Bratty Sub - Tales of a City Ch. 01

Online dating sucks. I mean that -- it's dreadful. I've used all the standard dating apps, and I swipe right sometimes, and she swipes right sometimes, only to have the whole thing dissolve in an excess of text messaging and ennui. Or we'll meet up, maybe sleep together, and then get pulled apart by the big city, which always knocks on your mind's door with its myriad stressors. Now if you're interested in kink, online dating gets to be very interesting. It may be unwise to disclose your interest in kink on a standard dating app, in case one of the people who discovers your profile is a coworker or a future manager. And if you don't show your face on a standard dating app, you're just a creepy male torso of dubious repute, asking random women to trust you enough to call you Daddy (or whatever -- you catch my drift). So to summarize: you get a decent mix of failure and vanilla sex, which is good enough, except when it isn't.

Yes, my dear reader, there ARE a bunch of kinky dating apps, but let me summarily dismiss them: they don't do it for me. I think of myself as a normal man. I work out in a normal gym, which has a normal shower. I work an office job in a normal city. I smile, I read, I make jokes, I get my teeth cleaned, I eat a balanced diet, I drink with my buddies, I watch the US Open and The Great Game (futbol, of course), and people generally like me. Well but so then, in bed, I like to spank women, slap their faces, pull their hair, make out with them tenderly, tie them up, sometimes gag them, tease them, make them drip with desire, deny them till I wish them to spasm uncontrollably. I like to call them baby girl and fuck doll and little slut, and I like it when their pupils dilate when they hear my voice. All this is a nice to have, you understand, not always a *must* have. The ultimate prize is love, and if it happens for us, isn't that just great?

Now let's get to it. This story is mostly true, but I've changed some facts. One day, I swipe right, and she swipes right, and we start chatting. She's cute -- petite and blond and kind of spacey in a nice, ethereal way. She's a sweet, girl, really: the pictures include ones of her family, a little puppy, a museum trip, ice cream cones. I want to snuggle her close, I think, and keep her safe.

"Hi," she says. "What's your life like?" Strong opener. Women have to open, on this one.

"Oh why my life is nice!" I say. "It's missing a pixie girl and a puppy, not necessarily in that order."

(I try, dear reader. Think this text exchange is awkward? Gender relations are complicated on the best of days, so cut me a decent amount of slack. I think she looks like a pixie in that one pic where she's wearing a beanie hat in the New England snow. She doesn't argue when I call her a pixie. She says haha or whatever, and I say haha, and then I eventually get her number. Haha. )

So we hit it off when we text, and we meet up somewhere in the outer borough, where all the cool kids live. I'm no longer a kid, though. She's maybe about 33 or something. We go to a local watering hole. She's awkward, but adorable. This will be ok, I think.

We chat about jobs, about life, about the lunacy of our times, which includes the election. And then when we're done, we're walking back awkwardly, past some brownstones, but we're in a type of synchronization with each other, that odd synchronized walk that two people who don't walk together normally fall into, and I think, let's see what the night brings our way. We pass my stoop, and, without saying anything, without asking her if she'd like to come over, I say, "C'mon, let me make you a summer drink I like." And I nod, and she nods. Later -- a few weeks later -- she says, if I asked her if she wants to come over, she'd have bolted. She's skittish, but I like it.

So now we're in my place, and I make a cocktail that's shaken/stirred/theatrically performed (cocktails should be part performance art -- take note). The drink's nice enough, and the conversation tapers off, and I can tell she's excited, so I lean in for the kiss. We kiss. It's good. She smells like coconut lotion thingy, which reminds me of beaches and vacations. She pushes me away.

"Wait, I have questions," she says.

What was your childhood like? What do you love about your job? Who are your best friends?

And then: when was your last relationship? I answer, but I like the kissing, so we're doing a bit of a dance here. But the questions keep coming. So I say, I have a question. Do you like to be taken charge of? We don't have to sleep together, I tell her. But I'd like to try a small experiment. And then I tug her hair, and kiss her.

"Mmmmppph," she says. Her pupils are wide, dilated, horny.

"Oh, you like the hair pull?" I hiss. "That's a gateway drug."

And then I lean in, and we're really kissing.

I take her back to my room, and we kiss some more, and I pull apart her blouse, and out pops a nipple, which I gobble greedily, and make her moan some more. But then I pause. You should always pause, dear reader, and check in.

"I'm not going to sleep with you," she says.

"And that's fine," I say. "But let's talk about sex."

So now it's my turn to ask her questions. She says she loves the hair-pulling, and likes when men take charge, but she feels she gives them attitude when they take charge. Then she says, "I don't like when men go down on me. I feel it makes them look weak."

"Haha," I say. "You're a bratty sub." Dammit, I do want to go down on her. She *is* a pixie. Pixies get eaten.

"A what?" she says. Body language curious, aroused.

We talk some more. Not having sex, dear reader, is an erotic channel for deeper understanding. I mean, this is a first date.

"I like being spanked," she says.

So I turn her over very quickly and suddenly and sort of viciously, and slap her ass hard with my open hand, once, twice, thrice. Slap. Slap. Slap. Then I turn her around because that startled her, and I kiss her deeply, and she moans and melts and we get swept up in it, the urgency of my spanks, and the urgency of kissing her afterwards. Did I mention she moans when aroused? Her little whimpers are delicious.

"I. won't. Sleep. With. You," she says.

"Which is fine," I say. And then I quickly pull back her romper, and reach into her panties, and ever so gently touch her pussy. It's soaking wet.

"But you really want to," I hiss. Bartholin's glands never lie. It doesn't mean you should cross any lines. No still means no.

Then I put my right hand on her face. It's the open palm move. Her cheeks are warm.

"Remember when I spanked your ass?" I ask.

"Yesss," she whimpers.

"I'm just asking questions here. What if I slapped you?"

"Oh my Goddd," she says. "I think I'd like it."

So I do. And she moans again, and we kiss again.

Then I roll onto my back. I'm tenting my jeans. I pause again.

"Look," I say. "Clearly I want you."

And she reminds me again, "I'm not going to sleep with you."

Which is fine. Because we talk some more, and make a date for another day. She tells me how she's always known she wants something like this, but never had the opportunity. So we meet again, after a long night of necking, slapping, spanking, hissing, and hair pulling. And I think we'll call that story Part Two, so stay tuned.