by Sabrina York
Leaving Berkeley proved to be odd. I gave Trapper my address and simply expected him to show up. But his messages revealed discomfort with picking me up from my home, which I considered pretty standard behavior.
I pointed out to him that meeting his family had also been unexpected, but I’d managed it. The unspoken question: Why can’t you handle picking me up from my home and meeting my roommates? They’re not scary. Most men learn how to go to a female’s house to pick her up at age fourteen. At age thirty-five, a man should be able to handle the situation with aplomb.
But he seemed to be having a hard time with the idea. Surprising. A part of me wanted to see him deal with it, but finally I said, “Sweetie, if you are severely uncomfortable with picking me up here I can meet you elsewhere.”
So I again drove to his parents’ house. This time, it was deserted. Trapper took his time. He showered, and then we transferred stuff from his car to my car—he’d gone shopping—and then we went to his house to drop off half of the food and to get the rest of his things.
Trapper’s red brick home was in Rockridge, a hip area between Berkeley and Oakland. I noted the address and checked county records later to find that the home had three bedrooms and two baths, so he could have been telling the truth about not fucking his ex. Hmm.
I wanted to go inside, but he’d parked the car in a narrow alley that didn’t allow me to get out. Plus, I had shopped for more slutwear and wore a red dress with a daring, mesh-covered cutout that went across my décolletage then dipped down between my breasts. I didn’t accessorize with panties or a bra, but wore thigh-high stockings and stiletto heels, in black to match the mesh.
Flaunting myself in public wasn’t an option for me. I’m simply not an exhibitionist.
We’d thought that there was another event at the same play space but we were wrong. We again drove up the coast to his condo and watched TV all night until, exhausted, I dragged myself downstairs, showered and went to bed.
Trapper joined me a few hours later and after napping, put some severely wicked plans into place. After digging in his bag of tricks, he gestured me over.
His first word to me was, “Kneel.”
I obeyed, more excited than I had ever been.
He collared me, of course, then buckled wrist and ankle cuffs on me. I went down on him for a long time, with him showing me how he most liked to be blown. Nevertheless, he didn’t come, and I was frantic about that. Last time, he’d lavished praise on my oral skills. And now…?
I stood to pee, and he followed me into the bathroom. When we were both done, he wrapped his arms around me in a full-body embrace.
I had never felt so cherished in my life. Trapper’s hugs were all consuming, his kisses magic.
Then, without warning, he swatted my bottom. Hard.
I yelped.
“Don’t yell in my ear,” he growled, and slapped my ass again.
I buried my face in his shoulder and emitted a squeak.
The spanking went on and on, with Trapper holding me tight and determinedly slapping my rump until, quivering, I could do nothing but gasp, “Please sir, please sir, please sir, please…” my usual refrain.
Then he wanted me to cry. For him. But as distraught as I was over the emotional situation, I couldn’t drag forth even a single tear.
He hooded and gagged me. Using metal loops embedded in the black leather cuffs, he tied me to the four-poster bed spread-eagled, face down.
I shook with anticipation. He was going to spank me some more, and boy, I needed that. Needed the pain that would blossom into sweet pleasure when he entered me with his cock. Needed the fierce orgasms that would tear through my body, leaving me limp.
He spanked me. He flogged me, which sounds worse than it really was because the flogger was all masses of soft leather strips. But he then used some wicked implement on me, the same leather one that had caused me excruciating pain two weeks before. I saw it later when tidying up, a curved leather slapper that looked innocuous but wasn’t.
I was tempted to steal or hide it, but didn’t. I’m a good sub.
He fucked me from behind, then when I was limp and pliant, turned me over for some nipple play. The clips were wicked—clothespins I think—and he also clamped a few to the tender flesh of my inner arm. After a few minutes, I could ignore them—I think I got a little numbed out—but then he’d twist or adjust them, causing a fresh flood of pain.
And all the while he was playing with my body, stroking my pussy, fucking me until I was nothing but a mindless ball of pain and pleasure.
And his pillow talk was…well, not what a vanilla woman would ever hear or expect to hear. He told me I was nothing but a hole, available to be fucked only where, when, and how he chose.
I figured that was part of the game, but it bothered me.
Then he took off the clothespins, and I screamed at the release, especially when he tongued my breasts so deliciously.
He took everything off except the collar. With the leash tied to it, he led me into the bathroom so I could pee, and stood staring down at me.
I guessed that this was part of the whole humiliation shtick, but didn’t care. With Trapper, I was beyond embarrassment.
I looked up at him and said, “Remember when you were spanking me in here before?”
He nodded.
I shivered. “That was possibly the most erotic moment of my life.”
He smiled.
We went back to bed and Trapper played BDSM videos on the TV. One of them featured a naked woman bolted to a dungeon’s cold-looking concrete floor in such a way that her pussy was the only part of her body available. She must have been incredibly flexible, for her body was in a loop-de-loop—pussy at the top of the loop—which seemed as though the position would have been hell on her neck and low back.
“Just a pussy waiting to be fucked,” Trapper said with relish.
Huh.
She had rubber bands around her feet and her tormentor would snap them in between striking her with something that looked like a conductor’s baton.
A cane.
It was pretty interesting. The skinny cane didn’t look threatening, but by the woman’s reaction, it hurt a lot. He then got her off with a vibrator. We watched a couple of other videos—one had a woman being gangbanged by three guys and the other, a girl tortured by two women, one with a strap-on and the other with some sort of electrical torture device.
At the end of each video, each woman was interviewed. Each wore a big smile and assured the camera that she’d loved the experience.
I wondered how much each had been paid. If I’d been paid a few grand, I’d have enjoyed it too.
Later in the day I became restless and told Trapper I wanted to get out, maybe run on the beach. He wanted to go mountain biking. I said okay and he took nearly an hour to fix up the bikes and adjust helmets. Finally, when we were ready, I circled the uneven condo parking lot and promptly fell off the bike.
“I don’t think I can make it to the top of the mountain. Sorry.”
He frowned. “I want to do it.”
I shrugged. “I’ll run and you can bike. No problem.”
He still seemed dissatisfied but pedaled off nevertheless. I enjoyed a run on the beach and returned beneath the silvery light of a full moon, meeting Trapper on the way.
After a pleasant but uneventful evening we slept, then drove home the next day through Marin County. Trapper was oddly quiet. I didn’t know what he was thinking, which unnerved me. One of the major reasons I like D/s relationships is that partners expect and provide full communication. A silent Trapper, not telling me what he wanted of me, bugged me quite a lot, as did other aspects of the scanty conversation. I asked a couple of questions but he seemed bothered, so…
Whether he wanted to answer or not, I needed to know something. “When I was tied up, you told me you wanted me to merely be your hole, available to be fucked only where, when, and how you choose. Is this true?”
A moment passed
before he said, “No.”
However, after we returned, I did not see or hear from Trapper for nearly a week. In order to get a rise out of him—literally—I started sending him erotic stories and photos, something I had never done before. I discovered that finding appropriate content took a lot of time, time I really didn’t have to waste on a relationship that seemed increasingly, well, wrong in so many ways.
For example, he left me a message saying that he’d caught up with work and school, but did not mention he wanted to see me. Nor did he suggest getting together. I was, like, WTF? In retrospect I should have been bolder and asked, but I wanted him to ask. I wanted him to show that he wanted to see me wearing clothing, in a public place, unbound, doing something normal like eat dinner, study together or go to a movie.
Time dragged on and I found myself increasingly agitated. I had lost my peace of mind and I hated that. I strive for balance, harmony and integration in my life, which I’d achieved, and now a crap affair with some guy I barely knew had trashed that. What really rankled was that this was an easy fix. All he had to do was be a tad bit more communicative, and he wasn’t bothering.
I’m not stupid, and I guessed that he couldn’t be all that interested. On the other hand, I reasoned, he had gone to a great deal of trouble to get me out of town not once but twice to have incredible sex. If he weren’t interested, why would he bother?
His behavior puzzled me then and continues to puzzle me. He’s a good-looking man, had money, was engaging—even charming—when he wished. His other partners were reasonably attractive women, so he didn’t need me. (Also, I learned later that pretty subs are easy to find). He acted as though he didn’t like me and didn’t enjoy my company. Yet, he was taking me away for days on end, providing me with topnotch sexual experiences.
He even mentioned he spent a lot on our weekends away, which I found tacky. Possibly because I’ve always enjoyed resources, I’ve never been particularly interested in the contents of a man’s bank account or wallet. I’m interested in what’s in his heart and mind.
I’m not a gold-digger and don’t need a man to give me a house and a diamond ring. I’m a capable adult and can get whatever I need or want. However, I insist everyone in my life treat me well.
I didn’t understand Trapper and still don’t. Was he so hard up that he was banging a woman he didn’t like? Really? Didn’t make sense to me and still doesn’t.
Over time, I have come to realize that understanding is less useful than acceptance. But then, the paradox was so maddening that I found myself in my doctor’s office in tears, begging her for something to take the edge off while I sorted matters out. She prescribed me an anti-anxiety drug, telling me that if the situation and my feelings persisted, I ought to go on an anti-depressant—a more long-term solution than the habit-forming anti-anxiety meds. She also prescribed an antibiotic for the bladder infection I’d contracted. It took two courses of meds to eliminate.
I resisted the suggestion that I take the anti-depressant. I reject the option of using psychoactive drugs long-term to manage my life. If something in my life causes me stress, I change my life. I don’t take drugs to tolerate it.
So I began analyzing the relationship, if one could validly call it that, with Trapper intensely. I even wrote him a lengthy letter, explaining my thoughts and expectations. I ended the letter stating that I believed that our next weekend together would probably be our last—or maybe that our last weekend had been our last.
I had developed deep feelings for him, feelings that clearly weren’t returned. I should explain that a D/s relationship, by its nature, demands complete trust and openness on the part of the sub. It’s easy to become devoted to one’s Dom quickly—too quickly, as I was learning. And then, there was the effect of the oxytocin and other chemicals released by the body during such intense sex. They’re addicting.
We met again at a deserted but lovely swimming pool in suburban Berkeley, with Trapper telling me that I should take deep breaths and stay in the moment.
As though I’d never heard that before. We lived in Berkeley, for heaven’s sake. I found the suggestion insulting and told him so.
Though things weren’t going well, we nevertheless took off one more time in mid-August. I was excited because we were again planning to go to a play space, which would afford us cool equipment Trapper didn’t own.
He wore his black leather pants and a black shirt, elegant and a little dangerous. He was thrilling. I wore a cute ruched white dress—short and tight, natch—accessorizing with a balconnette bra in red and black with no panties, but a black garter belt and flesh-toned stockings. I picked gold kitten-heeled slides and a really cool handbag in the shape of an elaborately decorated shoe.
Of course, most of that came off within a few minutes.
First he secured me to a Saint Andrew’s cross, then the sling, which was wonderful. Again, I recall little of the events but remember that I was tall for the cross, but Trapper improvised well. Being flogged, spanked and fucked while tied to that thing was great, but I fell in love with the sling. By the time Trapper had maneuvered me into it—being cuffed and hooded, I wasn’t much help—I was so turned on that when I swayed back and forth, suspended in the sling by its chains, I was coming constantly and felt like I was flying. I learned later that this state of being is called “sub space” within the community. It’s engendered by a lengthy play session that allows the body to form all those happy chemicals that make a person feel amazing. It doesn’t require orgasm, but is a sense of rapture that is very seductive.
When Trapper took the hood off, he presented me with his naked ass pressed up against my lips, as though he wanted me to kiss and lick it. I said, “I bet you think that I won’t like this but…I live for this.”
I was telling the truth. I loved Trapper’s butt. It was perfect. I could rub my face against it, kiss it, lick it and love it all day and all night long.
And he liked my answer.
The next day was Trapper’s birthday, and he’d planned to take in a concert with his parents. As I’d met them, I was startled when he suggested that I stay in the condo while they went out and had a good time. I told him, “That’s insulting.” He sighed and said, “I thought you’d say that.”
Duh, dude.
He jettisoned his parents—I don’t know what he told them—and we went to an outdoor concert where we listened to opera and had a fairly good time. We drove home through Marin, where we made frequent stops to take in the beautiful scenery.
Despite everything, I was still determined to keep the relationship going if possible. And wasn’t being with him on his birthday special? He could have picked any of his women, I reasoned, so that meant that I was special.
Delusion takes many forms.
We stopped on Mount Tamalpais and walked through the forest. Atop the mountain, we could see the ocean through the damp, cool redwoods. Evening was starting to fall and the setting was very romantic.
I stopped, smiled at Trapper and decided I wanted to make his birthday unique. But how could I do that? He’d probably done everything I could think of. He’d probably seen everything he wanted to see. He had everything a man could want, including me.
I brushed a hand over some of the abundant foliage and asked, “Would you like to cane me, sir?”
Yes, he did. He immediately pulled a branch off a nearby bush, sniffed it and said, “It’s bay. We could make a soup out of that.”
I sniffed, too. “It would taste awfully funny. You only put one leaf in a soup or a stew.”
He smiled and continued tearing the leaves off the switch. “Hold onto that tree and spread your legs.”
He didn’t ask me to strip or even take down my pants, which surprised me. But when he started on me, I was glad. That thin, whippy green branch stung unbelievably, even through heavy jeans. I was reduced to begging and pleading within seconds.
When he finally stopped, he stuck his hand down my jeans and caressed my pussy. I came instantly
.
On the way home he told me he wanted to see me only once every month.
I was shocked but determined to change his mind, even though every friend I talked with told me I was devoting myself to a self-centered jerk who had no clue about how to treat a woman. I discounted their advice because Trapper had asked me not to reveal that he’s a Dom, so they hadn’t known the true nature of the relationship. And I was in love—or, at least I thought I was.
I left sexy messages and mailed him dirty postcards. I asked him out, invitations he ignored. At school, he’d blow by me with scarcely a word of greeting. And I grew increasingly despondent until one Saturday, I went to the library with high hopes of actually spending some quality time with Trapper, as he’d implied he’d be there.
However, he was leaving rather than arriving. When I parked, I saw Meg next to a car’s open trunk, a trunk that was stuffed full, the way the trunk looked when Trapper and I went away. Meg and I exchanged a few words and she was hostile, as usual. I turned away, telling myself to be compassionate. I was with Trapper. She was with Trapper, also, and the situation must have been very painful for her. Trapper has that effect on women.
And there he was, leaving the library. I started to greet him, but he whined he was freezing. So I grabbed him by the arm and hustled him back inside, where I confronted him.
I was pissed.
Of course he promised to respond to me, which he didn’t. Two days later, I had planned to have drinks with a friend and asked Trapper when he could talk, and he stated in ten (minutes, I assumed).
Of course, no phone call. After drinking three glasses of wine, I phoned Trapper and broke up by leaving a series of insulting, petulant messages on his answering machine…completely unlike me. I’m usually very polite.
He had me so tied into knots that I regretted the decision within hours. But I didn’t know how to repair the damage.
Later, I learned that Trapper Hart is a specific species of particularly unscrupulous Dominant who some in the BDSM community—and elsewhere—call a shark. A shark will swoop down on a newbie to the BDSM scene, and, taking advantage of her ignorance, do with her whatever he wants, regardless of the welfare of the sub.