The Secret Sex Life of a Single Mom (29 page)

“I’m thankful for my brain and hands so I can build with Lego!” said my middle child with gusto. “And one day I’ll build skyscrapers that homeless people can live in!”

Around and around our ceremonial circle continued . . . until silliness overtook purpose and thanks was being giving for “being able to burp the alphabet.” Laughing, I chased them into the bathroom to brush their teeth.

Now, with my three sweet babies in bed and me lying on my couch in my jammies, my thoughts drifted to my phone conversation with John the Dom . . . and the warmth in my heart spread down into my pelvis. Things between us had definitely progressed: As of Christmas Day, he officially became my dom.

Which meant two things: One, we were now looking into flights, hoping to meet within the next month or so, at the tail end of January or beginning of February; and second, he was training me to be his submissive. No, it didn’t entail anything freaky, because at the end of day, one can only get as “freaky” with D/s as the submissive wants. And I had no interest in being tied from the ceiling, or wearing a dog collar or anal plugs for a month, or participating in threesomes or orgies, or being abused to the point of severe pain or bleeding. Nonetheless, in accepting that he was my dom, there were rules of protocol I needed to abide by in terms of my sexual conduct and behavior. For example, I was to call him “sir” when responding to his directives. Pretty basic, I know, but for some reason, this rule really irritated me. I quickly learned, however, that NOT saying sir meant “punishment.”

One night, at the beginning of our call, he said, “I think I want you naked as I talk to you tonight. Get undressed right now and lie down on your bed . . .” And when I forgot to say “yes sir”
and instead said, “’K, Bossman, give me a minute to get to my room, would ya?” it was reprimand time.

“Stop where you are right now and get on your knees,” he ordered. “Get on your knees
right now.”
Shocked, I did as he said. “Now bow your chin, you may not look up, and spread your legs . . . Spread them
further
. Now, who’s your dom?”

“You are.”

“You are,
what?

“You are,
sir
.”

“When you address me you will always call me sir, got it? Not doing so is extremely disrespectful and I will
not
tolerate your disrespect. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now take off your clothes and get on your bed. You are NOT going to orgasm tonight, even though I know you want to, even though I’m going to bring you so close, not just once, but over and over again. Got it? Answer me!”

“Yes, sir!”

Lesson enjoyably learned.

For reasons beyond me, I found these new exchanges very erotic. Yes, a part of me was somewhat shocked and pissed at him to actually say such things aloud to me. But I also admired him for having the guts to do so and to say them with such confidence and power. The bottom line was, a part of me was thoroughly responding to and enjoying it. I knew his goal wasn’t to demean me; it was to give me what I wanted, even though I didn’t know what that was. It’s like together, John and I were actors who were creating and performing our own stage play; but behind the curtain, I was the producer—the person with the vision—and he was the director, the person with creative know-how and experience. And the wildest thing to me was that nowhere in the script was there ever a scene that involved
him
masturbating. Nope—every
single one was devoted to
my
sexual pleasure,
my
orgasms, or denial thereof.
Hell, if this is D/s, it isn’t freaky, it’s the best damn sex ever invented!
I thought jokingly.

In turn, however, he now said he “owned” all of my orgasms. Only he would decide when or if I played. Thus, if at some point during the day I wanted to masturbate, I had to first phone him and ask for his permission in a very specific way:
“John, may I please have your permission to play and masturbate for you?”
If I asked incorrectly—forget to say “please,” for example—he’d say no. A few times he has said no to my request just because he could: “For your own good,” he stated. And it made me
nuts
. But nuts in a
good
way. It made me want it more. I knew I could lie and masturbate anyway, but I felt that lying would break our trust connection, that it would rob me of something. For the intensity of denial was very erotic; deep down, I could feel my sexual energy boiling, bubbling, culminating. What might I pull from this wellspring of sexuality?

Beyond our phone calls, John also sometimes gave me “homework,” which to me, was more like deep, mental foreplay; it made me think about him all day long. It didn’t consist of me regurgitating information he’d taught me, so much as me independently doing research. For example, one day I mentioned that I’d bought my first ever piece of erotic artwork, for my bedroom: a large horizontal painting of a nude woman lying on her stomach. She was propped on her elbows, her back arched like a cobra, yet her chin was facing down. As John listened to me describe it, he suddenly said, “Take a picture of it and send it to me,”—which I did, right away that morning. All day long, my body tingled with anticipation for that night’s phone call. What would he, my experienced “master” sense was hidden within my creative unconscious?

But instead, only I was to exhume and decipher its meaning. “Look at her Delaine,” he said, his voice almost a whisper, as I sat on my bed looking up at her. “Look at her and let your
imagination go. There is a reason you chose her, a reason you want her on your wall. Find it . . .”

For over a minute, I sat on the line in silence, trying to uncover the words, as my eyes and mind trailed along the length of her creamy skin, and melded into the rich browns and red of the background. To me, she appeared to be accessing something within her. It was there in the lengthiness of her tilted neck; there, in the earnest grip of her hands. She was still—motionless—almost draped in shadows . . . yet there was movement; she was mustering something soft and ferocious from within her body.

“She’s rousing her passion,” I murmured to John. “She feels the power of its energy . . . and she is both rising and aroused. But she’s exploring it, savoring it, controlling it,
on her own
.” I paused to fully feel my own words. They felt like they were coming from some unknown part of me.

I continued: “Any man looking at her would be tantalized—she’s beautiful . . . she’s soft . . . the lines and curves of her body are enticing. Before long, however, that man’s desire would turn to envy; for he’d realize he isn’t invited into her private world of surrender. He has nothing to do with the cause.”

John remained quiet. I continued digesting what I’d discovered. Finally: “And why did you choose her, Delaine? Tell me.”

“I chose this painting,” I said, more to myself than him, “because I see myself in her. I, too, am rousing.” And in that moment of realization, I felt almost orgasmic. I, like she, was on her own, in isolation, discovering and harnessing the power of an energy she’d never allowed to surface. It was bliss that came from discovery—bliss from realizing it came from within and bliss that no one could take it from me.

Conversations like this with John were deeply personal to me. More so even than the “D/s play” we had begun. And looking to the future, to when we’d meet in person, I hoped somehow
the two would merge—the kink and the depth. How, I had no idea. But I felt confident he wouldn’t push me too far or hurt me in any way. He would honor my limits, yet lead me to explore beyond my sexual boundaries.

I also knew that when we met in person, he’d physically discipline me, in ways I’d yet explored, if I was rude or acting up. He said he understood that when I was resistant, I was actually testing him. And he’s right. I needed to know he was strong enough to handle me, physically and mentally; that he wouldn’t just pretend or play games; that he was truly worthy of my submission.

But he said he would always win. He would always put me in my place. And the more he did, the more I would trust and open to him.

I did trust him. I’d searched for disconnects in our phone calls, turn offs or warnings. But there had been none. Only his growing interest and faith in me, and me in him.

John never asked me for my trust, nor did he pressure me for it in any way. It just evolved on its own, gradually and unthreateningly. And it felt good to feel it again—my entire chest actually felt warmer, like a rusty valve in my heart was functioning again.

I looked over at the clock. One in the morning. Nearly one hour into the New Year and all was still calm.

I remember lying on this exact same couch around the same time last year. I’d secretly hoped that Graham and I would spend it together. But no. He’d instead chosen to attend a small house party. Probably with his pregnant girlfriend. Nonetheless, he’d phoned me just after midnight and whispered, “I love you, Delaine. I wish you were here with me. Happy New Year, my love.” I’d then lain here for an hour, alone, keeping company with my romantic dreams of us in the year ahead.

Wow
, I thought, shaking my head. I’d had no idea what was around the corner.

What
would
this New Year have in store for me? I could sense the energy of the future all around me, a vast field of potential . . . and I planned to mine it for all it was worth.

I PRESSED MY NOSE AGAINST the airplane window and gazed down at the reddish-brown mountains and arid landscape below. It was really hitting me now (those weren’t no snowcapped Alberta Rockies down there!): In less than half an hour I’d be in Orange County, California, where I’d finally meet Sir John the Dom.

Even though the past eight months had been filled with erotic adventure, flying solo to another country to explore D/s with a stranger I’d met online was further than I thought I’d ever go. I couldn’t stop smiling; this weekend I was not Delaine the Stay-at-Home Mom, I was just Delaine the Woman, venturing into the unknown, an inquisitive soul open to—even
hungry
for—new experience.

The cards had fallen into place to make this meeting transpire. John would be here on business all week, and since Orange County was closer to me than his hometown of Miami, it seemed the perfect rendezvous point.

I’d never been to “The OC” before, though I did visit Disneyland when I was ten.
I’ve gone from meeting Mickey Mouse to meeting a Dominant
, I thought, grinning. Yes, this was definitely a grown-ups–only adventure. And from the tip of my head to the bottom of my high-heeled shoes, I felt more than ready.

John and I went over the ground rules numerous times before I booked my flight—for there were serious “what ifs” to consider. Like the possibility of no physical attraction in person. Or feeling pressured into something I didn’t want to do.

“I’ve booked another room for you in case you decide you’d prefer your own,” he promised. “My company has a block of rooms reserved for us, so it’s not an issue.” He then gave me the reservation code, which I later confirmed with the hotel’s front desk.

“And what if I decide I don’t want to have sex?” I asked honestly. “How do I know you won’t pressure me?”

“I’m going into this with no expectations, Delaine. Worst-case scenario: We’ll enjoy a lovely weekend together as friends. I won’t even so much as hold your hand. I’ll wait for
you
to come to
me
.”

His last statement made me smile: Was he being a gentleman or using the power of suggestion?

“Oh—I should forewarn you of something,” he suddenly added. “I’m shipping a box of ‘supplies’ to the hotel, just in case we do decide to play. I think it best I express-post it verses bringing it on the plane, in case I get searched.” He chuckled. “It would raise a lot of questions.”

“Supplies?” I asked, heart rate suddenly accelerating. “What kind of supplies?”

“Nothing crazy-unusual Delaine,” he said vaguely. “Just a few toys I think you might enjoy in your introduction to D/s.”

“Like what?” I blurted. I felt like a kid who was dying to open a present. I just about squealed with delight. “Oh
come on
—won’t you at least tell me one thing?”

“No,” he said firmly. “There’s no need to at this point. But I will say, I think you’ll be pleased with my selections.” John knew all too well that my experience with “toys” was very limited; not for lack of curiosity, just lack of opportunity: Given the delicacy of, um, “competition” for my attention, I’d always figured a dildo was
something the man should introduce into the bedroom, not me, and no man ever had. Thus, though I was in no way opposed to vibrators, they’d been relegated to being a “me” toy. As for bondage, I’d blindfolded and tied a guy up once while I was in university . . . but unfortunately, that was the scale of it. Hence, I knew John’s decision to withhold the contents of the box from me was very deliberate. He was luring me in . . .

John and I also decided on an “out” or “safe” word for me—in the event sex
did
end up on our itinerary. This is a word I say aloud if an activity becomes too much and I want it to stop. “It has to be an unusual word, something you wouldn’t normally say while having sex,” he explained. “If I ever hear that word, I will immediately shut down the scene, no questions asked.” The secret word we agreed upon was Shreddies—my choice. (What can I say, it’s what I had for breakfast!)

Suddenly, the plane grumbled, wheels were hitting pavement. I’d landed.
This is it,
I thought.
I’m really here . . .
Gathering up my carryon, I followed the flow of passengers into the terminal. Business suits, laptops, blackberries, skiers, sun-seekers—I merged into the frenzied activity around me with heightened anticipation. We were all going somewhere, doing something, shifting out of our everyday lives—or back into them. It was surreal, exciting. On my way to baggage claim, I detoured to the restroom to freshen up and calm my bundled nerves. I examined myself in the full-length mirror. I’d wanted to look casual but sexy, so I’d worn my most flattering dark jeans with black strappy heels and a red blouse, topped off by my beige, three-quarter-length spring jacket, which came through the trip surprisingly free of wrinkles. I closely examined my face in the mirror: my blue eyes alert, no makeup smudges or dark circles; checked my nostrils (booger free!), and nothing stuck between my teeth. I stepped back and fluffed up my long curly hair.
Not bad, girl,
I
thought, smiling at my reflection.
Now go get him!
I grabbed my purse and headed to the arrivals gate.