Wanting II
Spring semester, freshman year of college.
Going home for Christmas had been a terrible idea.
Home hadn't been good in a long time, anyway. And she'd known coming out to her parents would not go well. She did it anyway, before she left home, because she wasn't going to be able to hide it forever if she included her parents in her life at all. She needed to know to what extent it wouldn’t go well. She didn’t expect immediate disowning or violence—and it didn’t come—but the ultimatum of paying for college on her own was something she’d anticipated, if dreaded. When on a bad day she’d impulsively pressed the seeing a therapist or psychiatrist issue again, that sort of ultimatum was implied. Her parents valued normalcy. They were not truly religious or even so conservative, but they desperately wanted to be normal. A bisexual daughter didn't fit that picture. A daughter in therapy didn't fit that picture.
And at some point, she would, visibly, be with a girl. Even if she eventually settled down with a guy one day, there would be a meantime. And honestly, that struck her as unlikely; the more time passed, the less interested in men she became, though never to the point it felt right to shed bisexual as a label, even, in the other direction, in the name of the perhaps more accurate pansexual. Bi was the word she’d found first, a word that felt like home in a good way. She couldn't hide it forever. Other proclivities… she might have a chance to hide from her parents, at least. If she could ever figure out how to pay for therapy, she could hide that, too.
But after a full semester of a taste of what life was like outside of her family, even not far from home and just not visiting, going back had been impossible. She’d nearly left earlier than scheduled, though the dorms were closed and she didn’t know where she’d go. She’d realized, staring down a spreadsheet, that she’d started planning the financials to get an apartment that summer before Christmas Eve dinner.
Still, she called now and then, bracing herself, saying little, and thinking each time that maybe she wouldn’t call again. But eventually guilt would stir.
She didn’t have friends at work or school. Her roommate was very nice, but with busy schedules, they barely crossed paths in their waking hours. Acquaintances. There were people she could call for notes when she was sick, trade shifts with, send a meme to in the afternoon, but not much more.
She was making polite small talk with an English 101, and now English 102, classmate who lived in her building, in the shared dorm kitchen when they asked, “Hey, y’know that author panel thing we can go to for extra credit? Do you wanna like, come with me?”
Lalia looked around as if they could be talking to someone else. Sawyer. Nineteen. Nonbinary. Long half undercut, currently purple, green last semester. Deathly Hallows tattoo. Glasses. Kinda bossy. Talked a lot in class, on subject. (She had, maybe, half of a type.) “Ah, yeah, sure, that’d be—yeah. Did you wanna meet up before, somewhere, or there, or…?”
“Yeah, let’s do dinner at the pizza place that’s in that shopping center first? At five."
“I. Yeah. Sounds great.”
“Cool.”
The night out was fine, casual. They texted a lot after, at first about the panel, and then about anything else. They started hanging out without school excuses. They started holding hands. Cuddling. Falling asleep together. Kissing. They talked about it before they got much further, had the whole consent conversation, the STD questions, labels, monogamy, all that.
“All right,” said Sawyer as they trailed off from agreeing to be conventionally monogamous into a bit of philosophy, “so what weird shit are you into?”
“I.”
“Come on. I love it when you’re all blushy and shy but it’s gotta be hiding some fucked up kinks.”
“I…”
“Obviously, you’re a bottom. For what?”
“Ah, I, well—it’s—I’ve never really—I mean—I guess I have—it’s not—”
“Well, we know you’re not a virgin. So what'd you get up to with that one boy?"
Well, that was a much easier starting place than what weird shit are you into, so she talked about what she'd done with Tyler. It was easy to talk from there about what she wanted that they hadn't done. Noting that none of it was something she required (she was trying to tell herself that; she had a chance of being normal) but…
Sawyer had a tiny bit more experience in the play stuff. They introduced her to more impact, electricity—they had a neon wand, a fan themselves—and light bondage, tape that only stuck to itself, or leather cuffs, mostly. The idea of wax play, though it was messy for the small spaces of dorms and they didn’t do it. Lalia played with it a little herself, thought it felt nice, but was definitely lacking at least when done on her own. When they played with temperature, they kept it to ice. Condoms filled with water and frozen became ice dildos to be used with ice cubes and chilled metal clamps. Abrasion, nails and a Wartenberg wheel. Rubber bands to snap on skin or wrap around nipples as clamps. Sensation, pain. Impact struck a real chord, but what she liked best was actually what they built between them with words.
Even when the sex was otherwise pretty vanilla looking, she needed to nicely ask permission to come, she called Sawyer sir, and she needed to thank them when they said yes. It wasn’t much, but it was a direction she wanted to go.
When they weren’t fucking, she probed the waters on other things. Sat on the floor while Sawyer sat on the bed when they did homework together. Threw in a, “Yes, sir,” or two when they were alone. Phrased questions as permission requests. Made a point to handle the food when they ate together, clean up after their play, bring them something to drink, make the bed when they woke, tidy up their dorm a little. Was a little overly polite and deferential, apologized when she wasn’t. Sawyer didn’t really react to these things, or would roll their eyes, or ask what she was doing, or just turn it into sex, in the right mood.
She became very aware of how badly she wanted the rest of it, and for Sawyer to understand.
And Sawyer tried to understand, and indulged her a little. Gave little rules. She could greet them with a beverage ready when they came over; little things.
She knew she'd gotten pushier about it with time, in the counterintuitive way of trying to ease someone into a dominant role they didn't want to be in, and losing patience. She wanted to give Sawyer control, and knew better than to go, You’re not using it properly, because that wasn’t real control, but she felt strongly the, You’re barely using it at all. They did, just in such little ways she barely felt it. Whenever she'd truly wanted something, she'd wanted it strongly and completely and insatiably and this was just the same. Little touches of control, or only in bed, or limited control, were just not enough.
She came without permission once, quite by accident. Sawyer was the sort of sadist who liked to tease and tease and tell her no and tonight, they pushed too far. Lalia’s body betrayed her despite her best efforts. And while it was a helpless accident, she apologized profusely, but all Sawyer did was brush her off. It wasn’t on purpose. Let it go. But she felt guilty, and let it go didn’t fix it.
And she understood the point of not punishing for accidents—it could be a messy line to define, but…
But she felt like accident hadn’t been the issue.
One busy day, in the chaos of settling in from work moments before Sawyer arrived, she forgot greeting them with a drink. She remembered, got them one within minutes of their arrival, and apologized, but was greeted with a blank look.
“You… made the rule that I have a drink ready for you when you get here? Sir?”
“Oh; oh, yeah. That. I forgot, too. Don’t worry about it.”
“How'd you forget?” It came out a little accusing. She felt more like she'd been forgotten than the rule had. Would've understood if Sawyer threw it back at her.
“Well, you usually just do it. So I don’t really think about it.”
Well, yes, normally she did her job. She didn’t need it to be constantly noticed, but at least missed in its absence? She felt like Sawyer wasn’t doing their part.
They broke up most of a year in, and it was a long time coming. No big blow up, but a painful admittance that it hadn't been working for some time. Sawyer’s doing. There was the power exchange issue and a few minor others.
Lalia'd stopped calling her parents back sophomore year, answered in texts. She was getting a little better, at least, about admitting when things just weren’t working, moped for a while, but didn’t try to fix it.
There were a few flings with girls after that. None went very far, but were pleasant if shallow while they lasted. Her final semester brought too much chaos to consider dating. And besides… she told herself she was unlikely to find what she wanted without actually poking her head into the BDSM scene. She had a FetLife—even Sawyer had—and she’d poked around online, but… she’d have to take a deep breath and suck it up and go in person. After graduation, she told herself. If she could make it through college, she could make it through a munch, and she’d actually have the time to talk to people instead of doing homework under the table like she did at work.
She read a lot, studied skills, practiced certain things on her own. If she was going to go seeking something, she should make herself more appealing a prospect. She liked to be the best at things.
And she got to a munch, heart pounding, hands shaking. At the first one, she saw how normal it all was. It was just a few tables pushed together on a sunny Starbucks patio and normal people talking about work and their kids and their dogs, and sometimes scenes they’d done at a play party recently or ones they wanted to. Asking if anyone else was going to a flogging class coming up. Debating which kink groups in town to try out and which to avoid. Was that one place too swingery, or actually kink friendly? What was it called? Temptation?
Everyone was welcoming and quick to reassure her that munches were no big deal and draw her into conversations; someone even offered her a ride for another munch coming up, which she accepted. She could do this again.
After that second munch, gaining bravery, she even set out for that one debated venue alone. Temptation. It was just a venue, not an event, so she could keep to herself, stand around, watch, get a feel for it, just… see what came of an actual kink friendly environment not housed in a vanilla setting. Let some tendencies out more than subtly. But try to blend in.
“You’re new.”
Well, so much for that.
“Relatively.” A bristle of wondering what'd given her away. And not wanting to wave a classic flag of the vulnerable I’m young and inexperienced and submissive and don’t know what I’m doing.
“First time at Temptation?” Offering her a chance of an answer vague enough to imply she wasn’t totally new, without actually lying.
“Yes, ma’am." She would've liked to say the words were instinct, slipped off her tongue, but it was a bit more careful than that. Titles unbidden were often a bad idea in the scene, but the observation had told her that this case might be okay. Whether she thought about it or not, once the words were out of her mouth, they felt right.
They felt right then, and every time after.