A Rarified Ransom

"Come with me."

She practically snarled, as she hooked her arm into mine and fiercely yanked me away from my post in front of the traffic tangled bus station at the mouth of the George Washington Bridge. I was late. I'm never late. Especially when I'm being kidnapped.

A few weeks earlier I'd waded into the mysterious ocean that is FetLife. I've never gotten the place. The posting doesn't seem connected. It doesn't feel like a living room. It feels like a big impersonal post office. Undaunted, I spent a morning trolling the profiles. And I came upon hers. We began an electronic conversation which became very hot and heated almost instantly.

In so many ways I didn't think it would work. I still don't. She was big on protocol, for which I have no use. She adored Victoriana and high tea service and seemed like a mystical, new age, upper case/ lower case stickler for propriety. I'm a wise ass, old school, hipster. Or at least I like to think I am. She wants to start a bdsm family and be lady of the castle, or at least of the condo. I'm liking my freedom and my single life.

But when we met for a drink at the lounge in the Meatpacking Standard she looked like a rocker chick. Her punk inspired, tight black pencil skirt had all these zippers I immediately wanted to pull on. Her hair was a spikey, vibrant, ginger. She wore little square grey tinted glasses. But the best was she seemed to glide effortless over the cobblestones of Little West 12th Street in her five inch black pumps with the silver stiletto heels.

Small talk turned to her running her hands down my forearm and tracing lines on my palms. She dug her pointed toe into my calf and I pulled urgently at the bottom of her skirt. She told me that she really wanted to stay but she was going to leave. Next time she wanted privacy and an afternoon that extended into the night.

And so that next time we christened my apartment. We had a real date. Ate at Spice Market, took the dog for a walk by the river. Talked about our lives. But back at my place she pulled the spandex hood over my head and attached black leather suspension cuffs to my wrists. I had ordered them from JT Stockroom. Did you know that they give you a Tootsie Pop with each order? How cool is that?

My hood had a sewn in blindfold, and a tantalizing mouth opening. My cuffs were sturdy and substantial but soft and furry on the inside. She suspended me from the false ceiling soffit where with pervertible acquistions from the hardware store, some Twisted Monk hemp rope, and a couple of tricks of the trade picked up at the RopeShare or two I've attended; I had rigged a way to hang me. At her request.

She had unwrapped me completely. I was strung up naked as she ran her cane over my body, tapping me here and poking me there. I'd carried her canes from her car in an opaque tubular case with a shoulder strap. She teased me mercilessly.

"I want to take you. But in my bed.", her voice a raspy whisper in my black spandex covered ear. She released me from my homemade suspension point and led me over the couch where we made out like sixteen year olds. Except I was wearing my new blindfold bondage hood and she didn't let me see what she was wearing. Something about a vintage girdle.

Later, I walked her to her car through the summer Meatpacking masses. Bridge and Tunnel mostly. But she fit in because of her plan for our next date. I was to be kidnapped and whisked off to her place. In New Jersey.

Over the agonizing week that passed, as she'd extracted a promise I would not have at myself and deprive her of the pleasure, there was much electronic frottage. She promised to tease me, beat me, and fuck my brains out. I couldn't wait.

But when the day arrived I was late for my kidnapping. The A train was stalled at 59th Street because of a water main break at 155th Street. Undettered, I struck out overland in a yellow cab. An hour and change later and $30 poorer I made it to my takedown point where I was immediately nabbed.

She shoved me hard into the passenger side seat of her recent model white Bimmer coupe and slammed the door. Hard.

"Put this on and shut up."

I'd been chattering about why I was so late on our forced march to the car. She handed me a cute little leather party mask. Look at me officer, I'm the Lone Ranger. Being kidnapped.

Suffice it to say, I was successfully abducted, mercilessly teased, and very expertly beaten. I was hooded and blindfolded. She was actually mad at some phone company people for promising to replace her lost one overnight and then after she'd paid them, they'd told her she'd have to wait until Monday for the phone to arrive.

So she beat me until she felt better. The soft leather flogger made a satisfying thump with each angry blow. The cane repeatedly stung. But she didn't leave a mark on me. At least not on my body.

She led me upstairs to her bed. She chained me down and teased me some more.

I heard some rustling and then her hands were smoothing my cock.

"Do you know what this is?", she murmered.

"A condom?"

"Good boy! Aren't you smart!"

And she proceeded to fuck my brains out.

That hasn't happened to me in I've now lost count kind of time. Sex held hostage for all those years. Released to a rarified ransom.

Equis ... Noventa Y Seis - Punto Tres

Free at last from the grip of agonizing among A through D. Narrow it down to C & A ... sweat. Can I remember whether an easement appurtenant runs with the land or whether a partially performed oral contract for the sale of land supplies consideration. The clock is ticking away my 1.8 minutes...pinch me, slap me, beat me silly. It's finally over!

Now I can get down and dirty - the only answer choices are the B & the D.

I love the new digs. I can actually finish the finishing touches. Ms. Mahwah Kiss pronounced my Overstock.com metal frame platform bed one a woman would happily share. However, she made me put away some of the decorative things I had out. Like the beautiful glass pumpkin I had in the bathroom.

"It's nice. If you're twelve," she snorted derisively. "You've lived with women for so long, you don't know how to make your place look like a guy lives in it."

"You've got a schlong," she declared. "Decorate like it."

She loved Julie.

So as I bask in my first weekend free of the haunting need to pick the a to d; I plot. Spoke to She this morning and we may spend Labor Day weekend at her favorite little Gulf Coast shelling atoll. Closer to home, I'm going to check out munch schedules, class offerings, and get a lesson on how to make sense of the vast kinky ocean that is FetLife.

August has such a debauched feel. As I walk back to my new place from glorious grocery shopping at Chelsea Market, I use the Highline as my path. There's a covered section between Sixteenth and Gansevoort where they've preserved the tracks. As some of you know I have a thing for dommy girls, kidnapping by bicycle, and boxcars. I notice all the places I could be lashed - left to strain and struggle for a glimpse of toe cleavage, the glint of a back seam shine, or the click clack of concrete meeting her heels.

Oh, and I'm polishing my Spanish. And finding a salsa class. Blaring 96.3 FM in the truck yesterday morning, while puffing on a fine Dominican cigar, I felt the romantic pull of a spicy, staccato Puente or a sonorous Celia Cruz son. BDSM to a hot Latin beat ... August esta aqui, mami!

Carol

It has been a tumultuous emotional time. It's only been a little over a week in the new place. Other than living in back of a Haight Ashbury cafe off the Panhandle and in a month-to-month garrot in the pre-gentrified Mission back in the early seventies, it's the first apartment I've found and rented by myself. Certainly my first NYC adult guy apartment. Adult that is if you count a five foot poster of Julie Newmar on the wall as adult.

It was my birthday on Wednesday and Ms. MahWah Kiss took me out to the veranda at Cipriani on Wall Street for lunch. I was talking about putting some beautiful vases on the false ceiling soffit overlooking the sleeping alcove and illuminating them with strip lighting.

"Oh no", she decreed. "That whole area? A man of your proclivities? That area has all sorts of acrobatic potential. You're putting vases on top? There will be shattering."

I collapsed, hysterical.

But Ms. Kiss's cautions and place-of-my own memories have triggered reminisence.

The eighties in the West Side nineties. As Subdued reminded me a year or so ago there was this section of Screw Magazine called "Helles Belles" where prodommes advertised. Back before DDI took off and became an almost alt artiste journal. A domme named Carol used to visit my Upper West, rent-stable abode. The entrance to the massive living room was framed with wide, thick, ornate, sturdy, wooden molding.

I affixed eyebolts up and down either side of my very own pre-war whipping post. They were tucked on the side and not particularly obvious, but deliciouly effective. Carol would arrive in a tightly tailored suit smartly accessorized with a tote bag full of goodies. We'd get right to the business at hand.

She'd lash me tightly to my ornate corner cornice and proceed to alternately tease me into a drooling frenzy and then viciously beat my obliging eagerness until my ardor began a slow, disappointed surrender. Then she'd go about a knee weakening re-envigoration of engourged attention, only to attack yet again. Used to do three hour sessions of this and only this. Such a Johnny-B-One-Note.

To my delight and horror, I'd look like a piece of blackened cauliflour the next day.

And ya know? With this new place? I'm gonna learn to dance if it takes me all night and day. I got my eye on you baby cause you dance so good.

Look Over Yonder

Here's another one of my new living room pictures. Can you guess?
My first domme.
Hunkered over the TV in 1967, I felt a common tingle shared by many a subbie bretheren at the sight of her.

An homage to the past. But the sun is a'rising, most definitely.

Celebration

I was antsy earlier in the week. Couldn't sit at the desk. So I called Ms. Mahwah Kiss for coffee and cookies. We sat in Duane Park in the baking sun eating mini choco-chips, me sucking down iced caffine.

"You have to celebrate", she proclaimed with absolute certainty. "Posters. Do you like posters?"

This goes on the wall. The living room wall. On a stretched canvass. Hell, I don't wanna grow up.

Sweet Dreams

As I once again submerge into constant study during most all available free time (whatever that is...) I also do little things to keep my eye on the prize. I take the little man down from the zoomer thingy in Google Maps and wander downtown Miami. I scan Craigslist ads to scope out the residential and commercial rental markets. I compare virtual office packages. Somebody said it was the modern day equivalent of a med student studying for the boards. A hundred times he writes; Dr. Advo, Dr. Advo, Dr. Advo. Wait a sec, that has a kind of catchy ring to it. Maybe more like a Spiderman villan though.

As for my kink dreams I'm thinking classes, munches, more active involvement in FetLife, and perhaps working on my creative writing some more. When I take my virtual Googlemap Man down from married life and drop him single and sort of available in a public play fetish party he feels very out of place. I suppose I still really want to go to a fetish party but can't imagine playing publicly. Someone once said to me that I wanted to go to a fetish party so badly because I'd never been to one. Dreams and reality diverge, she cautioned. But then she added she enjoyed them if she went with friends.

My kinky little GoogleMaps Man has some good friends now and wants to make some more. All in good time. Hey, everybody is looking for something.