It was during those long days - or, more precisely, long nights - while I was supposed to be studying that I truly discovered my own sexuality. I threw myself into the BDSM circuit, and found myself to be a sadist - a top, in the jargon - one who enjoying the sensation of power and control over those whose own pleasures demanded that they be controlled, restrained, bound with ropes and chains, and whipped and violated with abandon. I took many sexual partners - a series of willing slave-girls and dungeon sluts who enjoyed my whip on their ass, my chains on their breasts, and my toys in all of their openings.
The modest salary from my academic position, supplemented by a little additional income from books and magazine articles - targeted at certain specialist audiences, of course - allowed me to acquire a small apartment in a central part of the city. I equipped the second bedroom - or, more precisely the room I reserve for my very special guests - with the tools and equipment I deemed necessary to inflict pain and pleasure in equal measure: the shackles and chains, the dildos and vibrators, the ropes and ankle straps, the gags and whips.
Sometimes I would frequent the encounter areas of the Black Boots Club, a private members club for fetishists and which was conveniently close to my home - I chose it this very reason, of course. At the Club, I would frequently take on some whimpering slave or smarmy slut. If they behaved themselves, if they gave themselves entirely to my pleasure, then I would fit them with the collar and leash I would bring with me and drag them through the back alleys to the steel fire-door which forms the rear entrance to the block where I live.
Meeting the Rabbi again was the result of a whim on my part. One evening I was lying on my own - none of my usual playmates were available, for one reason or another - on the cool black leather of my couch, dressed in an outfit I often don for a little self-pleasuring: tightly-fitting latex boots reaching to my upper thigh with similarly black gloves reaching above the elbow. Elsewhere, I was naked, of course, and I was idly fingering myself, rubbing a scented oil into the folds of my vagina and over the puckered opening of my anus.
A few of my favorite toys lay to hand, items variously pink and black and chrome decorating the black granite top of the coffee table. As I picked up the first of the vibrators I planned to employ to work myself to a frenzied orgasm, I found myself thinking back with amusement at those early fumbling sexual encounters.
After half an hour of vigorous self-sex - first things first, after all - I did a little research on the Internet. To my surprise, I found that the Rabbi was just a little famous. She was often quoted in both religious community circulars and national newspapers, and had occasionally been interviewed for local and even national radio. She even had one short appearance on daytime television. Practically a star.
More intensive investigative work allowed me to track down her address. One evening, I paid a call, ringing the doorbell and standing back into the shadows. The Rabbi answered the door herself.
"Who's there?" she called.
I stepped forward and stood in her doorway in my long black leather boots and long black leather coat.
"My Dark Angel," she said, "It's been such a long time. You'd better come in."