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The online diary of an ethical pervert.

Monday, 1 December 2008

Clipped at the edges

"You've got a red pen mark on your back"

And other phrases one would rather not hear at work. Much as I would like to have smiled winningly and responded "oh no, that's from a knife" I am happily employed and would like to remain so. As it stands, I am hopeful that my general clumsiness about the place will assure folk that I am indeed capable of falling in such a way as to get a perfectly straight line of red ink from a curiously placed Biro. Perhaps one balanced on the edge of a desk, held firm with Blu-tak. Actually, I'm more hopeful that they won't think about it. Coming out in the workplace as gay would probably be met by some sort of parade, as a BDSM practitioner? I am less than convinced.

It didn't actually feel like a knife, although now, touching the raised and textured line I can imagine The Photographer drawing that precise mark down my spine. At the time I thought it was the pinwheel, pressed deep. It's funny how when blindfolded and without clue or guide sensations can trick you. There were distractions, in my defence, a pair of metal clips on my labia, bound together with a loop of cold, heavy chain, like the sort an old fashioned fob watch might hand from. I really enjoyed the feeling of being held like that, of having the chain pulled or flicked in a playful way. Enjoyed it more when the clips were tightened and the pressure became sweeter, more intense. He fucked me doggy style and the edges of the clips pressed against me with each stroke, biting a bit against my flesh: the contrast between the deep pleasure of penetration and the rhythmic sharp jab of the clips was fantastic. The build of a medley of alternating sensations is something guaranteed to push me down into a tingly spaced out world, and this was no exception.

I thought about how it might feel to have piercings there, that could be similarly chained or otherwise bound. Except permanent. For keeps. Something to move higher up on the list, I think.

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