Text originally published on my BDSM website La Férule, laferule.com

He says he is afraid and very eager.
He says today, he is ready.
He takes a deep breath before looking at us one by one, l’air grave. we are ten, ten strangers brought together by the theme of this workshop “BDSM, get closer to yourself », halfway between psychology, personal development, exploration of fantasies and theater. At this very moment, in another room of this building privatized for a BDSM festival, an orgy is taking place.
Psycho or orgy ? This morning, wake, I hardly hesitated : psycho. The skin saturated with contacts, I longed to let my brain guide this day. A day of creativity is never wasted, and my orgasms could wait.
So here I am, in this small room to which the blond parquet, the fleece curtains and the huge sofa give the air of a cocoon. In the cocoon, moved, stands Rob, a red giant looking like a Canadian lumberjack – paradox, since we are in australia. He has the plaid shirt, tanned skin, the hands in paddles and the muscles to uproot the conifers.
And he also has, in his funny gray eyes, all the shyness of the first times.

Rob avoids our gazes as he takes off his shirt and pants. Once in underwear, as encumbered by its own mass, he turns, quickly, towards the belongings hung on a rack and chooses, random it seems, a wrap skirt. The long strap sewn at the waist makes him puzzled : should it go over or under the other side of the skirt ? Would there be any sense ? Rob inspects the skirt until my neighbor, another green-haired giant, his, emit a "Hum-hum-hum ! » sound.
Rob looks up ; my neighbor mimes what looks like penetration : the thumb and fingers of his left hand form a hole into which his right index finger sinks. Rob frowns. A hole ? Where ? I miss laughing so much the scene is incongruous, this half-naked lumberjack coached by another colossus to wear a miniskirt. Masculine solidarity where I don't know myself.
That's it, Rob found the hole. He passes the bridle through it after putting on the skirt. On an average sized woman, it would fall above the ankles. About Rob, it barely comes below the knee, showing off her thick calves. No one thinks of laughing. On the contrary, there is something moving and deeply vulnerable in this man with bare legs, bare feet and dangling arms.
His face also reflects the oddity of the moment. Maybe he feels ridiculous, his and masculine, hairy and muscular, with its love handles underlined by the fine fabric.

An angel passes.

Rob takes a deep breath. He stares at the carpet in front of him, then her slightly twisted big toes, then the hem of the skirt, then we take turns, as if to seek our approval. I'm sure he gets it from everyone. His eyes are on me. I tilt my chin in a mute yes. Rob sorit, pensive. He says he would also like to wear heels. A young woman points to varnished pumps half-hidden by the carrier.
Cut 43, it's his.
He puts on the shoes, readjust his balance. The pumps impose a new posture on him, the alignment of his calves with his pelvis and shoulders.
He dares a step, two hesitant steps. Heels click on the floor. Tic. Tac. He tilts his head to hear them better, better embrace the measure of their cadence.
Usually, when he walks, it doesn't make noise.
Rob smiles again. He advances, gradually gaining confidence. Her heels click loud and clear. One turn later, here he is walking around rolling his hips. His arms untie, accompany her thighs. There is provocation in his bearing, a power that he appropriates.
He stares at us one by one to take us to witness his transformation.
In his gaze, this glow. That of surprise and revelation, the magic fraction of a second which testifies that suddenly, inside, something opens and connects, a form of deep access to oneself, a jubilant awareness, like what Rob dreamed of him then buried in the magma inside, embodied today.
The small gleam which testifies that there, right now, he allows himself to be, non-compliant or not suitable with regard to the standard, the small glimmer that proclaims that nothing will be quite as before.

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© Madame Lule, cannot be used, in whole or in part, without my permission.

Photo : Alice of Montparnasse ; model : Doll.