I remember the first time I hit someone, and it was so fucking hot I wet myself with arousal.
Perhaps I need to clarify.
I remember the first time I hit someone that desired me to hit them, and consented for me to ‘punish’ their naughty, bad-boy ways. There was that awkward internal struggle, of course. How can I possibly hit someone, even if they want me to? Will I get arrested? Will they scream ‘assault’? How do I know how hard to hit, and alternately, what if I don’t hit hard enough? Just how the hell am I supposed to do this?
It’s a long way from where I am now, I guess. Not that there’s anything wrong, just different lives. I was 18… probably 19, actually. In a different country. Struggling to pay for anything. No British dole there, just do what you must to survive. It was before I worked in the nursing home, before I worked in the card shop. I was young, I went clubbing with the mates I had. They happened to be anyone I met, really. If I happened across people around my age, that was socialising. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that. Anyway. I am straying from the point. Or perhaps more appropriately, the tip.
It was after a clubbing night out, dancing around to Britney Spears and the Divinyls and god knows what else was in the charts back then. The club was over about 4 levels, and at the top was the kink section. I know, you’d expect it to be in the basement. Especially with the heels you have to wear, and the stairs. I didn’t plan it, don’t blame me.
I had ventured up there on a dare, even though I already knew what was up there. I remember, blurrily through the haze of so many Smirnoff Ices people kissing on the stairs, and the clothing going from neons to shiny black. Big boots. Painted faces. What would be terrifying, I guess. Should have been, with my restricted upbringing. Instead I didn’t care. I carried on going, and explored this new territory. I didn’t care much for anything, back then. I had no fear. Nothing to lose.
After being welcomed into this new domain – this clad in a light dancing dress and strappy heeled sandals girl with brown hair – I was approached at the bar by some old guy. He was overweight. He wasn’t attractive. He obviously wanted something. By the look of him I would have expected him to be happily tucked up in a relationship which involved him working late at the office a lot and then coming home to mediocre, tepid casserole or similar from a just-as-dull-and-bored wife.
He wanted me to hit him.
I remembered glances through late night TV channels, things that happened in Europe, mentions of activities from my swinging, kinky grandparents, the materials they’d left around.
I said ok then.
I didn’t even ask for the money. He just shoved it at me and got up, as if to go somewhere. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. The drink had given me an extra layer of fuzzy neutrality, like nothing could affect me and I was up for more than I would have been sober. Probably.
We went to a room, out some double doors, in a corridor. It was reminiscent of gym rooms at school, for some reason. It smelled musty and like old sweat and feet and fear and a slight mingling of sex juices, but nothing pleasant. Not unbearable. Just a hot, heavy odour of adults. Doing stuff.
I still have no idea if he’d had to book one of the rooms there or if we just went in one and used it anyway.
There was an array of things on the floor in one corner, and a sorry looking put-up bed. Plush, it was not. It was worse than the worst b&b room you can imagine. Bare walls and barely carpeted floor. Functional, I guess. There were walls, floor and roof. No window in the door. He was undoing his trousers.
I hadn’t counted the money; I’d been brought up proper, you know. Manners. I think. I hadn’t been schooled for this exact situation, I will grant you. But I didn’t want to stop and count the notes, worried that if I took my eyes off him or the surroundings, I would look up and find it all changed. To something worse. Like some horrific Alice in Wonderland nightmare.
It was stuffed into my cross-body bag I took clubbing. I was standing, mute, watching him pull his trousers down slightly, away from me. I went and picked something up. I felt like I was moving through jelly, or setting cement or something. Nothing seemed real. It barely seems like it happened now, racking my memories about that night. All very hazy. I picked up what looked like a long stick – in my memory it’s just some long stick, it may have been a crop but at that stage I didn’t even know what the things were, just the shapes – and walked back over. It was easier that I couldn’t see his face. It took away any chance of intimacy or feeling like this was a real person. Just a thing. His trousers and pants were still half up his ass. He must have been nervous as well, I think now. At the time I thought he was just being awkward, or an idiot.
I said something along the lines of, “so I’ll just hit you then?” making sure that’s what he actually wanted and that I hadn’t just misheard or something. He grunted what I remember as “yes please” but thinking on it was probably something like “yes miss” or “yes mistress”. Funny what our ears hear when we don’t want to hear the truth. I hit him, but it wasn’t very hard. I panicked, somewhat. It was obvious I hadn’t done anything like this before. You think you can hit someone, and then when it comes to it it’s actually quite hard to fight against that ingrained politeness and etiquette. He hadn’t done anything wrong to me. I wasn’t angry. How was I meant to find the gall to hit this guy, in a vulnerable position with his pants half down?
It was a laughable situation, come to think of it. I mean, obviously not at the time. Hilarious in hindsight, and with many years between then and now. Eventually I found my inner Bitch (she punched my inner Goddess in the face and drank all her booze, too) and got him to pull his trousers down more, to expose more flesh. Bigger target. Well, I wasn’t about to actually touch the guy, ugh. Yuk.
I even managed to put a few stripes on his ass. I did actually enjoy hitting such a wanting subject, so much so, that I was sopping wet by the end of the night. I didn’t know why I was enjoying it so much. But it had definitely started something off, and to this day giving corporal punishment gets me soaking. I wanted to do it again. But on my terms, not the guy’s. Of course, I wasn’t only going to have liaisons with men either, but I was still in the process of finding that out for sure…
– Cara Sutra