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The online diary of an ethical pervert.

Monday, 23 May 2011

Magic number

The plan was a threesome, but given it was going to be an fFm threesome, with myself as the dominant, there were a number of assumptions I was looking forward to playing with and overwriting. An object lesson in submission and an overturning of what a threesome looks like: it isn't about what you want, it's what I want. Which is what you will want. Eventually. It was a training experience for Mr Smith as part of the ongoing project to move him beyond swinging scene attitudes and normalised modes of "masculine" sexual behaviour. I knew he was interested in Mannequin, which was ideal because she's mine, she's very well trained and so I could be sure she wouldn't let him get away with anything.

It was an opportunity for a spot of decadence, and I'd been looking forward to it. A rare Saturday night dinner and cocktails date with two of my pets. I spent the afternoon shopping in Soho, doing the rounds of the gay sex shops for penetration toys - I like them industrial looking, nasty and a little alien. Certainly not the fleshy-pink types that look queasily like laminated penises. When I fuck with a strap-on I want to look artificial, strange and a little other-wordly. Shock and awe, baby. I have no desire to mimic a cis-male: I'm a fabulous beast, a unicorn, a woman with a horn. A cyborg having new adventures in fucking. I went over to see Mannequin and we prepared the space, discussed strategy and engaged in a bit of dressing up. A rare occasion for ultra-femme stylings: silky dresses, make-up and high heels. To most people, I would have looked like a woman dressed up to the nines - looking good but not looking strange. For me, it was a deliberate change from how I usually look, especially with Mr Smith because I tend to the more tomboyish. This would look unusual for me, and hopefully sow a bit of confusion which always helps increase the anxiety and anticipation. He knew that there would be a play session with both of us, but that is all he knew.

We went to Hawksmoor, which I thoroughly recommend and spent a while flirting and chatting over drinks then aphrodisiac foods: steak, oysters, red wine. Later, there would be hard drugs and harder BDSM. The opening to the evening was soft and seductive, about creating a genial sense of liberation with a touch of mild exhibitionism along the lines of being an obvious threesome in public places. We got enough raised eyebrows to satisfy ourselves, but nothing especially salacious or kinky was done in public (I like both the restaurant and the cocktail place and would like to go back). I enjoyed the fact that whilst in the minds of those around us Mr Smith must have seemed like a lucky man, he certainly is, but not for the reasons they might have expected. Both of them were under instruction that if anyone asked directly what was "going on" they had to answer truthfully.

Eventually we found our way back home and the night began. A simple enough start: strip and tease. Of him. Clothes came off, blindfolds, cuffs, collar and ropes went on. As did a CB2000, although not as effectively as I'd hoped (I'm starting to think that chastity devices are needlessly complicated, I love the theory, but the practice is very finicky, especially with an unwilling or at least unaware victim). We secured him to a chair, toyed with him with ice and tiny clothes pegs for a while. We then removed the blindfold to let him take in his predicament. There's a balancing game to be played with sensory deprivation - on the one hand it can make people feel more free and allow them better, easier access to sub space. On the other there are times when you want them to feel constricted and to be unable to float away to sub space. And sometimes seeing is believing: I needed him to feel completely helpless and under my control. For that, he needed to see what was happening, where the deprivation was coming from.

Mannequin stripped me, I stripped her, putting a collar around her neck.
We were ostensibly playing on a trope - the strippers who kiss to titillate the male viewer, but ultimately they are there to service him. In fact, he was there to serve us, if we needed him to. My ultimate goal was to use him to teach her how to fuck boys with a strap-on.

I went quickly into dom space, having been teetering on the brink all evening anyway - awash with that smug satisfaction of a plan playing out. He was a body-in-waiting, a toy on the rack that may be needed later but for the moment was not. A voyeur has more power because at least they wanted just to watch. He wanted to do. And could not. At the back of my head, I knew he was present, I could hear him moan, feel him wriggle a little. But she was in front of me, she was right there and she was mine. I got a rush of it, the knowledge that the flesh in my hands belonged to me. I hadn't seen her in a while, I'd missed her and there she was. Perfect skin and all. I lay back, put her mouth between my legs and closed my eyes. Smiling. I think he said something. It could have been anything.

We untied him after a while, and I put her into the strap-on harness and talked her through what to do, using him as a model for her experience. I enjoyed the situation because it meant that he would be fucked by her under my control, which was effectively (for my own D/s purposes) the same as being fucked by me.
I remember a flicker of pride at his passivity, he was actively trying to "be good" to behave, to ask before touching and to ask me rather than her. I knew that he was very tactile and that depriving him of that was difficult. He allowed himself to be led, to be put in position. The training was working.

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