First meeting and onwards

My First and I met in a BDSM chat room, on IRC. I can’t remember the details. What I remember is that we were attracted to each other, got chatting, emailing, talking, we exchanged photos. There was definitely something there.

He was some 6 years younger at 25, lived about 900kms away, had just finished his masters. He was restless, was looking to move, he was unhappy where he was, I can’t remember why exactly. He had had what to me seemed like a lot of BDSM experience: lots of different partners, lots of different kinds of public play, lots of activities that were way beyond my experience. In my mind we were always ‘novice Domme with experienced submissive’.

I helped him look for a job in my city, both of us bubbling over with glee and excitement over the potential before we’d even met. We told ourselves that he was just looking for promising opportunities, but we both knew I was a big factor in his decisions.

In July, he travelled the 11 hours by train to come and meet me and to go to a job interview. I got up at some ungodly hour to greet him at the station. And there he was: 6′ tall, lean, dark hair, inquisitive eyes, a broad eager smile, quick to blush.

He wrote in my blog:

“I arrived at 6am Sunday morning after an eleven hour train ride during which I amassed no more than thirty minutes sleep. Consequently much of my expected nervousness was replaced by sheer exhaustion and I avoided making a complete fool of myself at our initial meeting. Physically, Sharyn turned out be much as expected: tall, slender, highly attractive with the most beautiful long hair and eyes so deep and dark that (forgive the cliché) I honestly believe I could lose myself in them.”

I took him back to my place and he made me pancakes for breakfast (even way back then I was doing all the things you’re always told you shouldn’t do with strange men off the internet: DON’T get in a car with him, DON’T take him back to your house, and FFS DON’T EVER have him stay with you! Noooo!).

Later on that first day, we wandered some markets, I took him shopping for the kind of boxer briefs I like. I picked them out and squeezed into the dressing room with him so I could watch him try them on. He was embarrassed at this forced intimacy, but also thrilled to be the object of that sort of attention. He had the most beautiful legs. I can’t remember if I told him that, but I remember watching him change and thinking it. It seems like the sort of thing I would say out loud. Amazingly he still has these boxers and they still look hellishly cute *smile*.

He stayed for ten days.

Most of the detail of that initial meeting is gone, but it went well. We agreed there was something worth pursuing. I summarised the visit at the time with this:

“Taking time to know him, questioning, testing, videos, movies, cafes, bondage, nail polish, lacy panties, door bolts, clips, clasps, clamps, cuffs, mouths, hands, hitting, biting, smell of lubricant, slippery, fear, trust, wallowing, wailing, latex, plastic, water, flesh, warm, cold…”

In August he moved to my city and by November we were living together.

Loves: 10
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  1. Of all the things on which our memories are out of sync, this story of our beginning is not one. Every word rings true, save the month we moved in together.

    “he was unhappy where he was, I can’t remember why exactly”

    I was unemployed! And the city in which I was living had limited opportunities. I had the choice of two others, and the one in which you lived already held a certain appeal… and then it held you.

    I remember that train ride. And the one home again at the end of our short time together. Both were long, but only the first held excitement, the second held the remorse of departing, uncertain of the future. I remember attending your birthday event with work colleagues, feeling slightly out of place. I remember you allowing me to borrow your car to get to one of my job interviews, and your stern warning about not damaging it. And so I remember parking your car in the parking lot before the interview, looking at the cars on either side and thinking “they better not open their f***ing doors into yours”; I could take you there today and show you which parking spot it was. I remember where I was a few weeks later when I received the phone call offering me that job; again I could take you to where I pulled the car over so I could take the call.

    And I remember hurriedly moving cities, and the long drive. I remember driving along the long, main road that led to your suburb late in the afternoon on the last Sunday in August in 1996. I remember driving into your driveway, uncertain whether exhaustion, exhilaration or trepidation was what I felt more strongly. I remember you opening your front door…

    1. Cliffhanger! *smile*

      I’d hope it would ring true: I’m piecing together our history from what I wrote in my blog at the time.

      Thank you for the extra details. I enjoy hearing them. I’m laughing at telling you not to damage my car: did I think you were somehow a really irresponsible revhead (were you?! I remember you were an Alfa Romeo owner and fan)?

      When did we move in together? I know it wasn’t November, but my blog has a huge gap, so all I knew was that *by* November we were living together. I’ve no idea about those timelines.


  2. What a wonderful memory to share. Thank you for that. I couldn’t help but picture myself in his place and wonder what it must have been like.

    1. You’re most welcome *smile*.

      First meetings like that are always a mixture of high-tension feelings. It’s funny though, the feeling I *most* have at first meetings is the overwhelming fear that I won’t recognise them. It makes me really anxious (silly really, it’s not that I expect them to have sent inaccurate photos, but still…).


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