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You can call me Penny.
I go by many names, but this is the one I’ve chosen for this set of stories. Stories of me, my life, my desires.
My encounters.
I wouldn’t call myself a ‘sub’, per se. I’m sure I fall under the BDSM category of kinky lifestyle, but I guess you need to understand that I’m different from other submissives. My turn-on is bondage itself. Not necessarily the sex, the submission, the dominance. It’s the tight ropes on my skin, the tape sealing my lips; my control being taken away from me with every knot that either holds me in place or discolours my skin.
It’s the act of being tied up. I do not like pain; I do not like humiliation. Some may think that being tied up is humiliating, but when it’s done by the right person, it’s not humiliating at all. It’s as intimate as trusting them to take care of you while you give up your control to them.
Of course sex is involved, but if you want me to get to a point of pure ecstasy, tying me up well is my biggest turn-on.
I have encountered many men--and women--who want to claim me, but as I said before, I’m no sub. I don’t devote myself to one person, though I’ve become very close to some. I find that because I’m a very specific type, I can’t expect anyone to devote all their time and energy to me when they have other needs that I may not necessarily meet, and vice versa.
-01: Dr. Johnson-
I feel like it’s almost cliche that my story starts off in my psychology professor’s office, but before university, I was surprisingly meek and prudish. I was quiet and rather shy; constantly burdened with stress, unhappiness, and anxieties to the point where if something went wrong in the slightest I would break down.
The first time I stepped into his office, I was trying my hardest not to freak out. My first year of university was overwhelming. Between trying to figure out where I fit in, trying to find myself as an ‘adult’, and still handling the familial pressures and life before, to say I was stressed was an understatement.
“Penny, right?” At first, Dr. Johnson seemed like the typical professor: didn’t know his students by name probably. His focus was on his computer schedule before he even spared me a glance as I took a seat in the chair opposite him.
The chair felt unusually straight, lacking the comfort that one may have sought when expecting to have a therapy session. Perhaps a reminder that he’s not there to be my therapist, though: he was my professor.
“That’s me.” I try to sound calm, with a positive affirmation to try and create some sort of warmth in the office. Instead, it came out uncertain, confused--and noticeably uncomfortable in the chair.
When he sat back in his own office chair, just the way his shoulders squared to me, his eyes piercing as he looked over me from head to toe at first, then deeper. I felt myself sitting up straighter; rigid, as if suddenly being presented as an example. For what? I had no idea. But it was that sudden feeling of exposure that produced a chill inside me, a tremor that only made me more tense than I already was.
I didn’t know what else to say.
Thankfully, he took over easily.
“I’ve seen you in my introduction class,” he continued when his gaze returned to match my own. “You’re incredibly tense; always look stressed and worn out. It’s only been a month.”