Ex Machina

The hood goes on first. Rubber, relatively thin, but full of the smell of it. I haven't played much with rubber before however I'm a quick learner and the attraction is pretty clear: it's not tight, but it is soft, slippery and close, rubbing against my skin, alien and cool. There's something fitted against my face, covering my mouth and nose, hard plastic it feels like (I later find out it's an anaesthesia mask) and I think my breathing is restricted. I'm not sure. As with everything in a hood it's a little far away, a little disconnected. My body is there but my brain is trying to be inside and outside at the same time. Inside because everything feels sharper and stronger, inhabiting myself, circling around and around in time with my breathing. Outside because there is a picture in my mind of what I must look like. Naked body, rubber hood: a not human thing. He said he was going to make me into a fucktoy. I want it because I want it. I want it because he wants it. The latter is important and informs the former. I have desire, sure when he ties me to the cross and investigates my cunt there's evidence enough of that to draw comment. I want to give myself up to someone who wants to take it. Fucktoy is perfect. Behind the blind hood, I close my eyes and let go.

Earlier.

Date on Friday night. A classic date: dinner, drinks then BDSM. A first date, even, if collapsing into bed together (but not doing much more than wrapping limbs against limbs and falling asleep) doesn't count. I'm choosing to say it doesn't, but will admit that this week has moved fast. But if the alternative is to say "no" when you mean "yes, please" I'll accept fast any day of the week. I first met Captain at the London munch and we chatted, briefly. Then again at the U35 drinks where there were further chats - and further drinks hence the unforeseen but basically chaste stopover at his house. So, Thursday morning, filtering a cup of tea around a storming hangover and arranging a date for Friday. Because it's nice to do things properly, even if that means stopping what you are currently doing and starting again.

I'd sent over an email of likes and dislikes, hard to write because I didn't know him very well. I knew he was an experienced dominant and I knew he had plenty of kit and wasn't afraid to use it. Both facts were big positives, I could be safe without having to be in control. For the first time in a while I was actively excited, physically and mentally, about play. And a little nervous, because this was new territory, no acknowledged rules or previous methods of engagement. Restart button. That probably added to the excitement all told.

Later.

I'm strapped face down to a Y shaped bench. My arms are folded together in the small of my back, my legs are spread and bent back - calves strapped to thighs. He's wrapping me in plastic. I can hear the peel and coil of the wrap, the slight tackiness of it as it folds around my limbs. I'm still hooded, breathing through a tube and sometimes the air stops, rubber inflating and deflating uselessly, enough to bring me part way to a panic. Then released. After a short while, I'm done. Bagged and tagged. There's only a couple of inches on show, arse and cunt. I'm two holes in nothingness. Squirming a little underneath, to see how it feels. It feels good, tight enough to be held all over and nowhere to go. There's the chill drizzle of lube over the exposed flesh, making me slick. I am made of concentrated anticipation. There's something hard, large and seemingly spherical, pressing against my cunt. I tense as I hear mechanical buzzing and my thoughts race at memories of over-powerful magic wands. I become a little scared. The shape presses inside me, pushing slowly in and out, uncaringly pushing through taut, worried flesh. It's hard and it hurts enough to mean something. It throbs with weight. And there's something else, pushed close against my clit. I recognise the hitachi and barely have time to utter a pre-emptive yelp before it roars into life and my body explodes with sensation. It's too much. I know it's too much after two or three miliseconds. It's too much but it isn't stopping and I can't move. I can moan though, which I do, as if the pressure against my cunt and inside me is trying to come out of my mouth. It doesn't help. I have never felt force like it and it is force, brute force, commanding deep responses. It's not exactly pain, it's not exactly pleasure, it pitches between the two, in waves equally unyielding and incessant. I cannot relax into it and I cannot get away from it. Sometimes I'm sucked down by it, other times I can edge myself away a little but then the pitch changes and it's too strong again. I tense, almost as if I'm about to orgasm, but the pressure is too much and I can't. Something has to give. So I started to cry with the helpless frustration of it all. All this time when I thought I was tied up to be the object and instead I am a whimpering scrap of flesh plastered to a bench in thrall to the real machines.

When eventually, everything has stopped, there's a hand on my head, through the wrap, through the hood. A gentle kiss and a word of congratulations. I did well, I'm still in a daze as the plastic, bindings and buckles come off. I'm wet and my cunt is incredibly swollen. Legs wobbling under me with uncertain footing. But grinning. Definitely grinning. Curled up on the floor, in a blanket, leaning my head against his knee, dreamily contemplating a new definition of totally fucked.