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The online diary of an ethical pervert.

Thursday, 5 March 2009

Images, bodies, cameras

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.

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