, so I haven’t really been committed to anyone or in a monogamous arrangement in the past few years. And I’ve had a variety of relationships in the past in all kinds of constellations, from solo poly to a V arrangement to a triad to a committed couple that had lovers on the side, more of a W. I’ve been part of Sir Snow’s leather family, though mostly peripherally, for five years now. I have some visions about what I want to build, but I also have some flexibility in those visions. It’s something I really want to co-create with … whomever I end up with. I feel open to many possibilities.”

“But if it were left up to you?” Sidra asks.

“Sorry?”

“You know, like if I was your submissive,” she bends her head to look down at the table and then lifts her eyes up to gaze at me from under her eyelashes. “And I told you, I am open too, sir. I have experience with poly and partnerships in all kinds of forms. And my deepest pleasure would be supporting your vision of what you want. How would you then like your ideal relationship to be formed?”

That was a good question. I might have to think about it for a while. “I would be the head of a leather household, living together with a partner to whom I was devoted. We’d be devoted to each other. We would sometimes play with other people, I suppose—I’m open to that—but it’d be mostly just that: play. We wouldn’t necessarily have other relationships or partnerships. The submissive, well … I’d want to control her completely. In my ideal relationship, I mean,” I add hastily.

“What do you mean, which parts of her would you control?” She squirms a little in her seat.

“Who was allowed to touch her, and when. Whether she was allowed to touch herself. She would be mine, so I would be the one in charge of any sexual contact, any play. I could order to her to service anyone I requested (assuming they were consenting, of course). I would not be restricted by her in any way, but would be trusted to make the best choice for myself and for our partnership that I could make, and this would occasionally include playing with other people myself.”

“Oh? Things that your submissive couldn’t provide? Or to make her jealous? Why would you play with others?”

“I don’t believe that one person can be everything to someone. I occasionally have needs that could fall outside of the desire of a D/s or M/s partnership. I would expect that I could pursue those interests, and that my sub would support me in following my desires.”

“Mmm, yes sir. I’m sorry, may I call you sir?”

I grin. “You may.”

“It sounds like you know quite a bit about what you want, ideally.”

“I have given it some thought, yes. What would you want, ideally?”

“Well,” Sidra curls a rope of hair around her finger a little absently, twisting it and brushing the tip against the side of her face softly. “What I said before is true, really. I have a fetish for giving people what they want. I mean, not just people—my dominant. I want a dominant who has a higher purpose that I can really get behind, and that both he and I are organizing our lives around serving this higher purpose. So it wouldn’t be about the ego of the dominant, not really, but rather about a devotion to this person’s particular gifts and what they’re doing with them.”

“Hmm, that’s interesting.”

“I think whatever play, or lack of play, served my dominant would be the play that I would most like to have. I kind of don’t care what it is. I mean, sure, I care—I have feelings, and reactions, and jealousy, and compersion. And if left to my own devices, I have a sex drive, and cravings for certain kinds of sex or intimacy or interactions. But I’m less interested in following those desires in myself. Perhaps what is even more true is that I have followed them, and they have never gotten me to the place I want to be. So now, I want to follow this new idea: this old instinct of mine to be in service to a cause, and to practice some deep submission from that place. To practice doing things I don’t necessarily want to do, to cultivate a more service-oriented mindset, to not grump and grumble when I don’t get my way, to put his needs first and to learn how to titrate my own sexual longing such that I don’t get burnt out, but I also don’t mind being in a perpetual state of wanting and desiring and not quite getting what I need.” She pauses. “Is this making any sense?”

I nod vigorously, paying acute attention. “Absolutely.”

She nods back, smiling wide and relaxing a little. “It does, huh. I mean, you get it. That’s really good. I’m glad.”

I know what she means. “Yeah. Me too,” I say, swallowing. She really does get it. What if …? Is this going to work? I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but I feel a tingle down in my stomach that feels like this has a lot of potential. A lot of potential. What if this really worked? I try to slow down my thinking. We haven’t even slept together yet, for goodness’s sake. That definitely will have to happen before we go to much further. I mean, not that I want to stop getting to know her, and not that I’m in a hurry to get to the sex part. Well, maybe a little. Only because she’s beautiful and sexy and I’m so curious what it’d be like to bend her over something, a spanking bench or my lap, and work her over. What will she be like when she comes? Will she be quiet, barely whispering out a silent, tense orgasm that reverberates through her body and shakes her muscles? Will she be loud, yelling, letting it out through her voice? Will she convulse? Will she squirt? Will she like what I do to her? Will it be enough for her desires? Will we be able to get through the fun, playful, new relationship energy enough to build strongly and find the mutuality of power and surrender, such that I can dive in to the depths that I desire? What will even happen if I dive in and start trying things, am I really going to want it, after I actually have it? What if it doesn’t work at all? What if I discover that I don’t want the thing that I’ve spent all of this time desiring, wanting, striving for, daydreaming about? Isn’t that what they say—be careful what you wish for, for you may get it?

I suppose I have to try, regardless. I will always wonder what it’s like, until I get to really try, and really find out what might be possible on this alternative path. This way, even if it doesn’t work out the way I want it to, or the way I think it will, at least I will know that I tried it and I can rule it out as a way I want to live my life, as the structure around which I want to plan my life. I have to know.

And I’m starting to get to the point where I have to know about Sidra, too. What will she be like naked? Does she have tattoos? Piercings? What is her skin like? What kind of stretch marks and scars does she have? What kind of beauty marks? How does she like to sleep? Does she eat first thing in the morning, or does she only have coffee and wait until lunchtime to eat? Does she have any pets? Will she like my apartment? Will she fit in my arms, folded into my embrace, like Tally did? Will the scent of her turn me on, or off?

So many variables. SO many uncertainties and questions and possible ways that we might not fit together. And yet, I have to try. If somehow, for some terrible, unforeseen reason, we never got to have another date, I will always wonder whether Sidra and I would have been a good match, if only we’d taken it to the next level and tried it.

“Sidra, so …” I start. I clear my throat. “I don’t know about you, but I already know that I’d really like to see you again. Perhaps you’d like to come over to my place and let me make you dinner.”

She twists her head, looks at me a little sideways, smiling big with her eyes crinkling at the corners. “I would like that, very much, sir,” she says. “Now?”

“Now? You mean, do you want to go over there now?”

“Well, the waiter hasn’t come around since we sat down. We don’t even have menus. I don’t know about you, but I could eat. I’m getting hungry. And all this talk about play, and power … it’s getting me hot.” She’s right, I haven’t seen the waiter at all since Sir Snow left. I suppose we all know what that’s about.

“Yes, I know,” I say softly. “Me too.” I think about it for a moment. “Alright, yeah. Would you like to come to my place now, Sidra?”

“It would be such a pleasure.” She gathers her purse up over her shoulder and stands. I stand also, pushing the chairs back in to make a small space for my body to fit through the maze of tables.

“Let’s do it. But first …” I come closer to her and she is paying acute attention. I already feel attuned to her body, just this close, and coming in inches away gives me a zap of energy that I feel in my hips. She faces me directly and I move my hands to her waist with a slightly questioning look; she nods and bites her lip, looking up at me, almost giggling, a playful smile on her mouth. “Please, may I kiss you?”

She nods, still grinning and stifling her giggles. “You may,” she says soft, moistening her lips with her tongue, her lipstick still perfect and untouched despite the half hour of talking. I scoop her lower back with my hand and she rises onto her tip toes to close the distance between us. She’s not that much shorter than I am, but it’s enough that it makes a difference. She closes her eyes. I savor the quivering space between us as it gets smaller and smaller, until my lips are touching hers, so gently it feels like cloth, just soft and supple. She smells of just a hint of cinnamon. She slides her arms between us and gently touches her hands to my chest, touching the collar of my shirt and leaning back into my arms while still leaning forward and into the kiss. Gentle, gentle, and sweet.

When I pull away, I don’t move my arms, but leave my face close to hers and watch for her response. She opens her eyes slowly and consciously, sparkling under her eyelids, the grin immediately coming back.

“Alright,” I say, “let’s go.”

~*~

A Touch of Healing

Kathryn K. Murphy

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