Truthfully, I didn't much care. My arms were full, and my senses were full, and my heart was full. The discussion broke up in what seemed like record time (or maybe I was just distracted; you decide).
[A fair warning to my audience: the rest of this entry may be deemed Too Much Information. Depart now if that concept means anything at all to you.]
I can tell you what you would have seen if you had been there, but it wouldn't cover more than a twentieth part of what we did. You would have seen two mostly-dressed people occupying a couch, cuddling and kissing and massaging. You might have caught me playing "getting to know you" with his nervous system, my fingernails and teeth, hands and lips and tongue. ;-) But, with few exceptions, nothing you haven't seen at a bus stop or a dance club.
On an energetic level (and for the beloved skeptics in the audience, try reading this all as metaphor), things were anything but restrained. He called up water, I channelled fire, and quite understandably things got steamy. :-) I had a sharp -- not sharp like cheese, no, not sharp like a knife, perhaps I don't mean sharp, I mean all-encompassing -- sense of power and divinity. At one point an image flashed into my head and I had to laugh. He asked me to share. I said, "You're incredibly rich, like icing, but you're good for me."
For me the erotic power of S/M comes from this experience, which I have felt over and over: What I do to my partner's body I feel in my own, and what I do to my partner's spirit I feel in my own, only amplified, heightened, and flavored with everything we are or could be. That's a powerful high (she understated). Yeah, that Summit card keeps coming up.
[Digression: Moreover, when I'm in this space I'm gratefully off another (I think common to women) mental hamster wheel, which is doubting/failing to trust my own sexuality. The primary symptom here is the feeling that I am "slow" to become aroused (compared to my partner, say) and then onto frustration because I'm not "faster", guilt because I'm "failing" at being the perfect slut I want to be... a whole lot of navel-gazing stuff spinning around distracting me from, surprise! the moment I'm in and the sensations I'd like to be enjoying. No, this time I was exactly as hot as I wanted to be, and the flavor of relief mingled with the psychic lava.]
But rippling back down, I got to simply enjoy his presence, and a feeling of absolute safety and comfort and joy that simply doesn't admit insecurities, fears, doubts, or what-ifs into the circle.
We exchanged gifts; he gave me a massage, unknotting a couple of the sillier things I've done to my back and my shoulders. Later, when he seemed to need restoring, I suddenly flashed on a memory of combing my teacher's aura in class, and proceeded to comb and fliff his aura. It worked! I was doubly delighted: to remember that exactly when I needed it, and to be able to give it away.
(Is this all too mystical? Very well. As hobbies go, S/M and witchcraft beat the hell out of solitaire. Don't know what else to tell you.)
Nine years ago, in a public restaurant in Palo Alto, I stood eye to eye with a lovely shy man, tormented his nipples and fell into his eyes. Friday, I got to finish this scene properly. But "finish" is a wrong word, and I strike it, because that implies we're somehow done, when the truth is we've hardly started. We needed nine years of study before we were ready for each other. Knowing that, I'm anticipating the journey to come with a great deal of pleasure.