The first time I did something SM-like was when I was still a little girl. I was still a girl, but at an age when I wanted to think of myself as a lady. I was bored with my studies, my hobbies, and my trial boyfriends, so I chose the most immediate means of power and self-expression: dating a foreigner I happened to meet who was considerably older than me. There comes a time in a girl's life when she runs to someone older to test her newly acquired magical powers.
He wanted to try all sorts of things on my young body, like catching a moth that happened to fly in through the window and performing cruel experiments, including an imitation of SM play. The vulgar old man, who shamelessly took little girls around to salacious restaurants and high-rise VIP lounges and made them drink and suck all sorts of things that were attractive to my young eyes, naturally put clips with chains on my nipples, presented me with leather collars and made me call himself Daddy. Although I was not much moved or excited beyond curiosity, I became addicted to that peculiar sweet smell of leather tailored for SM. When I came across it again more than ten years later, I even felt nostalgia like when I had a cup of hot tea.
Long after that, having accumulated such different memories of the old man that he had faded into the distance, I had come to a strange bar where men and women could anonymously drink together and then disappear behind a curtain into a small room. The bar was dimly lit and noisy, and I glanced sideways at the oddly excited middle-aged men and women making noise. I looked at the floor with a cold mood and saw something lying on the floor, a man in full body tights. While people were talking to him and leaving, I kicked him on a whim, fed up with this space that I had come to expect. Looking back, I did not do so without being asked, but just intuitively stepped on him, thinking that he was there to be stepped on. Feeling the weight and squishy softness that is peculiar to human beings, I refilled my drink several times and just rolled his body around with my foot silently, stirring the glass with one hand. He didn't say anything, as if it was natural. Eventually I grew tired of it and felt it would be better to leave him as a part of the floor that someone else would eventually step on, so I left him there.
Later, I went back to the place. I was intrigued by one man, who seemed to be a regular and was being jostled and teased by the men around him. He was probably in his mid thirties, with a thick head of kinky hair and a pale, slightly fat body. He had an unrefined expression that could be taken as either arrogant or sneering. I wanted to undress him, I thought, before I wanted to be held. He signaled to the barman and stood up, grinning with a sneer and hugging my shoulders. People around us glanced at us as they noticed the curtains being drawn, which hadn't moved for a while. He takes the liberty of placing his hand on my waist and guiding me in. I feel a little uncomfortable at that point. Once we are alone, he sits down on the cushioned floor, puts me on his lap, and pats my head. It was common male-female procedure, and if I followed normal customs, I would not have cared, but in retrospect, something was definitely not right for me at this point. Why does this man act as if he is the master of my impulses when I am supposed to be the master of them? It was not anger, but a calm discomfort that what should be there did not fit there. Under my guidance, he lies on his back and I get on top of him. His look of anticipation and relief at the promised lukewarm development is short-lived, and the next thing I know, I'm slapping him across the cheek. He was stunned. He looked incredulous as I continued to slap him, but he did not move. It was not only because of my weight, but also because of the soft stimulation that was familiar to him at the same time. In exchange for continuing to give him rhythm, I look him straight in the eye and continue to slap him. We say nothing to each other. Eventually, without thinking, I put my hand on his neck. I look into his eyes. I continue to give him a steady rhythm. I find just the right spot for my finger and apply pressure. His brow furrows. I continue to look into his eyes until I reach the point where I know it's now, and then I let go. I could look into his eyes relentlessly, half-crying, half-laughing, crumpled, and bring him to a climax.
I let him go first, and as I was fixing my disheveled clothes, I caught a sideways glance from the barman. Somehow, I didn't look away and the barman slunk away, and I went back to my drink, feeling somewhat strange at the thought of the difference between what he must have absolutely imagined and what had just happened. He returned to his circle of regulars and glanced at them with a dour look on his face. I thought it would be a naked report to his ungraceful friends, but it didn't seem so.
I had a feeling there was nothing interesting in staying any longer, so I left the restaurant and haven't been there since. I have no way of knowing what they have been up to since then.
Riche
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