I'd always known that my tastes were...less than conventional. Not that one can put a quantity of less or more, so perhaps it's better to say that I strayed happily, breathlessly, away from convention.

Granted, there was a time and place in my life where conventional lovemaking was preferable. This occurred with only one person-the only person, to this day, that I have even come close to being truly in love with.

But this story is not one of love. If my exploits consisted only of loving moments, I daresay I would be quite a different girl.

So imagine that one's sex life is a journey through a woods. There is a beaten path, with dappled, sunny light, and the scent and sight of flowers lining the edges. But beyond this path, to the right and to the left, is a wooded area. It is more dangerous and less traveled, and one is unsure of their footing as they tread through the brambles. How far one goes is entirely dependent on their will.

Some people slowly venture from their path, committed to the path of love and well-known flora, adding occasional spice. Perhaps they walk with a beloved. They barely leave the light.

Equally important are those who stray from the path with no intention of returning, wielding to the savagery of the wild wood, recklessly diving deeper and deeper in their desires.

But from a young age, I knew myself to be part of a third group, and how big or small a percentage this makes up is beyond me, as I have no idea as to people's true proclivities. But me, I stick to the path when love surrounds me, and plunge into the violent wilds when it does not. Who I meet on the way, I explore the woods with briefly, crossing the path in a zig-zag pattern in case someone new has arrived.

They seldom do.

But my favorite chance meeting was Dash, who I met through other friends right before I left high school. His eyes seemed to cling to my form from the moment he met me. We spoke briefly, but since our friends were dating, we were left alone. The first moment he got me alone, he leaned in and bit my ear softly, letting his tongue linger. He whispered, "You're mine."

From that instant, I knew the woods, however distant, would always have sway over my senses.

Truly, he was a boy born and bred for the wilds I desired to explore, with a calm, cool, overly-collected demeanor and a gaze that often left me feeling naked and critically examined.

It's been a few years since I saw him, but when his face and actions enter my thoughts, I grow moist and my fingers quiver.

He was tortuously slow, and always calculating, at least he always looked that way to me. A full two years older, his experiences dwarfed mine, and I waited for his lead. We would set a time and a place to meet, neither of us having a place at home to take the other. We would park, and sit, and then begin to behave as young adults do when left in dark cars in dark parking lots.

But one night stands out vividly from the rest. The last night, in fact, though I didn't know it would be. In my bench seat, we stretched out, pressing our sweaty bodies against one another. My breasts were crushed between his sizable chest and the hands clinging to my body. A light flashed across the ceiling of the car, and he sat up, checking to see that we hadn't been discovered.

We were fine, but now he leaned back, pulling me up so that we sat across from each other. He kissed my forehead before gruffly muttering, "Blow me."

My first order! I had laughingly taken up calling him 'master,' something that seemed to drive him wild during our last encounter, but now it was he who turned it into more than a game. I slid to my knees as he rested into the passenger seat, leaning it back to give me better access from the side. His left arm came around me, resting on the small of my back. Close to my ass, I noted with delight.

"If I feel teeth," he told me in a stern voice, "you feel this." And he slapped me, hard, on the right buttock. My breath caught and blood rushed to my face and to the spot where he had struck me.

It was as if I was struck by a branch in the dark woods, but I neither knew nor cared where it came from. I knew only that I didn't want to end.

I sucked slowly at first, plying my art carefully. It was in a good deal his art; he had instructed me on improvements and I was always gobbling up online tips or tidbits from Cosmo, hoping to add to my sexual retinue a surprise or two. His breath remained heightened, but steady. But I wanted more. I 'accidentally' let my teeth slide on his shaft.

Whack! An exquisite pain flashed across my backside, sending shivers of intermingled pain and pleasure up my spine. Oh, that was what I wanted, I realized, as my stomach lurched with desire. I felt my lips come off of his cock long enough to mutter, "Thank you, Master," before continuing to pleasure him.

Did I use my teeth again? I couldn't remember. My brain turned to mush as he once again spanked me. I no longer cared whether or not I was misbehaving or doing what he wanted, but I could sense his excitement grow as the slow pace of smacks turned more consistent, as if he was beating out his orgasm into the skin of my backside, as well as within my mouth.

I hummed and groaned and pleaded and thanked him as the flurry of slaps continued. His other hand was buried in my hair, clenched tight around a fistful of it, pumping me up and down. Through chokes and gasps, I begged him for more, I begged him to release, I begged him to keep going and stop at the same time.

When he buried his warmed fingers within me, it was as if they were coming home after a long trip, and my head cleared enough to reclaim my job sucking. When we came, we came hard, and I sucked his juices from him like I was claiming my first drink after a week in a desert.

But when I opened my eyes, I was back in the metaphorical woods, battered and bruised, but sated beyond what I thought existed. And there, there, far from close, but close enough to see, was that damn dappled sun and that flowery path, ready to steer me, anchor me, and allow me to wander again.