The practical to balance out the theory from my mummification session with Boy Wonder.
It starts with a (small) glass of wine for both of us, and a quiet chat. A standard run down just to sift out anything I might have missed in our email exchanges. It's also time to gauge his responses, his eagerness, his desire and his nerves - how he is right now as opposed to how he presents himself or how he thinks he is. As I talk, I can feel myself held at the ready. My speech is low and calm. I'm already starting to talk less and I can feel the need to shut up pressing against me. Words are in the way.
In mostly silence, I take him in hand. I like stripping people, or forcing them to strip. The control over their state and method of undress is part of the preparation, the transformation from their day-to-day selves into the thing they will become which belongs to me. A physical and mental disrobing, redressing the imbalance. They move from control of themselves to being controlled by me. Plus I like to watch, to touch the skin as it becomes exposed. Inspecting the smooth flesh as it is revealed, the smell of them and sometimes even the taste.
Once done, I blindfold him and give him earplugs to wear. The more of the outside world I shut out, the more inside his own head he will become and also the more reliant upon me. Once the blindfold goes on I've forgotten about him as a person. There are no eyes to catch mine, no face to empathise with - and in this is the essence of my power exchange: I am real, he is not. A living toy. Warm flesh that breathes and responds to my touch. Something to care for, to manage and control. To use and abuse as I see fit and put away.
The wrapping completes the process the undressing started. This is actually hard work: the roll is heavy and a bit unwieldy and the pallet wrap sticks to itself so I go slowly. The room is warm and I divest myself of clothes as I go along, amused that he cannot see me strip. Control resides in what we do not allow others to have, even if they do not know they are being denied it. The things I am keeping to myself, keeping from him are pieces of power: glimpses of my body, his sight, sound. All feelings and sensations that he cannot have because they are mine. I hoard them like a dragon sitting on gold and they nourish my domination.
I work piecemeal - doing sections of his body, bit by bit turning him from person to thing. Arms go first so that hands and fingers become mitts of shiny black plastic. Then the chest, taking care to keep the scissors just near enough so that he can feel the flick of the cold metal, but not so close as to actually cut. Threatened violence is almost always more frightening than violence delivered. The knowledge that I could do something, should I wish to, fills me up with a shudder of pleasure. He's flopping slightly, hopefully sinking down lower into space as I wrap him tightly. I take a sheet of wrap and pull it taut against his mouth and nose, holding tight. The shock makes him go rigid against me as I count in my head before puncturing a hole with my fingers, letting him suck them briefly before finishing the job.
It takes a time to do mummification, and I enjoy taking my time. The leisure of being in control is an abiding pleasure. There is no need to rush, because the time frame is my own. We stop when I am bored. For now, I am having fun. I have learnt, and am perhaps still learning, that I find a lot of sexual satisfaction in patient and detailed control. The kinky equivalent of a house of cards. Lining everything up just so. Then admiring what I have created. A shiny cocoon, the central portion raising and falling. A collar round the neck, almost ironic, for such ownership would surely be conferred on a person rather than the object in front of me? I've him around, on his side in a Z shape, and the plastic is pulled taut over him bottom (he has a lovely bottom) which presents an irresistible target for a few blows. I worm my fingers against the plastic, making a hole for a vibe to warm him up then a lubed plug to slide into him before I wrap him up again and roll him onto his back. I cut a space near his hard cock and pull it out from the plastic. It is exposed and vulnerable outside of the wrapping. Lube, condom and a vibrating cock ring create a fuck toy in waiting.
So I wait.
I like the contrasting mixture of distance and intimacy in mummification (contrast is something I seem to enjoy as a dominant as well as a submissive). I am very close to him, physically, but the distance in power is immense. He is passive, waiting. Every now and then he will shudder or utter a little moan that I know reflects desire to be touched and used. I parcel out my attentions as if he was a bird on a lure, keeping him circling, not coming in to ground. Unsatisfied and therefore in need.
Eventually, I fuck him. This pristine object created for my use. And it is use. No doubt he feels pleasure, and so he should, but that is not my concern. I am enjoying selfishness. Similarly, later on when he's unwrapped and rested, I tie him up, beat him a little then fuck him with a strap-on. The urge to take and to take over his body is a wordless, thoughtless (but not and never careless) act.
I used to feel edgy about being quiet when I play - both as a submissive and a dominant. But I'm more used to it now. it's part of how I play and something the switch doesn't change. Talking comes from the wrong part of my brain, the intellectual, rational social part has been done. Now is the gut response, animal instinct and a cool, hard, acquisitive drive. Time spent talking is time I'm not concentrating, not enjoying, not focusing my attentions, on what is at hand. Oftentimes excessive talking can represent or create anxiety, there's a power in letting the silence fill up the room and just be bodies in free fall.
I do, of course, love words. But not wordiness. TLDR. Finding the correct word, being precise, saying what you mean and meaning (truly meaning and understanding) what you say is very important. Clarity and purpose in language is close to being a fetish. But so is context. Dirty talk can be hot, I know, from my own submission, and hearing the dominant speak is important to feel connected to them. But it's a tool, to be used sparingly. Less is more. Especially with praise. Use too often and they become background noise. The words that do come out are not idle chatter but bright, sharp bullets fired from my subconscious. Things that need to be articulated, not merely filling, obliterating, the silence.
Falling asleep, arms wrapped around his chained form. A light kiss on the shoulder is a goodnight kiss and worth a thousand words.
For a boy's eye view, go here.
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