Have you ever had a secret desire you were dying to reveal to your partner? Something so powerful, and so important to you, that you were hungry for it even in the middle of a happy and satisfying relationship? But you weren’t sure how they would react if you told them; you feared that they would find you weird or too demanding; that they wouldn’t understand. You felt guilty, like you’d be asking for too much. And so you kept it inside, but never very securely, like an air bubble under water that’s perpetually trying to come to the surface? Do you know this state of dreaming, of longing, of trying to work up the nerve to ask for what you want?
This story is for you. It’s the story of how I told my partner about my most powerful kink — and what happened afterwards.
At the time, I’d been dating Nate for about a year — a wonderful year, full of laughter and games and music and stargazing. I was happy with him in every way, and I knew that he felt the same way about me. I had blessed the stars that brought us together when, shortly after we had first begun dating, I found out that this man I had been falling hard for was also kinky. We’re both switches, who enjoy sexually dominating as well as submitting to our partners. This double compatibility gave us all kinds of fun angles to explore. We had both come into the relationship with a little bit of experience in bondage, but soon we were trying stuff together that we had never done before, our creativity growing along with the trust between us. After a year, we had acquired a drawer full of sex toys and bondage gear, had a ton of fun together, and were still crazy about each other.
Nate’s idea of kink was pretty physical. He was a sucker for bondage — the look and feel of chains and ropes and leather, the sense of power, or else of helplessness and being held in place. He was quite the challenge to tie down, because he would throw himself against his restraints and fumble at any knots he could reach, and wasn’t fully satisfied unless there was honestly no way he could escape. Out of bonds, he could be a relentless top, who used his superior strength and size to control me, and did not grow tired of using my body for his pleasure. His vibrant physicality, whether he was writhing in bondage or pushing me into the mattress, frequently left me breathless.
And I loved it, loved every part of the sex we were having, but I still found myself craving more.
As a teenager, left alone with unrestricted internet access and too much time on my hands, I had devoured heaps of erotica about curses and mind control, incubi and sex pollen, and alpha/beta/omega dynamics, alongside what I considered ‚normal’ BDSM fiction. For the first few years, I thought that I just liked a lot of stuff. But over time, I began to feel that all my preferences were somehow connected by an underlying pattern that I couldn’t quite name even to myself. It had something to do with losing control, that much was clear. Something about that made my breath catch and my clit swell.
Naturally, I dipped my toes into bondage as soon as I was old enough, which allowed me to surrender control of my body to others, and delight in accepting their surrender. I loved both roles equally well; since it was most of all the idea of power transfer that I chased, it didn’t much matter to me which end of the rope I was on. Ultimately, though, my desire ran deeper. Tying my partner up was not enough; I also wanted to tease them till they cried. I wanted to be made to cry, and beg, and toss all reason into the bin. In fact, as long as there was teasing and begging, I found I didn’t care so much about the bondage itself.