Benjamin’s door buzzer. I’d been waiting there in the foyer of his brownstone for ten minutes because I didn’t want to risk being late—or a moment too soon, either. The door buzzed in response. I pulled it open and walked inside, my heart pounding. A year ago, I had no idea who he was, had never heard the name. But a year ago I barely knew who I was, or what I needed. I’d come a long way since then, racked up a lot of experiences with some very talented topmen, and a few with other bottoms, too. I’d thrown myself into the S/M scene several years earlier, in my mid-twenties, with the eagerness of the newly converted, and the more I tried, the more I wanted. The feelings that flooded through me at the beginning of a scene, those first moments when I knelt in submission, or offered my wrists to be cuffed, were so exhilarating, so fulfilling, that they were almost enough to make up for the typical let-down at the end, after I’d been tormented, fucked, and allowed to come, then released from bondage.
