[*This is a story I collaborated on with a friend-of-a-friend after she read my own story posted earlier this month, because she wanted to have her own awkward young experience get a “glow-up”. I hope our work together is interesting to read!*]
I am now, in my thirties, very confident in who I am and what I want. I like to think I am a pleasant person in general, if you were to meet me on the street; but in the bedroom, I know exactly what I want—obedience. I am a domme, and not just proud of it but *revel* in it.
But I didn’t always know that about myself. I was, once upon a time, 20. It was the early 2000s and I was in college at the University of Minnesota.
I’ve always been a very type-A, extroverted person, and not someone who takes shit off of people. I got used to being called a bitch very early on in life and take it as a point of pride. In high school I got a lot of smoke blown up my ass because I was not only smart and academically accomplished, but tall (especially for an Asian woman—I’m half Vietnamese, half Taiwanese, so how I got to be 5’10” is a mystery) and was, at the time, fairly athletic, even if I didn’t do college sports.
The point being that I showed up to college and immediately pissed everyone off and had no friends. I think I was a bit too aggressive and competitive early on. I thought I was better than everyone for not engaging in party culture, and…yeah, you know how it is.
By the time this story happened, though, I’d settled down enough that I had a few people I associated with in my major. Mostly girls, but the focus of this story is a boy who sort of dwelled on the periphery of our social circle. He was, frankly, a very normal guy, if a bit shy—not particularly hot or smart or funny, but just a bit of a lost puppy of a man. When we all got together he’d be there, on the outside of the conversation—now, of course, I know because he didn’t know what to say, poor guy. But we hung out, and he was welcome, and he ate my shitty seven layer dip made out of cans of beans and grocery store salsa when we had movie night, so he was ok in my book. He was one of those guys whose parents really made him feel like he was helpless, and dressed like a sixty year old professor, but in a way I still have a soft spot for.
I feel bad, but I don’t remember if this was junior or senior year. (spoilers: this is not a relationship story.) But it was the spring semester, that’s for sure—late February or early March. He and I shared an upper level Chemistry class and we were doing group study in my tiny-ass studio apartment off-campus with three or four other classmates jammed together for warmth. The weather was absolute shit but the grind was on. Nevertheless, as the evening dragged on, one by one we were eventually left alone together. And in the way of people who have finally gotten into an attention grind, by the time we looked up, it was eleven P.M., and the blizzard was drifting knee-high across the streets.
He insisted on trying to go back to his dorm but I was not about to have his frozen corpse on my conscience, so I insisted he just sleep over for the night. NBD, right?
See, *now* I would pick up on the vibes I got in that moment, but at the time, he just seemed to be really quiet and shy and it made my stomach turn in a funny way. Like I said, clearly, his parents did a number on him—not that this always results in submissive men, but, for a certain personality…
But like I say, I was young and inexperienced; and in a pre-tumblr/twitter world, even a twentysomething could get to that age without knowing what dom/sub play was. So I just made a lot of noise about how it doesn’t have to be a big deal, we’re friends, etc etc. I told him I trusted him not to do anything stupid and he visibly relaxed.
We kicked off our shoes, took off all but our shirt and pants, got under the covers and put out the lights. My futon was large enough that we didn’t have to bunch up together or anything.
And frankly, I went to sleep. I cannot emphasize enough how nonthreatening this guy was, and how we were sort of friends, and I trusted him not to, you know…do something awful.
That said, when I stirred awake and glanced at the clock and it was 2 AM, I was painfully aware he was still awake, and full of nervous energy.
I said something like, “Dude, you ok?”, trying to play it cool.
And look, what followed was a lot of emotional stuff. You don’t care, that’s not why you’re here. So I’ll summarize:
“I’ve never been this close to a woman just to sleep before.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I’m just nervous.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“I don’t mind.”
That’s a good forty-five minutes of awkward early-twenties chat, is the point, where I very quickly realized that not only was he not a virgin, but that the girl he’d lost his virginity to had treated him like a demon for wanting it.
Again, *now* I wouldn’t do this, but…
I asked him if he was uncomfortable because he wanted to fuck me.
He said no.(Not, I think, because he actually didn’t want to, but because he hated his own sexuality at that point.) It was just hard for him to be near an attractive woman like this and be calm.
Again, *now* I wouldn’t do this, because this is something to be negotiated a little more carefully, but in the moment, my mind was filled with all the delicious fantasy that a proper domme like myself uses to egg herself on.
I pressed myself up against him very slightly and told him it was ok. That I really didn’t mind, that I liked that he found me attractive. That he should just talk to me. It would be ok.
It was in that moment, as he melted back into me, that something really solidified about my personality. In how I like to control men by being something soothing and reaffirming, even as I hold them.
He was already hard, of course.
I wish I could say that I was a perfect, sexy domme who played it out in incredible, perfect fantasy detail; but in the moment, I just asked him if he wanted me to take off my shirt and stroke him. He was pressing back into me, giving off a vibe I now understand to be that silent, needy anxiety of overstressed but submissive men.
Even in my early sexual development I just wanted to be the thing he focused on, the person who controlled his pleasure and excitement. I’m a bit more sophisticated these days, but there’s something nice about the innocence of early experience.
I pressed my (very modest) tits into his back and grasped his (very average) cock. It felt good, and I told him so, and his body lost tension. As he thrust into my hand, and as I stroked him, my nipples rode hard against his back in a not totally stimulating but still satisfying rhythm. I remember shushing him as he tried to apologize, over and over again, gripping him a little bit harder and licking his neck.
I loved it. I listened to him grunt and whine, felt him thrust into my hand needily…
Again, nowadays, I have a whole repertoire of tricks to make people think I know what I’m doing even if I’m just making it up as I go along. But this memory is still very charming in its imperfection, especially because it was not a performance of “love”, but a naked acceptance of his lust in the moment. He admitted his need and I controlled how he fulfilled it. It’s fueled a lot of personal awakenings in my life, but on that cold night in early spring, I remember my heart trying to leap out of my chest because of how sexy and powerful I felt, stroking the cock of a boy who couldn’t help but need me so much that he couldn’t even sleep.
Eventually he came—not spectacularly. He dribbled and shuddered like all college aged nerds who jack off too much. I grabbed a tissue and wiped it off my hand, but enjoyed the warmth of it as much as I’ve liked much more spectacular ejaculations before and since.
When he finally turned to face me, he had this lovely shy gratitude in his eyes that was very nicely illuminated by the hazy light from the streetlights in the blizzard. Nowadays I am not sorry that we kissed, although it scared me a bit in the moment.
I’m glad to say he was very cool about it when we got up. I’ve had a lot of fun encounters go to shit because we weren’t on the same page, but this shy boy was really self-aware. It’s not like he was going “oh, I’m not good enough for you”—which, by the way, is as selfish and needy as you can be—he just understood that this was something that happened in the moment and is something to just be happy to remember. I’ve kept an eye on him all these years, and he seems to have found a good wife out in Washington state who keeps him and their three kids in line. Good on him.
I have not given you his name, because to me, he’ll always be what I named him as his cock twitched in my hand and he grunted, clearly embarrassed to reveal this intimacy to me.
“Good boy.”
My first good boy, but hardly my last. You always remember your first, right?
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/qwhzv5/comfort_on_a_cold_u_of_minnesota_night_20s