About the book
Chapter I
HE SAID YES
There you were — the big German Dom I had spoken to that morning and was about to meet at 14:00 at the lobby of the Riu Plaza in Schöneberg, Berlin. I saw you before you saw me. You walked in wearing leather pants, Ranger boots, a white t-shirt, and a black leather muscle vest with red piping — and the lobby, which had been perfectly ordinary a moment before, suddenly felt like a different kind of space. Anyone in the community knows what red piping means. It is the colour that says: I am into fisting. Which immediately explained why I had been paying such close attention to your hands — large, well-manicured, and suddenly very much deserving of a second look. And possibly a third.
But it wasn't the outfit alone. It was your posture. The way you moved through that lobby as though you owned the floor beneath those boots. Upright, unhurried, completely at ease in your own skin. The black hair, the full beard, the incredible blue eyes — all of that had been visible in your profile pictures. I will admit that a full black beard has always had a particular effect on me. I tend to assume Arabic heritage, and that assumption has never once discouraged my interest. You were German, as it turned out. But with that beard, I was willing to overlook it.
What the pictures hadn't managed to capture was the way all of it came together when you were actually standing in a room. You were even sexier in real life. Considerably.
After the first hugs and kisses we went off to Romeo & Romeo, a local coffee bar, for Kaffee und Kuchen. It was Friday August 12th and the sun was out. We sat on the terrace and had our first offline conversation. What a great man I have met here were my thoughts — and, OMG, those eyes. Apart from all the beauty I saw, you had a voice I could listen to for hours. Deep, steady, and completely unhurried — much like everything else about you.
What surprised me most, sitting there on that terrace, was how gentle you were. Not soft — there was nothing soft about you — but considered, warm, and genuinely interested in the conversation. We discovered we shared a love of architecture, which led to one of those unexpected exchanges where you suddenly realise the person across the table is more layered than you anticipated. You were also a dancer and could sing — two things I would never have predicted from a big German Dom in a leather muscle vest with red piping. The combination of all of it — the presence, the hands, the beard, the voice, the fact that you could probably both waltz and break my nose — was doing absolutely nothing to reduce my interest in getting you upstairs.
Although I would have preferred to drag you straight into my hotel room, we decided to go to Prinzenknecht, a well-known bar in our community, for some beers. We had a couple of beers and chatted more about our past and experiences in the BDSM world. I told you about my experiences at Inferno — a six-day event held in the greater Chicago area, organised by the Chicago Hellfire Club, one of the most notorious clubs in the gay leather scene. Inferno is not something you simply decide to attend. You are assessed by a ballotage commission before you are allowed through the door, which ensures that everyone present knows exactly what they are doing. And they do. The level of skill at this event is unlike anything else I have encountered — the most serious, experienced BDSM practitioners in the world, gathered in one place for six days. It is, in every sense, the deep end.
I also told you about The Kavo — a fortified house on an island in the Mediterranean Sea, run by two friends of mine. The Kavo is equally not for the novice. What makes it unique, beyond the setting and the people, is that everything that happens during a session is filmed. You play knowing the camera is there, which adds its own particular layer to the experience. Both places had shaped me in ways that were difficult to explain across a bar table — but I tried. And the fact that I would later invite you to both of them tells you something about how quickly I understood who you were.
We were supposed to meet one day later, on Saturday, for a 24-hour session together with Lennart — a Dom I had already met in my playroom in Amsterdam, and a friend of yours. Lennart had reached out to me first. He had seen enough of my profile to know I was capable of taking what he liked to give, and he was right. He is a strong, versatile player — someone who can dish it out and receive it in equal measure, which earns a particular kind of respect in our world.
The plan he had come up with was ambitious, and I will admit it had been living rent-free in my imagination ever since he first described it. An abandoned military base just outside Berlin — the kind of place where the walls are covered in graffiti, where bunkers still stand, where you can feel the ghost of everything that once happened there. The idea was to keep me at the two of your disposal for a full 24 hours. Not a session. A training.
Forced workouts. Punishments for every failure. Push-ups under barbed wire. Hanging crunches with hard gut punches between every rep. Pull-ups until my arms gave out — and a whip waiting for me when they did. The kind of program that lives somewhere between a nightmare and a fantasy, which is precisely where I tend to feel most at home.
Curious and hungry for adventure as I always am, I had agreed without hesitation. But when the day finally arrived and I found myself in Berlin, something had shifted. During our weeks of online conversation I had become more and more drawn to the Arabic-looking German. The threesome no longer interested me. I cancelled. As it turned out, Lennart wasn't feeling well either — so the decision suited everyone.
The abandoned military base would have to wait. And it did wait — somewhere in the back of my mind, it never entirely went away.
I am not a beer drinker, and after a couple of them I could already feel the alcohol doing its work. By the time the sun had disappeared behind the buildings, we had been on that terrace for quite some time. The only thing I could think of was getting you to my hotel room.
Once the cancellation was a fact, we made our own arrangements — which is how we found ourselves at the Riu Plaza that Friday afternoon. I sent you a message that morning that said it all really:
Hi Mister, sorry to call off at the last moment. I am just not in the mood for this today. If you're free, we could meet for a coffee or a beer. Lennart mentioned you've spoken about visiting me in Amsterdam, which I'd actually prefer. A coffee would be nice for a first meeting. Maybe I'll take you to my hotel room!
Without any particular plan, we started to walk towards the hotel. Not entirely sure what you would say when I asked you to come up to my room. With the hotel coming closer and closer, there was only one thing left to do.
Are you interested in coming up to my room with me, Sir?
You said yes.
Once arrived in the hotel room you ordered me to take off my clothes. Because it was summer and hot, and I was so ready for this moment, the job was done in less than a minute. At first you grasped my nipples — a logical place to start, as my nipples have always made themselves known. Since I first stepped into the gay scene they have attracted attention everywhere: parties, clubs, playrooms. Thirty years later they are practically a trademark. I even gave them names — Stetson and Waldorf. They have earned it.
A hotel room isn't that exciting, especially when you have a perfect playroom at home that I have built for all my needs, but hey I was here with this wonderful man who I spent the afternoon with. I was standing in front of you and it was now that I felt your size. Even though I am a muscled masochist, it gave me the feeling that you would be able to dominate me. And while I was standing there naked in front of you with my heartbeat felt throughout my whole body, waiting for the moment you would grab my nipples and play with them.
It didn't take long before you had them between thumbs and index fingers. You knew exactly how to play them — the squeezing, the pulling — it all came with a steady rhythm. Playing with my nipples has an immediate effect on my cock. It's like you pump blood into my dick by pulling on my nipples. This feeling makes me horny and hungry for pain, so I pushed my manhood into one of your knees. You understood my actions — but you showed me who was the boss here. Instead of kicking me in my nuts, which is what I wanted, you forced me to kneel in front of you by pulling me down on my nipples.
While you held my head in front of your crotch you opened the buttons of your leather trousers. That familiar excitement of not knowing quite what to expect — and knowing I was about to find out. While I was getting familiar with your size and taste you played hard with my nipples. Our actions made us both very horny and we had to calm down — we didn't want to shoot our loads already. We had just started.
You kicked me from a kneeling position to flat on the floor in front of you. You knew from our talk earlier that day, but also from the pictures on my profile, that I am able to take heavy kicking in my balls — and that was what you had planned. Looking up from the floor towards a Dom in full leather with heavy boots always does something to me. It makes me hunger for pain. And now I was ready for some kicking action.
I took it hard — you only get one chance to make a good first impression. But on the other hand it was my first day in Berlin and the weekend was long. Always that battle between brain and lust. I had chosen my brain and was slowly making movements to end this game. Yes, I am that kind of a sub.
When I stood up and thanked you for your hard work, you grasped me by my neck and choked me out. No warning, just like that. A risk you took because we hadn't talked about this before — sure, I believe it's somewhere in my profile, but I can imagine someone else freaking out once they came round. I am different. I just liked it.
After a few seconds I was back — conscious, on the floor, and happily surprised. Normally I would be ready for another round once I know where I am. But this had come completely unexpected. I knew it then. This is my type of Sadist.
We laid down on the bed, intensely happy — partly because of what you did before, but also because you told me one of your other fantasies that you would like to explore: hypnosis during sex. This was new to me but I was instantly interested. After I gave you a blowjob you went off — but not before finalising the arrangements to meet each other very soon in Amsterdam with your friend, Lennart.
"Very much into worshipping boots and the prints they make. I will lick them devotedly before, during and after a stomp or kick session."
— the opening text of my profile
After a few messages, we agreed on October 29th, only two months later we met for the first time. You and your friend, Lennart arrived later in the evening, and therefore we decided to keep us calm that night and "call it a day" and go full force tomorrow.
It was unclear to me what kind of relationship my two visitors had with each other. When I was preparing your stay in Amsterdam, I'd sent you a message asking about sleeping arrangements. Of course, I was hoping you would say "I'll sleep with you," but instead you replied, "I'd prefer my own room." Ouch! That was new to me — nobody before had given me that answer. But it is what it is. I told you I could put a mattress in the playroom, and then the two of you could decide who was sleeping where: our spare bedroom that doubled as the softcore playroom and coms with a bondage bed or the hardcore playroom.
That evening my two visitors slept together in the softcore playroom and I slept alone in my marital bedroom. It was the first time anyone had ever turned down the offer of sleeping next to me, and I won't pretend it didn't sting. I lay there in the dark, longer than usual before sleep came, listening for sounds from the floor above. Voices, footsteps, the creak of the playroom door. Nothing. Just silence — which, if anything, left more room for my imagination to fill in the gaps. What was their relationship exactly? How well did they know each other? The mystery that had been quietly growing since they arrived was now keeping me company in the dark instead of him.
I must have eventually drifted off, because I was pulled back by the sound of footsteps on the stairs in the early morning. When he came into my room I heard myself say "Finally, you're here — I've been waiting for you" — while thinking please fuck me. He didn't respond with words. He came into my bed and from the first second it was physical, urgent, exactly what the whole night of waiting had built toward. We had other things to do that early morning, and we did them.
Breakfast time! Our first one in Amsterdam. I always enjoyed waking up together with you and asking if you would like to have coffee. It was only to you I offered this service, and I always got a yes. That morning we had our first coffee in bed, with your friend one floor up. After more cuddling, teasing and a first blowjob, I went downstairs to make breakfast for the three of us. You went upstairs to your friend. Not long after, both of you came downstairs. We had a decent breakfast, as we planned to stay the rest of the day in the playroom.
A threesome is always challenging, at least for me it is. This time was no different. Lennart is a competitor who wants to turn each scene into a competition. I am totally not into that, and it frustrated me — as did his table manners, but that's beside the point.
But when Lennart plays the Top role, he is something else entirely. He demands complete stillness and absolute silence while he prepares. No movement, not a sound. And then, just before he starts, he leans in and whispers. That day in my playroom he put his mouth close to my ear and said: "You will get 50 lashes in total. Five rounds of ten. You are not allowed to move, and you may only scream after the tenth stroke. You understand that, slave?"
When I heard that, something in me went wild — and terrified at the same time. He used a wooden paddle. And somehow, against all odds, I managed to follow his rules. Every round. It was a complete brainfuck — holding still, staying silent, counting internally while my body screamed to do the opposite. After the 50th stroke I was shaking in a way I had never experienced before. I was done. Completely done. Ready for nothing except bed.
Despite the frustrations, we had a great time in the playroom that day — me making sure to concentrate on what mattered most: You!
The biggest frustration that weekend was when Lennart wanted me to watch while he got his ass spanked. He insisted, and that was just a little too much for me. I did it — of course I did — but my interest was elsewhere in the room, and knowing myself and my facial expressions, it wasn't always possible to hide that I was not amused.
It's not that I have anything against watching live play in principle. But there is something in me that struggles when someone I know as a Top suddenly switches roles. I have experienced it before — not with Lennart, but with others. The moment I have topped someone, something shifts. I can no longer receive pain from them. The dynamic breaks for me and it doesn't reassemble itself. Lennart was bigger than me anyway, so that was never a consideration here. But watching him receive — knowing his other side — made it harder to stay fully in my own headspace.
What I wasn't quite willing to admit to myself at the time was that somewhere underneath all of that, I wasn't entirely indifferent to Lennart. There was something there — a flicker of interest I wasn't ready to look at directly. So instead I kept my eyes on you. Which, all things considered, was exactly where they belonged.
Whatever the frustrations of the weekend, I always try my best for anyone who visits me, to be a good host — good food, good wine, and above all a good spirit. That weekend was no different. That Sunday a tradition was born: cheese and wine would become the last meal before you headed back to Berlin.
Unfortunately, I don't remember a lot of the sessions that weekend in detail — though the 50 strokes of Lennart's paddle left enough of an impression that I don't think I will ever forget them entirely. But the moment that mattered most that weekend had nothing to do with pain or paddles. It was a quiet moment upstairs in the playroom, just the two of us alone in the room, when I heard myself say: "Would you be interested in seeing me one on one?"
Later that day I got your sweet message — you thanked me for the weekend, called it one of the greatest experiences you'd had, and told me I was kind, sexy, and tough. Three words that made me smile. I knew then that we would see each other again.