Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, BDSM, MaleDom, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Size, Teacher BDSM sex story.
Desc: BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 1 - An open letter to Dear Tutor, in which a would-be submissive begins to open her heart and share her secrets (both real and imagined) with her mentor.
My Dear Tutor:
You've told me that you wish to know me, my secret desires, my innermost passions. The easiest way to begin this journey is to tell you of one of the seminal passages in my life. This by no means represents the sum total of my fantasy world, but in effect represents my awakening and the beginnings of acceptance. I present it here in an effort to open myself to you so that you may know who I really am.
His name was Georges. When we first met, he was more than 25 years my senior. This was of no account to me since we were mere acquaintances and for my part there was no romantic intent. Georges came to work at the farm where I was employed at the time, taking a much- needed sabbatical from my usual vocation. He was a terrific conversationalist with many interesting stories from his native France, and had a wicked sense of humor. We soon became fairly close as I came to realize he was also an intent listener, often offering support and sage advice when needed most.
It was during this period of time that I was gaining the necessary resolve to ask my then spouse for a divorce. Although I wanted this more than anything, it was with great trepidation that I made the final break. How would I support myself with a large mortgage and rising taxes that were threatening to break me? I already had a full-time job, a second job on the weekend, and a business on the side; there was no more time or energy to give. In the end, it didn't matter... I had to end this.
On the day my spouse moved out, Georges insisted we celebrate with a fancy dinner. I felt like a young woman again, dressing up, having a man call at the door, all the stress of the past years flowing away. When he returned me to my home, he left with a chaste kiss on the cheek and a reassuring hug, admonishing me not to worry... c'est la vie.
During the following weeks, we shared confidences and an occasional informal meal. I told Georges about my life, and he, his. His wife had died 8 years previously, and although he was generally content, he was incredibly lonely. He made a suggestion which he reasoned could help us both... he loved to cook but hated to eat alone, and since I had almost no money for food, what if he made dinner for us at his home a few nights a week? Since his home was between our workplace and my house it would be both convenient and logical to accept, and so I agreed, with pleasure.
Our work was physically demanding, and although I was in great physical shape, I must have overdone it one day and ended up being unable to get out of bed the next morning. Georges called midday to find out how I was and I told him of the back spasms I was having. He stopped by after work and offered a massage to ease the muscles, which I immediately declined. His insistence and the pain finally wore me down, and finally I agreed.
He helped me roll over onto my stomach and began to gently knead my lower back. It felt so damned good, I must have moaned with pleasure. He laughed quietly and told me it'd been a long time since he'd made a woman moan. At that, I smiled and allowed myself to relax. After a few moments, he slid onto the bed and straddled my hips to more easily work his magic; I became aware of his rapid breathing and his erection pressing into the soft flesh of my buttocks. "Please," he breathed, "just let me touch you." He promised he only wanted to make me feel good, and that he would stop if I told him to do so.
What followed seems tame in retrospect. For me it was gloriously erotic, intensely pleasurable, as he brought me to three shattering orgasms over the next hour using only his hands and his mouth. I must have fallen asleep before he left, and awoke the next morning with very mixed feelings, as you might expect. Did I want it to happen again? You bet! Was I embarrassed? Absolutely.
I felt very uncomfortable knowing I'd have to face him at work that day, and spent the morning carefully avoiding any opportunity for Georges to speak to me privately. "This is ridiculous," I thought. Might as well give into the inevitable and face what had happened. That evening I went to his home for dinner, and we talked it out. When everything had been said, I asked him one final question. "Georges, as aroused as I was last night, why didn't you try to enter me? You must have known I wouldn't have stopped you." He sat quietly for a few moments as I watched his expression sadden, and then began to tell me that it had been quite a few years since he'd been able to attain a full erection. Tears filled my eyes as I realized how painfully embarrassed he was at the admission I'd forced from him. I think my distress made him feel even worse, and he came around the table and took me in his arms, begging me not to cry. He explained that he'd learned to live with it, and then assured me that even though he would be unable to satisfy me in the 'normal' way, last night had given him tremendous pleasure nonetheless. It had made him feel like a man again, and to him this was worth anything he might miss in the process.
I suppose his words sounded convincing enough, but did nothing to alleviate the crushing guilt I felt at taking pleasure at his expense. I resolved to try whatever I could to allow him to experience that ultimate pleasure, and although I was able to bring him close, he could never seem to get quite close enough. I truly did feel love for this man, and knew he could tell I was miserable at being what I thought of as selfish. He would chide me softly, reminding me of the joy I brought into his life simply by being there; that he was no longer so alone. Still, I wondered, was there nothing I could do? I asked him to tell me of his fantasies; was there something he'd always imagined but never done? Perhaps my motivation was pride, but I do not think so. I wanted only to share myself completely with him, and would have done almost anything to help him. "No, not tonight," he told me. "We are both tired and emotionally wrung out. Let's talk about this some other time," he suggested.
Over the next few days, we both had other commitments; he with his son's upcoming wedding, I with my business. That weekend he took me out for dinner, and we returned to his home afterwards. After he helped me off with my coat in the entryway, he stood close behind me and put his arms around my waist. He told me he'd given a lot of thought to what I'd asked him a few days prior, and if I were willing, there was something he'd liked to experience. Without hesitation, I said yes. Taking me gently by the hand, he led me into the dining area, where there was a very large country-style table, perhaps 3' wide by 10' long. As I think of what happened, my body begins to tremble, for it was the night I began to truly know myself. Even now, I can remember each of his movements, can feel every touch as if it were still happening.
Georges began by slowly unbuttoning my blouse, then sliding it from my shoulders. Grasping me by the waist, he turned my back to him and unzipped my skirt, letting it fall around my feet. As is my habit, I wear no undergarments, but I had put on a delicate cream-colored garter belt and stockings. These he left as he softly ran his hands over my skin, down my hips and bent slightly to remove my heels. His hands on my shoulders, he gently guided me to the table, and with slight pressure bade me lie back upon it. Grasping my hips, he pulled slowly until only my hips and back were still resting on the table. What he did next surprised me, though I can't say it was completely unexpected. Reaching towards a chair pushed under the long edge of the table, he retrieved a short length of rope, using it to bind my left leg to the leg of the table. He repeated this process with my right leg. Lifting my upper body, I shot him an enquiring look. I wasn't afraid; far from it. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as he walked to the head of the table and grasped my hands, my eyes following his every move. With a longer rope, he tied my hands rather tightly, raised them above my head and used the end of the rope to secure it to something at the top of the table.
"So," I wondered, "where do we go from here?" Tied down, spread widely, nearly naked, there was no question we'd go wherever he wanted. Even though he was still fully clothed, it was impossible to hide his arousal, easy to see the bulge at the front of his trousers, his rapid breathing. "Georges, please, you're making me uncomfortable. Please, at least take off your clothing," I asked. "Soon enough," he replied. With that, he began.
My Dear Tutor, I will stop the narrative at this point, and continue at a later date. Be assured that everything I have written here so far, and the ending when it comes, is as true as my memory can make it. Its' telling brings me both joy and pain, and at some points I feel myself blush still. I sometimes wonder if Georges is still alive, for this was a few years ago and he was old even then. I have not heard from him in over 2 years, so I do not know, but I hope so. I think you can guess fairly well how the remainder of that night went, although you cannot know how thoroughly it changed my thoughts and my life.