Girl on the Net

Today’s guest blog is a really beautiful story about a kinky relationship – an intimate look into how the writer’s love of kink grew alongside love for the person he was with. I found it very moving: love, lust, and loss given equal space and weight and importance in the piece. I saved it for the end of the year because it felt like such a perfect way to wrap up the guest blogs for 2023. Huge thanks to him for sharing. If you have a story or opinion you’d like to share, especially if you don’t often see your experiences/sexuality reflected here on the blog, I would absolutely love to hear from you in 2024.

Snapshots of a kinky relationship

We meet for drinks for the first time on a sticky Friday evening in August, when train and tube strikes paralyse central London. I get a slow-running train into Soho; N bikes (of course she bikes). First impressions: energy; zest for life; a free spirit.

Several rounds of drinks later, we’ve discovered we’re both into kink.

“Are you up for going somewhere else?”

I’m thinking a quiet corner of a tatty pub, but she leads me straight to a nearby club. We kiss for the first time in the queue. Inside I find the safety of a seat, while N dances, her long blonde hair streaming out behind her as she sways to the pounding beat of the music. She moves at a unique pace, a different rhythm to the rest of the world. She’s magnetic, and I’m intoxicated. She straddles me, her dress riding up. I’m worried the bouncer will kick us out but she takes my hand, laughing at my shyness, and reassures me that no one is watching. Holds eye contact as her ass grinds into my cock, which is straining against the fabric of my jeans.

N is a switch, like me, but from the very start she leans into the domme dynamic. She likes to use her hands to edge me for hours, alternating between unbearably slow and soft strokes and harsh and rapid jerks, until I’m swollen and begging for release. Pre-cum drips onto my stomach as she milks it from me:

“Look at how swollen and red your cock is, there’s so much pre-cum.”

Usually I’m helpless, tied to the bed as she brings me to the brink again and again, quickening the pace and then easing off as I tell her I’m close. As she teases and strokes she mixes words of praise — “such a good little toy, you’re taking it so well for me” — with chastisement: “Don’t you dare come, if you come you’re going to be in so much trouble.” “Good boys” and “good jobs” are punctuated by flipping me over and delivering harsh slaps to my ass if she senses any hints of defiance: “Push your ass up for me baby – good boy, you have such a sexy ass, it looks so hot when arch your back for me.”

I’ll always remember the first time I hit subspace. This time I’m beyond desperate, whimpers escape from my mouth, noises I didn’t know I could make. I’m desperate to please her, to do a good job, trying not to come as she deliberately pushes me too close, teasing me as she sees the panic in my eyes when I am:

“No coming for you – do you need a cool-off period?”

Just as I think I can’t take any more, she straddles me and slips me inside her.

“OK, you can come now, but you have to make yourself come,” she says firmly. She says it feels different when she makes me fuck her like this, when I’m straining and needy and whimperingly desperate. I begin thrusting upwards, but my cock is confused after hours of edging and I can’t get enough purchase with my wrists tied to the bed.

The tears are flowing freely by the time she decides to take pity on me and grind down on top of me, meeting my upward thrusts.

“OK. you can come now, you can come for me” she says gently as she looks me in the eye. Automatically I check for the tell-tale glint that she’s bluffing. This time she means it: “Good boy, come for mummy, such a good boyyy,” she whispers, as I begin to tremble and shudder under her. And then the final, unbearably hot humiliation as I lie beneath her, utterly spent, eyes filled with tears.

“What do you say?”

“Thank you.”

She kisses me gently on the mouth: “Good boy, I’m very pleased with you.”

We make the long journey back to my family home in the late autumn: skeletal trees, the smell of woodsmoke, conkers littering the ground. It’s a crisp, frosty afternoon: ruddy cheeks and beers by the fire at the local pub after a muddy walk across the windswept hills to reach it. Later, as we’re flushed with beer, N pins me face down to the bed, and makes me push my ass up as she spanks me hard. I’d spanked her earlier on our walk, bending her over a gate. This is her payback, her time to reassert her authority. I have to sit through dinner with my family, making small talk, my ass stinging, trying not to catch N’s eye, my cheeks flushed. That night, as the rest of the house sleeps, she ties me to the bed frame and edges me for hours until I cry tears of frustration, whimpering silently as she whispers threats and praise in my ear.

The next day the house is empty. It’s just us by the crackling log fire, the soft, velvety darkness of an autumnal afternoon closing in outside. We play chess. She’s excellent at chess, a much better player, but for once I’m winning, and I let her know about it, crowing in victory. She’s silent, visibly irritated, I’ve gone too far. The apologies come. Her annoyance slowly turns to a smile, then to a determined glint. Before I know it, I’m down on my knees in front of her as she uses one hand to hold her panties to the side, and the other to hold my face firmly against her clit. It’s a punishment for my over-exuberance, and she makes sure I understand that: “Don’t you dare stop – you’re staying down there until I cum.”

On the train back south I rest my head sleepily on her shoulder, stare out of the window at the rain lashing down, and breathe in her smell.

It’s a work from home day. I’m procrastinating, N is busy, pulling data from Excel sheets and firing off emails. I’m feeling submissive, so I bring her the leash and collar. She smiles and strokes my hair as I kneel at her feet and hand it to her. She collars me and I stay on my knees, my head in her lap as she carries on typing, her long blonde hair reaching down and tickling my face, the tapping of keystrokes punctuated by gentle strokes of my head and the occasional “good boy”. When she’s finished she closes her laptop and leads me on my hands and knees to the bedroom…

It’s autumn again, a season of nostalgia, but also one of new beginnings. But one year on we’re meeting for closure, not to start our journey. I’ve thought hard about this meeting – I’ve worn the clothes I know she likes and her favourite cologne. With time apart I’ve realised the domme/sub dynamic has created a deep, emotional bond. I went straight on the apps, while she took the time to grieve, process and heal – now I’m suffering and in pain. I’d never been so vulnerable or open with someone before. With N I felt safe, free to open my mind and body to her and delve into areas I’d never gone before – sex, life, past trauma – areas of my brain that I didn’t know existed. Her energy and her zest for life shines through everything she does, her laugh lights up any room. I want that in my life. I know now that I truly loved her.

I’ve come with the faint hope that we can rekindle, but one glance tells me she’s moved on.

My brain swims, I feel faint, discombobulated. I struggle to gather my thoughts, faltering, fighting back tears, before I break down completely. She holds me as I sob outside a busy pub, oblivious to the buzz of the post-work drinkers. She couldn’t be sweeter, kinder, or more gentle, which makes it even harder to let go. In between the tears we laugh and joke. She drops an accidental “good boy”, tells me I smell amazing, that she’s holding herself back, but I know now that it’s over for good. There’s a chasm between us and I can’t find a way through it or over it. As we finally part outside the station the rain is sheeting down. We hug. I want to hold onto her, to look after her and care for her, to be with her. But I know I have to let go. We each look back several times, as we always do. I’m smiling through the tears, she’s smiling and waving. And then she’s gone.