My Experience 1

((As I implied with the title, this is a true story. There is no sex here just a little recount of a, rather traumatic, event in my life. It's highly personal to me but I've been feeling the need to write about it for a long time. This short chapter may serve as a prologue to later stories that are fictional fantasies I've had about the situation. However this particular chapter is entirely true. Please be mindful of that if you make comments as they do pertain to my own life))

An ominous red "1" loomed over my inbox. I knew who it was from without having to look and trepidation made my heart speed and fingers shake. It's not as if he's here, I tell myself, it's not as if he can see me. But still, I look behind me and around my room. The paranoia was nothing new these days – I was starting to actually fear for my mental health it was so regular. Often I found myself searching about my rooms for hidden cameras or the eyes I was so sure drilled into my back. I knew deep down it was an entirely unreasonable feeling but still, could not help the sense of being watched.

I clicked the inbox symbol, my heart stuttering in a familiar panic. A message appeared, titled "The Suit" and my eyes read through it with anxious speed:

'You rush home from another mundane day at school. I'm waiting in your room, sitting on the bed with your collar and leash in my hand. As soon as you walk through the front door you know what to do: Drop your bag, take off all your clothes, and crawl on your hands and knees all the way up to your bedroom door. You take a deep breath before pushing the door open. Your heart jumps a beat when you see me sitting there in my three piece suit. I gesture towards the spot right in front of me. Obediently, you crawl to my feet and try not to make eye contract. I pull on your head extending your neck so it's long and sticking straight out. The cold leather of the collar sends chills up your spine as I tighten it around your throat. This is so wrong but it feels so right. You know you shouldn't but you know you need to. There, on your knees, exposed and collared, is the truest essence of your being. I am like oxygen to you. Without me you wouldn't be alive. Without me you have no reason to live.'

I reread the message a few times, scarcely breathing. This man, whom I haven't spoken to in months, has finally resurfaced. A part of me had wondered if he would ever try to talk to me again after what happened last time.

It was Marching Band season, as lame as that sounds. There were around seventy students in my high school's marching band that season and like with each season, we had instructors; staff members who helped us learn drill and how to play our music. Most often these staff members were younger – majority college age. This man in particular, whom we will call John for this retelling, was not one of the four younger staff members but rather the assistant to the band director at age twenty-seven. Ten years my senior, I'd never even given him a second thought – not until about two thirds of the way into the season when I started receiving anonymous messages on my blog. They were highly flattering and always so kind – and like any normal reaction, I continued to ask this anon who he was and why he wouldn't tell me. After much haggling, he finally explained himself.

My first course in action upon finding out it was John was to call one of my best friends. Both equally shocked and partly horrified we talked hysterically for an hour about it all. In the end, we decided to keep it secret – mostly because a part of me wanted to see where it would go.

John and I talked throughout the marching season – I found he liked kinkier things when it came to sex. He would ask if I wouldn't mind wearing a collar for him and so on; I was terrified with how much the idea of wearing a collar and being spanked excited me. I wasn't abstinent, of course, and had had sex with a few different people but never once had tried BDSM. I knew it turned me on whenever I watched porn or read erotic romance – but always thought of bondage as freak stuff. How could I like something like that?

Anyway, our interactions escalated and, frankly, scared me to the point of telling the band director. I was never entirely sure what the band director was thinking when I told him – John was his best friend and the shock was prominent in his features. Besides that though, I was never and still am never sure if he hated me for not taking care of the situation myself or if he was disgusted, and so on. John was told to stop contacting me and when he didn't, he was told again, and when he didn't for the third time, the police became involved. John, who'd always been so kind to me – and deep down I knew he was a harmless man – was arrested and fired from his position.

The anxiety from this lasted throughout the next few months and even up until now – always worrying about what I'd done, feeling horribly guilty. He'd been engaged and perhaps I'd ruined his marriage (which is still on in present day). He'd likely lost friends, lost respect, and lost his part time job with the band. It was my entire fault. I could have dealt with it myself – could have told him to firmly stop.

Whenever I, myself, had told him to quit contacting me, it had always been evasive with the unsaid "but" at the end. Because secretly, though I knew it was wrong, I wanted him to continue. I still do.

And now, many months after I'd gotten him arrested, he was contacting me again. The messages confused me – I wanted him to stop, wanted to tell someone, but then I also found them highly exciting. I'd tried bondage with my boyfriend only a few weeks ago and the experience had been great – but there was only so much I could get from a high school boy. My inner desires craved someone more controlling, more rough. I wanted what John offered.