Pieces of bodies

I am fortunate to have a number of very attractive and interesting people to play with. Curiously (or perhaps not, I've found that a high proportion of those who are obviously good looking are also over-anxious about their looks) there is also a preponderance of body-consciousness. So much so that some of my recent feedback emails have included worries about how they looked whilst I was dominating them, including to the extent that this distracts from their libido or ability to enjoy being in subspace.

Some of this post is taken from replies I've sent to them. Reassurances that took a curious turn because they were less about the "there, there" and more about my own analysis on how I see the submissives I'm playing with, when I'm playing with them.

I don't see bodies the way their owners do. No-one ever does, we are always far more critical of our own physicality, more painfully aware of its flaws than any outsider. We perceive the minute errors and imperfections. Those watching only see the whole, which is unknown, new and thus unfamiliar carrying with it no judgement of good or bad.

There is a huge difference between how I see the person over dinner, enjoying their blushes. eye shimmers or cheeky grins as I do my preliminary pre-play discussions and how I see the thing laid out for me to play with. Those words are important. My dominance de-personalises: it makes objects for my affection. The things that carried them from the restaurant to my bedroom - who they are, how they laugh, the way they look down when embarrassed, their wicked sense of humour, fine turn of phrase. These things all evaporate and become vapour which is held in a place where I can smell it and bring it to mind but does not always connect directly to what is in front of me. They are not that person, not entirely. They are what is left when they have given part of their will, their personhood over to me.

They are a landscape of beautiful, available, responsive flesh. Not a body, but body parts. Often segmented by rope, latex, leather or chain. Bits are removed - eyes taken with blindfolds, mouths blocked with gags. The angles might be wrong: bent double over spanking benches or spread out in a cross or coiled in a hog-tie. When I play, I see shapes.

Sometimes I do stop and stare at what is in front of me and grin because it is pretty, it is wonderful but it's not an aesthetic that would sell perfume. It's heaps of matter. And it's mine. That sense of ownership, although transient, is still powerful. And it engenders a kind of hunger to consume, to make happen, to impose upon. Once I'm in domspace I'm not looking at a submissive in the same way that I would if they were moving towards me across a dance floor. Here, it is a conduit for reactions and responses to what I am doing, a space for me to demonstrate power.

When they are strapped down and I'm about to play, I don't think about their looks except as a memory. That decision on how hot they were was made when we first met, when I first decided I liked the look of you. All the judgement calls and thoughts on who they are and whether I think that they are pretty were done back when they were a person. Now they are my thing. A beautiful thing, but still a thing. Without a face, without will and perhaps without a voice. You are skin, muscles, flesh and bone that I can make dance.

I no longer see the boy or girl whose hand I perhaps held an hour or so ago. Although I remember them and smile.

I see this. Skin that goes pink and shivvered into goosebumps. Tattoos that raise with sensitivity. Purple lines that bloomed into being. Sweat. Hair falling over the pillow in a halo. The contrast of skin against the bonds. The lips of labia swelling, getting wet and firm. Internal muscles parting and softening as I press through them. The way a chest rises and falls. Nipples blooming pink and rising. Cocks hardening and twitching. Veins. A mouth that opened and gave little gasps as I pushed against you. Tiny little whimpers and knuckles that go white. A knot in the underside of a shoulderblade massaged away with my hands. Feet, pointing or crossing onto each other. Fingers clenching and unclenching.

Parts. Beautiful, expressive parts.

The submissive body is fractured into pieces and I play with it like a cat with a willing mouse until I am done. They become whole again only when we're done. Aftercare is like the process of putting us both back together again: it's not just about the submissive coming out of subspace and back to themselves, it's also about me coming down from domspace (even as I write I note that subspace is "down" and domspace is "up") and connecting with them again as a person, a friend and a lover.