grateful for that.) When I got it home, I read the “Bondage” and “Discipline” sections (I wasn’t so sure how I felt about that “discipline” part) over and over and over.
First contact. About two years went by, and I was involved with yet another lady who enjoyed bondage. (Ye gods! How many of them were out there, anyhow?) One day, for no particular reason, I bought a local adult newspaper. While looking through the ads in the back, I came across one from, of all things, an SM club called Backdrop located in the entirely normal, All-American city of Hayward, California. There were dubs for this sort of thing? I had read about clubs in fiction but, for all sorts of reasons, I didn’t think any really existed. Apparently I was (yet again) wrong. I sent them a self-addressed, stamped envelope along with a request for information.
The information I requested arrived about a week later, and reading it almost gave me a stroke. Backdrop had events like master/slave dinner parties, bondage demonstrations (that one caught my attention), slave auctions, and many other events. I couldn’t believe this! This couldn’t be right! And yet there it was: dates, times, addresses, phone numbers, admission fees, and all the rest of it. Could it really be?
There was a “slave auction” happening on a night I was free. Once again, I gathered my courage (I had needed to do that many times in recent years), and called the phone number. A pleasant, quite matter-of-fact lady answered and confirmed that the information I had about the date, time, address and fee were indeed correct. I thanked her and quickly hung up.
And off I went. I traveled to Hayward, found the address, and parked across the street. I sat there for almost an hour while I gathered my courage. After all, I didn’t really know what waited on the other side of that door. I didn’t really know what would happen to me once I stepped inside. For all I knew, I would be immediately grabbed, strapped to a table, covered with whipped cream, and tortured to death...or something like that.
It was an ironic moment. I was an ambulance crewman at the time. I wasn’t unduly scared about responding to unstable crime scenes, or of going out to the always-dangerous sites of freeway crashes, or of confronting violent crazies, yet the idea of crossing that street and knocking on that door made me, shall we say, very, very nervous.
Well, I finally went over and knocked. I don’t remember who let me in, but I wasn’t grabbed. Instead I was shown into a large, normal-looking living room and offered a seat. I was in a nervousness-induced haze at this point, and most of my memories are a bit unclear, but I remember being introduced to Mr. Robin Roberts, who ran Backdrop.
I eventually managed to calm down somewhat, and found myself able to look around the room and make a bit of conversation with the other guests. Which ones, I wondered intently, were the submissives? I had never met a “real” submissive. (In my mind, the women I had talked into letting me tie them up didn’t count.) I was dying to meet one. What would they be like? Of one thing I was sure: 95% or more of the people into SM were going to be dominants, like me. Submissives had to be rare. After all, what kind of pathetic wretch would actually volunteer to be bound, whipped, or worse?
About 30 of us sat around the spacious room in a rough circle. At the appointed time, Robin came out and made one of the strangest announcements I had ever heard. “Will all of you who are submissive,” he asked, “please come with me?” I wondered if anybody would stand up. Maybe we were all dominants here? What kind of an evening would that lead to?
The only word that can be reasonably used to describe what happened next is “stampede.” While I sat shocked and wide-eyed in my chair, a long line of men and women streamed into the next room. When the dust had settled, only four of us remained behind. The room suddenly
First contact. About two years went by, and I was involved with yet another lady who enjoyed bondage. (Ye gods! How many of them were out there, anyhow?) One day, for no particular reason, I bought a local adult newspaper. While looking through the ads in the back, I came across one from, of all things, an SM club called Backdrop located in the entirely normal, All-American city of Hayward, California. There were dubs for this sort of thing? I had read about clubs in fiction but, for all sorts of reasons, I didn’t think any really existed. Apparently I was (yet again) wrong. I sent them a self-addressed, stamped envelope along with a request for information.
The information I requested arrived about a week later, and reading it almost gave me a stroke. Backdrop had events like master/slave dinner parties, bondage demonstrations (that one caught my attention), slave auctions, and many other events. I couldn’t believe this! This couldn’t be right! And yet there it was: dates, times, addresses, phone numbers, admission fees, and all the rest of it. Could it really be?
There was a “slave auction” happening on a night I was free. Once again, I gathered my courage (I had needed to do that many times in recent years), and called the phone number. A pleasant, quite matter-of-fact lady answered and confirmed that the information I had about the date, time, address and fee were indeed correct. I thanked her and quickly hung up.
And off I went. I traveled to Hayward, found the address, and parked across the street. I sat there for almost an hour while I gathered my courage. After all, I didn’t really know what waited on the other side of that door. I didn’t really know what would happen to me once I stepped inside. For all I knew, I would be immediately grabbed, strapped to a table, covered with whipped cream, and tortured to death...or something like that.
It was an ironic moment. I was an ambulance crewman at the time. I wasn’t unduly scared about responding to unstable crime scenes, or of going out to the always-dangerous sites of freeway crashes, or of confronting violent crazies, yet the idea of crossing that street and knocking on that door made me, shall we say, very, very nervous.
Well, I finally went over and knocked. I don’t remember who let me in, but I wasn’t grabbed. Instead I was shown into a large, normal-looking living room and offered a seat. I was in a nervousness-induced haze at this point, and most of my memories are a bit unclear, but I remember being introduced to Mr. Robin Roberts, who ran Backdrop.
I eventually managed to calm down somewhat, and found myself able to look around the room and make a bit of conversation with the other guests. Which ones, I wondered intently, were the submissives? I had never met a “real” submissive. (In my mind, the women I had talked into letting me tie them up didn’t count.) I was dying to meet one. What would they be like? Of one thing I was sure: 95% or more of the people into SM were going to be dominants, like me. Submissives had to be rare. After all, what kind of pathetic wretch would actually volunteer to be bound, whipped, or worse?
About 30 of us sat around the spacious room in a rough circle. At the appointed time, Robin came out and made one of the strangest announcements I had ever heard. “Will all of you who are submissive,” he asked, “please come with me?” I wondered if anybody would stand up. Maybe we were all dominants here? What kind of an evening would that lead to?
The only word that can be reasonably used to describe what happened next is “stampede.” While I sat shocked and wide-eyed in my chair, a long line of men and women streamed into the next room. When the dust had settled, only four of us remained behind. The room suddenly
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