I Know a Little German: He’s Right Over There

How I learned to mind my Sitzpinkelts and Q’s.

"Sehr lustig, Arschloch."


Here’s a sneak peek at my upcom­ing book Leather. Wince. Repeat.

When I vis­it­ed Pavlovia Den­ver and met Sask­ia and Vylette for my first-ever BDSM ses­sion, I arrived ear­ly — but instead of wait­ing for the cor­rect time, I was forced to knock on the door ear­ly because I fol­lowed Sask­i­a’s order to get hydrat­ed a lit­tle too enthu­si­as­ti­cal­ly and need­ed to pee. This chap­ter starts right after I met Sask­ia at the door.

I can use the bath­room and go back out­side and wait if you want,” I said, fol­low­ing Sask­ia up the stairs.

Don’t be sil­li­er,” she said over her shoul­der. “Bathroom’s to the left. Make sure you sit down when you use it and wash up, ’k?”

I scam­pered off to the loo for my dirt-cheap dirty deed. Whew.

When I exit­ed the bath­room Sask­ia was wait­ing for me. She had been joined by a slen­der lit­tle waif with wavy red hair and warm hazel eyes, wear­ing a T‑shirt and jeans. She could have been Cosette — not Aman­da Seyfried, but the draw­ing of the orphan on the tra­di­tion­al Les Mis­érables poster,1 except she didn’t look all pathet­ic and sad. This must be Vylette, I thought.

All bet­ter?”

Yes, thank you.”

Excel­lent. Git nekkid.”

What?”

Eng­lish, moth­er­fuck­er,” Sask­ia said, her eyes danc­ing. “Do you speak it?”

Mur­phy butted in again.

You made her mad!

Nah; she’s teasing.

Smar­tass­hole™ joined the argument:

Make a Mar­cel­lus Wal­lace joke!2

What?

What?” What ain’t no coun­try I ever heard of!

What the HELL are you yam­mer­ing about?

She’s bald; she’s a bitch… he explained with exag­ger­at­ed patience.

You’re call­ing her a bitch? I shrieked in horror.

She sure as hell isn’t black!

He’s gonna get us all killed!

Chick­en­shit!

SHUT UP OR I’LL LOBOTOMIZE BOTH OF YOU!

I speak Eng­lish; sure,” I said. “I know a lit­tle Ger­man, too.”

Eh?”

Ich gesitzpinkelt,” I said, “und wusch mein hände.” 3 I wig­gled my damp fingers.

How’s that? I smirked.

That’ll do, Pig; that’ll do.

Saskia’s eye­brows climbed.

Uh… you know, sitzpin­kler?” Love­ly — I was mur­der­ing an already weak joke. “It’s Ger­man for…”

Ich weiß was es bedeutet,”4  Sask­ia inter­rupt­ed. She and Vylette trad­ed an amused glance.

Nice going, dum­b­ass. I told you to go with the Marcell—

Shut up again.

I like this one!” Sask­ia said, eye­ing me like a piece of cheese on a sam­ple platter.

Ooh yeah,” Vylette said, rub­bing her hands together.

Inter­est­ing. Sask­ia still had me off guard and flus­tered, but I was begin­ning to relax at the same time. Maybe the two weren’t exclusive.

So! Strip.” Sask­ia repeated.

Oh! Uh…” I said, with a vague Where should I go to strip? gesture.

Take. Off. Your. Clothes.” Vylette said, as if instruct­ing a kindergartner.

Trem­bling with embar­rass­ment and nerves, I stripped, tak­ing a quick look around at Saskia’s dungeon.

It was about a hun­dred feet long and forty feet wide, look­ing like a large loft apart­ment. The stairs end­ed on one long side at the far right. In front of the stairs was a casu­al scat­ter­ing of com­fy old sofas and chairs, with two side rooms open­ing from the short right wall.

On the left, dun­geon-type fur­nish­ings lined the walls: a tall, leather-cov­ered table with heavy ring bolts on both sides; two X‑shaped cross­es; a plat­form the size of a cot sus­pend­ed from a steel frame; an odd rack on one wall that looked like a standup den­tal X‑ray plat­form, but with no X‑Ray device on top.

Behind the dun­geon fur­ni­ture, every bondage or tor­ture device I’d ever heard of, and many I hadn’t, were sus­pend­ed from wall racks: whips, flog­gers, masks, gags, canes, coils of rope, hand­cuffs, leather restraints, leash­es, col­lars, hoods, chains, things with rub­ber hoses, things with elec­tri­cal cords  — much more than I could take in at a glance.

In the mid­dle was a kitchen, of all things, look­ing as nor­mal as you please. Well, the refrig­er­a­tor opened with a huge clear sil­i­cone dil­do suc­tion-cupped to the door, and the dish rack was full of what appeared to be penis-shaped ice cube trays. I didn’t see any bod­ies hang­ing from hooks or bowls made from skulls, though.

I fold­ed my jeans, laid them on the couch, put my tighty-whities on top, and turned to face Sask­ia and Vylette. My hands wan­dered around on their own accord, as if they want­ed to cov­er me up but knew it was use­less. Sask­ia and Vylette appraised me frankly; I had a sud­den flash of an auc­tion­eer bel­low­ing What am I bid for this pasty mid­dle-aged geek? Can I hear $20? $20? $20? Okay, $19! $19… and sup­pressed a hys­ter­i­cal giggle.

While I was dis­rob­ing, Sask­ia had pro­cured a large bun­dle of black leather from one of the wall racks; now she held it out as if prepar­ing to help me put on a coat.

It was an arm­binder. I stared, fas­ci­nat­ed, as she shook it out, straps dan­gling and buck­les clink­ing. I’d seen hun­dreds of pic­tures of arm­binders; this was the first time I’d ever seen one in per­son and I was about to be strapped into it.

Let’s get him in this and then I’ll leave you to it,” she said to Vylette; to me she said, “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.” I about-faced and crossed my wrists.

No; palms togeth­er.” I com­plied and felt the cone of leather slide over my hands and fore­arms, up to my elbows. Sask­ia reached around under my right arm, grabbed the shoul­der strap and flipped it up across my chest and over my left shoul­der. She buck­led it loose­ly to the back of the arm­binder, then repeat­ed the process in reverse on the oth­er side.

Now you can tight­en the shoul­der straps and the laces alter­nate­ly a lit­tle at a time,” she explained to Vylette, pulling the shoul­der strap buck­les a cou­ple of holes tighter on each side; the big leather cone inched up past my elbows. I felt my clasped hands touch the bot­tom of the cone.

It fits every­one a lit­tle dif­fer­ent­ly, depend­ing on how long their arms are and how broad their shoul­ders are,” she con­tin­ued. I heard laces slith­er­ing through grom­mets behind me and the leather cone shrank around my wrists and fore­arms, press­ing them togeth­er. “But you also have to look at how mus­cu­lar their back and shoul­ders are too. Most guys are too big for their elbows to touch in back.”

Like this, except with a much old­er and far less attrac­tive model.

Vylette mur­mured assent, help­ing tight­en the shoul­der straps fur­ther as Sask­ia kept snug­ging up the laces. My elbows pulled toward one anoth­er and my breath hissed out as the arm­binder drew even far­ther up my arms until it stopped about halfway up my biceps. The shoul­der straps mold­ed across my chest and my shoul­ders rose and pulled back as the arm­binder got even tighter, until I was stand­ing ram­rod straight with bet­ter pos­ture than a maître d’. Sask­ia was right: I was too big for my elbows to meet in back. But she got pret­ty damn close.

There we go,” Sask­ia said. I could feel her knot­ting the laces at the top and tuck­ing them inside. “All nice and neat. Now we just need to make sure the straps aren’t twist­ed,” she said, step­ping in front of me, “or rid­ing up too close to his neck and—” she broke off, look­ing down. “Someone’s enjoy­ing him­self already!”

Mr. Stu­pid­head was stand­ing at atten­tion like an Army recruit wait­ing for inspection.

I’ll say,” Vylette agreed, check­ing the shoul­der strap on the oth­er side. I blushed brick red, feel­ing my breath catch. For 30 years I’d fan­ta­sized about being tied up. Twen­ty min­utes ago I’d been sit­ting in my car; now I wear­ing one of the most elab­o­rate, restric­tive bondage devices in existence.

How does it feel?” Sask­ia said qui­et­ly, catch­ing my eye. “Think you could get out?”

I squirmed around a lit­tle — very lit­tle. The sen­sa­tion was breath­tak­ing. My arms were so tight­ly restrained behind me they felt as if they were cast in con­crete. I could roll my shoul­ders around a smidge, but from the elbows down I couldn’t so much as wig­gle my fingers.

Uh, no,” I said. “I’ve seen a zil­lion pho­tos of these things and I always won­dered if you could just pull one arm right up out of the top, but…”

But you’re not going any­where, are you?” Vylette fin­ished for me. I shook my head, still blush­ing violently.

He’s all yours,” Sask­ia said, ruf­fling my hair. “I’ll be in the office if you need any­thing.” She dis­ap­peared into one of the two rooms down at the end of the dungeon.

Sask­ia was right again: Vylette did have a wicked evil smile.

C’mere,” she said, hook­ing a fin­ger through one of the shoul­der straps on my chest and tug­ging me for­ward. I fol­lowed her and her wicked evil smile across the room to a leather-cov­ered bench, still mar­veling at the feel of the armbinder.

Okay; face­down on the bench,” Vylette said. I sat, scoot­ed back and turned—

No, wait. I stood back up, turned around and put one knee on the bench, then—

Hold it; that wasn’t going to work either. I strad­dled the bench and leaned forward—

Hel­LO! Mr. Stu­pid­head said. No squashee, please!

He decid­ed he didn’t feel like stand­ing at atten­tion any more and wilt­ed. I stood back up and tried sit­ting on one hip, then lean­ing sideways—

Nope.

If Vylette’s undom­i­na­trixy gig­gles were any indi­ca­tion, watch­ing me fig­ure out how to lie face­down on the bench was a riot. It would have been a lot eas­i­er even while wear­ing hand­cuffs; the arm­binder made it close to impossible.

At last I got sit­u­at­ed on the bench with­out crush­ing Mr. Stu­pid­head or falling on my oth­er one.

Stay,” Vylette said. “I’ll be back.”

I stayed, try­ing not to hyper­ven­ti­late. It was hap­pen­ing. It was hap­pen­ing for real. I was help­less, left alone to strug­gle and wait for what­ev­er wait­ed behind Vylette’s wicked evil smile. I wasn’t fas­tened to the bench, but even if I man­aged to get up with­out a prat­fall and get down the stairs before they caught me, I doubt­ed I could open the door.

I tried wrig­gling around in the arm­binder just for form’s sake, but my arms were weld­ed togeth­er. I could feel the leather against my back slid­ing around a few inch­es either way but oth­er than that I might as well have had no arms at all.

Being bound and nude made for an over­whelm­ing cock­tail of emo­tions: I want­ed to be untied; I want­ed stay tied up for­ev­er; I want­ed to go back to doing some­thing safe and nor­mal and bor­ing again; I couldn’t wait to see what would hap­pen next. I felt scared, excit­ed, vul­ner­a­ble, and embar­rassed, yet some­how lib­er­at­ed — empow­ered — all at once. I was doing it! After a life­time of hid­ing from myself, I was doing it.

I relaxed, let­ting it all cas­cade over me. For bet­ter or worse, I’d opened Pandora’s box and there was no clos­ing it again. Maybe I’d hate this; maybe I’d love it. But I would know.

Before long I dis­cov­ered that being left alone in strict bondage is, at the risk of sound­ing melo­dra­mat­ic, tran­scen­den­tal. You can’t fid­get; you can’t get dis­tract­ed by Face­book or a text mes­sage; you don’t lose a good train of thought by jump­ing up to rum­mage through the fridge. Life is full of triv­ial things that demand too much atten­tion; when you’re tied up you find your­self sequestered from all of them. It’s just you and your thoughts, and they run deep: Why are we here? What is the mean­ing of life, oth­er than the Mon­ty Python film? How do you unscrew the inscrutable? It’s a head­space every­one at least pre­tends to strive toward; like a lot of kinky folks I find bondage takes me there bet­ter than any­thing else.

Lost in this rare intro­spec­tion, I didn’t hear Vylette return­ing. A small hand ran through my hair, clamped down and yanked my head back with sur­pris­ing strength.

My eyes snapped open to see Vylette’s pen­e­trat­ing gaze, inch­es away. Her rose­bud lips were still cocked in that wicked evil smile. I don’t know if there real­ly is such a thing as a soul­gaze, but I felt as if a search­light had stabbed into me, expos­ing every­thing I’d ever tried to keep secret, even from myself.

The wicked evil smile relaxed for an instant; Vylette opened her mouth and spoke.

Ready?”

Footnotes

  1. I’ve always won­dered: Who is this Les, and why is he so miserable?
  2. Only Smar­tass­hole™ would be so evil as to speak in Com­ic Sans. 
  3. I sat down to pee and washed my hands,” which exhaust­ed my German.
  4. I know what it means.” Sask­ia, of course, is fluent.