You love BDSM.

Funny, because you've never tried it.

As a child, when older uncles and aunties whispered about it and shook their heads in disbelief, you wondered what it was. It was the kind of thing you didn't ask about. Their facial expressions and determination to send you out of the room when one of them suddenly made reference to the word was enough telltale.

Even when you stylishly asked your peers, you were always met with silence.

Years later, when you resort to taking your mother's phone to indulge in watching porn, you'd first come across BDSM. A lady gagged and cuffed to the bed, nipple clamps and blindfolded.

You wondered how she felt comfortable with all those foreign objects, moaned in pleasure through it all, and the urge of the unknown intrigued you.

Your journey to quell your inquisitiveness began, maniacally combing through the nets at nightfall and under heavy blankets to keep prying eyes at bay. You would come across BDSM that didn't sit well with you, choosing to never try armbinders, anal or vaginal hooks, pussy torture, and posture collars among others. But the beauty of it, to you, was you could choose to what extent you were willing to ride.

Over the years, you learned more about the act only from the web, viewing and watching videos and pictures that replay in your head when you touch yourself and bring your body to climax.

Sadly, you've always wanted to try the experience with your partner, not a random person you hook up with a few times. It had to be someone who's willing to stay long and explore the concept of kinky sex with you all through your relationship.

Whenever you mention it, Shindara, your roommate and best friend would ask if you knew the implication of what you crave and you would laugh in that soft way of yours and give her the look that screams conviction.

Your real-time constant supply of kinky sex news is Phoebe, the wild, carefree babe you befriended during your university days shortly after you met Shindara in your first year. She is a sex freak, one who, to you, would always be above a pro.

Phoebe is no novice in BDSM. She would sometimes visit your apartment with mild cuts that gleamed red on her spotless fair skin and butt cheeks. When you ask her if they hurt, she’d claim the pleasure overwhelms the pain.

You’d urge her to tell you more, and she wouldn't hold back. Phoebe’s clientele, a delicate balance of married men and wealthy souls, have much to lose—reputations, fortunes, and the fragile threads that held their lives together. The circle is exclusive, and to enter, you need more than curiosity; you need connections—someone who knows someone or a soul who trusts you implicitly.

These men convened in the hidden apartments of their choosing, with each meeting being held in a location different from the last.

Beyond this inner sanctum, there exist other men who dabble in the same forbidden pursuits, but Phoebe remains elusive to their advances.

“Those ones no dey sweet,” she always claims. “Married men are more daring. You will get to enjoy the part of them their wives would never know. They are always like wild tigers in bed, but I no blame them. It’s not easy to keep all those sexual urges within yourself because your partner wants to see the Holy Spirit in you. Na them dey sweet pass joor, and they pay more.”

Phoebe offered to hook you up with some men who were into BDSM, but you always decline. Perhaps it is your only attempt to stick to your religion with a sense of commitment to whoever you took to bed, never changing men like a constant.

But then you wondered what sort of commitment that was when you've broken every rule of that religion, restraining you from engaging in any sexual activity before marriage. At a point, Phoebe tried to talk you into sex with her. She could show you the basics, get you comfortable with some techniques, but you declined.

You were tempted, but you don't do women like Phoebe does. It isn't that you haven't tried to have a good love life. Most of your relationships were great. Communication and understanding were good, the chemistry was always ‘wow,’ the sex… ‘wowsier.’ You didn't mind being submissive in bed and most of your partners loved it, except Henry, one of your exes who always loved being dominated.

But anyhow e be, you were comfortable. There were subtle role-plays and crazy sex, but you wanted more.

The end of your relationships was always when you tried to get your partners to use whips or gags on you. In fact, one of your exes had clearly told you he wanted to fuck a human and not an animal, whips weren't necessary. But you wanted to play red light, green light like a traffic warden, testing the limits of your endurance and comfort during sex. This always got them walking out the door.

Whenever you divulge just a sliver of Phoebe's escapades to pique Shindara's curiosity, she would offer you her own smile—the one that irks you, making you feel like an impertinent kid.

Shindara's distaste for Phoebe is no secret, yet she graciously welcomes her into your shared space during your catch-ups on Phoebe's most recent exploits.

Shindara's upbringing is starkly different from yours; she wasn't cocooned from the world by parental constraints. Instead, she was cast into the harsh realities of life at a tender age, fighting for her place in a home where she was seen as a rival to her cousins.

Despite these challenges, Shindara turned out great, bubbly, and emotionally mature, with a craze that nobody suspected could be hidden beneath her vivaciousness.

You probably wouldn't know if you hadn't seen her change it for people who moved mad on rare occasions.

"Iqmat," Shindara inquired one morning. "How can you profess love for something you've never encountered? Isn't it possible that your fantasies are making you lose touch with reality?"

"Just as you cherish the thoughts of Bali and the Maldives, despite never having set foot on their shores," you reply, shrugging.

What was there to explain when comprehension seemed beyond her grasp? With a subtle shake of her head, Shindara returned to the strokes of her nail brush, humming softly to herself.

The dog that has chosen to get lost will not hear the Hunter's flute. Or as your Aunt Remi, with her bad mouth, usually said: “You need not tell a madman to avoid sticking his penis into a burning flame.”

You go soon learn.

The tight walls around your supposed sexual misfortune finally cracked on a Sunday when you and Shindara followed a mutual friend, Kemi, to her church.

Kemi was one of the few people you knew who would accompany you to any event. On this occasion, she extended an invitation to a special church service—a gesture you often declined but chose to accept this time.

Sermons, whether in a mosque or church, have never resonated with you. Your spiritual practices are personal and introspective, rooted in the daily prayers, Ramadan, and the verses of the Qur’an etched into your memory since childhood.

Beyond these, religious ceremonies held little appeal, and so, less than an hour into the service, you found yourself drifting into slumber. You startle awake when a voice begins to sing into the mic, raising all the congregation to their feet, and as you groggily get up from your seat, you see him.

His eyes are closed in concentration. Beard, meticulously trimmed, frames his face, and a proper low cut that lend him a cute charm. And his voice… The microphone veiled his mouth, yet the resonance of his voice reached every corner of the room.

He sings so well you don't even catch the lyrics to the song, and minutes after he opens his eyes and dances down the aisle between the rows of chairs, they land on you.

You are the only one neither moving nor dancing, a spectator not so hard to miss.

He smiles at you and continues to sing.

Was that a Nathaniel Bassey song, or was it Dunsin Oyekan?

Your brain begins to play Jazz and Blues as you fantasise about every wicked thing you want those lips of his to do to you.

Your legs squeeze themselves together at the sudden heat pooling between them, and you sigh. Later, you approach the music minister after the service and leave with his contact saved on your phone. His name is Kevin.

Sunday service at Kemi’s church becomes something of a regular for you. It is the one time you get to watch Kevin’s voice command emotions in men and women alike.

You don't hide the fact that you are a Muslim, nor does he hide his hope of wishing you'll convert once you attend enough church service and listen to the words of the Bible.

Communication with Kevin is okay, seamless like your bond has been through tests, standing strong.

He is confident about himself, not with an air of pomposity or blind pride, setting it down that he is attracted to you from the very beginning.

Fine bobo like him, you need no urging to talk about your attraction too, and days are spent on video calls, laughing into the night.

During his music ministrations, he would scan the crowd for your face, hold your gaze, and hit a high note that made you chuckle.

Show off!

One day, during one of your chats, you intentionally tell him you like rough sex. The blue tick indicating your message has been read shines for eight good minutes before Kevin starts typing.

You begin to mentally beat yourself up. Maybe you shouldn't have sent that. Give it more time, probably, until you are both so close and know so much about the other. Maybe he'd begin to preach to you. The time he didn't reply may have been spent formulating the words of the gospel that would reprimand you of your bad ways.

What if he walks away, too uptight to agree with your ways? And would he block you too? Let you know you're walking in the path of the demon, just like all those “I am a child of God” people who make you think they are interested, only to add you to the long line of ‘sisters’.

“Being rough comes with an unexplainable soothing aftermath,” your screen brightens from his message. “It’s fun to indulge once in a while.”

The wink at the end of the message sends you pressing your palms against your lips to stifle your squeal. Kevin, to your utter jubilation, loves BDSM. Although not so straightforward at first, he admits it to you on a call later that night.

His experience is exactly what you want, one that doesn't judge your love for a fetish you've never explored. You begin to think about the sex, the exploration of your interest. Finally!

On the day you are to visit Kevin in his house, your excitement knows no bounds. You walk around your apartment with swagger, whistling and jiggling your waist to a mental tune. Shindara tries to talk you out of it, but realising your strong resolve, she lets you be.

Kevin's place is a two-bedroom gated house where he lives alone. You call Shindara to let her know you got there safely, and she makes you promise to continue to keep in touch briefly until you leave his place. You make small talk in his sitting room, gliding over the usual happenings in both of your lives, but no matter how good the conversation sounds, your mind is caught up in the whirlwind of what is to come.

As if reading you, Kevin leans in and kisses you, slowly at first, then deeper and filled with want. You feel lightheaded, hearing your own voice whooping triumphantly somewhere in your brain, but you pull in close and surrender yourself to the kiss.

You are still reeling from that kiss when his hands guide you to his bedroom. It is a pretty big space that could house five of his king-size bed, decorated such that the sparse furniture didn't make the space unoccupied. A black wooden wardrobe runs the entire wall length opposite his bed, and as he gingerly sits you down like a porcelain doll, he smiles and makes for the last section of the wardrobe, which is also the only one with a door.

Tons of equipment you've only seen in pictures over the net lay in front of you, tucked away in the wardrobe, and you run your hands over them in awe. Collars, whips, gags, bondage cuffs, blindfolds, hooks, Ben Wa Balls, Violet wands, Sybians… All arranged or hung in full display in a space the size of two of your own small wardrobe back at home.

“Omo! So, some of these ‘I live for God’ people sef sabi.” You thought as you picked up a whip excitedly.

He raises a brow at you, and you nod in confirmation, moving on to pick Ben Wa Balls, blindfold, and a spanking paddle.

Kevin reaches out to pick a posture collar, and you stop him, opting for a pecker instead, ultimately finishing off with nipple clamps.

You look at all your selections and nod in satisfaction, smiling. Kevin switches his lights to a low blue before getting down to it. Slowly, your clothes came off by the works of his fingers, and you are glad you decided to go with your body-fitted gown instead of the jeans Shindara suggested.

His eyes don’t leave yours as he gently lowers your back to the bed, only breaking eye contact when he begins to nibble from your neck, over your breasts and down between your thighs.

Purposefully, he raises his eyes to yours again before stroking between your legs lightly and going down to kiss between your thighs just when you are about to plead.

Wet and shaken, you moan in pleasure as he carefully inserts the Ben Wa Balls in you. He rises to your breasts, sucks both nipples before clipping the nipple clamps in place.

“Okay?” He asks, and exasperatedly, you reach for the paddle and hold it to him as your reply, rolling over to offer him your butt cheeks. Kevin chuckles at your determination, picks up the blindfolds and Pecker, and inserts them over your eyes and mouth, respectively.

Your jaws groan from the foreign object in your mouth but you hold still, letting them adjust to the phallus. You moan as the first hit lands on your skin. Not from the paddle at first, but from Kevin's hands. He hits you a few times before using the paddle.

You know he derives erotic pleasure from hearing his lovers moan or try to speak with a gag over their mouth, so you moan louder as he hits. Minutes later, he unfastens the pecker and kisses you briefly before reaching for the whip.

Because you still had your blindfolds on, he lets you know what is coming next, and despite feeling relief, you wish he hadn't freed you from the Pecker.

When the first lash hits you, your fingers clench the soft cotton of his sheets. The lash wasn't brought down hard, but your already sore cheeks are beginning to give you the heat.

More and more lashes come, and each grows harder than the last one. Your moans become more strained, like groans for help, and your hands struggle to hold you up. You begin to pant, trying to look over your shoulders at Kevin, but the blindfold still poses a barrier.

This is your chance to tell him you've had enough; let him know it is getting too intense. But that voice in your head reminds you of the pleasure you'll feel afterwards, having lived your dreams, the fulfilment of explored desires. Perhaps just a few more lashes, and he'd stop.

Oh, dear… Dem no dey tell person.

You couldn't remember the last time you felt so much pain. Even back then, as a child, when you had to face the whip, none of the bouts of lashes had hurt anywhere close to this, and you had been one stubborn child.

A few more lashes come, and you vomit. Your head finally start dey work.

You plead with Kevin to stop. You didn't see the look on his face, but he had been disgusted at the mess you made on his bed and out of sheer annoyance, he whips you one last time. That hit is the last straw to your resistance because you feel your head ringing as you pass out. *

“Iqmat? Iqmat?” You wake to Shindara’s voice, her hands cold and slippery on your cheeks. The suddenness of the light above hurts your eyes, and you groan, throat patched and hurting.

Shindara passes you the water, and you sit up. Bad idea! You wince, suddenly remembering your ordeal and finally coming to your senses.

You are still in Kevin's room, naked. He stands over you both, watching you with a look you couldn't decipher.

Kevin had been the one who called Shindara from your phone, which, luckily for you, wasn't locked because you don't really do phone locks.

She had been your last dialled, and when he called to explain, he made it clear he didn't think taking you to the hospital was a good idea.

That got Shindara pissed and rushing to his house faster. It had taken several slaps and splashes of water from her to finally open your eyes.

The glares Shindara shot Kevin as you get dressed are unmistakable, and you feel like passing out again, if only to avoid this situation.

“You could have taken her to a hospital.” She argues.

“And tell them what? That I spanked her till she passed out? That's crazy. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Well, maybe people with good reputations should think before engaging in such nonsense. Look at those things in there,” her hand movement is brief, accentuating her disgust to even point fingers at the wardrobe of doom. “What are you? An animal?”

He gives her a smug smile and glances at you before looking back at her. At that moment, even though you know she didn't mean to insult you with those words, you notice the defiant look on her face. She is never going to apologise for that.

You leave Kevin's house without a word, relying on Shindara's hold as you walk. The ride home is another hell. You have to use your hands to hold yourself up so your burning flesh is slightly hovering over the seat.

Shindara earnestly implores you to visit a hospital upon your return home, but you decline, assuring her that if the situation becomes unbearable, you will seek medical assistance.

Swiftly, she dashes to the kitchen, retrieving ice blocks from the freezer.

Placing them in a bowl of water, she soaks a small towel.

She makes you strip, take a shower and lay naked on the ground as she massages your bruises with the cold towel.

You begin to tell her it felt more intense than you had imagined. Phoebe never… You and Kevin had agreed it would be something simple or mild as you were new to it, but he hit you so hard you couldn't, couldn't… You hear the deep, throaty sound signalling Shindara’s effort at suppressing laughter, and as you continue to recount your experience, it bursts out of her.

You sniffle as you watch her clutch her stomach, finding amusement in your plight.

You couldn't blame her—not a single part of you did—but you bury your head in your folded arms and shake with tears.