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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.”

My shoulders shrugged, my gaze immediately diverting to glance at the floor.  “I… I guess I’ve always been like this,” I offered quietly.  “If I’m not doing something…”

“If you’re not in control?”

The correction took me off guard and I looked up at him.  He was looking deeper than just my appearance again; when our eyes met I felt him suddenly looking inside of me, observing me.

Exposing me.

“Have you ever let yourself give up control, Penny?”

I didn’t know how to answer.  How does one willfully give up control?  Do they just let the world do whatever it wants?

“How…  How could I…”

The question couldn’t even be fully formed from my thoughts.  I felt hyper-aware of my surroundings, his stare; my own body.  The tension still in my shoulders, the slight arch in my back against the chair, and then…  Did my bra feel a little smaller?  The twist in my gut--was that nerves, anxiety, or… excitement?

Dr. Johnson got up from his chair, walked around his desk and leaned back against it in front of me.  I tried my best to keep my stare equal to his, but when he stood, he loomed over me and once more, I was looking away.

“You need a way to release the tension,” he answered the question I never formed.  “You need to get in tune with yourself, release the tension; relinquish at least a bit of control.”

My shoulders relaxed, if only faintly.  It made sense.  It gave me comfort.

“Do you have a boyfriend?  Girlfriend?”

The tension came back, but instead of it sitting in my shoulders, it settled a little in my chest.  Once again, I felt exposed, called out, but… intrigued.

“No.”

“Do you masturbate?”  The question came naturally from him, and I almost gasped, wondering if it was an appropriate question.

“Um…”

“If you are comfortable, Penny, I would like to work with you on this,” he offered, his voice calm and natural--as if it was all part of his usual line of questioning.  “I want you to come to my office again tomorrow, and we’re going to begin to work on ways you can let go of your own control, one step at a time.”

All I could do was nod and I stood up from the chair, barely hearing him on my way out saying that he would email me the appointment time.  The public washroom was only a few doors down from his office, and I quickly hid in a stall of the women’s room, gasping for a breath that I never realized I had been holding.

My entire body tingled; my fingers twitched as I slowly assessed myself.  He had gotten under my skin with barely a word.  Asked me questions that I wasn’t expecting because I was a student--I had made the appointment to ask about the paper that was due next week, and I had never even gotten to ask.  Instead, that exposure just from his stare, his assessment of me--his questions--left me confused and surprised at my own body’s reaction.

My breasts were slightly swollen, answering why my bra felt too small.  I could feel my nipples pressed against the fabric, as if any movement of the bra cups would irritate them.  And what surprised me most, as I took control of my body and forced my shoulders to relax, my breathing to regulate…  My panties were a little wet.