Ganymede, naked, eyes wide open, lips parted. His neck rests against my shoulder as I encircle him in my arms. I'm laid partially on top of him, fingers tracing the already reddened skin on his back. Pinch. Twist. Scratch. I watch his eyes and mouth as I hurt him. Pain sparkles for a certain type of masochist, the sensations are bright and sharp creating curious giggles of surprise and gasps of not-quite-pleasure. It hurts. But it is fun. For both of us. I am learning his specific tells, like a poker player, so I can read him without him having to utter a word. There's the difference between a "good" wince and a "bad" one, for example; his automatic responses compared to ones created deliberately. He raises his hands, as if in defence, but he's not trying to stop me - he just can't help himself. So helping myself to him seems like the most natural thing in the world.
"I want you to make me into a thing. Use me."
My words, from years ago, coming out of his mouth, now. It's a gift. To be able to take someone as you yourself once wanted to be taken, to put them in that exact same mental space which you inhabited. I know what he means when he says those things. I know the desire to be small, helpless, empty and waiting. To want to be filled up with sensation, to have thoughts removed and to bottom out into deep, dark spaces.
Better yet, I know how to do it.
Rubber hood. No eye holes, just a space for a mouth and pinprick nostrils. Tight fitting around the face - anything around the face is more intense - pressing in on all those vital sense organs we use to orientate ourselves to the world. Remove the face, remove the person and their ability to make sense of the world. They can't see you, you can't see them. They become the object, reliant upon you for clues as to what is going on. It's comforting too. Like a blanket on a canary, silence falls and the signal to "not do" is given. Similarly, I am not being watched, the performance aspect of dominance is now based on touch, on timing, not on how I look whilst doing it. Another freedom, this time for me. The smell of rubber starts to fill the room, and I lick the side of his cheek where the black material is starting to warm up. Delicious. A word I've picked up from him, and it's apt.
The process of turning a person with thoughts and feelings into an object can be a slow, deliberate one. Give them time to settle into each layer, each stage of not-being. Then the ball gag. Permission not to speak, the removal of any kind of human communication, that feeling of being full up. The knowledge that very soon saliva will start to build in the mouth and run down the side of the face.
The final touch. A solid, steel collar. I've been eyeing one up in Liberation for around a year now and "casually" (I never do anything casually, I'm dreadfully deliberate to the point of conniving) taking people into the store to walk past it, testing reactions. Some have ignored it, others balked at the weight and the cold of the metal. Ganymede grins when I remove it from the glass case and clip it around his neck, then bites his lip. Another tell. Easy. It sits over the neck of the hood, holding it down.
He's ready for use.
I sit astride his now very hard cock and fuck him. He arches towards me, hips moving to meet me. There are noises from beneath the hood: slow, rattling moans of forced breath, the rasp of frothy saliva, a horses' whinny, small growls he won't remember even making. I can feel the change in his body as he's fucked like this, it's a difference of consistency, of tempo even. There's a physical contradiction occuring whilst he is at one and the same time more relaxed and more tense. The thinking has gone out of the process, there is no deliberation here only animal movement, it's muscle memory and something more. Like the feeling on the dance floor where something else takes control of you and the beats move through you and out of your feet, the palms of your hands and the rhythm of your heart beneath your chest. He moves like that but I call the beat. I take time with him, knowing full well he will orgasm quickly if I chose to let him. I don't. Not quite. A few times I rise up entirely, resting the edge of my clit on the tip of his cock, letting him twitch at the absence of cunt. Hold. Wait. Then press down again, fucking him a little harder than before. I'm toying with him like a cat might with a mouse and the pleasure is in my pleasure at being so free with this body beneath me.
Under the hood he might be anyone. But he is not just anyone. He is mine and there is an overwhelming pleasure in that. The sense of just possession, of absolute right in doing what I am doing and the knowledge that he will thank me for doing it later. When he comes, he comes hard, a sensation he later describes as having an orgasm pulled out of him. I leave him in the hood for a while, to give him space to come out from space. There's nothing quite as jarring as bringing someone up to quickly, you'll give them the scene equivalent of the bends. I hold him next to me, draping a leg over him as I masturbate and bring myself to orgasm, letting him feel it, but not participate.
Later, we talk. We're still trying each other out, learning things. A process I hope never to finish. Each corner of his skin, of his mind I explore in minute detail, paying close attention to what he is saying, what he isn't saying. A language entirely new, but also familiar, as our tastes are so entwined. There's a onanistic satisfaction in this too, that I know the things I like, he is likely to enjoy. Kismet, or something like it. Perfection is a life pursuit and I intend to make him, to make us, my magnum opus.