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The online diary of an ethical pervert.

Friday, 29 May 2009

Dinner is served

I've been having more and more feelings of toppiness lately. Must be the heat. For example, I've always want to host a BDSM dinner party (no, not an original thought, I know, but it's still a good idea) however these days I want to be the hostess, rather than the table. I've chatted to almost everyone I know about it and now the time has come to actually attempt to do something about it. The etiquette for such a thing interests me almost as much as the dinner itself - it has all the standard requirements, who to sit next to who, whether to invite people who all know each other or those who you think will get on well. Plus some additional ones. Who is interested in doing what to who. And that's before I've even contemplated any dietary requirements...

The key has got to be getting people who are comfortable playing together, and who can have fun. This is not a night for the super-serious, I don't think. Ideally, I'd like six people, three pairs of folk. Talking to Knight of Wands last night made me realise that there's a lot of ground work to be done in finding a group of six who could eat and play comfortably together. I like the idea of the subs / bottoms waiting at table, and providing entertainment in between courses, probably with a series of games being played. I also really like the idea of creating an objet d'art out of one of the submissives, to watch or entertain ourselves with during dinner, and a submissive as a dessert. Or for dessert. With cream any way. I'm not sure that there is enough room in one evening to fit all of my ideas in, but I should probably attempt to make a start on that guest list.

And some house rules...

Wednesday, 27 May 2009

Gasping for something

I like mummification. Actually, scratch that, I love it: from the process of being wrapped up, to the time spent encased right through to being peeled out of damp, sticky plastic. There's a definite rhythm to the whole activity, a pace of sense and sensation until, finally, I can emerge from the cocoon having undergone something. I always float very easily when mummified, it gives me total freedom to do nothing, to experience that which I am allowed to experience, and to feel what comes over my mind and body as a result of those inputs.

The Photographer binds my eyes first, with thin strips of black tape. That's all it takes to shut off most of my brain. I'm in a strange place, caught between tired, horny and a come-down from the night before, so I'm easily lulled into delicate, dark spaces. He touches me, as he binds my body with pallet wrap, leaving just a few inches between my navel and the tops of my thighs free. Exposed, but also constrained, I can't spread my legs.
He's bound lengths of taut rope between my legs, pressed tight against my labia and clit, then up around my torso. Rope underneath the plastic. I'm doubly held fast.

I enjoy the feel of his fingers on my back, touching me lightly. I can feel his face against my shoulders, lips next to my spine and I want him to kiss me, like a lover might, with soft strokes that speak of tenderness and intimacy. But he won't. He never does. Kisses are for equals. I am not his equal, not now. And whilst most of the time I am content to be his thing, his object, sometimes I yearn for more: the brush of his lips gives me the remembrance of his kiss, and the assurance that might bring, what it means. The absence of the kiss, the need for it is very clear, right then. There is a disjunct, between the softness of his touch, the impression it gives of care, of love, of consideration and the knowledge that he will not kiss me: that the feelings I have for him are not the feelings he has for me.

And then it all fades away, into the deep, blackness behind my eyes as a wave of torpor washes over me. I can't move, breathing lightly and not thinking about anything. I'm gone. He lies me next to him, resting a little on his shoulder as he reads. Occasionally his hand will stray across some part of me: face, limb, breast, torso. I moan beneath the plastic, an animal reaction, desire's reflex. I feel as if I am fading in and out of sleep, or at least in that curious not-sleep place where you are neither awake nor dreaming. I can't piece together. The touches keep stirring me from actually sleeping, but the same time push me further under, like see-saw, each one moves me hither and thither so it is actually very hard to focus on anything. I don't really know where I am, what time it is or what is happening.

It's a warm night, and I'm a little dehydrated to start of with, so after a few hours of not-really-sleeping I need to come out. I can feel anxiety rise in my stomach. I can't really breathe, my chest is tight and I can feel all of my muscles start to tense. I try and stay extremely still and force myself to be calm whilst he slowly (horribly, horribly slowly) starts to unpick the plastic. As he reaches the bands around my neck I am starting to actually panic, and it is all I can do to not lash out at him, to scream at him to hurry up and let me breathe. But I don't. I master myself. It is not his fault that I am starting to panic, he doesn't deserve this kind of response.

Eventually, the rope, the mashed-up balls of plastic and little bits of tape are in puddles about my feet and I can breathe. I don't feel quite right. I feel disconnected from myself, and a little nauseous. Extremely tired, I lie down in bed next to him with heavy limbs, unusually, do not start my (now) customary light-fingered movements hoping that he might want use of me. I'm happy, but entirely un-aroused, just a little sore where the rope pressed against me. I just sleep.

Tuesday, 26 May 2009

Boys, boys, boys

"I need to get some cock."

The Photographer has clearly been having interesting dreams, I'd like to get into his head on this one. I fully support him in this endeavour but oh my! It's difficult. The world is populated by Heterosexual Doms, it would appear. A catch-phrase that has had us both smiling wryly since someone once introduced themselves as such. Fair enough, it's nice to be clear. But are you sure you wouldn't even like to try, just once, before making that decision? Just a little taste?

Whether it is as a voyeur, a willing participant, an active orchestrator or just to be able to hear tales of it, I want a bloke to fuck him. Play with him. Tie him up. I would like to watch, if I couldn't be involved, but at this rate I'd be happy enough sat in another room listening to the moans. Even in another part of London, and thinking about the moans.

It's one thing attempting to be a sexual omnivore, but I'm becoming concerned that these boys might be out of season. Another bout of strenuous hunting is clearly in order.

Friday, 22 May 2009

For rent

In an online conversation, John Doe interspersed telling me all about their very large penis and what they would like to do to me with it, with a request for sex. For money. I appreciated the honesty. There was something very refreshing about a "hey, I'd like to spank you, then fuck you." without all of the associated preamble and meanderings. I explained my relationship status, what the agreement was and suggested that if they were interested in play or similar that they put a request into Sir. The Photographer and I have discussed this situation in the past, and agreed that it was a nice piece of protocol.

So, the note arrives. Sadly brief, and not as well-expressed or spelt as it perhaps might have been, so he said "no".
That evening, John Doe gets in touch again, asking if I'd like to do it anyway, "for pocket money". When I let him know that the money is not really a motivation for me, he suggest that perhaps his large cock might be. It is not.

I was cautiously interested, initially, I'll admit. But more by my own imaginings than any sort of reality. The Photographer and I have chatted about him loaning me out for an evening, how it might operate and I was interested in how it might feel, what the effect of serving one person by serving someone else would be. I'm sure that The Photographer is not especially interested in being a pimp, and I don't want to be a prostitute, so that pretty much did if for that.

The money was a side-issue. I don't need money, but it did make a difference to the offer - de-personalise the activity, making it purely transactional, which curiously de-sexualises it for me. Intellectually, I think that the offer of cash might have muddied the waters a bit, it became a job or a task. It became mundane. Similarly the offer of sex wasn't especially important. I didn't know the person: I had never met nor played with them before and there was no photo of him that I could look at to see whether he might have been sexually attractive. There was no sense of being flattered in the offer of money, or in the offer of sex itself, it didn't bestow upon me any sense of value, if anything the price that was given reflected the need of the person offering. He was placing a value on his desire, not on my body.

The "loan" fantasy is a complicated one, clearly. The more I think about it, the more specific it has to be, because of the different levels at play. It is about objectification, about service and about becoming an item of pleasure. About being able to take pride in being a "good girl" who does what she is told, who is able to satisfy at the behest of someone else, regardless of personal feelings. It is about fear and depersonalisation. Fear of the unknown: of being unsure who the person is and what they might do. Then there is the isolation of the event - of being in a new place, unfamiliar surroundings, by myself. These things, mixed together, are quite potent and are certainly exciting. But at the same time I want to be safe, to have my safety assured almost without my knowledge. Like a roller coaster, the thrill exists because the danger is imagined and implied. I don't necessarily want or need to know who I am going to be loaned to, just that they are a known quantity to The Photographer.

I'm not sure whether it is achievable, if I can ever get that balance of safe/not-safe that allows it to play out, or if it will ever do anything for me beyond the excitement generated in my own head. In reality I fear it would be merely an awkward and uncomfortable sexual encounter, embarrassing and unpleasant. Without any form of attraction I'm not sure to what extent the idea of being loaned out would sustain my interest in the activity, and that's without even thinking about whether they were good in bed or handy with a flogger (the thought of being sent out for a purely vanilla fuck is even worse). For the moment then, I'll be content to work it through in my mind.

Wednesday, 20 May 2009

Three hundred and sixty-five

I've been keeping this diary for a year now. Seems like a good enough time to say "Happy Birthday" to my peccadilloes and take stock. The question is how. Part of me is amused by the idea of representing the places I've seen and the people I've done in graph format, but I'm not especially sure what purpose that would serve apart from my own personal satisfaction (not that this is a bad reason for doing anything).

I'm not about to launch into a paean on the subject of BDSM, if I wasn't enjoying it, I doubt if I'd have continued past the first week or so. No need to glorify or justify what I'm doing - I've always tried to dodge the politics of the situation, partly because others are doing it better and certainly funnier partly because this is a personal account of my own experiences and considerations, not a polemic.

I suppose that a better way is to turn my favourite question around and point it back at myself. How do I feel? Well I'm happy, for a start. Certainly more sexually satisfied, which is both a positive thing and also a learning point about myself: I can have vanilla sex, obviously. I just don't enjoy it as much. I've done a lot of new things - tried stuff that I've only previously fantasised about and (mostly) enjoyed the experiences, or at least found something out about myself, my body or my desires. I appear to have an endless capacity for self-analysis, which could potentially lead to navel-gazing but I like to think that it helps me explore new adventures in fucking with a certain amount of awareness. After all - if something is fun, it's worth finding out why it is fun to make it better next time. So I suppose that I use this space here to do some of that evaluation, both of my own reactions and of the situations themselves.

Some things have been surprising - reactions to pain, for example. Being told that you are a masochist when you had never thought of yourself as such makes you think. And then do. And then think again. Or it does to me, at any rate. Similarly, the switching and the couple play have added extra dimensions and taken me out of my comfortable one-on-one submissive role.

Then there is the people. I've got a fantastic partner in The Photographer who is both supportive and as keen to explore all things kinky as I am. I've made some great friends, new friends are always nice, new friends to tie you up and hold you down then chat to you afterwards are nicer.

Here's to another year...

Tuesday, 19 May 2009

The morning after the night before...

So, I think it's fair to say that The Photographer and I really enjoyed playing with Smart Set. We enjoy couple play in general, there's a safety in numbers and the mix-and-match potential means that there's room for lots of variety.

As a group, as a hierarchy, the set up worked. There was a high level of comfort, which probably stemmed from the fact that we all generally got on very well and could enjoy several aspects of each other's company, right down to a very genteel breakfast of croissants and coffee in the morning. There is something wonderfully British about getting knock on the door of the spare room before entering from someone who tied you down and gave you some fantastic bruise marks the night previous. As if levels of privacy had suddenly been reset. I love the disjunct between identity within the BDSM world and without, and the different levels of bleed-through, either socially or online, continue to fascinate me. There is also a real value in down-time, in being able to sit together, perhaps discussing what went on, perhaps just talking about something and nothing, recharging batteries and re-establishing the relationship outwith a kinky context.

Bent over

I'm tied to a bench. Thoroughly strapped down, leather belts across thighs, calves, back and arms. The female half of Smart Set is giving me a beating, before she fucks me with a strap-on. It's been a long time since I've had any serious impact play and I'm not used to it. It hurts. The initial warm up, hands and something firm but soft, is nice, satisfying even, but harder strokes and stingier implements start me whimpering, then howling, then crying. I'm loud. I know I'm loud. I can't help it - the sensations need somewhere to come out and I vocalise. As much as I am quiet in bondage I am noisy when being hurt.

The gag is put back in. He is holding my head, pressing it to him, stroking my face through the hood and making soothing shushing noises. I lean against him. But I don't shush, not really. I don't think I can. As long as the pain is there, I need to make some sort of noise, respond to it. Not because I'm playing to the crowd, or because I think that a noise-response is a satisfying thing for a Domme to hear - there's not that level of conscious thought at all. There is simply this: I am in pain. I must scream. Like water boiling over, it just happens. My only real clear thought comes later on, much later, when I examine the red lines in the mirror: I need to do this more often, I'm out of touch. Over a week and a half later I still have some bruising, my skin holding on to the memories as much as I am.

The gag is removed and he pushes his cock into my mouth, I suck eagerly, glad for the respite that contrast brings, eager to please. The pain stops for a while, then I feel my cunt being parted. A hard plastic dildo pushes in. It hurts. There is no give, no easing of flesh on flesh, just hard ridges pushing aside my tight muscles. After a few thrusts I relax a little, but there is still tension, it still feels a little too large. There is something interesting in being fucked like this - in being used like this, neither of us getting quite the sensation we might be accustomed to. I am in two minds about the pain, as always. Yes, I'm sore, but yes I like pain. I can enjoy being used without enjoying being fucked, knowing that I am giving pleasure rather than receiving it pushes me further under.

I have always held fantasies about being used by two cocks at once, and somehow, one being plastic and one being flesh, gives it a sharper edge. This isn't just about fucking. This is about penetration and power - the ability to put an object wherever you want. Without objection.

Monday, 18 May 2009

Switched on

More thoughts on the play session with Smart Set. I've been trying to get my brain in gear to do everyone and everything justice. Each time we play with new people The Photographer and I get to experience something new, which often has us grinning for the next few days. I am also always interested in our different responses to play, so usually spend some time grilling him afterwards, prying bits of information running a game of compare and contrast. I'm attempting to go through chronologically, as best as I can, pinning down the reactions at the time and painting on the afterthoughts and studied impressions. A veneer of submission.

It was a strange sensation, knowing that he was having something done to him in the other room, but not being able to see, only hearing the slightest of noises. There was a layer of concern, hoping that he was alright and a layer of envy, as I waited and he, in my imagination at least, given I had little else to go on, was the centre of attention. I didn't have to wait long. The door to the dungeon rattled, and someone came in. I was very still, better than trying to work out what I should do next and getting it wrong. With more familiar partners I'd perhaps try and pre-empt their needs. Not in this case. Not that there was much I could do, being as tied and constrained as I was. It was hard to hear in the hood, but I could feel hands, checking my arms and limbs, feeling to see whether my nipples were hard, my cunt wet. A pause, then some warm liquid on my chest, I was surprised for a moment, but then realised it was oil or lube, as the hands smoothed over my skin, between my legs. I lent into him, it was him, I could feel that. There were noises, he was talking to me in the tone reserved for skittish animals. Like a skittish animal I was not taking in the meaning of the words themselves, just the softness, the reassurance in the cadence.

He holds open my arse and cunt, inserting a dildo into each, the one for my cunt is larger than I'm expecting and I wince slightly. Muscles tighten for a moment or so then I breathe out. Relaxing into it. Enjoying the sensation of being very full. With the gag inside my mouth I feel completed. There is no room for the world, just my body, penetrated. He is explaining what is going to happen, but I remember having this object described to me before. As long as I stay still, the vibrator in my cunt buzzes happily. Needless to say, I like this. If I move, the electric insert in my arse fires, and keeps on doing so for a minute. Needless to say, I also like this. It's a win-win game, currently. He takes some time to set it to a suitable level, higher, higher and higher. I want to feel it.

I'm left alone. I don't move. The game is about not moving, so I don't. Although part of me wants to in order to feel the electricity forcing my muscles to clench, that curious and intense internal pleasure. He comes back in and sets off the motion sensor, I ride the shock, letting it push me forward and test the strength of the bonds. Enjoying the feeling of muffled cries around a gag. After a while of doing this, I'm let out. Unsteady on wobbly legs, I'm led up the stairs and along onto some sort of mat. This is where The Photographer has been, I think. More voices, her this time, again, very hard to hear, like noises from the bottom of a well. Except I'm the one who is far away. Submerged. She reminds me that I'm not allowed to come, and I nod, mutely. I'm pushed onto my hands and knees and the gag is removed. I miss it instantly.

"Clean him up." Experimentally I push my face forward. Skin. Some part of The Photographer, but I have no idea which bit. He's covered in wax. Endless long droplets. I tease at them with my tongue, biting them off one by one. It's a strange sensation, a difficult job and I'm conscious of trying to do it right, a little fearful (and eagerly anticipating) punishment for when I doubtlessly fail the impossible task of blindly picking wax off with my mouth. There's something else there. Metal. Cold and heavy. Some sort of chastity device. I smile, more so when my face is pushed towards it and I can explore with my lips the shape of it. It's heavy, a chunky piece of kit. I can hear him moan a little as I lick around it, which makes me press down harder. Behind me I think I can hear laughter, and that makes me happy, glad to be amusing and diverting. Even with a mouthful of wax.

Tuesday, 12 May 2009

Waiting games

The Photographer and I had a fantastic, and very action-packed evening with Smart Set on Saturday. There's a lot to discuss, and I want to go over it carefully, as there were a number of new experiences for both of us, so I'm going to take my time.

Everything was in a context of care - we felt looked after from start to finish and are eagerly anticipating the next date. Upon arrival, there were three white envelopes pinned to the door, one for me, two for him. It was all I could do to not clap my hands with glee (we were alone, so I did it anyway). I stripped, leaving my clothes in a pile, then waited, hands-on-head, for whatever was to come next.

Waiting is always an interesting experience for me, as I am not generally speaking particularly patient. Being made to wait is an obvious removal of control and also a giving-up of my usual self-authority: I do not do or think for myself, instead I wait for instruction. I wasn't nervous, just slightly excited. Anticipating. The sensation of being naked in someone else's home was curious, I wasn't entire comfortable either psychologically or physically - I had the prickle of the cork mat under my knees to keep me distracted from idle thoughts. Kneeling next to the door I felt like an unattended parcel, gently breathing, eyes closed, waiting for someone to come and collect. The Photographer returned, putting a soft, tight fitting leather hood over my face, complete with a delightful gag which had an inch or so of comforting rubber insert that I held between my lips, feeling sealed in and safe. He fastened cuffs on my wrists and ankles then finally a collar. Carefully, he led me somewhere else. Having been shown around the space on a previous occasion I had an inkling of where I might be going, however, by this point the combination of the bondage and the moments to collect myself had already got me reasonably floaty, which was nice.

One of the things I enjoy about sensory deprivation is the impact of the feelings that you do get to experience. Bare feet on cold, slightly slippy tile brings up instant associations of shower blocks, imprisonment, asylum wards. I'm taken somewhere warm, the heat hits my cooling skin and I'm glad of it. My feet are on stone now, I'm thinking of dungeons, caves lost, abandoned places. He kneels me down on soft fur, which compounds the associations of caves. I'm clipped in place - collar tied to the centre, arms spread to each side, ankles together, thighs pulled apart. Spread. He plays with me briefly and I move a little towards him. Then he leaves. There is a terrible spike of panic as I hear a door shut, a latch going into place. I'm alone. I can't really move. This is very real. Then the panic goes away and I'm in a warm cocoon of calm. Just me and my body. Waiting.

The first thing I do is concentrate on my breathing, slow. Feeling my chest rise and expand and hearing the delicate chink of chain as I move ever so slightly. Bondage makes me still. Very still. I relax into it, as time goes on I start to feel the low aches in my shoulders, neck and back from waiting, but despite that, I like the wait. In the warmth, I start to feel slightly drowsy, dreamy, which pushes me further under, together with my growing arousal. There is just sensation, little thought: I am a animal in captivity, a slave bought and sold and ready to be used.

Beneath the hood, I'm grinning.

Monday, 11 May 2009

Tender moments

A minor detour from practical and theoretical debunking and debriefing and into the world of sexual health. Keeping an eye on my body and its rhythms is something that I've long been accustomed to. I'm very thankful that, from as soon as I was able to understand, my mother (who was a biologist) sat me down with a series of diagrams and explained female anatomy, the menstrual cycle, sex and pregnancy. Of course, nothing like sex as a pleasurable or recreational activity was discussed, probably because at the time I was about seven, but at no point was I ever under any illusions about storks visiting with "happy bundles of joy" nor about periods being a strange punishment from God. I think that overall this event has helped me be matter-of-fact about my body and also less than squeamish about anything to do with sex.

I'm fairly certain that my mother did not mean for those early lessons to be of value in my dealings with BDSM, but it has. Part of being safe, sane and consensual means knowing what the risks are with activities as well as the rewards, and being able to understand what is happening in different contexts can even make a play session more rewarding. I'm fascinated by female sexuality (especially given the relative paucity of studies and the huge amount of mystique and lies surrounding it), and make a lot of effort to understand my own physicality, making sure that I am very aware of my body's physical processes. I ask myself "how does it feel" a lot, and recently, the answer has not been very reassuring.

For the past week or so I have been suffering from (mostly) unexplained sore and dryness around my labia and cunt. The sensation has ranged from a low level awareness through to being downright uncomfortable. I have an inkling that it could either be as a result of some play last weekend, although it wasn't especially heavy. Anyhow, I've got a doctor's appointment booked and I'll see what happens. This isn't the first time I've suffered as a result of my proclivities, although unlike cuts and bruises it lacks a definite cause, which is worrying me.

What has been interesting is that my sexual desire has not decreased, and masturbation eases the symptoms, so I have been self-medicating. Over the weekend I saw The Photographer for the first time in two weeks, so that meant for some fairly frequent use and the feelings when we had sex were very different. For a start, I was nowhere near as wet as I usually am and secondly there was some resistance, my flesh felt tense, and when he entered me it hurt, like raw scraped skin. But I didn't want him to stop and as he fucked me, the pain eased (probably because I started to lubricate more) although it was still present. It's also fair to say that the fact he hurt me turned me on, that he was getting pleasure regardless of whether I was enjoying myself made me feel as if I was serving him all the more.

Friday, 8 May 2009

A deux

The Photographer and I have a date this Satuday, with the extremely charming Smart Set, a switch couple who we have been chatting to for a while. We met up with them some weeks ago for a few glasses of wine and to see whether we had anything in common. An hour or so later and the gender division of mental labour was already in place with my talking to her about the value and importance of understanding the psychological underpinnings of D/s play and both of the men looking somewhat askance and responding that they just like being tied up.

When they have previously played with couples it has been in a switching role, so one has taken sides against the other with the new parties following suit, so the idea of "double domming" is reasonably new to them. We talked through likes, dislikes and limits and found ourselves nicely on the same page: stimulation, sens dep, electro-play, objectification, bondage, gags and hoods all good. They even have a space set up in a cellar area for locking someone up for a length of time, complete with camera to ensure both safety and voyeurism are attended to. That coupled with a penetration device that alternates between vibrating and delivering electric shocks depending on how still and well-behaved you are (motion sensor) proving once again that geeks are some of the best BDSM enablers.

We have an email set of instructions to arrive at their house, let ourselves in to the downstairs rooms at a pre-arranged time where we will find another set of instructions for what to do next and given we are scheduled for an overnight stay I am quite excited. It's been a while since my last extended play session, and certainly a while since The Photographer and I subbed together. Fingers crossed, looking forward to a bumpy ride.

Wednesday, 6 May 2009

Body worship

IM conversation with The Photographer a few days ago, discussing types and styles of submission to try and get a better feel for the sorts of headspaces he gets into when I'm topping him. We got around to talking about body worship, which I was initially hesitant to bring up because it was new territory and I wasn't sure how he'd respond, but as it turns out it seems to work for both of us, in both directions. It struck me how certain acts, such as washing him in the bath or slowly removing his clothes, could be seen as either dominant or submissive.

I got to thinking about how acts of worshipping the body operated. It seems as if context is king: the passive submissive, inert and waiting, tied and turned by the dominant appears similar to the seated dominant, enjoying having every inch of flesh kissed and caressed. Physically they can look alike. In each case, the body is the site of specific interest, the focus is on that particular area of skin, the precise contact given and received. However the difference lies in the mind, in the specific outlook of both parties - the attention paid by the rigger to the roped submissive could not necessarily be called "worship", rather "objectification", perhaps.

In this case, the dominant fetishises the submissive's body: they are removed from their existence as a person and become a toy or doll, the body is separated from their identity and becomes a thing in and of itself. Conversely, body worship, for me, would be about the link between the body and the person - it's not about pure adoration of a physical form, but also about the body as the site of the dominant's pleasure, the worship is a way of expressing that D/s power relationship.

The headspaces are, of course, very different, but either way I can revel in it - the smell and texture of skin under my fingers, whether I am exposing to control, or to serve.

Tuesday, 5 May 2009

Tell me all about it

One of the potential drawbacks for those who chose to play with me is post-coital (post-play?) requests for feedback. Some people take to it better than others, depending on how used they are to responding to "how was it for you?" with more than a grunt or a giggle. Knight of Wands and I had a very interesting conversation recently, propped up on pillows, about what he got out of domination, which made a nice contrast to what I get out of submission, within the same context.

He mentioned that a large part of the attraction and excitement was about knowing that the other person was enjoying what you were doing, and also the ability to deliver powerful sensation - he spoke about pain as being "more intense" than pleasure, and the joy at watching someone writhe and squeal at the pain, whilst enjoying it at the same time. Obviously, being a masochist, I like pain and like exploring pain, but there is an awkwardness, a conflict with it, because pain is difficult to withstand. It is a powerful sensation, psychologically and physically. Mentally, it sets off warning signals through the nerves to the brain, that damage is being done, harm inflicted, but those are as exciting as they are frightening. The body comes to life, buzzing and crackling with the feeling of something strong, to be withstood but also to be enjoyed. The warmth and build of clamped fingers pressing hard into flesh, not letting go.

Another large part is about permission to touch, about being allowed to place hands, further to that about someone wanting you to do so. It moved from being about giving pleasure (or pain as pleasure) and more about touching for the sake of touching, to be able reach out and grab as an exercise in power, because he could. It's a silent series of ongoing consent. Each time he reaches for me, there is an unvoiced "yes". For my part, I enjoy lying still and letting go, having my body manipulated (soft strokes to rough touches) to the beat of someone else's desire. Clothed or naked, restrained or ostensibly free, there is a pleasurable thrill in being gripped and pulled here and there. I relax into it, rather than tense up, like a cat held by the scruff of its neck. I want to be touched: I want to be touched however they want to touch me, a channel of desire.

The third angle was obedience. I've mentioned that one of my worries about topping is that at some point someone is going to turn around and say "no" but for him that wasn't a concern, he felt secure in me, trusting enough that I would remain still, ready and waiting for him. My angle on this links very solidly with the two previous points - connection to the other person's pleasure and openness to touch. Submission is submission to someone, about responding to what they want, what they need, and revelling in being that perfect thing for them to enjoy. I want to do it, and that means obedience, it means the thrill of waiting for them to reach out and take what they want, the calm inherent in following commands and the satisfaction in being good, in being told that you are good.