I couldn’t wait to see her inside. I was parked in the back of the building. My hands were sweaty and I felt a surge of sexual energy rising up inside me. It was fifteen minutes to three o’clock in the afternoon, the time we had planned on. I sat and waited. In my head, my thoughts were running wild. I couldn’t wait to touch her, to feel her, to dominate her, to fuck her.
This was something we had planned. We had met each other online about a month before. In particular, I usually look at two questions from a person’s online profile. The first is a gauge of where the power dynamic would fall; “not as in whips and chains, but in general, do you prefer your partner to be… dominant, submissive, or balanced.” She had answered “dominant”. The other one is purely for my own pleasure, “when having sex, do you like to have your hair pulled?” The options were: “Yes, and hard!”, “Yes, but gently.”, “No way.”, “Not sure.” She had answered, “Yes, and hard!”
The first message I sent her was not indirect.
“So, you like to have your hair pulled?” I said. “I feel like most women on this app won’t admit that, for fear of giving the guy the wrong idea.”
She didn’t respond right away. I got worried I scared her off. When she did reply, it was curt.
“Yes. It drives me crazy,” she said.
“We might have something here,” I said.
“I’m intrigued,” she responded.
Before we even met there were sparks between us. Our first meeting was delayed by a week long trip I took to see my parents. We texted each other throughout the whole week. I started by asking about her history with BDSM and power dynamics.
“So you’re a sub?” I asked. “Tell me about your experiences so far.”
“I don’t know if I’m a sub yet,” she told me through text. “I haven’t had the opportunity to try it a lot. I know I would like to try it. I’ve only been with guys who tried to be dominant but weren’t really natural at it. We used handcuffs but the guys were all so gentle. There was no exchange of power.”
“Interesting,” I said. “So, what did you wish that they would do to you?”
She had to think about this. She didn’t know me and she was unsure about how much she could share with me at that point.
Another minute went by. I looked at my phone. No messages. I looked out the front windshield of the car at the brick wall of her apartment building. I checked Instagram. No likes. I looked inside my bag. Ropes. I got out of my car and walked across the parking lot. I found her car. It was a small, white hatchback, at least ten years old. It was the one she drove us to our first munch in. She wore a fucking hot short tight skirt that day. I had just tied her up and fucked her for an hour befo…