We met in a bar

[my response to dominick's story. i appended the note at the end when i sent it to him. read his first.]

11 March 2007

We met in a bar.

A bad way to begin. I don't go to bars. And yet. We
met in a bar.

We met in a hotel bar. I was at loose ends, waiting
for things to fall into place. It was Spring. I was
restless. And I don't think straight in the Spring.

I sat at the bar. Even if I did go to bars I wouldn't
sit AT the bar. But it was Spring. I was restless. Not
thinking straight. Pretending I was in a movie.

It was like in a movie. A man sat down next to me. He
offered to buy me a drink. He didn't flinch when I
requested a Coke. Not diet. When it came, he led me to
a table. With a strong hand and an outstretched arm.
Well, a strong hand anyway, in the small of my back.
He wasn't leading me out of Egypt. But he definitely
had a goal in mind. I thought I knew what it was. When
all the time the audience was yelling No! Don't do it!

It was like in a movie. We sat at a table. We talked.
He listened well, and revealed enough to make me feel
comfortable. I did feel comfortable. And something
else. He was clearly in charge, a trait that only
recently I'd begun to find appealing. He sat
kitty-corner to me, not across the table. Our knees
kept bumping. He put his hand over mine, out of
understanding, it seemed. With affection, it seemed.
With confidence, most surely.

It was like in a movie. It was Spring. I coudn't think
straight. He was in charge. Whatever he asked for, I
would agree to.

I excused myself to go to the ladies' room. I felt his
eyes on me as I went. I found that my panties were
wet. I was not surprised. He knew my panties were wet.
I was sure of it. If he didn't know it before, he read
it in my eyes when I came back to the table.

It was like in a movie. He paid the check, helped me
out of my chair, took my arm, and led me to the
elevator. There was no need to discuss it. It was
Spring. I needed to get laid. I trusted him. Must have
been the accent.

He asked me if I trusted him. I told the truth, though
suddenly I wasn't so sure. But I ignored my doubts.
Something was making me ignore my doubts. I no longer
felt quite in control.

It was like in a movie. But I was no longer sure what
kind of movie. He took me in his arms. His kiss was
perfect - soft enough, firm enough, commanding enough.
He knew what he was doing. And it worked. I was ready
for anything.

He undressed me slowly and deliberately, running his
hands meditatively over each part of my body as he
revealed it. He kept his clothes on. He led me to the
bed, reaching for a bag on the way there.

It was like in a movie. I was watching it and I was in
it. Everything seemed to be happening very fast, but
in fact proceeded with steady focused care. He pulled
me down on the bed, onto my stomach, and straddled me.
I observed from a distance as he bound my hands above
my head. I felt ropes go around my ankles, and my legs
were stretched further apart than I'd ever managed on
the machines at the health club. There was strain,
but nothing I would actually classify as pain. Not
yet. That would come later.

Part of me was becoming alarmed, the part that was
still in my body. The observer wanted to see how the
movie ended. So I did not protest. He stroked my hair
and I looked up questioningly, but did not protest.
And then I couldn't protest, because now there was a
gag in my mouth. And then I wasn't looking at
anything, because he had blindfolded me. And now i was
truly frightened. And also frightfully aroused.

I stopped thinking. Now that I couldn't see, I focused
on feeling. I felt my helplessness, I felt the
bondage, I felt my vulnerability, and I gave myself up
to whatever was about to happen. I knew this was
something I wanted. I might regret it afterwards, but
for now this was something i wanted.

I gave myself up to it. Whatever he had in store for
me, I would submit.

His hands started to explore me. This didn't seem so
dangerous. It was exciting. I gave myself up to his
hands, and looked forward to more.

When he moved away from the bed, I thought he was
going for condoms.

I heard the first blow before I felt it, although I
didn't recognize it for what it was. The pain across
my buttocks was sudden, sharp. I would have gasped if
I hadn't been gagged. The inability to make any
comment drove me deeper into myself, but didn't lessen
the pain any. If anything, it increased my focus on
it. I braced myself for the invariable next one. Which
came, quite dependably.

There was something particularly appalling about the
deliberate, cold nature of the assault. He didn't say
a word. He landed one stroke after another on my
thighs, buttocks, and lower back. Even as the pain
melded into one huge mass, I could tell with the now
very small observer part of my brain that he was
carefully planting the stripes in a predetermined
pattern. Finally, he started whipping the same spot
again and again, and the observer disappeared. There
was nothing left but the pain. The helplessness and
the pain.

Finally, it was over. Still silent, he removed the
restraints in the reverse order they had been applied.
He moved away from the bed. I heard him settle into
the chair. It felt as if he were watching me. I heard
a match strike, and then smelt a cigar. A small part
of my old self flared up inside me. I hate cigars. But
it wasn't enough to wake me from the trance he had
whipped me into. I curled up in a fetal position, the
only position that didn't add to the pain. I curled up
and wept.

We met in a bar. It felt like a movie. An indie movie
showing at Sundance. A movie the audience might not
understand. The audience would see me weeping. The
End. But there was one more challenge left for the
filmmaker. How to make the audience know that the
whipping had driven out everything that was inside me.
And that, as the tears subsided, all that was left was
a deep peace.

NOTE: The interpretation of the woman's response was
pure speculation. I would be interested in hearing
your observations from experience.