Red Lights 2016

I have been going to BDSM parties for ages and I have met some interesting people. A few of them have ended up being partners, for play or relationships, a few of them have become my closest friends, and even some of my worst enemies. But tonight, I'm going to tell you the story of how I met my husband.



I had been making the rounds on dating sites for about a year when I ran across his profile. I had been on a series of bad dates, and a couple who weren't exactly bad, but the chemistry just wasn't there. They were nice, don't get me wrong, they were just missing something. I didn't quite know what it was.



Something about John caught my eye. By all accounts, he was normal. Good-looking, but in an average-guy sort of way. He wasn't terribly into fitness but ran daily, graduated university in town for history and anthropology. Did volunteer work for the library. Few things are sexier to me than a man that loves knowledge and books. We would at least have plenty to talk about when we finally did go out.



I was nervous about talking to him. He honestly felt a little out of my league, but once I did finally message him, he was very well-spoken and sweet. We talked about nothing (well, history and the city mostly) for about two weeks before we decided to meet. It would be the next Friday night. I had agreed to attend a friend's play party that evening, but I'd cut out early to meet him. I had an entire week to fret and psyche myself out about it. 



When the day came, I spent the majority of the day shaving and waxing, doing my nails and hair. I rocked my usual black lace and leathers for the party, but packed something a little more casual for when it was time to meet him. We didn't talk about my moonlighting. I've always found that it's best brought up after we knew each other for a while. Some people are still freaked out by the idea that being burned and beaten is fun, but I don't get their apprehension. It's just always been a thing for me.



The party was at the mansion-like house of one of the group members and put together beautifully for Halloween. Black lacy spiderwebs in the entryway, black candelabrums all throughout the house. The candles were white, but seemed to bleed when lit. It was gorgeous. The parlour was big enough to set up a St. Andrew's Cross all the way up as well as a spanking bench. There were other rooms in the house for guests and private sessions, too. I made my rounds, greeted friends and lovers, feeling much more relaxed about the rest of my night. It always made me feel better to surround myself with people that get "that thing we do". 



I had agreed to service top for my best female friend, Destiny, when I noticed a few new faces. One of them looked a little like John, and I stopped in the middle of my backswing to double-take and make sure it wasn't actually him. No, it wasn't possible. I'd know if John were one of our crowd. How could I not have met him yet? I knew a lot of the people on the local scene. It can't have been him. I resumed flogging her with a new vigor, temporarily egged on by the thought of seeing him in her position: kneeling in front of me, bent over a bench, naked from the waist up. Her long red hair was replaced with his—dark, and thick. In all his photos online, it was messy, but I could just imagine what it was like free from its bondage. She flagged the safety signal—it was time to stop. I replaced my borrowed tools and fetched her a blanket and Hershey bar. At the end of a particularly intense scene, it's important to treat the inevitable blood sugar drop. Once I was certain she was taken care of, it would be time to head out.



I changed in one of the several bathrooms, careful to not let my anxiety start taking over. Extra perfume, extra deodorant, retouch my makeup. I had to make sure I'd be perfect for him. It may have been the high from doing a scene, but I had such good feelings about this date. Oh, if only I'd have run into him here...I'd know he was perfect!



I said my goodbyes and made my way a few streets over to our destination. Hookah Java was the only hookah bar in town and a pretty popular dating place. It had the perfect atmosphere for romance; low lights, sweet scents, comfortable furniture, coffee, booze, and of course, smoke. The streets were already filling up with college students enjoying a night off, with tourists, with the city's elite looking for a good time. I checked my phone to make sure he hadn't texted, and turned onto the street. I was a little early, but that's fine. I could take a few minutes to compose myself before he got there.



The place was moderately packed. The busiest night was always Saturday, when they ran specials. I did get there before him so I secured us a seat in the Sultan's Den, a private room at the back of the bar. Anyone could use it unless it was reserved, and I was thankful nobody had booked it tonight. I took a few minutes to go ahead and order us a hookah and myself a hot chocolate before they got too busy. I scanned the list of shisha flavours...the girl at the front recommended a blend of plum, jasmine, and honey. It sounded absolutely decadent, and that's exactly what I was looking for.

In a few more minutes, it was time. 



I watched the door from the secluded corner, nearly jumping every time the bell rang. A succession of people came in, but none of them looked like him. The sound system cycled Fitz and the Tantrums as I tried to relax. The baristo delivered my hookah. It was two feet tall and a beautiful twist of chrome and blue and golden glass, with two hoses. He set down a plate of sanitary tips to go with it. The bowl had been packed prior to setting it up, so all he had to do was drop two lumps of hot charcoal on it to get it heating up. It would take a bit to heat up sufficiently to smoke, so I claimed which hose would be mine and waited.



The next person to come in made me pause. It looked like him, certainly, but it was like two different artists' impressions of the same person. This John was everything a shade darker. He was very slim and fit in his black trousers and black Oxford, and his sure stride to the counter spoke volumes about his confidence. I had enough time to panic, watching him talk to the barista that seated me. He thanked her, and turned to continue on in my direction.



"Hey," I said, standing and extending my hand.

"I'm Emma Renaud."



"Hey there, Emma. I'm John." 



He held my hand tight, and a little too long. I was enchanted.



The Sultan's Den had a foofy couch, a sizeable table, Morroccan lanterns for lighting, and floor cushions. He slid down next to me and was devoured by the couch cushions. I know it was nothing, but I could feel the electricity of our legs touching and the slow burn of arousal drowned out the anxiety. I should have known better than to go on a date right after a BDSM party.



John was not at all what I had been expecting, but at the same time, he was. He was all smiles and clever jokes and fun, but something simmered below the surface. He had a kind of masculine grace. 



John's fingers were long and slender, wrapped delicately around the hookah's hose. I wondered idly how he felt. I'd taken his hand when he introduced himself, but a handshake is not the same as being touched naked, or better yet, soothing bruises after a hard night at play. I shivered, thinking that over for a minute. He was ordering something to drink, so I had a few minutes to fantasize. Oh, he was gorgeous. In this light, his dark eyes were nearly black and full of mischief. He caught me looking and smiled. I'm sure my face was crimson, but I smiled back. How did I get so lucky?



My hot chocolate arrived. It was sweet and full and rich, and I temporarily lost my mind and offered him a taste. Mostly, I just wanted to watch his hands. He held the cup up to his lips and then returned it, tongue darting out to tidy a bit of foam that stayed behind. "It's wonderful," he said.

"I didn't know this was so good or I'd have skipped the beer." It seemed if he was comfortable enough to drink with me, it would probably be okay for me to start asking some of the tough questions.



"So," I started carefully.

"Do anything crazy with your time?"



"Such as?"



"Oh, I don't know. You just seem so normal, is all. I'm curious."



"Well, I do have a small confession."



"I'm all ears."



"I was at a party before I came here to meet you. It got a little crazy, but I don't usually let go at things like that. I don't like feeling...I guess, trapped."



No.

Surely not.



Did I actually catch a glimpse of him earlier in the night?

"Huh. I was at a party too."

"Strange. Well, I doubt we were at the same place. I'd have noticed you," he said.



I paused, unsure how to continue.

"At the risk of sounding like a creep, I think you're beautiful. I mean, I got here and was all like, wow, I'm lucky."

I couldn't hide the big smile.



"Funny. I was thinking the same thing. You look so...different."



"Different? It's my hair, I bet."



"No, it's something else. I think it's this light. You're more...I don't know. Vivid."

It was his turn to smile.



"I'm glad we did this."



"Me too."



Our moment was interrupted by the baristo, returning with a new bowl of shisha and his Dos Equis. He took a long drink from his beer as I pulled deep and slow from the hose. The warm, sweet smoke filled my lungs and I held it there a minute before exhaling. My head swam a little. It got very warm in there. 



I did a lot of watching in between conversing. I generally don't agree to go out with someone if I haven't considered the possibility of sleeping with them. In his case, if my mind hadn't been made up yet, it certainly was now. He drained his beer and relaxed further back into the couch. I pulled my legs out from under me and dared to stretch out a little, settling comfortably against his side. For him, smoking was this sensual act. I noted that he didn't use a sanitary tip (then again, neither did I) and pulled deep and strong from the hose. He exhaled slowly through his nose, the smoke trailing up to the lanterns and dissipating. It was mesmerizing. The longer we talked, the less uptight he seemed. An hour, a bowl, and two thousand years of history later, he stood to excuse himself to the facilities. I sat there in the minutes he was gone pondering my good fortune and figuring out my limits for the night.



If he wanted to come home with me, I was down with it. If he wanted to go somewhere else, I was fine with that too. It was going brilliantly. To listen to him talk about history, particularly that of the Italian Renaissance, it was enchanting as well as educational. It was clear he held such a passion for the past. And passion carries over to passion, in my experience. I didn't know quite how to proceed, but I made up my mind to address it when he returned. 



He did return, taking his seat and stretching over to my end of the couch. "I hope this isn't too forward," he said, laying his hand on my knee.

"Don't worry, it isn't."

I smiled and squeezed his hand, breathless.



"I just have one question, and sorry if it seems prying, but I had this thought earlier and I can't let it go," I said.



"Yes?"



"I think I did see you earlier tonight. I was at the Roberts House at that party and I saw this guy in there, and for a second I thought maybe it was you. But you know, the people I hang out with...I mean, I thought I'd know if it was you."



He got very quiet and took another pull, perhaps stalling to think. He exhaled and adjusted his position.



"That's exactly where I was."



"I see."



We were silent for a beat, both of us probably trying to figure out the best way to bring it up.



"So I guess we both just outed ourselves, huh?" I tried to make light of it.



"I guess so," he chuckled and exhaled deep.



"Well, I guess there's an entire world of things we haven't talked about yet."



"So it would seem."



The baristo came back in to groom our coals and make sure we didn't need anything else. John ordered another beer, and I asked to see the wine list. It was going to be that kind of night.



"I service top for certain people," I started. "But I really prefer to submit."



"I do enjoy a good beating now and then, but I'm very much dominant."



"You certainly look the part," I said, taking advantage of being able to shamelessly look him over. He very much did look like the picture of a Dom. Tall, dark, handsome. It fit.



"Come to think of it, I think I have seen you around," he said. "You look very different in street clothes. I might have never placed you if we hadn't have...you know, outed ourselves."



He pulled on his hose and relaxed back into the couch. I did the same, letting the fumes go to my head. He was so close to me now. Surely some of the walls have come down.



I crept over and laid my hand flat against his thigh, careful to not place it too high. It was solid and warm, and I could imagine what it felt like to be bent over it.

The baristo returned with his beer and my wine. I'd decided on a red velvet dessert wine. It was sweet and you could hardly taste the alcohol. It was exactly what I needed.

Ungraceful as it might have been, I drained half the glass at once and pulled on the hose again. I wanted anything to enhance my tactile sensations. He didn't move my hand away.



We talked more, feeling a little more at ease with discussing our private lives. He had been in the lifestyle since about twenty-one and he was twenty-eight now, that was quite a bit of experience. I had been doing it since I was eighteen and was now twenty-five...we were comparable in that sense. I racked my brain, trying to think of if I had ever run into him before or if anyone I knew had played with him before. I couldn't come up with any answers, but I had to know what it was like.



We killed our drinks and the bowl. As we were about to ask for refills, the baristo let us know that the band was about to take the stage, and that was our cue to exit. It was a small place, and a live band would make it near impossible to talk.

"So, do you want to get out of here and go someplace less loud?" He beat me to it.



"Sure, what have you got in mind?"

He paid for our tab (an unexpected surprise!) and we took our leave, exiting the humidor and taking to the streets. 

After a bit of discussion, we settled on the boozy coffee shop across the street. Common Grounds was a good starting or ending point, depending how your night was going. I loved their coffee and sweets, and he liked that they had real food late.



On the walk over, I was definitely a little tipsy. John held my arm in his and it stabilized me, but it also made me come a little unglued. I have always loved the electrical feel of touching someone new, and this time was no different. There's something about it. I stood close enough to him to be able to catch the scent of his cologne, very rich and complex, likely something more sophisticated than Old Spice. I couldn't tell if the flush in my cheeks was him or the wine. I noticed some of the people on the street turning to look, very likely at him. And he was with me. The thought warmed me from the inside out.



We took over a table in a secluded corner of the coffee shop. It was very full in there—one of the few places you could go to get a real meal this time of night. He ordered a glazed croissant and I wanted one too. I had the thought of ordering a cocktail, but stopped when it occurred to me that it might not be a good idea to go home with him not at full capacity. The food was delicious and sobering.



"So, I guess it's come to this," I said, cramming part of the overstuffed pastry in my mouth.



"Hm?"



"What are your plans for the rest of the night?"



"That's completely up to you. I don't work weekends."



"Well, I'm not ready for the night to be over."

He looked pensieve at his croissant.



"It doesn't have to be."



"My place or yours?"



"I think you'd enjoy seeing parts of my place," he said. "Do you need to go home and grab anything?"



"If you don't mind. I walked here and didn't exactly plan for it to go this brilliantly."

That got a smile out of him.



"Sure. Let's finish up here, then I'll take you by your place."

"Thank you. I appreciate it."

He reached across the table and squeezed my hand.



Once again, he picked up the bill. I frantically dug around in my coat pocket for the chapstick I knew was in there somewhere and quickly glazed it on as he put his wallet away and crammed the receipt in his pocket. Once outside, he offered me his arm again and I took it. He'd parked all the way at the end of the street and it would take a bit to get there. I couldn't help but glow. This gorgeous man is taking me home. Me, me, me. Out of all the women in the city, he chose me.



The drizzle was turning into soft snow by the time we'd gotten halfway down. I hugged his arm closer, savoring the warmth. We had to stop at a crossing where there was a crowd gathered around an obnoxious street preacher. 



"And the fires of hell will rain down upon the frat boys and sorority girls in this city, this Fayette-Evil!" He was literally thumping on a Bible as he went on his tirade. The aforementioned people were actually a big part of the crowd surrounding him, taking video with their phones and laughing at him. He stopped and pointed through the crowd.



"You! Young man! Do you know the litany of sins you've committed tonight? I'll bet you've been drinking!" 



I almost died of embarrassment. He was pointing at John.



John stopped and turned to him, eyebrow cocked, smile playing at the edges of his mouth.



"Do tell, Bob. What sins have I been up to tonight? Has your lord made you all-knowing as well as loud and insufferable?"



A few people laughed and whooped. The preacher reddened and opened his Bible.



"You've consumed alcohol! You've probably smoked the marijuana! And I'd be willing to bet my entire next check you're about to FORNICATE!" His voice got progressively louder and was an absolute screech at the end. John smiled wide and chuckled. 



"Well, Pastor, you got me there. I've had a few drinks and I certainly hope fornication is in my future." 


The crowd hooted and clapped and cheered. John leaned down and kissed me.



I forgot for a second that people were staring at us. His mouth was so soft and warm and he pulled away entirely too soon. It may have been fairly chaste, but it worked the Preacher up in a frenzy. There was something very dirty about kissing in public, especially in front of a supposed man of God who was foaming at the mouth.

He let go and turned back to Preacher Bob.

"Goodnight, Preacher. Hope your night goes as good as mine!" People clapped after us and we crossed the street.



"I hope that wasn't too crass for you," he said. 



"Not at all. I hate that guy."



"Well, it wasn't exactly what I had planned for our first kiss, but I kind of got caught up in the moment."



"It's okay," I said. We were almost to the end of the street. It was much quieter here.



"If you want a do-over, I'd happily oblige." 



We stopped for a second. I stood on my toes and wrapped my arms around his neck for support. He kissed me again, but this time it was perfect. Slow and soft and sensual. And this time it was me who had to let go first, as I lost my balance a little.

Once I was flat on my feet again, we just stood for a minute watching each other. His smile was so genuine, and so catching. This was the magic, the chemistry I had been craving for so long. I laid my head against his chest and just held on to him for a minute. I wasn't drunk anymore, but I certainly was under the influence of something. The night was still young, the snow was still coming down, the sky was grey with parts in the clouds revealing stars. Yes, the night was young and we were both so beautiful.