Sometimes, the doll project puts me in compromising positions. Like at Sweet Torments, over the weekend in which I was dressed up as a "chav slut". White tracksuit, gold hoops, oodles of lipgloss, white stilettos and leopard print knickers. All class.
I was fairly relieved when it was time to take my clothes off. There was something exceptionally strange about being in the wrong uniform - feeling out of place and as if I didn't belong. Naked, I was more clothed in the conventions of the group, I felt more a part of what was going on. There was also the sense that in that choice of outfit (admittedly, chosen for me by The Professor) I was slightly taking the piss - which I wasn't, I hasten to add. Also there was an element of feeling like I was playing a game of BDSM, by poking holes in conventions, and I wasn't sure whether that made me an acceptable act of comedy or a shameless tourist. No-one complained, a few people laughed, a couple even thought it was hot so overall I don't think I offended anyone. I did stick out, and unusually for me, the exhibitionist it was uncomfortable. A woman in white velour in a sea of black leather.
Once laid out on the bench, I began to feel more at home, relaxing into what turned into an amazing double-domming session with The Professor and O' Hara, a female friend of his who I'd only be introduced to a few hours earlier, however, The Professor and I have had a couple of discussions regarding what was acceptable and what wasn't, and ultimately, I've known him for long enough to trust him and those around him. I wasn't wrong.
Cotton wool pads go over my eyes and clingfilm is wrapped tight around my head and neck. After the briefest of pauses, a finger pokes a hole into my mouth so I can breathe. Cool gel is rubbed on my back and there's the crackling hum of an alternator. I feel my muscles relaxing, melting slightly into the bench as they take control of my body, moving me through different levels of sensation from giggly warmth through to the deep, blackness of pain-causing-sorrow.
The play works in two ways at the same time, like particles and waves. The waves keep me going. They are the regular inputs, the ongoing build that peaks and troughs, each time allowing a pause or gap for me to catch my breath, to reassure or be reassured that I am fine (more than fine, that I am giddy with pleasure and submerged in a rolling arc going onwards, onwards to a crescendo). And after each pause, the build starts again, a little higher and heavier than before, so that each crest is harder than the one before and thus I move inexorably onwards. Within each pause, the sensation softens utterly, turning me to jelly, but never stopping, never leaving me alone or uncared for. Within each wave, the type of object used and the pain received changes, getting more powerful - hands become floggers become heavier floggers.
The particles are the interspersed dots of sudden sensation, from many different sources. They make me jolt, jump and scream. Unlike the wave, they are unpredictable, they do not build, they are fleeting moments of pain. Arriving then gone. Darts of electrical current, stabbed through my inner thighs, bites to my shoulders, bottom and upper arms that plunge me into adrenaline thumping fight-or-flight responses. Later, there is a knife, pressed against my back, my neck, my face and then against my cunt and clit in repeated, controlled stabbing motions. Just as the wave reassures me, the particles panic me - that wet-mouthed awareness of fear and helplessness, of not knowing what is going to happen or when.
They work in tandem. The waves carry me down, heavy and pressing into thick and fuzzy headspaces. The particles push me up, keeping me sensitized and crackling - they also hurt with the sharp, bright pain that forces gasps and cries out of me whilst the waves make me want to purr and moan. Finally, towards the end, something in me lets go and I am caught between these endless, increasing, alternating sensations. I start to cry. This time I know where my tears are coming from, and they are almost deliberate. Here is a safe space to cry, to let out that sorrow and loneliness that comes upon me in a controlled and managed scenario. Like primal scream therapy I'm using these sensations to force an internal catharsis, choosing how and when I will mourn for my own (still present, still keeping me cold) heartache. The pain is a trigger in and of itself, but together with those shadows in my heart it becomes something more as I let my emotions mingle with the physical sensations. It all pours out. I cry. It is wonderful. They are wonderful. I'm high as a kite, half-curled up in pain and all-over-shuddering from the pleasure of it all.
When they stop, I stop crying, almost immediately. Something which The Professor found curious and at the time I could not explain but now can. The pain is a channel through which I can express these emotions. When it's their I can let them go. When it's not I chose not to, because that is what getting better is all about, being able to put these feelings in their place.