I was hanging out at Declan's Bar on 14th Street when I noticed my friend, Raymond, at a nearby table. He was sitting with a man who kept glancing at me. Not that this was so unusual--Declan's is infamous for bondage hookups--but there was something in the friend's eyes that made me uneasy. This guy needed something from me. Turns out I was right, but not in the way I expected.

The next day Raymond called to introduce him. He was a doctor, he said, a surgeon, straight and single and comfortable ... and he desperately wants to meet you. Ten minutes later the good doctor called to ask me to a casual brunch ... at Nobu.

I agreed of course. Why not? He was now certified sane, handsome, accomplished, and Nobu is a great restaurant. I was also curious about his "straight and single" credential. Unattached doctors, even assholes, are prime targets for Manhattan's most vicious predators--beautiful women. How had he avoided them?

To my surprise, he had booked a private room for our "casual" brunch. Frankly, I was a little disappointed as half the fun at Nobu is celebrity-spotting, but I went along expecting the always-welcome, "you're beautiful and I'm attracted to you" banter. Instead he asked for my help.

"I have a story to tell," he said flatly. "I've been told you have done some writing and you have some ... tolerance for BDSM ... drama." He smiled winningly. "I'm happy to pay for your time."

It wasn't the most persuasive spiel, but the look in his eye was compelling. This sparked my interest--what story could he need to tell so badly? Before I could ask, he started pacing and fast-talking. This was how we spent the day. I must have gained his confidence as the next day I received a hand-delivered package. It was a very intimate diary; not his, hers--Paige's, the object of his tale. I could not put it down.

What follows is Dr. Mark Sanborn's story as told to me at Nobu. You can judge for yourself if it's true. I have excerpted entries from her diary to provide her perspective on what happened. (Why else would he have sent it to me?) Of course, I changed the names and dates and places. I also added my own imagined details to flesh out his one-sided account. I believe these liberties are entirely consistent with his words, tone, and body-language.

Unfortunately, I can't ask him if he agrees. Shortly after our meeting he left the city. I asked Raymond where he had gone and his answer was unsettling. "He said he was 'looking for someone' ... aren't we all. I thought he was joking until I found out he had quit his job and, get this, given up his apartment!"

(In Manhattan, good apartments are like moorings in a storm. No one ever gives them up.)

I hope he finds her ... and perhaps returns to finish the story.

September, 2016

Chapter 1 - Lovers' Games

She was 25 and gorgeous. Not just beautiful, her face and body instantly stupefied the average man and sent spikes of envy into the hearts of other women. He was a doctor, but not just any doctor. He looked like the sexiest TV-doctors in existence and acted the part--half omniscient oracle, half puppy-lover, and half crusading savior. There was no question they would end up in bed.

She arched her back lifting both of them off the bed then screamed as her orgasm reached its magnificent peak. He heard her scream as if from a distance but took absolutely no notice of it. He was too far into his own full-body contraction. The death grip he had on her ass cheeks put bruise marks in her skin, but it also kept her cervix perfectly aligned with his cock. He ejaculated in great spurts, grunting like a stuck pig with each massive thrust.

Their joint ecstasy seemed to go on forever. It was one of those rare coital moments when everything worked; neither of them wanted it to ever end. When it finally did, they lay motionless, overcome by the intensity of it, each a bit embarrassed by their loss of control.

The ringing phone on the nightstand broke the spell.

"Y ... yes...?"

"Is everything alright, Doctor? We've had a report of loud screams coming from your room."

"A-OK," he answered then dropped the phone rudely into its receiver and lay back trying to slip back into his orgasmic afterglow, but it was impossible. The girl opened an eye and slowly turned her head towards him then she began to laugh hysterically as if they had discovered something not one else had ever stumbled across. It was an infectious sound and in seconds tears were rolling for his eyes as well.

After a while they were able to regain control. She turned onto her side and lay on top of his outstretched arm. They didn't speak for a long time.

"I'm thinking it was okay for you?" he said in an exaggerated flat voice.

She smiled as she watched his mouth move.

"Not really. I screamed because you hit my funny-bone. Sorry. I hope I didn't wake anyone."

He smiled flashing a mouthful of sparking white teeth.

"Your scream would have woken the dead."

She hid her face in his armpit and blushed.

"I didn't notice it though," he added. "I was thinking about my schedule tomorrow."

That was the way it all started--an attraction followed by passion followed by an exceedingly rare human connection. They just fit together in all kinds of strange ways. As anyone who has ever fallen in love knows, it was a rapport that has nothing to do with sex or looks or personality ... or maybe everything to do with them. In any case, it either happens or it doesn't.

They lay in each other's arms for a long time saying nothing. The only light was from the moon shining through the windows and the busy Sixth Avenue traffic below. She had insisted they check into a hotel and he had readily agreed; neither wanted to go to the other's apartment. Too personal, they thought, for a first date. It was a strange Manhattan bias. Fucking each other's brains out was okay, but exposing your personal apartment space to a stranger was going too far too fast.

"Seriously, was it okay?" he asked again.

"Are you fishing for a complement, Doctor? If so, I would say you touched all the right buttons. I haven't enjoyed a straight fuck like that in years."

Mark Sanborn was a trauma surgeon at Bellevue. He knew a lot about pain and pleasure, about the body and how it responded to things. He also knew how to listen closely to people. Sometimes a patient's life depended on what they said.

"Years...? How old are you? You can't be more than 20, maybe 21."

"I'm 25, Doctor, which you know quite well from my medical records, but thanks anyway for the complement."

He did know. He had treated her the day before for a three-inch knife wound under her left breast--a relatively shallow cut from a mugger's knife. He could have discharged her the same day, but for some reason had checked the box "overnight observation."

The man who had stabbed her, the mugger, was also his patient. He was recovering in the hospital's prison ward. Paige had crushed his trachea during the attack necessitating an emergency tracheotomy on the scene by EMS and the painful insertion of an endotracheal tube when he got to the ER. He was in immense pain. That was how he had known she was different. She had smiled when he had described the man's injuries and the extent of his treatment.

"Mugging people with a knife is risky business, Doctor," she had said evenly looking directly into his eyes. "You never know when you are going to come across someone who can defend themselves, right?"

He thought about that unashamed smile for the rest of his shift. It wasn't often that people felt good about causing someone so much pain, even an enemy.

He turned on his side and stared at her. He couldn't get enough of her face, enough of her amazing body. Everything fit together perfectly and that perfection, strangely enough, created a look so unique he could take his eyes off her. There are lots of beautiful girls in the world, he thought, but there are only a few who can get into your mind so deeply. Paige was one of them.

She said she worked on Wall Street, something to do with bonds. He still didn't believe it; women who looked this good worked on Madison or Fifth Avenue; they didn't work downtown. He still had a lot to learn about Miss Paige Marston, he thought, and he wasn't going to learn it from her medical records.

She smiled at him conscious of his staring but not caring. People did that a lot around her. He propped himself up on his elbow.

"What did you mean when you said you 'hadn't enjoyed a straight fuck like this in years'? What ... kind of fuck have you enjoyed?" he asked in an intimate whisper.

She turned onto her back ignoring the question.

"Want to get something to eat, Doc? They have great room service in this place. I assume you can afford it."

"Call me Mark, okay?"

She turned her head.

"That's an important milestone in relationships, Doc. Are you sure you want to go there? I thought trauma surgeons were a lot more careful before they stepped into first names."

"Mark...," he said, refusing to be baited or deflected.

"Don't you want to tell me about your alternative to a 'straight fuck'?" he persisted. "Perhaps it's too personal, too painful ... too scary? Like inviting a man back to your apartment...?"

She turned towards him and propped herself up on her arm.

"I'll bet you took courses in psychology, right ... Doc? What is it? Have you got me typed already and now you're pushing the appropriate buttons to get into my head...? Don't you think some space is private?"

She said it without malice, but there was a clear warning in her tone--stay back unless you're serious.

"Fucking you was fun," he said slowly, "but I'm betting there's a lot more to you than just a killer body and beautiful face. I'm betting that you've got some demons inside that might be fun to spar with a little. Girls like you don't learn krav maga for the exercise."

"Krav what...?" she asked.

"Krav maga," he repeated, "the Israeli method of hand-combat.

"I've seen it used before ... on other patients. I also spoke to the cops who brought you in. They confirmed it for me. It's a good thing for you they recovered the guy's knife. New York City doesn't appreciate that kind of violence even in self-defense. The guy you hit could sue you."

She smiled again.

"I've heard that ... sounds kind of fucked up to me."

There was a hint of new respect in her eyes.

"A straight fuck is what we just did, Mark--we put our hands and lips on each other, you put your cock into a few of my holes, in a very sanitary order, thank you very much, and we affected coitus just like our species has been doing for 50,000 years."

"And the alternative...?" he asked.

She stared at him for a moment as if considering her response. Normally, this is where the conversation would end, but she felt something with him, something different.

"The alternative is to plumb our dark side, Doctor, to go beyond our fairly ordinary instincts to procreate and to exercise some of our less admirable qualities."

She continued to stare at him. The challenge in her eyes was obvious.

"It's not something good and decent people like you, people with million-dollar careers in front of them, people who fight against pain and suffering should be asking or thinking about."

She wasn't baiting him she was answering his question as honestly as she could.

"You should find yourself some nubile little nurse, Doc, and set up house in an apartment in the 30s near the hospital. In a few years, you could have some kids, join the Metropolitan Club, sit on a few charitable boards, and wait for your daughters to grow up so you can throw them a wedding at the Waldorf.

"It's a fine life, you deserve it. You're a good doctor. I could tell. We all owe you."

He stared at her for a while then stood up and took the belt off his pants. Without rushing, he moved to her side of the bed and looked down. He was turning the challenge around, testing her.

"Let's see how much better the alternative is," he said evenly. "I guarantee the stitches on your side are going to hold."

"You sure, Doc...? There are some lines it is definitely better not to cross. I won't be very impressed if you fuck it up which is what is most likely going to happen with a ... novice."

"Turn onto your stomach."

His voice was different as if someone else was talking. She stared up at him for a moment then shrugged and turned over. It was obvious she wasn't expecting much. He pulled her arms behind, crossed her wrists and secured them with the belt then pulled her into a sitting position on the bed letting the bed-sheets fall away.

"You shouldn't assume things about people, Paige. Doctors and cops, we know all about the dark side. We see it every day. Most of us hate it, but the truth is we are also intrigued. There's something very human in our curiosity. Maybe you've felt the same...?"

She was silent, no longer smiling. A line of wetness had formed on her upper lip and there was a hint of fear in her eyes. He sat beside her then bent her over his lap. One of his legs was clamped over hers to hold them in position. He held her belted wrists up, out of the way. Her ass was now a target.

But he didn't rush into it. He rubbed her cheeks for a minute brushing his fingers lightly over her labia which were peeking out from between her legs. She moaned; the sound coming from somewhere deep inside. He heard fear and the excitement and it aroused him. They could both feel his cock hardening. Something had come alive in him, something alien and ... powerful.

The first few smacks were just an irritation--love taps. She felt a momentary disappointment, but Mark knew he needed to bring the blood to the surface to stimulate the nerves just under her skin. He was a doctor. Slowly the spanking grew harder and she began to twist, trying to move to escape the pain, but there was no escape.

Almost instinctively, he slowed the pace of his blows so that she could feel the full effect of each smack. Within minutes, she was writhing violently, desperately trying to move out of the way. He held her and continued the onslaught refusing to give in to her unspoken pleas. Within ten minutes, she was crying real tears, moaning constantly, the plaintive sound interrupted only by the sound of his hand striking her fiery red skin.

There was no hesitation or sympathy in the surprising assault. He was into it, becoming more and more aroused as her physical distress increased. It was as if he was possessed, as if some foreign devil had suddenly taken over his body.

She wasn't afraid anymore. Ordinary emotions like fear and embarrassment had long since been erased by her pain. All she could feel now was ... hope, hope that he would accept her suffering, have mercy on her. For the first time in years, she felt submissive again, subordinate to another human being, and it felt good.

But he wasn't finished. In an act of true sadism, he began to strike her exposed labia. Her screams redoubled until he threw her back on the bed face down and fucked her doggie style. Her orgasm was long and powerful, dwarfing the first time in both the number of contractions and their intensity. She was totally overwhelmed by the effect. It was as if every system in her body had suddenly gone haywire.

The phone rang as he lay on top of her back. She heard it as an irritating buzz off in the far distance. He didn't move; he was just as overwhelmed as she. It was at least ten minutes before he rolled over. The phone rang again and he reached out a hand then put the receiver to his ear.

"Fuck off," was all she heard ... her sentiments exactly.

They lay like that for more than half an hour. She finally moved her head to his crotch and began to lick his cock. The gesture wasn't sexual--they were still half-hour from more fucking--it was an acknowledgement. For the moment at least, she had submitted.

From the diary of Paige Marston...

May 14

I was with "a man" last night and for the first time in years, I felt real submission.

I'm no stranger to the subject. I had been experimenting with it for years ever since Clark Whitfield tied my hands behind my back and played with my tits. He was a boob, but what I felt in his bondage has always haunted me. The rope, the helplessness, the act of submission was, well, exciting. That night with Clark I had an orgasm that was truly scary in its power.

...Can't write anymore. I need to think.

May 15

...Still thinking about Mark and our "wild" night together.

I went in there assuming I knew a lot about bondage. I was wrong.

My arrogance came from my relationship with Lev, my Israeli lover. He taught me kvav maga as a way to get into my pants; he introduced me to real bondage as a way to make it more intense; but it was always play no matter how serious we tried to make it.

That first weekend when Lev took me away "to focus on my krav maga moves," was the best time of my life. Twenty minutes after we arrived at the cabin, we were fucking. It was magnificent, but nothing compared to what happened later. Without asking, without apology or embarrassment he tied me spread-eagled to the bed and fucked me like it was our last day on Earth. Again, I felt the power of being dominated--my orgasms were indescribable, way beyond anything I'd ever felt in my "normal" sex life--but I always felt "in control."

It was different with Mark. Holy shit...! It was even better.