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The online diary of an ethical pervert.
Every time I go over to see Captain I can be certain of only two things. First, we will do at least one thing that I have never done before, and second, the experience will be intense enough that I will need at least a day to recover. On Friday we were doing doll play. A doll for him.
The first part was to scrub away myself, physically then mentally. I'm naked and on all fours wearing a large padded, leather blindfold that covered both eyes and nose. My first thought is that I'm going to be beaten, "cleansed" through mortification, so I'm a little curious when there is no pain. Instead I feel a squirt of cool lube against my arse as my legs are spread and something plastic is inserted. There's the noise of liquid stirred in a glass and then a heavy, bloating pressure inside me. Enema. I tense automatically, when the plastic tube is removed and I'm instructed to hold tight. the sensation is not painful, but deeply uncomfortable and certainly unpleasant. A strong need to go to the bathroom and a slightly sickly-sloshing feeling. After a minute or so - it felt longer - he grabs me by the hair and I crawl towards the bathroom and am placed on the toilet. He looks at me, I look at him. I wait for permission and am very relieved when I get it. It's a horrible feeling, invasive liquid literally pouring out through juddering, confused muscles. I feel very queasy, unsettled and vulnerable because this is effectively duplicating having diarrhoea so I get the mental side-effect of feeling unwell. I'm not embarrassed per se, but I am starting to suffer from a minor body-shock at the unfamiliar and extremely intimate situation being imposed upon me. He watches for a while then leaves me with the instructions to clean myself up and scrub down in the shower.
I take my time. I feel sick to my stomach, which is cramping and my legs are wobbling as I eventually get in the shower (20ml of glycerol into one pint of water had quite a pronounced effect on my clearly sensitive system). I'm very glad of being able to clean off, I enjoy this part of the process as an extension of what I naturally do when visiting a partner - I always take pains to make sure my skin is soft and smooth and that all of me is ready so it's nice to make double sure. Finally I'm done and dried and can step out of the bathroom and into some fishnet hold ups and very high heels. I can just about walk in the heels, tottering.
He straps me to a chair in a darkened room. I'm facing a single candle burning on the bench in front of me. The track from the night before plays in the background. I can hear his voice against my ear, calm and low and I recognise the hypnotic cadence from play and conversations with Different Drummer I relax and let his voice take me wherever he wants me to go - as much a part of becoming his doll as letting him put my body where he decides. What he wants is a passive, unmoving "dolly". Something that stays where it is put and does not respond or react. But does feel. More than that - is hyper sensitive to every touch. My internal reaction is mixed, first I'm very excited, the idea of an encapsulated state - present, unmoving but still feeling is very hot, but I'm concerned as to whether I can actually do it, given how jumpy I can be. 'm worried I'm going to let him down before we have even started. I try and shake these thought away, aware of self-fulfilling prophecies, so I concentrate on the candle in front of me, my breathing and his voice, attempting to push everything else away.
I get to a light trance state by the time he pulls me up into the doll persona, firm, heavy limbs, fuzziness around the brain and tingling skin, like the moments before sleeping. He puts a heavy latex mask on my head - zipping it closed at the front in an act of "putting me away", he's talking to me more than usual and his words are something to hold on to in the otherwise dark and far away world of my own body. He moves me around a little finally securing me in place with a rope harness around my chest to the ceiling. A hook inserted in my arse gives slightly more stability, but it is an uncomfortable, at times painful presence, especially when I lose my balance and fall against the ropes, circling around on my heels, helpless. Then it really hurts, but there is also a pleasure in swaying like this, collapsed yet strung up. It emphasises my lack of control and volition. The pain is a needed sensation - it reinforces the requirement to stay still and rigid. He waits a while and then pushes me back into a standing position. I become aware of just how wet my cunt is, I can feel liquid dripping down my thighs and when he presses into my back and grabs my breasts it is extremely hard not to lean into him and keen to be fucked.
I'm not sure how long I'm left standing there. Sometimes he leaves me alone, sometimes he touches me, either to slap my face or my bottom or to pinch my nipples. Once or perhaps twice he kisses my shoulders, plays with my cunt and the tenderness surprises me. He keeps talking, telling me I'm pretty, his pretty dolly and the words hold me under as much as the rope or the mask. The invisible line between user and use-object. As I hang there, alternatively used and watched I start to feel a heaviness upon me, it's getting harder to breathe. I'm still not entirely sure what caused this, whether the rope, the mask or just being in that particular headspace, but I feel the world go darker around the edges and fall away, I realise I'm about to faint. It is actually quite a pleasant experience as I truly loose control and am no longer able to even hold myself upright. By which point he has already taken most of my crumpling weight and removing the ropes. I pool gratefully onto the floor, limbs still in doll positions, like a broken toy. Waiting for the next time.
Last night I did my homework. Captain sent me a track - just a few minutes shy of an hour long - alongside instructions for how I should listen to it.
I lay out my ipod on the bed, turn off the light and get undressed. I lie on top of the bed, put in the earphones. They are the bud type which cancel out external noise so suddenly I've shut off a sense. I spread my legs, close my eyes and press play.
The music starts. Ambient electronic trance, it;s layered and moves elegantly through different phases, sometimes lighter, sometimes heavier. Trance is the key word here and almost immediately I'm pulled under by the music. It's a good track with a strong beat and makes me want to dance. I can't dance, but I circle my thumb and forefingers together, unconsciously calling to invisible butterflies, whilst my heart follows the bass line as it deepens. Inside my head, I'm like a clubber reaching up to the ceiling, eyes closed and lost in the rhythm. I'm salivating, and clenching my jaw slightly, another club reaction. But also something else. Anticipation. My cunt is wet and I want sex. My hips arch upwards slightly, dancing or fucking the cold, empty air. Both, perhaps.I am allowed to play with myself ("tease" was the word used) but not to come, so I stop and start, every now and then putting my hands down by my side, like I'm floating on water.
After a few minutes I start to pay more attention to my body. I'm cold, the room has no heating at night: being on my back makes even me more exposed, especially with my legs the way they are. I can feel myself losing heat. I hate the cold, it is extremely unpleasant and I'm finding this very difficult. My feet and fingers are already cold, most of my skin is cool. The only heat is coming from my cunt, where the sensation of numb, abstracted fingertips on my clit makes it feel hotter than it is. In my disengaged state I imagine that I am lying on the ground with snow falling all over me. I imagine that icy particles are touching my eyelashes and I can feel the cold of each flake as it lands. I start to freeze. I know that as the snow carries on falling eventually I will start to feel warm again, smothered by their weight.
Although it is dark, occasionally shadows and light will pass under my eyelids, as if someone is moving in the room with me disturbing the neon from outside. I do not open my eyes. I know that I am alone. I focus on the blackness in front of me and let my mind wander. My thoughts flow in two contrasting directions, in tandem with the contrast between my cold body and warm insides.
The first part of me is thinking about my task and how I am doing. I'm trying to work out how much time has passed, how much longer I have to be here, numb and tormenting myself with masturbation. My legs start to shiver, the cold has moved from being unpleasant to painful, all the more so because I'm not sure how far I've come, how much more there is left. I'm losing time. Deliberately in a way - refusing to count or to keep track. I want to be in a place that is absent from reality, so I need to let go of time. I know that I can't stop the music and just go to sleep, I have to be there for the full length of the track. I make a rule for myself - if I stop or do anything that I shouldn't do, I have to start again. I know there's a limit to how long I can be here, motionless and cold, so that helps me to keep going. The other part that pushes me forward is my own growing excitement both in what I am experiencing and where this might ultimately lead. From a naked girl, eyes closed, frozen fingers light on her clit in the darkness to what? It's a prologue and I like narrative.
My other half, the half that is not feeling the cold but instead coiled up in the music isn't thinking but feeling. I'm trapped in my own head, high above my shivering body. I go through waves of emotions. Expressions flicker over my face for no-one to see. There's no-one but myself to experience what I am going through, no-one to feel pleasure or concern at my reactions. I'm a game of me. At one point deliriously happy, the endorphins mixing with the fuzzy high of where the track is taking me, flowing with it like water. Then, I suddenly feel scared, a weight upon my chest like the beginnings of anxiety, a nervous tension, matched by the tension in my thighs clenched against the temperature and the actions of my own fingers. I am held in place and feel almost claustrophobic with it. Then it goes and I am soft once again. Another point, I start to feel sad and lonely, a gnawing emptiness in the pit of my stomach accompanied by a terrible sensation of loss, remembering that I am alone, remembering what I have lost and how there is no longer anyone to comfort me or to love me. I almost start to cry. Then the music changes and I change with it.
Alongside all of this - the cold, the emotions, the drive to complete my task - my desire races. It is constant in presence but not behaviour, sometimes gentle, tingly and exciting, other times hard and desperately needy. At one stage I mouth at the air, biting my lip, seeking kisses that are not there. Muscles in my cunt twitching for a penetration that isn't going to happen. I know I can't orgasm (the fact that I'm on my back reinforces this) but that's not really what I want right now - I want another body, specifically his, I get little flashes of how his skin smells, how his cock feels when he's fucking me. But there's nothing there.
I had a relaxing time at After Pandora last night. I was taken with the feel of the event - the organisers knew everyone and were doing a very good job of actually hosting, taking the time to introduce people to other people, mingling and helping the night mix. It struck me as somewhere between a gentle mid-week shindig and a munch. Plenty of people had made the effort to dress up, and whilst there were a few pairs of jeans in evidence everyone was certainly smart rather than scruffy (although a couple were charmingly dishevelled, which I'm reliably informed counts as fashionable). I went along with Kiss Curls and her beau, after a lovely getting-to-know-him dinner and despite all the efforts of our kind hosts we found ourselves a little nervous.
Partly it was because we didn't know many people, which I'm slowly starting to become more used to as I broaden my range of events and activities, but also there was a mix of very kinky, new-to-kink people and arty people which meant that I wasn't quite sure how to start. Additionally, I always find just going up and saying "hi" a bit strange at first. Once I've done it a couple of times (and had a fortifying gin or two) it becomes much easier. I wouldn't say I was shy, more that the process of being social requires a bit of a push.
And so pushed, it was on to conversations. I managed to actually get some time in with people I'd only tweeted to, which was nice, and also chatted to a self confessed "dabbler" alongside others new to the scene. What was especially nice about these conversations was that those I spoke to had a very definite idea of what they wanted and were using the event to get more involved. I'm always appreciative of directness, but more than that, these people were clearly not tourists, mostly private players wanting to become more public and this provided an attractive avenue for them to talk to other kinky people in a non-club forum. Now, obviously a munch can present similar opportunities, but unlike a munch this was very definitely an event that had other, non-kinky aspects such as live music and a more party feel, which made it both open and accessible. Added to that. the fact that we were all invited made the event private and cosy and therefore possibly a little less daunting than the "just turn up!" nature of a munch.
One of the things we got to talking about was relationship styles and the boundaries between vanilla and kink. Someone expressed the opinion that having vanilla sex meant they appreciated kinky sex more, which I found interesting (I also disagreed, but it was in the spirit of healthy debate). I certainly understand the way in which variety is the spice of life, but the past few years have made me realise that vanilla sex (and by inference, a vanilla relationship) doesn't work for me. We talked through how it was perfectly possible to have an interaction that, from the outside, looked vanilla but is actually D/s and that the real barometer of a kinky relationship lay not in the things that were done or the equipment that was used, but in the connection between the people involved.
This hit the nail on the head in terms of what I am looking for and why it is so hard to find. Connections don't just spring out of nowhere, you can't pick them up in a pub and certainly don't get them with casual sex or one-night-stands. Particularly when one is submissive, strong-minded and very clear on what one wants. That thought has made for a slightly lonely-making morning as I realised that which I want, the thing that really gets me off is not an easy win. Not that I have a problem working for what I want, merely that sometimes when I wake up forlorn, cold and with too much room in the bed it would be nice to have that right now.
And a hug.
After having a lot of fun dressed up as a doll for Crimson (and receiving a number of exciting memos on the subject) I'm going to try and revitalise the doll project again this year. It had fallen by the wayside during my relationship with The Photographer, possibly because of the level of artifice involved in what was a very real relationship. I've had a number of interesting doll conversations over the past few days which have prompted some thinking, mostly on how the doll operates as part of a submissive identity and the ways in which a doll persona can be played. In particular, I've been focusing on the doll as exactly that - a human sized doll, rather than other, more straightforwardly objectified alternatives.
I get very turned on by the process of becoming a doll, which is as important as being a doll. Dolls are very much defined by their passivity, by what is done to them. the first step is putting on the costume, then adopting methods of acting and reacting and finally being placed in certain positions and situations in order to test those reactions and the responses of my partners. Participation is key - the doll is very limited without an audience, dolls need someone to play with them, to dress them up and put them away again afterwards. I'm particularly looking forward to finding someone for whom I can create a doll that exactly matches their desires - this links in with my need to please, but there's also something very exciting about making oneself into the perfect gift. Being viewed is important so photography will be a big part of the project this year, as will public performance and public outings to clubs and similar as a doll.
The doll is a way of being and behaving that I can adopt in order to pursue certain sorts of sexual gratification. It hits a lot of my buttons. It's also a lot of fun. The doll is a role, a mask. Critically, it has its roots in dress-up and forced-feminisation, not in age-play. My doll is not a little girl or childlike, there may be similarities with certain dolls - my most recent outing was very much a Victoriana style girl doll - but what you see isn't always what you get with dolls. The look is also about fabrication, about non-reality, essentially about not being "me" and losing all those controlling elements and self-authoring facets of my own personality to become a kind of tabula rasa. One of my favourite comments on a recent doll was "oh look, you could rape it and not feel any guilt!" The instant assumption of an "it" rather than a "she" was quite revealing because that doll was almost aggressively feminised (lots of make-up, rouged cheeks, rosy lips) yet instinctively made object perhaps because of these layers of pretence. The real woman was hidden. The doll remained. Similarly, because of this removal of the real woman, the doll becomes something that can go further, have more done to it, than a real person. Ideally a doll would stay where put, withstand a lot of damage and utter no complaint.
That will be a serious personal challenge, especially where pain is concerned, and I'm still thinking about how I'm going to overcome that. Part of me is attracted by the strength of mind and body required to keep still and quiet whilst undergoing stress, another part is very interested in ways of actually staying calm throughout and being able to experience as a doll, rather than pretend to experience. A current thought is to use painkillers or tranquillisers, the main contenders being hypnotic (diaz types) such as Valium or Rohypnol or which is interesting because I haven't used much chemical support in my play with the exception of Ecstasy and more recently, Poppers. Obviously this will require further thought and discussion, particularly on safety and possible reactions, though I am fortunate enough to count chemists amongst my close friends. Additionally, I am interested in how I might not overcome the passivity-problem, and if there is enjoyment and catharsis to be got from having the doll-form destroyed and the real woman revealed, a little like a strip tease, but one in which I am forced to stop playing with dolls, to acknowledge my own weakness and suffering and to become myself once again.
The devil in is the detail and sometimes it's the small things that draw you to a person. When what they do coincides with what you needed, just then and there in a pocket of space. A private moment.
In the night. At some point in the darkness. I don't know what the time is. I'm in that neither sleeping nor awake place that I go to when put to bed in bondage. I drift in a private ocean. My wrists are cuffed and padlocked together, ditto my ankles. A chain runs from the metal bedstead through the collar on my neck (also locked), through my wrists and to my ankles. It pulls me into a foetal position. I'm tired so I don't feel the discomfort so much, although it is there, restricting my natural sleep movements and reminding me at every moment that I am held here. I am also held by the Captain, an arm around my waist, or resting on my hip. A reminder of who holds me here. When he fucks me he reminds me of why I am here. He fucks me with some force, no preamble, straight as an arrow, hard and deep. I love the first moment of being fucked. Especially like this, casual as you might pick up a book and flick through the pages. Something taken because it is present. There is joy as well as pleasure in that first penetration - a waking up both literal and figurative in the move from being an idle object to something of use, from being absent to being taken.
There are no words. We do not speak. If he had to ask then something would have failed. I can't imagine speaking, as if by fucking me he closes down the parts of me that interrogate or question. Everything is answered by his actions and by my response. I am not precisely still, I move a little to accommodate him, arch slightly here or there, still getting used to how he fucks, where he takes his pleasure and how best to enhance it.
After a short while he stops, I shudder as he pulls out, with that moment of loss that comes from realising that the connection is cut and we are done. But it isn't. Not quite. He reaches up to my face and slaps me. Just once. Once is enough. I literally see stars - a bright halo of sparkles around my vision. It takes me breath away because of how unexpected it is, but because of how personal this action feels to me - familiar and different, both in delivery and in my response. A totally new reaction to something I've always thought of as so intimate. For the first time ever, I don't cry. Unlike previous situations, I don't feel punished and I don't get angry. I feel normal, relaxed even. after the initial, shock. As if it was a totally natural thing to do. I actually feel a little satisfied and even happy. I smile.
Falling back into a light sleep. Smiling at the warmth on my cheek.
A cheer goes up as my knickers are ripped off. Little girl white-as-snow pants. They fall to the floor, passed my knees, red with falling over and smeared with blood, one frilly sock has slid down my calf towards the patent black dolly shoes. My legs are trembling, I'm tired, sore, breathing heavily and slipping around as Ringmaster pulls me towards him. I have no traction in these heels and can only brace against the rope around my arms and chest, aiming a decent kick in his direction as I crash to the ground once more. Another cheer. Outside, I'm furious, humiliated, crying with frustration. Inside, I'm grinning.
We're performing at Crimson and it's going well, there's a fantastic buzz coming from the crowd - needless to say we're playing up to it, encouraging the cheers, groans and even veering into pantomime/farce elements with "awwww" inspiring acts of tears and "shall-I-shan't-I" evil villain faces as he pulls me ever closer to the cattle-prod. There is contact. I scream. The crowd laughs.
I'm full of a heady mix of feelings. Caught in the interplay between the real and the staged. We'd run through the stages of what we were going to do when, but only in brief. Testing levels on the violet wand, on the cattle-prod, cutting slits into clothing for ease of ripping. It's different under the lights. Now, in front of everyone, we're going further and harder than where we'd started, and we're both loving it. Playing at being real. Really playing. Sometimes we are real, sometimes we play. The two are merging into each other. From the very beginning, when a punch to the gut let me spit the fake blood all over the floor, blood I was then dragged face down through, blood that caused someone in the audience to run forwards and shout at us to stop.
I am both taking part and playing a part. The blood might have been fake and we might not be actually trying to kill each other but some of the violence is real, the rope is real, the struggle is real and the electricity is very real. I'm experiencing several different things at once, and it is a huge rush. There's a note of victimhood, I'm shaky and hurt from violet wand shocks and the various bumps and bruises from being dragged around the stage. I am tired, the pants might be emphasised but they are certainly there. There's even a note of embarassment, the dollification outfit plus public stripping (which caused shrieks of excitement) makes me feel exposed. I'm partly getting into role, and partly already there - the tears are pulled from somewhere within me, as I watch myself being watched from my vantage point on the floor, a boot resting on my face. I'm also high on adrenaline from struggling against him, as well as getting a massive boost from the thrill of exposure, the exhibitionist's rush and the pleasure of giving enjoyment to all of those around us.
Eventually, naked and spent. We take a bow. Grinning like idiots.
You take your kink where you can find it, and sometimes it can be found in the most unexpected situations. I was doing interviews all this week and found myself watching the candidates, become not precisely turned on, but certainly piqued by erotic curiosity. They were nervous. And nervousness looks like excitement which feels a lot like sex. They were in a safe but scary place. A place where they were on the back foot - a little powerless - yet with opportunity to perform, to prove themselves. They knew roughly what was going to happen, but no details, and they were not exactly sure how they would react. I knew that place.
I watched them. Watching their bodies display themselves. Hands fluttered, pulling hair away from the face, fingers twitched, lips were licked. A sheen on the cheekbones, forehead and nose. Voices were occasionally halting, eyes looked down. One even said, breaking her otherwise ice-cool demeanour: "I'm sorry, I'm just a bit nervous." I think I may have curled a little smile that hopefully came across as pleasant and reassuring. Rather than mildly predatory. One had the most beautiful blushes. They appeared slowly on the neck and collarbones, blooming like a pattern of flowers that darkened from mild pink to a glowing red. They looked like burns or scalds that had appeared simply because of the situation we had put her in, that she had chosen to do. The blood rushed to the skin to advertise the adrenaline that must have been pumping around her system.
And there I sat. Calm, confident and in control. There was no overt feeling of power or dominance on my part - if anything there was the odd pang of empathy for what they must be going through, a desire to placate or reassure. But I also wanted to keep watching. More than that, to participate, to help them get through whatever was causing them distress, to the other side of relief. To facilitate the discomfort. Similar to the boy on the rack I wanted to soothe a stranger whilst causing anxiety to them, to pull out all those private responses we keep locked away and expose them.
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