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Sadistic Puppy

I’ve met a sadistic puppy dog. The boy is adorable, awkward, shy, goofy, and clearly newer to BDSM than he’d like to admit.

He’s just like this. Honestly. He’s practically begging to have his toy taken away.

Every one of those things makes me want him. And every one of them draws out my most predatory instincts. He’s a self-proclaimed dominant, and I just want to turn around and overpower him.

We met at the first board game night I went to here. My husband found him grating. I found him charming. At the Halloween party he was gracious, humorous, self-effacing. I remember thinking it was a shame he was a top, that I would love to just tear him apart and play with the pieces.  We chatted, flirted (read: threatened each other with violence while smiling oh-so-pleasantly), and I didn’t think another thing of it.

Then last weekend I went to a play party that was preceded by an auction. The auction didn’t much interest me–there were maybe two items that were vaguely tempting, but I was quickly outbid on both of them and not interested enough to keep after them.

The sadistic puppy won them both. I asked to see them after the auction: a pretty green flogger, and a vicious strip of thick studded leather. I had just enough tact not to smell them. I wondered what they would sound like, hitting flesh. I handed them back to him and said “very pretty.”

“Yeah, now I just need someone to test them out on.”

I almost laughed. I was dressed as domme-ly as can be, in leather pencil skirt, high boots, and a bun. I had just spent ten minutes whaling on a man’s shoulder with a leather strap. (He wanted to be sure I knew he was not a masochist, just trying to alleviate shoulder stiffness. Because obviously only a not-a-masochist asks a woman dressed as a dominatrix/librarian to beat the hell out of him in a dungeon.) Given that, and our previous flirtation, the sadopup had apparently decided that I wasn’t interested in being hurt. “I’m available.” I said.

His jaw nearly hit the floor.

I’m new to scene negotiation. First of all, I live in a world where “no,” “stop,” and “wait” mean “no,” “stop,” and “wait,” no exceptions, and in the relationships I’ve had before we just play and check in and pay attention. Certainly as a top I’m fond of saying “I want to X” and looking for a green light to do it. I don’t know how to negotiate as a bottom, because I want to hear what a top wants and say yea, nay, or yes with a caveat. In this case, that didn’t seem to require negotiating. He had several floggers and paddles he wanted to play with, and I didn’t feel the need for any more detail to say “cool, I’m down with it.” But that sounds very misleading, as though I’m claiming a sort of no-limits badassery that certainly isn’t true. At the same time, it seems unnecessary to mention that I can’t stand having my feet hit when my boots are staying on for the scene, or that I’m not into blood play, when it isn’t on the table. But hitting? I’ve reached the point of thinking “I can’t take much more of this,” of telling myself that after three more punches I’m going to have to say “wait, give me a minute to breathe” but so far, it hasn’t actually happened.

So I stripped down and stood holding a cross. We joked and talked while he swapped between toys. It was enjoyable. He was disappointed that I didn’t react much, and I had to tell him he just wasn’t hitting hard enough to get me there. This was true, but only half-true: even when he put more force into it, I got a bit gaspy but had no trouble at all keeping up conversation. The other half was that he’s such a puppy that playing felt like playing: silly and fun, but not intense or hot or needy.

Still, it was fun. The bruising was extensive, and I may do it again.

I just think that with this particular boy, I’d rather be hurting him.

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