It wasn't the first time I had kissed a girl but it was the first time I had been kissed by a woman. Soft and firm all at once. She felt so different to the men I usually kissed - they were rough, insistent, pushy. Men with all their endless wanting. This felt so different.

It was my first time at a fetish night and everything was exhilarating. The venue – a dark stone dungeon underground, walls wet with condensation, uneven cobbles underfoot. The insistent bass thump of industrial techno. So much flesh on show in the pulsing mass of people on the dance floor. The noise of impact play and the accompanying moans. My friends – my shiny new authentically kinky friends. I was giddy.

I’d come with a girl I’d met on the scene, one of the first people I’d really connected with. A somewhat predatory lesbian who never fucked me but took great pleasure in getting me stoned and silly, taking me with her to gallery openings and events, a pretty pet she’d show off but wouldn’t let on the furniture. She got me involved in photoshoots where we would be naked together, she took me to parties and delighted in getting me involved in debauched situations I wouldn’t have had the courage to face alone, but we never went further than that. Latterly I started dating a man and she was hurt in a way that at the time I couldn’t understand – she cold-shouldered me out of our friendship and we never spoke again.

That night at the fetish club was a whirlwind. I wasn’t drunk but I definitely wasn’t sober, and we’d snuck out to share a joint, resulting in me being giggly and slightly overwhelmed when we went back in. I wasn’t in the mood to keep dancing so we headed to the play area to watch, which ended up with us chatting to a group of people we’d just met, and the next thing I know I’m kneeling on a spanking bench in a dark corner, holding my breath.
I’m not sure – especially now – just quite how it happened. My friend had offered me up, as usual, and I’d gone along with it, high on my own sense of shiny newness and a desire to be open and try everything. But as I looked up at the woman I’d agreed to play with – or more accurately, had been given to – I felt something else. Suddenly nervous, not because of the situation or the dim light and the bass thud reverberating in my ribs, but because of her. She was older than me by some ways – ten, maybe even twenty years – petite and blonde, immaculately dressed like a vintage pin-up in basque and heels. She was gorgeous, actually. I hadn’t really noticed until then, and now I was looking up at her from a kneeling hands-and-knees position, I felt absurdly shy.

She crouched down so she was level with me and negotiated what I was comfortable with, murmuring in my ear so I could hear her above the noise of the club, her hair lightly brushing my neck. She was so sexy, so careful with me, those two things inextricably interlinked. She started spanking me lightly with her hands, learning my reactions, lightly tracing my skin with her long nails between strikes. I was instantly loose and soft in my body, literally melting under her touch. Something had happened to me that I couldn’t quite control. I could feel my body arching now under her hand, hips raising to meet the harder blows from a leather paddle she’d moved on to using. That graduated to being placed between my teeth (her tenderly applying pressure under my chin so I bit down on it) as she started to hit me – still gently, restrained – with a cane. I could feel my teeth leaving indents on the leather in my mouth, could hear myself groaning in either pain or ecstacy or both. She removed the paddle from my mouth and made me count strokes. I was ashamed by how shaky my voice was. 

Afterwards, even in the chaos of the club, all felt still. She stood out of sight behind me and pulled me down the bench towards her, pressing the cool flesh of her thighs against the red, raised and smartingly hot backs of mine. I shifted, pressing back into her, heard her sigh in contentment. Leaning over me, our bodies flush for a moment as she inhaled my hair and the back of my neck. She came around to the front of the bench, bent down again. Lifted my chin and kissed me. It wasn’t the first time I had kissed a girl but it was the first time I had been kissed by a woman. Soft and firm all at once. She felt so different to the men I usually kissed – they were rough, insistent, pushy. Men with all their endless wanting. This felt so different. Everything about what we’d done together that night felt like she was giving to me, not taking from.

Afterwards I collected myself, lowering myself gingerly from the bench, struggling to get my shaky legs to agree to stand. By the time I’d ferreted around for my hastily forgotten bag and gathered my things, she’d gone. Nobody seemed to know her name. I abandoned my friend and scoured the club, the dance floor, the dark corners. I even went outside, wandered down the street a little ways, hoping to catch sight of her blonde hair. But she had gone, taking a little piece of me with her, and I never saw her again.