The Primal Actor/Musician (Part 1)

I watched his adept fingertips dance down the fret-board in minor chords as my blood dried on his knuckles. I was lost in his ominous melody when I heard him whisper my name and say, “Look at me. Look me in the eyes.”

He was insistent. I stared at him hollowly as his harmonies permeated through the room and enveloped us in the same way the weed had done just moments before.

He played in drop D and he didn’t blink when his eyes were set in mine. He was charming the dark, depraved snake right out of my soul and he knew it. “I am going to break you,” he said, our eyes never wavering.

“I dare you.” I snarled, fire dancing behind my eyes. Wicked was hardly the word for what had just passed between us and wicked would pale in comparison to what was about to unfold.


We met on Tinder of all places and spoke candidly of our needs.  He asked me what I expected to discover and the conversation flowed as follows:

Minx: I like to learn something from every person I engage with.  I prefer a deep connection that flourishes into something meaningful even if it isn’t life-long.  You?

Primal: Knowing I really connected with them.  Some might look into kink to detach, but I’m the opposite.  Sex is great, but having a wonderful memory is just as important.  It would be fun seeing you submit.

Minx: Speaking of submission, what is your preference?

Primal: I like genuine.  If you were a brat, you would have been bratty by now.  Instead, you have been inquisitive and logical.  That is more fun.

Minx:  I tend to feel out a sexual situation and follow his lead.  I push a little and if he likes it, I push harder.  Part of the fun is the learning and observing.  The listening for the caught breath and low growl.  And you’re right.  I suck at bratty.  I don’t have the emotional capacity for pretending I am insecure.

Primal: Text me.

In conversation I found that he was much like I am.  We did not obsess over one another.  Our conversations were often brief and to the point.  The holidays kept us apart as he called another state home, but we kept in touch between November and January.   Sometime in December we had a phone session and it was then that I knew he would likely be able to give me what I needed.  Ultimately, that was what we both wanted– a moment in time that was purely ours and nothing more.

He played bass in a musical show that captured a certain event that occurred in 1956.  I got a half-price ticket for the Friday showing at the dinner theater.

Minx.  Table for one.

He requested I wear a corset, so I donned my black corset and thigh-highs beneath a black dress.  The plan was for me to watch the show and meet him in the lobby afterwards. I cannot express to you how thrilling it was to watch a stranger I knew I was to be in bed with hours from that moment–to learn a part of him before ever knowing his touch.

I was in my element at that point.  Sitting at the table, listening to familiar music, watching his fingers glide down the neck of the bass, I imagined them on my own neck.  The tension was building in my chest as the stage darkened for intermission.

I spent the second half of the show in a daze, watching only him.  He had asked for something very specific from me and in order to give him that, I had to put my mind in unfamiliar territory and focus.

Two days before we were to meet, we exchanged more messages than we had in two months and one of his messages contained a truth I could relate to all too well:

Primal: I want the romance I can’t seem to afford, but want and need to throw myself into.

Romance.  That is not my strong suit, but my aim is always to please and I knew then that I would find a way to give him the romance and carnal desire he needed.   That is just what I do.

As the curtains finally closed after the encore, I could hardly contain myself.  Excited was not the word for that moment.  I had no idea what to expect from this stranger.  Looking back, I did not once consider that perhaps going to a hotel in a town an hour away from home with a complete stranger was a bad idea– no one knew where I was going and even if someone had, they could do nothing to save me anyway.  That very well may have been half the fun; plus, I never need saving.

I waited for him in the lobby as he instructed and mindlessly scrolled through my fetlife feed.  My lip was already almost raw from chewing on it in waiting for him to get to me.  He warned me he would be in leather and he was.

When you want to give someone romance, you have to feel it.  You must be in that head space in order to be anything close to believable.  He made it easy and I allowed time to slow as I watched him come toward me.

He walked in like Jonny “2 Bags” Wickersham, with metal in his ears and fire in his eyes.  Our first embrace was brief, but I let the moment stand still in my soul.  We laughed as our nerves eased on the way to my car and he ran his fingers through my hair when I sat down next to him.  I looked at him and smiled awkwardly, because that’s what these sorts of men like: innocent prey.


He sat on the corner of the bed and pulled me to him, his cheek against my stomach.  He kissed  the fabric of my dress and looked up at me.

“Kneel.” he said, not taking his eyes off of me.

I obeyed.

“Kiss me.” he commanded and kiss him I did.  Slow, tender, full of emotion.  As the kiss broke I grabbed his bottom lip with my teeth gently and tugged.  His caught breath made mine do the same.

“May I  give you a massage, please?” I asked quietly, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose.  “Clothes, on.  We have all night to remove them.”

“You’re adorable.  You may,” he smiled, scooting back onto the bed and rolling onto his stomach.

His body was hard and tense.  He was a strong man.  I could feel every muscle in his back and shoulders.  I dug my fingers and the heels of my hands in deeply.  Every sigh and moan that escaped his lips only served to push me deeper into what I like to call my “slave space”.  Sub space is typically induced by pain or passion.  My slave space is induced my an inherent need for servitude.  I’ll expand on that in another post.

My fingers dragged up and down his skin under his shirt and I watched the tide of goosebumps come in and out of the depths of his need onto his skin.  40 minutes passed and I did not move from straddling him and worshiping his body with my hands.  He slowly rolled over and finally spoke again.

“Kiss me again,” he whispered, and I did, with the same passion and emotion as I had the first time.

“Follow me,” he said climbing off the bed and into the arm chair next to his side table.  He stood and grabbed my hand, gently pulling me off of the bed. I sucked my lower lip behind my top teeth and looked at him through my glasses innocently, as if I had no idea what his intentions were.

I always know what their intentions are.


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