So there he lies, more naked than naked. Mr Smith, all skin, cooling sweat and four, black leather cuffs. Mine. The cuffs make them mine, more so than anything with perhaps the exception of a collar. Anyone can be fucked, or beaten, or tied. We all have our little peccadilloes, the sights and sounds that call to our particular kink. These are mine. The marks of slavery on ankles and wrists, that turn a body into an object of use.
One of my personal indulgences is to have a submissive in my bed in the morning to use as a passive sex toys, perfected tools for satisfying my own desires. To take and take again, without need to deliver anything in return. My pleasure, should be their pleasure. No words should be needed. Just a slight readjustment of my body and then their hands should be on my clit or, better yet, roused from sleep by a mouth lapping at my cunt. The cuffs make me think of that more, and as dominance, like submission resides in the mind as much as the real world, that makes me come. Hard.
After I'd used him to bring me to orgasm, then fucked him I undo the thick, padded leather buckles that he sleeps in. I've recently been thinking a lot about cuffs and bondage, having purchased some lovely lockable ones which are much more reassuringly hefty than my current sets. I like keeping my pets in bondage over night, though reactions vary. He enjoys it, but then he has a high tactile requirement: extensive hugs, strokes and general petting will keep him softly submissive for hours on end.
The cuffs are secure reminders of my control over him and act in a similar way, wrapped tight between four points of authority. I don't always fasten the cuffs to anything - although I do often tie ankles to bedposts or clip them to each other - the presence of the cuffs is enough, their heaviness and weight, the way they identify a body, otherwise pristine and without visible harm, as a body that is owned and kept.
I like putting on cuffs slowly, taking my time to pull the leather tight and buckle them down firmly, it reminds me of placing tack upon a horse before you ride it. The importance of preparation, the smooth flow of fingers, leather and skin. As each silver buckle is fixed in place and each little padlock closed with a click the submissive becomes more and more mine. I get angry if any attempt is made to remove them without my permission, and even when they do need to come off I have to do it myself. The hand that places them, must be the hand that removes them - encircling the time and space that I have with my pets in the specific action of buckles and leather. Ritual of ownership and control.
Collars are similar, but more potent. Collars are special, we all know that, whether you subscribe to traditional collaring practices or not, the collar has its own provenance. I have a plain, "play" collar and I'm careful to make distinctions between a collar I might use to fasten someones neck and head to things, or hold a hood more firmly in place and a potential future specific collar. They are things to work towards, prizes to be won and worn with absolute pride. I've seen the one that may well be for Mr Smith, assuming that we make it that far: a heavy, smooth metal affair, made to sit cool and hard on the neck of a muscular man.
Mannequin has a pretty brown leather collar, bought from a pet shop, of course. Perfect for her small, lithe frame. Slim and lightweight, it sits easily around her neck. I enjoy pulling her hair back from the nape of her neck and fastening it in place, brushing her skin with my fingers as I encircle her. With the collar on, she is more mine, even if she is not with me. I received a note from her over the weekend, whilst she was away, that she was wearing the collar and it made me smile, as if I had her held in my arms.
Which in a way, I did.