D/s without D/s or . . . ?

I reluctantly use a meaningless title to express my discomfort with the established vocabulary. Really it testifies to my inability to capture the nuances and particularities of that evening.

Using dancing as the metaphor: in physical love I’ve normally taken the lead with my partners, a familiar path to pleasing the other. As a gay man I’d liked boys whose seductions and tongue were aggressive. But after a certain stage I was - to use an abandoned term - butch.

We’d been making out for hours. I wouldn’t say either of us was leading. Suddenly she was. A couple of people had done that before. Outside my accustomed role I was lost without my map. After an instance’s surprise I followed and we flowed on together.

I don’t take notes while making love; fragments survive without clear transitions.

…

We’d been standing holding each other when she took off my t-shirt there was a flicker of wonder if she were wanting to transition to role-play. No, just to touch my skin. I bent and licked her bellybutton. I’m almost knelt but didn’t want seem to be giving a signal of my own.

…

As she lay on the couch I caressed her legs and boots. She lifted her boots. I began to lick them. Hoping to help her relax the night she came back I’d licked and massaged her feet. Now I was happily, hungrily lost. We held hand the whole time. It had been so long. A few times she pushed a sole against my face but gently.

. . .

She called me a “good boy.” Briefly I wondered if we’d assumed roles. Not much later “slave.” I assumed we had. She doesn’t remember saying that. Being drunk with her boots I may have misheard.

. . .

She took me to my knees; again I licked her boots. Then while on my belly. She said I was like “putty.”

. . .

My least clear recollection is of resting my head on her knees. Before or only at the end isn’t clear.

. . .

Warning signals from my back told us to stop. It took me a bit for my mind to reconnect to my nervous system. Controlling my body without her direction seemed demanding and unfamiliar.

. . .

I never entered the slave trance, that wasn’t the goal. Nor did I ever feel submissive. It may seem like a distinction without a difference but my volition vanished without me ever entering ‘submissive space.’ The traditional descriptions don’t match where my heart went.

Not that she couldn’t have done whatever she wanted with me.

What if she’d become harsh? Or used pain, if only mild?

It might’ve been thrilling. And completely wrong.

If it had become a more dramatic performance I would never again be able recapture the special mood of that night. An undiscovered range of erotic response would’ve been lost.

There’s plenty of time for variations should they be wanted.

I’ve said I didn’t feel slavish or submissive but that I couldn’t have done anything other than comply with her direction.

Call it “putty space.”