David Davis 46, part 8

there is no "safe": my guide for vetting sadists, dominants, and tops

Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, and Part 7.

He was looking at me. Leaving the laughter and the red cups, I followed him into an empty bedroom—I don’t think it was his—where for a long time, including the five seconds he spent removing and halving his brown leather belt, he held me down, fucked me, and beat me, all without saying a word.

As we slid back into our clothes, I became aware of the party again, still humming on the other side of the door. We finally spoke, but I don’t remember what we said. If we kissed, I don’t remember that, either. I do remember, very well, knowing that I had fallen in love. But even that sensation, being in love, is gone. Only its certainty has been able to outlast the years between now and then.