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.