POWER SURGE

A. Zimmerman

I first saw him manning the public pool lifeguard station. His back was to me. Half a forearm, one hand, a section of back, a shaved head, the occasional glimpse of leg—parts, not a person—yet I was riveted. Slouching low in a chair, I left my sunglasses on to hide my staring.

When his shift ended he swung to the ground, his lanky stride carrying him rapidly past me. Both nipples were pierced and a brilliant collage of tattoos scrolled down his arms, the artwork as impressive as the man.

Through the grapevine I learned he was engaged and so ignored him with mild success. I had shelved the idea of “Mr. Right,” focusing on “Right Now,” sometimes even “You’ll Do.” I was not going to contemplate “Already Taken.”

The end of his engagement started our friendship. We fell into long, intimate phone conversations and platonic weekends away, weeks turning into month and months into years. At one point I found myself explaining power relationships and me being submissive. In turn, he admitted lovers of both sexes had mentioned finding him naturally dominant. I silently agreed; more than once over the years I had caught myself automatically doing his bidding.

A few months after our initial power conversation, the topic came up again at my house. This time I leaned toward him in a way I had never allowed before. He angled to me while explaining he found BDSM interesting and felt he needed to experience power to properly wield it. On a fact-finding mission to learn by doing, he would put himself in my more experienced, albeit submissive, hands.

Although caught by surprise, there was no question I would do it. How could I not? Using my favorite memories as guides, I sent him to my room with instructions, then wandered the house collecting a range of objects. My mind filled with plans, I entered the bedroom with a question.

“Scale of one to ten. Anxiety?”

“Five.”

As instructed, he was lying on the bed wearing the blindfold from the nightstand drawer and had stripped to briefs. The array of bedside candles was lit. One lavender, for relaxation. One apple, to release anxiety. And a scent-free paraffin taper, in case things got interesting. Dropping my armload of stuff, I watched him fidget, lacing and unlacing his fingers while crossing and uncrossing his ankles. Knowing this was a mind game, I waited for him to break the silence. It didn’t take long.

“Do you like looking at me?”

“Why?”

“I like knowing people like my body. Do you—”

“Not relevant.”

Sure, I liked looking. End of discussion. This was about him, not me. I focused on the situation at hand and facts to be established.

“Safewords?” I inquired.

“Yellow and red.”

“Meaning?”

“Yellow slow down, red stop.”

Okay. He understood. A pair of tights was wrapped around the leg of the headboard, slipknot loops tied into the ends to create soft restraints. Showing him how to get himself free of the light bondage, I took a deep breath and secured his arms over his head.

He woofed in surprise as a bed pillow landed on his head. I dropped another on his chest, followed by several smaller pillows on his arms and groin. I randomly hit him with pillows, making him flinch repeatedly as blows landed from different directions with varying force, creating a mild sensory overload.

“Why pillows?”

“No talking,” I reminded him. “Brief answers or safewords only.”

“Can I ask what’s next?”

He was pushing my authority exactly the way I pushed people. What went around was coming around. How annoying.

“No.”

“Will you talk me through—”

“No talking.”

“But—”

“Are you talking?”

“Sorry, no.”

His hands clenched. I tossed a pillow over them, acknowledging I had seen his reaction but was ignoring it. I continued bludgeoning him, being careful not to create a rhythm.

“My fingers are cold,” he announced, startling me.

It had been twenty-five minutes. I had been in his position with those restraints for upward of four hours before becoming uncomfortable. Checking, I discovered his hands were icy. He must have been channeling tension up through his arms, flexing and making the slipknots tighten.

Inexperienced, I had missed it. Clearly the power of bondage was balanced perfectly by the risks. I had to focus. Power wasn’t as much about being in charge as it was about caring for someone else. I had to be more careful.

“Shake it out,” I advised, releasing him. “When you feel warm, arms to your sides.”

I fluffed a nylon feather duster until he let his arms fall to the mattress. His hands twitched as I danced the duster over him.

“You can hold on to the bed,” I offered.

His arms shot out, his fingers curling around the edges of the mattress until his knuckles went white. Both his nipples were hard enough to lift the rings off his chest and there was a definite bulge between his legs. I tapped his erection, then tapped between his tense thighs. He ignored the nonverbal cues, forcing me to speak.

“Spread.”

As he settled into the more vulnerable spread-eagled position, I tried to slide his briefs lower using the duster and failed.

“Count to fifty. By forty-nine, briefs are gone.”

His lips moved as he counted under his breath.

“…Twenty-eight…twenty-nine…”

He pulled his briefs off and flopped back, displaying a porn-star worthy erection. Of course. If we weren’t having a platonic relationship he would have had a pencil dick. So not fair.

Abandoning the duster, I hooked one of the tines of a serving fork through a nipple ring, tugging to make him moan. Doing the same to the other ring made his cock jerk. Tracing loops down his stomach made his head tip back. His spine arched and he dug his heels into the mattress. A guttural groan rumbled his chest as goose bumps danced over his skin. When I reached the base of his cock, his erection jumped and he groaned again, thrusting toward the kitchen-utensil-turned-sex-toy.

“Harder,” he murmured. “Please…”

Adrenaline surged through me. Sex was fun. But this? This was wildly different. This wasn’t about me; this was about what I could do, about him begging for me to do it. The power was impressive, more enticing than I anticipated. My hands started shaking.

Selecting a spatula, I used the flat surface to knock his cock downward. A smack to the underside drove it against his stomach. A few more strikes had it swaying. He thrust his hips up for more. I flattened his balls with a snap of the spatula.

“Damn!” he cursed, his ass crashing to the bed in self-defense.

Then he smiled.

My attraction roared, heart pounding, body flushing, palms sweating; I wanted to kiss him, to taste him, to have him inside me. We hadn’t talked about sex, only the foreplay of bondage and toys. I had to stop.

“Should you come?” I wondered.

“Please,” came his strangled response.

Lifting his hand, I kissed the palm, then wrapped his fingers around his cock.

“For me,” I instructed, and his hand began to move.