I set the book aside with a deep sigh. It was a rainy Sunday afternoon and I’d just finished the final book in the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy that my friend Chelsea had recommended. The Texas twilight was deepening outside my apartment window; another weekend spent indoors and alone, this time with my nose in a book, dressed in sweats and cocooned on the couch in an old afghan. Where’s my Christian Grey? I sighed again.
Do men like that really exist? Or was he just a fantasy of the book’s author? I knew there was a whole BDSM scene out there, people who enjoyed tying up their partner, spanking them, whips, chains, all that. Honestly, it all intrigues me—quite a bit, in fact. And it scares me as well; the idea of giving up complete control in return for boundless pleasure. But how can someone learn to trust a man enough to surrender to him completely? It made my head hurt thinking about it, and my body quiver both with desire and in pure white-knuckle fear.
It wasn’t so much the wealth and power of the Christian Grey character that appealed to me—although I’d never walk away from a millionaire—but that a man would enjoy dominating a woman so passionately, and in doing so, could provide so much pleasure to her, but not crush her spirit in the process. It was a completely foreign idea to me. I’m never been one to willingly ask for pain, or ever wanted to be dominated by a man, but there was something very deeply arousing about the thought that pain could be pleasurable, that giving control of yourself in such a vulnerable situation over to someone else could intensify the whole erotic experience.
What kind of man would be able to do that? Would he be that way all of the time, or just in the bedroom? Would it mean that I was placing myself beneath a man? That I was belittling myself in some way? The feminist in me wanted to scream that it was disgusting, humiliating and absurd, yet another part of me, a darker, animalistic part of my very core ached to be taken so fully, with or without my full consent. I couldn’t believe the delicious rush of heat that washed over my skin at the thought of giving my body for a man’s total and completely selfish use. To let him position me however he chose, to bind me so that I was nothing more than his possession to play with and discard at his desire.
My body was always my greatest obstacle when it came to truly enjoying sex. I was always a heavier-set woman; “full-figured” is the term that most people use though I always just feel fat. It doesn’t matter what fancy terminology or trendy wordage is currently appropriate, when I find myself in bed with a man I’m instantly on high alert, careful not to let him explore my body too much, fearful that I will turn him off…and turn him away. I wonder if other women of my size feel that way and then I think of the countless magazines, reality television shows and celebrities; all plus size, who claim that they love their curves and wonder if it’s really just me.
A vague thought runs through my head before surfacing as a concrete idea. I know there are dating sites for almost every type of persuasion; gay, Latino, Christian. There had to be BDSM dating sites. Would joining one, even out of curiosity, be such a bad thing? What did I really have to lose?
My cell phone interrupted my thoughts. I fumbled for the phone as the book slid to the floor. I glanced at the caller ID; it was my friend Leslie.
“Hey, Leslie. What’s up?”
“Abby! Where have you been? I’ve been texting you for over an hour. Have you got something going on with some guy that I don’t know about?” Her laughter floated out through the phone and I found myself growling at her timing.
“No such luck. I just finished the last of the 50 Shades books. I think I must have just zoned out there for couple hours.”
“Over a book? You? I doubt that. Were they really that good?”
“I don’t know if I’d say that they were the best books that I’ve ever read or anything, but they really make you think about things. Like why I keep going out with the same kinds of guys, the ones who like me fine until things get serious and then they bail. Or the ones who tell me I’m really nice, but not someone they want to date. Pretty face, but that’s it. Which translates into, I’m fat.”
“Abby, don’t start with the fat comments again. You’re not fat. There’s just more of you to love.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, if I had a nickel for every time I heard that I’d get liposuction.” I heard her sigh on her end of the line.
“Listen, Leslie, there’s some stuff I’ve got to do tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow, or better yet; do you want to do lunch? I’ve got only one client in the late afternoon.”
Leslie worked in the same marketing firm I did, in the Human Resources department. I handled clients out in the field. We try to grab lunch together a couple times a week, but my schedule sometimes made that hard.
“Yeah, okay. Sounds like a plan. I’ll call you and we can pick a spot.” We ended the call and I dropped the phone on the table. Spotting the book on the floor, I picked it up, running my fingers over the cover. You’re out there somewhere, my Mr. Grey. I just need to start looking.
Throwing off the afghan, I went to my office and turned on my laptop. A quick online search gave me several sites to pick from, one with what looked like many members in my area. I clicked the link to sign up. What do I have to lose?
My cat jumped up on my desk, probably attracted by my mumblings at the laptop.
“Hey, Big Guy. You want to help me set up this profile?” The cat didn’t answer; I was on my own. I’d done this on so many other sites, but this time my hands were trembling as I typed. Get a grip, girl. It’s not a life or death situation here. It’s just a dating site.
“Okay. So, first up: username. Um…Abby Phillips?” Not so original. The site, thankfully, had an autosuggest feature. One immediately caught my eye: Miss Venus.
I worked through the sign up page and the member profile page opened up. I scanned the choices. Some were pretty straightforward.
“Well, I’m female. I’m straight.”
But the rest made me stop. Orientation? Dominant? Submissive? Slave? Switch? What the hell?
I pick submissive. Not sure slave is in my nature. And I’m not even sure what a switch is.
Age, okay, I know that; 26. I cringe at the next couple boxes: height and weight. Okay. Five foot seven, no problem. The other box I look at for a long, long time. I finally enter a number, backspace the last two digits and then re-enter them, minus twenty pounds. Maybe it would look better if I entered it in kilograms. I sighed and hit enter.
After much thought I compose a profile that I hope sounds passable, not as unsure or insecure sounding as I feel inside. I searched through the picture file on my laptop and found the least embarrassing picture I could and uploaded it. After the profile is complete, I sit back, marveling at what I’ve just done.
“Well, Big Guy, it’s up to fate and the internet gods.” I absently scratched the cat under his chin, looking at the screen, not sure if I wanted a guy to contact me or not. What would I say? Was I really ready to go through dating hell again, to set myself up for all the trauma and heartache? As much as I didn’t want to go through all that, this time seemed different. There was something deeper, some other level I wanted to explore and I sincerely hoped this site would give me that.
The cat bumped against my hand, bringing me back to the present.
“Okay. Dinner for two coming up.” The cat followed me to the kitchen and we shared dinner; kibble for him and a salad for me, with a nice glass of Chardonnay. After cleaning up the kitchen, I ran a hot bath, shedding my sweats and sinking into a wealth of lavender scented bubbles.
I let my mind drift, the steam and hot water relaxing me. I didn’t want to think about my past dating experiments, but some of them rose up, unbidden. The guy who, after one date, took me to meet his parents and announced we were getting married, without having mentioned anything to me. Or the guy who spent our first date explaining the meaning of each and every tattoo on his body. It was the first date I ever walked out on, feeling like a failure for even going in the first place. He later told me my photo was outdated and I should use a different one; I didn’t ‘represent’ well in real life. I blocked his profile and then switched to a different dating site.
But there had been one or two guys with whom I’d hit it off, at least at first. The construction guy with the most beautiful blue eyes and huge biceps who I’d spent a weekend with in a cheap hotel, only to find out a few days later he was married.
I thought about Jack West, the guy with the blue eyes, and the weekend of unbridled sex we’d had. I’d felt sexy and confident; an equal partner in that encounter. I didn’t think it was true love, but I felt we had a serious connection, on more than just a sexual level. All an illusion, as it turned out, but the memory of the sex still sent a wave of heat through my body.
The warmth of the water and the memory of Jack lit a fire that spread slowly through my body. I let my hands drift lightly over my body, my skin silky smooth from the bath oils. I closed my eyes, my hands sliding over my br**sts, skimming over my stomach, finally moving between my legs. They relaxed, falling open, my fingers finding my clit, already swollen and sensitive from the memories of Jack, of his hands and mouth and tongue on my body. With him, everything had felt so natural. He had been the first man I’d truly enjoyed having him watch me as we had sex. Normally the thought of the lights on during sex had sent me sinking deep under the covers for shelter, but with him I’d been unashamed of what I considered as my less than perfect body.
The image of him on the rumpled sheets, lying beneath me as I straddled his hips, his thick c*ck buried to the hilt in me came flooding back, sending ripples of pleasure through my body as my fingers teased my clit. I’d ridden him hard for a long time, circling my hips, grinding my body against his. He’d finally pulled me down so my br**sts were in his face, sucking and licking each in turn, pulling hard with his mouth - and occasionally his teeth - on my sensitive n**ples. The sensations were incredible. I came hard, crying out, my body shaking from the intensity as I fell onto his muscular chest, his arms wrapped around me, my orgasm drenching him and the sheets beneath.
He’d rolled me over then in one swift movement as the aftershocks still wracked my body, bracing his knees on the bed, thrusting into me hard and fast, his eyes locked with mine as he held himself above me, as I ran my hands over those wonderfully strong arms.
He came quickly and just as hard as I had, each thrust accompanied by ever-louder grunts. With his head tipped back and those startling blue eyes finally closed in ecstasy, he came, his orgasm sending an amazing flood of wet heat washing through my body. Instantly I came again, my h*ps rising to meet his final penetrating thrusts, as his c*ck pumped the last of his orgasm into me.
My h*ps were moving now as if Jack was there with me, the heat of the bath water splashing against me, mimicking the sensation of his hot load shooting into me. The water sloshed over the edge of the tub as I brought myself to an intense orgasm, my body jerking in diminishing spasms as my body gradually relaxed. My fingers finally slowing their frantic pace, still rubbing and stroking my clit, but now more slowly, languorously, lingering currents of pleasure still flowing through me.