The Photographer is away for a while. This has given me some time to think, for us to think, about where we might go in the future. I've also been thinking quite hard about poly and whether that is right for me. I met up with Knight of Wands for lunch yesterday, and he was very supportive and good to talk to. I'm not sure that I can properly sustain two relationships, especially not two BDSM relationships. We discussed whether we could realistically exist as "play only" and whilst we have agreed that we probably can, but that at the moment I just need a bit of time to work things out. No sex please, I'm anxious.
The current sexual hiatus is a double-edged sword for my state of mind. On the one hand it gives me the opportunity to examine my life and my relationships in the cold light of day rather than the warm afterglow of beatings and orgasm. On the other, my life is now a little lacking in beatings and orgasm. It's a shame, because part of me is sure that I'd feel an awful lot better on the other side of a hefty evening spent chained, gagged and abused. However, I'm navigating some odd places right now and don't really have a handle on how I'd react. Good play is only good play when one is in the right headspace and I've not got that at the moment: I feel a little too fragile physically and emotionally to be able to just let go and enjoy myself with someone, so it wouldn't be particularly fair to either party.
My sensible brain knows that the only kink that I can realistically manage is fantasy kink. Perfectly controlled and stage managed fantasies in which every blow and touch falls on just the right place and in just the right fashion. I know that it's artificial sweetener instead of sugar, but it is easy to digest. In my mind, there are two perfect boys. Sometimes they are sadistic, demanding Doms, sometimes they are sweet, eager to please submissives. Either way, I get to have my hands full. They don't speak much, just little soft words of need. They vanish the minute I open my eyes, but as imaginary companions go, they are just right.
I don't feel as if I've accomplished much, of late. Nothing physical at any rate, which is getting me down, somewhat. The problem of being in a D/s relationship with someone who lives far away is not being able to get anything like my weekly required dose of sexual stimulation, and solo-adventures don't really cut it. Masturbation is not so much an added extra in my life as a regular part of my daily routine: morning and evening. Cleansing, toning, moisturising and orgasming. It isn't enough.
But BDSM isn't about orgasm, or even just about physical stimulation. What I want is more complicated than that, otherwise I'd be perfectly happy with a small but perfectly formed set of sex toys and perhaps some charming and conversationally adept company over dinner every once in a while. I'm reminded, again and again, that I'm not an island, I am not sexually self-sufficient. I need someone else, and someone else in a very specific way.
I like sex a lot, an awful lot. I like being tied up, beaten, pushed down and fucked. I love the adrenaline high, the excess of sensation that comes from pulling apart the edges of the pleasure-pain barrier. I like play without sex, although given that play makes me horny, I guess that all play is sexualised to an extent (even if it is just in my mind, and that's where everything begins, after all). Yet even there, there is still a gap.
What separates "play" from "a relationship" is perhaps the gap I'm thinking of, what I'm missing is the dailiness of it all. An ongoing context for the play to operate in. Real world activity. I miss his skin, the way he smells. I don't have enough physical reminders of our connection. I have fantasies about being there when he wakes up, making him a cup of tea in bed whilst I crawl under the duvet to suck his cock, taking six of the best before bedtime. Little rituals that emphasise and underline the nature of the beast, both reinforcing and slaking my desire to be his, in my entirety.
The Photographer and I went to visit Reining In on Saturday for our first sample of pony play. In advance we'd received a ten point email of how to dress and behave prior to meeting up. I'm very fond of protocol, especially if it comes in the form of written lists, given that there can often be nerves at a first meeting having something solid to get a grip on helps assuage these. Both of us had to be shaved smooth from top to bottom, excepting the hair on our heads, and neither of us were allowed to wear deodorant, makeup or underwear. Preparation is part of anticipation, and grooming is part of submissive transformation, both mentally because the ritual of doing so puts one in a certain frame of mind and also physically as you make yourself into something more desirable to another - in this case made all the better by having a precise pro-forma for doing so, no second guessing or worrying about being wrong-footed.
As we looked over the list, I was initially a bit thrown by the request for the "filly" wear a pair of red stilettos and an A-line dress that buttons up at the front, partly because I don't have either of those things (I'm not a very girly girl, and I'm tall so never bother much with high heels) and also because it felt very, well, feminine. A sexualised representation of the female form, which seemed a little strange and not especially animal at all. The "colt" got more leeway and less chance of exposure on public transport by wearing loose trousers and a shirt. That's the knock-on effect of conforming to someone else's desire, I suppose, you stop feeling like yourself, and feel like something dressed-up and strange. For some reason I felt a little confused and confounded by that request, I guess that part of me wanted pony play to be about the removal of the trappings of that type of desire and to partake of something different, I had no real conceptions about what the "something different" might be, but I did have an idea about what it was not.
As it turned out, we stripped almost as soon as we arrived, so I was soon feeling more comfortable. Reining In was very calm, and is very well practised in training ponies so we went straight into it. Harnesses, headpieces and gags went on with very little difficulty, and certainly as soon as the gag went in I felt more ready, more complete. We were each fitted with our own tail, sturdy butt-plug insert and blond horsehair. I got to sit back and listen to The Photographer whimper and wince a little as his was put into position - lack of practice, we later agreed. Our arms were clipped together by cuffs above the elbows, then folded behind our back and bound in a strapped leather sling. The arm pieces felt especially good: no hands to gesture with, no mouth to speak with. I made little snorting noises through my nose and leaned my face against The Photographer's shoulder. I could smell his skin and immediately wanted to lick it. But couldn't.
Finally came the piece of kit that I had been looking forward to the most. Pony boots. They looked stunning, I beamed with joy. Shiny black PVC towers, with buckles, straps, laces and horse shoes on the soles which peeped out the back to give a little extra stability. As mentioned, I don't really do high heels. Now, pony boots are really, really high (although certainly lacking in the "heel" element) and once I was eventually strapped into them I teetered on these four inch blocks and then spent the following hours in constant fear of falling over as I skittered about on the shiny lino floor. Standing still was very difficult and I felt the need to shift from foot to foot, trying to re-balance my weight. Two days later and my thighs are still aching. I wasn't in pain, I was just conscious of not feeling at all in control, and straining to stay upright, especially when plasters were put over my eyes and I panicked, losing all ability to know where I was and needing to be held still for a while. We were taught how to walk-on, and turn, with a gentle crop stroke or tap to the left leg for leading or a pull on the reins attached to our bits. We trotted up, down and round the room. Throughout Reining In was full of reassurances, letting us know that we were both pretty, and pleasing, but something wasn't quite working for me.
It was a niggling feeling, like the sensation that you have forgotten something important. I just didn't feel as if I was entirely getting into it, every now and then a little voice in my head would pipe up with you are stood naked in someone's living room, wearing bits of leather and looking like a fool. Not entirely the reaction I'd hoped for and to a certain extent I was disappointed in myself for not being able to go with it, and I'm still not entirely sure why. Part of it, I'm convinced though a little saddened, was wearing the boots. Whilst they did give a satisfying horsey noise when I stamped my feet and looked amazing each time I glimpsed myself in the mirror they were very distracting. The need to remain very focused on not-falling-over prevented me from slipping into anything like a comfortable head-space: I was very conscious of simply being a girl in dangerous shoes on precarious ground, which made me tense and anxious. Another part is the fact that I was literally becoming self-conscious, rather than slipping into the sensations and the mood I was looking at myself from the outside and feeling a bit silly, which is rarely sexy.
There were definitely moments, this notwithstanding. The feel of the gag as saliva ran passed it and onto my breasts, the floor, The Photographer's shoulder as I nuzzled against him. The leather straps against bare skin, the press of the plug inside my arse as Reining-In jiggled the straps holding it into me making me stamp my feet in frustration as I got wetter and wetter. Almost every sensation when taken individually worked for me, but I couldn't keep it together as a whole in my mind. It's certainly something that I am still interested in, and we have a standing invitation to go back, but there are definitely kinks to be ironed out, as it were, and points of entry into the mode of play to be re-negotiated.
I'm feeling somewhat better about my place in the world on the other side of a lot of conversations with The Photographer, Knight of Wands and some of my close friends. Which isn't to say that I've come to any resolution or eureka moment, I haven't, but more that I can separate out the difference between "having a bad day" and "being at a crisis point". The latter tends not to recede drastically after the input of some dinner, a glass of wine and a good night's sleep. It's clear enough that there will be some bumps along the journey, certainly I've found some within other relationships in my life so why should poly be any different? I've also found bumps within my BDSM explorations, areas that have been attempted and found to be difficult or at least not going in the direction that might have been expected. Shuttered Lens recently asked me how my "adventures" were doing, and now seems a good time to consider them.
I've stopped dating, pretty much, in the sense that I am not looking for new partners to play with by myself. Some of this is a time concern, I have a full-time job and there are only so many hours in the day. But the majority of it is driven by the fact that I am The Photographer's slave and that connection is empowered and strengthened by specific areas of exclusivity. I get to be his, and it's fantastic, if he's around then I want to spend my time with him. If not, then I tend to spend my time with Knight of Wands Which doesn't leave a lot of room for added extras.
Although there are some, The Photographer and I are investigating co-submission, and part of that is about working out what we want as a pair from these interactions. I am personally very interested in exploring pain and a vocabulary to go with it to better describe the feelings and sensations. We are also keen to see how different styles of D/s might work, to insert ourselves into someone else's fantasy of control - here we are specifically focused on the more psychological aspects perhaps, particularly our shared love of objectification. And of course throughout all of this I want to see how the balance operates between ourselves, what our dynamic might be when serving as a pair.
I have had to let a couple of projects go on the back burner, including the Doll Project, which does rear it's head every now and then - a couple of suggestions for photo-sessions which have failed to materialise due to diary considerations and there has been elements of exploring doll-like mental states whilst being mummified. Technically, I suppose that given my submissive state has a tendency towards the passive and the pleasing, then this is always in the background, but I haven't really had a chance to get my teeth into it. And of course, the search goes ever onwards for that hot bi boy...
Met up with Kiss Curls for a cup of tea and the closest to girly chit-chat that I get - we were both girls and we both chatted. At the moment she's dating a lot, on the look out for nothing more complicated than interesting sex so we took a while to compare notes. After we'd shared a few choice details (her: newly discovered kink for filthy hill-billy accents, me: experiments in kink/pagan crossovers) we discussed future projects and came to the general consensus that two hot bi boys to play with were this season's must-have item, the important thing being that they must be into each other and that we must be in the middle.
The conversation meandered over to lifestyle choices. A male acquaintance of hers is in a poly relationship, a V with two women, both of whom have become pregnant within a few months of each other. Our reactions were separated by time but allied in attitude, a kind of surprised horror at the thought that he is intending to maintain both families, in different parts of the country. We decided that as a concept, it didn't work for us, to say the least. I know that there are folk who manage poly with babies and possibly even with kink thrown in there as well, but to try and do double duty with two distinct households? Perhaps I'm overlooking the thought of love conquering all, but I'm sure that love often needs the assistance of time planning and a decent cash injection every now and then. I know my life does and realistically I'm only seeing The Photographer, Knight of Wands and some double-dating at the weekends. We eventually hit the nail on the head and rammed it into the coffin with the thought that he would only be able to be half a Dad to each kid, half a partner to each mother and that wasn't fair (for fair read what we would want in that situation), given the amount of effort that our mother's have led us to believe babies are.
It got me thinking, about poly as a life choice, rather than a passing phase or a way of having my kinky cake and eating it. With cream. My attitude to poly has a tendency to vary with my mood, in the way that everything looks a little worse on a dull and gloomy day. At the moment, the outlook is not as favourable as it has been, it seems a tad over-complicated and a lot of effort rather than boy meeting girl and deciding who ties up who. On a good day, it seems the perfect way of living - everyone has their own space to explore sexual preferences, different long-term relationships can be established without sacrificing another part of your life: no-one has to compromise on what they want. And that's the key word, for me, compromise. I've never been particularly good at it, preferring a more all-or-nothing approach because for me "kind of right" is just a nicer way of saying "wrong". So is poly a permanent compromise or a way of avoiding any compromise?
I guess it depends on the exchange rate - what has been given up in return for what, and whether I can live with that ongoing. For me, poly was a consequence of meeting, and becoming very attached to, The Photographer. It wasn't something I've ever done before, and it has remained a means to an end, effect rather than cause. Given the option, I'd probably not do it. But I live in the real world, rather than the hypothetical, so it pays to examine exactly where I stand and whether it is worth it.
What have I given up? Exclusivity is a pat response, but it is true. I've lost monogamy, and have previously been one of its great adherents, finding security in the knowledge that there was just the two of us, against the world, a symmetry and balance that you don't get hanging on the end of a V. There is a loss of control also, the knowledge that someone else, who you don't know very well, regardless of how lovely they might be, has a say in your relationship with the person you love. That's hard, but not unheard of in monogamous relationships: best friends, parents and well-wishers all might chip in, however it's not the same thing. In this case, the other person has just as much stake in the relationship as you do, if not more.
There's a joke that anyone who says that their poly relationships aren't hierarchical and that they are all different and special is just trying very hard not to tell you you're a secondary. Powerplays and games of subservience are all well and good in BDSM, very well and good, in fact, but I don't think I can live like that. I know I can't. It's one thing feeling small and insignificant when compared to a Dominant partner, but not to their partner. I'll consent to the first, but not the second.
Finally, I've given up marriage. The big white dress moment, church bells, family, friends and any sort of large-scale public acknowledgement of committment, life-long love. I'm a natural nester, and no matter how many times previous relationships have come crashing around my ears (and oh they have!) I remain confident that out there, is the right person for me and that when I meet them I'll have that Happy Ending we've all been promised by so many stories and films. Without wishing to inject further melodrama, I burst into tears as I typed this, which only goes to show what a hopeless (pathetically, naively so, I know) romantic I am and also that I am a little run down and unhappy at the moment making everything that little bit harder. However it probably goes a fair way to expressing how much this image and what it represents means to me.
There's a flipside to it, obviously, because as much as I'm a masochist, I'm not in the business of making myself unhappy. Both men in my life make me extremely happy. The situation and the style of relationship, less so. I'm just not sure how to square the circle on this one, but I'm working on it. We're working on it.
The Photographer and I had an exciting evening in on Sunday with Shuttered Lens who was shooting bondage shots for his upcoming book. We did a number of poses: tied back to back standing up and at table, plus a rope corset for him. I love the stages involved in rope work, stripping down to bare flesh, the patient process of slippery coils rubbing on skin and the little heave of excitement as they are pulled tight. There is an array of sensations at work here, from start to finish which gives the entire scene a rhythm. Whether the rope is scratchy hemp or silky chord (smooth in this case, personal preference) the feel of it as it is wrapped around or drawn over arms, stomach, legs, breast is a type of caress. There's the small whispers of rope burns from a sudden movement, and the the encroaching, slow pressure that builds as the sense of confinement increases, as I'm held tighter, made more helpless and my bones and muscles start to ache.
The added value here is in being watched and manipulated. The Photographer and I have talked a lot about our dynamics when we submit as a pair, and we both enjoy being pleasing, to be something interesting to toy with or to look at. The camera is an eye, a beholder, fixing moments into place, a controlling presence that captures creating objects from subjects. Mix that in with poses that are absolutely defined, as we are put in our places by rope, fully aware of the odd grin and amused comment from Shuttered Lens, and you have a triple layer of submission: our shared desires, the context of the photoshoot and the rope work of the Dom. Sore muscles mixed with smiles as we went through the evening. There's a sense in which the camera gave us an added protocol, pacing the events and giving structure to what was being done, and there's certainly a sense in which I played to the camera. I couldn't help myself. It also gave more impetus to holding poses for longer - a clipped trouser hanger functioned as very effective nipple clamps (new-to-me pervertible), which was then attached to a rope and given to The Photographer to hold taut whilst shots were taken. The pain came as a wave, rising up each time the rope was pulled, but of course I nodded when asked if I could stand it for a few minutes more.
We did final piece where The Photographer was tied to the table, legs bent and fixed to the table legs, chest exposed and penis tied like a gift in a series of looping coil. Shuttered Lens tucked a chair in place and I sat down, with a pair of chopsticks, and a wicked grin aimed directly at the lens. I played with him, using the rough wooden sticks and the occasional flicker of my tongue, hoping to elicit a moan or two, which were fortunately forthcoming. That seemed to push a few buttons and we settled into unexpected but very welcome play: holding my head firm, and my mouth around The Photographer's cock a sort of rope bridle was wound around and tightened, holding me in place. I sucked his cock slowly, building up. Shuttered Lens took his time, alternating between playing with The Photographer and maneuvering my head using my hair, the rope, or pressing down on my back and neck from behind, an arm firm around my shoulders.
I was being used to use someone else. The position we were both tied in meant that neither could see the other's expression, and neither of us could move we were connected by sensation only, and controlled by Shuttered Lens for his own amusement. Any feeling of performance anxiety normally associated with blow jobs vanished, because I was not in control. I relaxed, enjoying the sensation of being moved by firm hands. I had a lightheaded sense of utter objectification, focusing on sucking and breathing, which was difficult, and the difficulty only added to the feeling of submission. Held in that position swallowing was near impossible and saliva ran freely from my mouth, which he occasionally smeared over my face, hair and neck. I lost track of time, feeling only the physical sensations, thinking about nothing. We were bodies, held in the moment.
I've been thinking recently about labels, words we use to describe ourselves and our actions, words that others might use. In this case, the self and the action I'm talking about is kink and kinky. Personally, I'm of the viewpoint that kinky people are born, not made, whether or not you eventually become a practitioner (to whatever extent) is a different bag of rope entirely. The potential is there from the start. However, it is neither a binary state and neither is it an objective state.
Let's talk binaries first. The dichotomy kink/vanilla separates and segregates one lifestyle choice from another, the two support and define each other through a negatively enforced relationship in which it is impossible to be both at the same time. Pick a side, seems to be the implication. Which a lot of us do, I know I do. It's a way of describing and delineating our lives, putting things into boxes. We can talk about our "vanilla life" and "vanilla friends" or "kinky activities" and "kinky side" create a little linguistic apartheid state in which ne'er the twain shall meet. But they do. They meet in us. And they meet in everyone. However, we're busy picking sides. Which people do in order to identify themselves, find like-minded people. We do this by labelling ourselves, by laying claim to words like "kinky", "submissive" "masochist". Naming acts occur when we do this, pouring our thoughts into words which become real. Whether or not we are inherently kinky or vanilla becomes a bit of a moot point when we also decide that we are. Because these are practices and philosophies rather than physical attributes, they can't be seen or touched or pointed to so in order to "be" something we need to "do" it. They are active choices which we live up to.
Which leads nicely onto objectivity, and with it, definitions. What is "kinky" and what is "vanilla", to whom to these terms belong and in what context? I'd argue that no-one who enjoys sex could honestly say that they have never engaged in a little light bondage (even with the merest wisp of silky scarves), some rough and tumble, or blindfolds. Does that make them kinky - if so that would make the activities themselves kinky, regardless of who performs them and where, which doesn't feel quite right to me. We can also get a little hung up on the pejorative phrase "vanilla kink" where some might look down their noses at folks playing at being kinky. Which on the face of it looks a little absurd, given the importance of play and playfulness within the scene. Perhaps what we mean is a failure to take these things seriously, or to acknowledge that there might be some for whom those activities are more meaningful, and certainly no-one would want to detract from these things.
However, just because some people are champion swimmers doesn't prevent the rest of us from using a paddling pool. I'd argue that no activity is truly either kinky or vanilla, but that it all exist on a range, a sliding scale which varies from person to person and from day to day depending on all sorts of internal and external changes and pressures. Perhaps it is less about the "what" and more about the "who" and "how". If we think that these ways of being are roles to be adopted whilst we identify as one or the other then we do not inhabit either state fully or in any sort of fixed way. I would say that I am kinky, but I wouldn't say it all the time, there are portions of my life in which I feel it is inappropriate. I'm not actively, (or performatively, to take Judith Butler's theory of gender and give it a little twist) being kinky all the time. To those around me, I am therefore vanilla. Certainly I am behaving in a vanilla way at those times and in those contexts and as far as they are concerned. I can self-identify as much as I want but by not speaking out, by letting others infer and make assumption based on what I am (not) saying I put myself in a vanilla context.
Or do I? After all, I get to decide who I am, and make my own choices about living. I don't have to fulfill other people's expectations or opinions of me. I can be just as kinky in jeans and a t shirt, sat in the pub as in full pvc tied to a rack. My brain is the same, wherever I am. There's an argument for attempting to do away with all labels, all definitions, but then we would lose all frames of reference. In a sense, for all the fuzzy borders, we need vanilla/kinky, even though perhaps neither term sufficiently encompasses the reality of desire, because they function as imperfect but useful touchpoints within our lives.
I am a little hesitant about needle play, so when it was put on the table by Mixed Doubles I bravely volunteered The Photographer to be the ideal subject. I'm not scared, per se, but I've spent a fair amount of time in hospitals so needles have an association with being ill, endless blood tests and such like. I'm not concerned they will hurt, I'm fairly sure that they will, I'm more concerned that will be all they will do. Just sit there. Hurting.
It is, however, fascinating to watch. I am looking at him, and Mixed Doubles, and at the little crowd that has gathered to observe the tiny operating theatre. He is stripped to the waist, lying face up on the cream leather doctor's chair, recently shaven chest smooth and exposed. I can observe him in a way that I never get the chance to when I'm topping him - I don't need to think about what to do next or how he is feeling. I can just watch. It's a nice sensation, the knowledge that he is about to enjoy himself, and see just how that enjoyment is going to pan out. I I wonder how he feels right now - he looks serene, is he nervous at all? He closes his eyes almost immediately, a small smile on his lips. He's done this before and knows what's coming.
There's a process to it, a kind of ritual. Antiseptic wipes are applied, gloves are pulled on with the precision and showmanship of a professional magician. The first needle goes in about an inch above his pierced nipple. Its a brisk, practised movement, in-and-out. There's a pause, he's holding his breath I think, but he is so calm that it's hard to tell. Then a small exhalation, a tiny "ah" noise. The matching needle goes in on the other side, there's an art to this, clearly, making a pattern in flesh, a creation that looks right. He's a canvas, or a sampler, perhaps. They are both working on him, inserting needles in tandem. He is quiet, as usual, but a little play with the needles, wriggling them this way and that makes his head jerk, the funny grimacing gesture of the pleasure-pain response - eyes bright when they flutter open, teeth showing as lips part, moans.
And he's done. Six neat little strips of metal. Three on each side. He's still for a while, enjoying the sensation he later described as a high, a phenomenal high. He's not still for long, because a violet wand is plugged in, and he jerks upwards as the sparks flash across the needles. He bends double, almost, half laughing, half moaning with the "oh my god" intensity of it all. I grin too, and we all share smiles. It's a nice grouping, him writing under the two Doms working on his chest, me nearby, post-play content wrapped up in his jacket, enjoying watching them enjoy him. Fun for everyone.
A good night was had on Friday with one half of Mixed Doubles, The Photographer and myself. The dungeon room at Antichrist is small, but very well managed (folks attempting to sit on spanking benches were moved on in short order and those wanting to "have a go" were offered help and assistance). The crowd in the club proper were mostly there for the bands which meant that there was no problem finding space and no waiting for kit, the voyeurs were self-selecting and generally easy to be around. There was a different feel in drawing an audience who were not necessarily play-orientated: a lot of what was going on was new to them, they were quite chatty and there were a number of wide eyes alongside big grins, and a number seemed very keen to try or to find out more.
My own role in any form of education was confined to being an object lesson, which although not the point of the activity was certainly a nice outcome. Mummification and needles were the order of the day. I got to go first, whilst costume changes were done, but it was fortunate The Photographer had his hands free as it enabled him to help out with a very tight clear clingfilm wrap, which was overlayed with a number of bands of silver gaffer tape. I became a package or present a "rubber doll" in the words of a shocked onlooker surprised by my breathing. When the final set of wrap and tape went over the top of my head and eyes I was complete. Just my mouth and nose free. There was a delicious giddy feeling as I was lifted off my feet by strong arms, happily helpless, then laid out on a nearby couch and left to float for a while. And float I did, carried away on the rhythm of my own breathing and the pounding bass of the music. Snatches of conversation around me turn into incomprehensible noise, sound without meaning.
Then were sensations, warm and slightly tingly, a rasping vibration that travelled up and down my body. Hands certainly, but with something else. The pressure varied, and with it the feeling hardened and softened. It was never painful, but always present. Later my legs were raised so I was in an L shape on my back, and beaten on the legs and arse with another unidentified object, this time there was pain, but it was interspersed with something softer, each time I was never sure what was going to hit where, unable to wriggle or to feel cool air on my skin I was held firm.
Plastic film is an illusory barrier, the tight bounds feel strong but are very thin and carry the vibrations and blows further over my skin than would have otherwise happened, my skin held in tension. This, combined with being blindfold and unable to hear much made what was happening disorientating. Being unable to pinpoint what (or indeed who) was precisely acting on me added to this. And with this lack of knowledge came a lack of self, the feeling of being an object, an item was enhanced not only by my immobility but by my inability to comprehend what was happening. Insensibly sensitive. I was a toy, a doll, something to practice on, to play with. Almost more so when the film was removed, sticky layers clinging to my sweating skin and leaving me peeled and exposed, shuddering to the lightest touch. Still blindfolded I was moved this way and that, gentle strokes making me jump. I felt a little limp, the tight bindings were a sense of stability, a definite presence which was now absent, without them I drifted even further, totally without any moorings. Light as air.
I am a young, feminist, BDSM practitioner based in London. I have a number of online identities, and this is the one that specifically explores the sexual part of my life, what I'm doing, who I'm doing it with and what I think about it all.