Insecurties

.I met Sly at Denver Sanctuary, and despite everything we’d already explored together, I was nervous.

Not because of the dungeon itself, or even the impact play. It had been a long time since my ass had taken that kind of attention, but bruises heal.

What unsettled me was knowing he wanted me barely clothed.

I spent far too long wandering lingerie aisles, searching for something that felt like armor disguised as lace. He likes pink, so I bought a matching bra and panty set. The bra was a band size too small, but it pushed everything into place and made my breasts look incredible. I slipped into fishnets, grateful for the waistband that hid the part of my stomach I’ve spent years trying to make peace with. Over everything, I buttoned a sheer black blouse that fell just low enough to cover my ass. A red velvet skirt completed the outfit—respectable enough for the walk from the van before it all came off.

I hoped he’d notice.

Not because I needed some grand declaration or movie-worthy compliment, but because I’d spent hours trying to feel beautiful. Trying to feel worthy of being looked at.

Compliments about my appearance rarely come from him.

It’s funny because, even this early in our dynamic, he gives me so many things I didn’t know I’d been missing. He makes me feel safe enough to surrender, challenged enough to grow, and understood in places that have nothing to do with my body. Yet decades of insecurity don’t disappear simply because someone earns your trust.

A few days earlier, while we were on a casual date at the Viewhouse getting to know each other. I’d quietly asked if he found me attractive.

There was the briefest pause.

“I think you’re cute.”

He quickly followed with everything he genuinely appreciated about me—that he loved my laugh, enjoyed my company, that I was fun to be around. None of it felt forced. I believed every word.

But my heart had already settled into that tiny silence before cute.

It’s remarkable how efficiently an insecure mind can write an entire story in the space between two sentences.

Kink is a peculiar thing. Finding someone whose desires intertwine with your own can feel like discovering a hidden door in a city built entirely of brick walls. Once you find that person, you’d think appearances wouldn’t matter nearly as much.

At least they shouldn’t.

The rational part of me knows attraction is only one thread in intimacy. Trust. Curiosity. Vulnerability. Shared fantasies. Laughter. Those are the things that make a dynamic worth building.

The irrational part still whispers that maybe I won’t be enough.

Maybe that’s the real thing I was bringing into the dungeon that night.

Not the lingerie.

Not the fishnets.

Not the fear of pain.

Just old wounds dressed in pink lace.

We chose an X mounted to the wall, nestled between two scenes already unfolding. The room buzzed with quiet conversations, muffled laughter, the occasional crack of leather against skin. It somehow felt both public and deeply private.

I unbuttoned my blouse while Sly unpacked his bag.

I barely noticed what he was laying out. Floggers. Paddles. Leather slappers.

My attention was entirely consumed by the fact that people could see me.

Standing there in my lingerie, I suddenly had no idea what to do with my hands. I wanted to put my shirt back on, button it back up, disappear into the bathroom, maybe even leave through the purple door and never come back.

Instead, I stood still while he methodically arranged each implement beside us.

I’d been looking forward to this all week. I knew what to expect and he had reassured me that he would right there with me the entire time.

He fastened soft burgundy leather cuffs around my wrists before securing them to the wooden X. Then he settled a pink leather blindfold over my eyes.

The moment the blindfold covered my eyes, the room disappeared.

I could still hear people around us, but they stopped existing.

There was only him.

He began gently.

A few light swats became firmer ones, alternating between different floggers and paddles. Between strikes he’d rest a hand against me or lean close enough for me to feel his breath.

“Good doll.”

“Good girl.”

Every so often he’d wrap both arms around me from behind, pulling me firmly against his chest before letting me go again. Those brief embraces quieted every anxious thought more effectively than the blindfold ever could.

I realized something unexpected during the scene.

The impact wasn’t the difficult part.

My own thoughts were.

While he experimented with different implements, I was busy wondering what I looked like from behind. I kept arching my back, pushing my hips out a little farther, trying not to let my stomach relax against the wood.

It was exhausting.

Then he’d hold me again.

His warmth would settle against my back.

“Good girl.”

And for a few precious seconds, the noise in my head would stop.

The pain itself wasn’t particularly intense. A few strikes surprised me enough to earn a squeak or sharp yelp, but mostly it was simply…present.

After the warm-up, he snapped his fingers beside my right ear.

Almost immediately, I felt something soften inside me.

I wouldn’t call it a deep trance, but it was enough. My grip loosened on the hardware. My shoulders relaxed. My breathing slowed. The outside world faded another step farther away.

He deepened the sensations before continuing the scene, and somewhere in the haze I vaguely remember being instructed to edge.

Then came the toy he’d warned me about.

Long strips of leather.

Sharp.

Stinging.

He built anticipation before delivering a hard swat across both cheeks.

He leaned close.

“Just two more, okay?”

I nodded.

The second earned another involuntary yelp.

So did the third.

Then he quietly announced we were finished. I asked why already wanting more and he announced he wasn’t done playing with my head.

He carefully supported my arm as he released one wrist, making sure it didn’t simply fall. Then the other.

Instead of stepping away, he wrapped both arms around me from behind.

I melted.

Before I quite realized what he was doing, he’d guided each of my arms back through the sleeves of my sheer blouse. Still holding me close, he gently closed it over my bra, covering me before removing the blindfold. I felt so safe and secure in that moment feeling like I had made him proud.

That small gesture stayed with me more than anything else.

He knew exactly when I needed to feel exposed.

He also knew when I needed to feel covered again.

By the time we walked away from the cross, I cared far less that my sheer shirt revealed flashes of pink underneath.

I was floating and in a happy subspace.

He collapsed onto a beanbag and pulled me over him.

Then he pulled me back into trance.

Curled against him, I felt his fingers snap before the quiet command to sleep. My body softened almost instantly, my head falling forward as he caught me and guided me deeper.

I’m getting better at trance.

Or maybe I’m just getting better at allowing it.

There’s still a voice in my head insisting I’m doing it wrong. That I’m pretending. That everyone else sinks deeper than I do.

But maybe that’s what learning looks like.

Maybe every subject starts by choosing to lean into it before their subconscious learns how.

Later, he described pulling an imaginary string on my back. As his hands moved down my back, he’d release the string and told me whenever I did I would answer, “Good doll.”

Eventually he suggested I wouldn’t remember.

That possibility fascinates me.

The idea that my mind could someday simply…accept the suggestion.

It’s thrilling.

It’s terrifying.

Mostly, it makes me wonder if I’ll ever get there.

Or if some stubborn, hypervigilant part of me will always stand guard, convinced letting go completely isn’t safe.

Looking back, I don’t think the hardest part of the evening was standing nearly naked in a dungeon.

It was standing there with every old insecurity beside me.

Four weeks ago, I never would have guessed one message could lead me here. To someone who wants to guide me this deeply. Someone who talks about making me his someday. Someone I genuinely feel safe trusting.

And still my old habits refuse to leave quietly.

I’m constantly afraid I’ll say the wrong thing.

That I’ll disappoint him.

That my mind won’t be interesting enough to hypnotize.

That once he sees every inch of me without fishnets, velvet, or carefully chosen lingerie, he’ll decide I’m not what he imagined.

Fear has always been louder than evidence.

The evidence says he keeps showing up.

The fear insists that could change at any moment.

Trust, I’ve realized, isn’t just believing someone else won’t drop you.

It’s believing you don’t have to spend every waking moment preparing for the fall.

I’ve already jumped.

Now comes the hardest part.

Learning to believe he’ll still be there when I land.