It was Saturday night in Atlanta, Georgia, and I had just lured a handsome man in a military uniform up to my room with a bundle of rope.

The only problem? He wanted to tie me up.

I had offered to cane him. That hadn’t gone over so well. I offered to tie him up. That didn’t go over so well either. Finally, in the name of getting him naked, I’d consented to let the tables be turned.

We danced a bit. He got me out of my clothes: the red lace constraining my breasts, the black-and-white corset, the long sheer red skirt, the black panties skimming my ass. I separated him from his jacket and tie, which was not at all satisfactory. I wasn’t following his lead in this dance; for that matter, I was well on my way to being thrown unceremoniously on my ass.

At long last he tied my arms and the games began. All my backtalk must have gotten to him, because he began to lay into me with the crop. He wielded it with such enthusiasm that both slapper and shaft dug in, laying down hot, biting strikes halfway between handslap and cane.

“God damn!” I whined, squirming under the riding crop. “Someday you should really switch. And I don’t just mean because that’s where I prefer to be.”

” I’ve never found a woman to whom I wanted to kneel,” he said coolly.

I twisted to look at him in some shock. “It’s really not necessary, you know. Do you think that’s what I’m doing with you?”

Without effect I tried for the next hour to provoke him into some semblance of unrestrained lust. I think I only succeeded in pissing him off, under the veneer of dominance and Southern courtesy. He wasn’t interested in letting me lead the way. He was interested in a submissive woman, and I am not her — nor do I play her to get laid.

He was pretty. He left bitemarks all over my arms and legs. Less thrillingly, he left welts from the crop all over my stomach. (Both are in colorful evidence, four days later.)

We did not have sex. After I walked him to the elevator I came back up to the room and lay down and, quite unexpectedly, cried.

It had been a while since I’d had an encounter go awry. When I do the amount of stalking research to which I am accustomed, vast miscommunications rarely happen.

My partner wanted to rip him apart. Good tops make sure their bottoms have a good time, he said. Do they, now? I said. I’m a cynic, I know, but I think that my own good time is my own responsibility — especially with a trick! How’s he to know I’m a smart-assed masochist and a rough dominant fuck, any more than I knew he was looking for a meek and worshipful rope submissive? We both failed to talk beforehand. I have no selfish interest in the boy’s preservation, but punitive action seems unfair.

He wasn’t a bad top; he’s just someone else’s top.

But it would behoove him to ask next time.

Posted in marks, bruises, switching, travel, frolicon, submission (or the lack thereof)