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The online diary of an ethical pervert.

Monday, 25 January 2010


The devil in is the detail and sometimes it's the small things that draw you to a person. When what they do coincides with what you needed, just then and there in a pocket of space. A private moment.

In the night. At some point in the darkness. I don't know what the time is. I'm in that neither sleeping nor awake place that I go to when put to bed in bondage. I drift in a private ocean. My wrists are cuffed and padlocked together, ditto my ankles. A chain runs from the metal bedstead through the collar on my neck (also locked), through my wrists and to my ankles. It pulls me into a foetal position. I'm tired so I don't feel the discomfort so much, although it is there, restricting my natural sleep movements and reminding me at every moment that I am held here. I am also held by the Captain, an arm around my waist, or resting on my hip. A reminder of who holds me here. When he fucks me he reminds me of why I am here. He fucks me with some force, no preamble, straight as an arrow, hard and deep. I love the first moment of being fucked. Especially like this, casual as you might pick up a book and flick through the pages. Something taken because it is present. There is joy as well as pleasure in that first penetration - a waking up both literal and figurative in the move from being an idle object to something of use, from being absent to being taken.

There are no words. We do not speak. If he had to ask then something would have failed. I can't imagine speaking, as if by fucking me he closes down the parts of me that interrogate or question. Everything is answered by his actions and by my response. I am not precisely still, I move a little to accommodate him, arch slightly here or there, still getting used to how he fucks, where he takes his pleasure and how best to enhance it.

After a short while he stops, I shudder as he pulls out, with that moment of loss that comes from realising that the connection is cut and we are done. But it isn't. Not quite. He reaches up to my face and slaps me. Just once. Once is enough. I literally see stars - a bright halo of sparkles around my vision. It takes me breath away because of how unexpected it is, but because of how personal this action feels to me - familiar and different, both in delivery and in my response. A totally new reaction to something I've always thought of as so intimate. For the first time ever, I don't cry. Unlike previous situations, I don't feel punished and I don't get angry. I feel normal, relaxed even. after the initial, shock. As if it was a totally natural thing to do. I actually feel a little satisfied and even happy. I smile.

Falling back into a light sleep. Smiling at the warmth on my cheek.

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