Back to Saturday morning.
Falling asleep being able to feel the press of your partner's hard-on against your back is always satisfying, if a little strange because of the padding of the nappy. And the knowledge that you being in the nappy is part of their desire. Still, strange is what you are used to. Another press, this one a little more urgent, from by bladder early on in the morning. There's some murmured conversation with Captain and I'm allowed out of bed to squat on the floor to relieve myself. As I start to do so, he pushes up towards the edge of the bed, putting his cock in my mouth. I find out, curiously, that I can't piss and give head at the same time. Something in my brain is just not wired for that kind of behaviour (lack of practice might also factor) so I concentrate on the important thing, which is him, until he pushes my head back and waits, watching me. I catch his eye. I think I grin, but it might have been a grimace.
It's easier the second time around though, clearly there's a knack to it. There's also a lot of piss - I was dehydrated in the night and drank a pint of water - so there's some leakage, despite the couple of inches of padding, which is now warm, damp and heavy. Exactly like a fat, wet sponge, hanging bulky and awkwardly between my legs. I can't see him, because I've lain my head in my arms against the mattress to steady myself. But I can hear him grinning.
"Fetch that towel, and the plastic pants."
I reach over for the towel and mop up the spill, moving carefully lest I make the mess worse, but most of it seems to have been absorbed now. I'm very clunky in my movements, now in a shuffling pace. The plastic pants have not become any more attractive overnight, the material of the incontinence bloomers reminds me of seventies polyester fabric, only a little slippier and heavier. Waterproof. Institutional. Ugly as sin. I put the pants on and then come back to bed. I can feel him grinning. We fall back into a spoons position and doze some more.
After a while, he gets me to stand up and remove the plastic pants - by now they are wet on the inside from my own sweat and thus even less pleasant. He puts the towel on the bed, and lets me take off the nappy, which is heavy and body-temperature, placing it on the towel. He gets me into a crouch, face hovering above the soaked nappy and I know what's coming next. He fucks me, and at the same time he grabs hold of my hair and pushes my face into the nappy. I go cold all over, despite the warm wetness in my face, a damp heavy cloth that smells faintly of me. The smell is actually pretty mild, nothing particularly offensive or challenging about it. It's what is happening. The way he's holding me down, wrapping the used nappy around my face, pushing me hard into it. I am not humiliated. I am not embarrassed or a little shy or getting any of that funny, toe-curling titillation.
I feel eroded. Degraded. Made less of. I don't feel like I'm participating, I feel like I'm being used. A prisoner or captive made low for cheap laughs. And that hurts, because it cuts to my own sense of who I am and what I am worth. To him. Which matters. Which has come to matter over these past few months. So, I do what I do when things get hard, I exhale and let go: give myself over and let him take my body wherever he wants to put it. I stop thinking about it and try to blank out the moment. Although he's put my hand between my legs I can't really feel my clit, there's no arousal in what is happening, I'm numb. He comes quickly, whispering his pleasure at the act in my ears and I fall down in a stunned silence for a few moments before starting to cry. He picks me up quickly, holding me to him until I've calmed down and we lie there, talking it over.
I tell him I feel made worthless, that I feel emptied out and as if I wasn't important - I could have been just about anyone then, with no face, no will, nothing. Not special. Worse than that, something disgusting. He reassures me, tells me that I'm not worthless, that I am important. As I speak, I realise the contradictions in my words, remember the times when that emptiness would have been extremely erotic, the absence of self, being just a channel for his desire. But it wasn't the same. Instead of being made into something beautiful I had been made ugly and wretched in my own eyes. It wasn't about shame precisely, although I'm sure my vanity played a part, because part of self-worth comes from perceiving myself as desirable. Which I didn't feel. Despite his obvious desire, because my picture of how I looked was different to his. Debasement makes you low, that's what it does: it grinds you down and whilst I expect, like with pain and other endurance submission, there are highs to be found within that, I didn't get that.
Later, over breakfast we talk briefly about his fantasies that revolve around degradation - something I need to delve deeper in, because I want to understand more, we also talk about how the effect he wanted was not the one that happened, that he had wanted me to feel controlled and yes, degraded to some extent, but never to feel worthless or unhappy because of who I was. I'm still not sure how to square the two, in the sense that if someone enjoys and revels in the degradation, does that still make it degrading?
I've asked myself a few more questions since, the main one being, if I really didn't enjoy it, why didn't I ask him to stop, the second one being why did I find it so hard and the third, and most interesting:why does it turn me on now, in hindsight, thinking about it?
The first one is fairly obvious, it was difficult but it wasn't painful and it didn't really push my red button, merely made me unhappy. I was also interested in whether my feelings might change as we progressed and there was, of course, the backdrop of being fucked, which is a comfort in troubled times. I think I found it hard because it was new, so it threw me, it was also unpleasant and made me feel bad in and of myself - it took me to a lonely and isolated place. That's not an uncommon (though it is a rare) reaction for me, I'll sometimes get unhappy during other types of play, not usually because of the play itself but because the act distances me from my partner and I feel adrift and my brain dredges up sad thoughts and ideas. I think much the same thing happened here - I didn't feel part of what was going on. It was also quite swift, so there wasn't much time to absorb and process what was happening, which meant it all occurred in a bit of a whirlwind of stimuli response (mental and physical). Perhaps a note for the future that discomforting challenging play might need to be done a little slower, like edging myself into a too-hot bath.
And the third question. Why is it hot now? And it is hot now, if I'm being honest. Not so hot as to make me rush out and buy some incontinence pants, but hot enough to know I'd do it again. Important too as a memory, as something that I have done. Again, this is possibly a factor in endurance play or any play I've found difficult, there is a sense of achievement, of liberation almost, in having done it. Not just in a notch in the bedpost way (although like those on the quest for the hottest curry, there is also the quest for the kinkiest, filthiest thing) but the element of discovery, of another kink unturned, another string to the bow. Taken in one, including the pre-amble, the night, the morning, the tears and the comfort, it is a powerful whole. Another step, albeit a difficult one.