On with the show

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.

Switched on

More thoughts on the play session with Smart Set. I've been trying to get my brain in gear to do everyone and everything justice. Each time we play with new people The Photographer and I get to experience something new, which often has us grinning for the next few days. I am also always interested in our different responses to play, so usually spend some time grilling him afterwards, prying bits of information running a game of compare and contrast. I'm attempting to go through chronologically, as best as I can, pinning down the reactions at the time and painting on the afterthoughts and studied impressions. A veneer of submission.

It was a strange sensation, knowing that he was having something done to him in the other room, but not being able to see, only hearing the slightest of noises. There was a layer of concern, hoping that he was alright and a layer of envy, as I waited and he, in my imagination at least, given I had little else to go on, was the centre of attention. I didn't have to wait long. The door to the dungeon rattled, and someone came in. I was very still, better than trying to work out what I should do next and getting it wrong. With more familiar partners I'd perhaps try and pre-empt their needs. Not in this case. Not that there was much I could do, being as tied and constrained as I was. It was hard to hear in the hood, but I could feel hands, checking my arms and limbs, feeling to see whether my nipples were hard, my cunt wet. A pause, then some warm liquid on my chest, I was surprised for a moment, but then realised it was oil or lube, as the hands smoothed over my skin, between my legs. I lent into him, it was him, I could feel that. There were noises, he was talking to me in the tone reserved for skittish animals. Like a skittish animal I was not taking in the meaning of the words themselves, just the softness, the reassurance in the cadence.

He holds open my arse and cunt, inserting a dildo into each, the one for my cunt is larger than I'm expecting and I wince slightly. Muscles tighten for a moment or so then I breathe out. Relaxing into it. Enjoying the sensation of being very full. With the gag inside my mouth I feel completed. There is no room for the world, just my body, penetrated. He is explaining what is going to happen, but I remember having this object described to me before. As long as I stay still, the vibrator in my cunt buzzes happily. Needless to say, I like this. If I move, the electric insert in my arse fires, and keeps on doing so for a minute. Needless to say, I also like this. It's a win-win game, currently. He takes some time to set it to a suitable level, higher, higher and higher. I want to feel it.

I'm left alone. I don't move. The game is about not moving, so I don't. Although part of me wants to in order to feel the electricity forcing my muscles to clench, that curious and intense internal pleasure. He comes back in and sets off the motion sensor, I ride the shock, letting it push me forward and test the strength of the bonds. Enjoying the feeling of muffled cries around a gag. After a while of doing this, I'm let out. Unsteady on wobbly legs, I'm led up the stairs and along onto some sort of mat. This is where The Photographer has been, I think. More voices, her this time, again, very hard to hear, like noises from the bottom of a well. Except I'm the one who is far away. Submerged. She reminds me that I'm not allowed to come, and I nod, mutely. I'm pushed onto my hands and knees and the gag is removed. I miss it instantly.

"Clean him up." Experimentally I push my face forward. Skin. Some part of The Photographer, but I have no idea which bit. He's covered in wax. Endless long droplets. I tease at them with my tongue, biting them off one by one. It's a strange sensation, a difficult job and I'm conscious of trying to do it right, a little fearful (and eagerly anticipating) punishment for when I doubtlessly fail the impossible task of blindly picking wax off with my mouth. There's something else there. Metal. Cold and heavy. Some sort of chastity device. I smile, more so when my face is pushed towards it and I can explore with my lips the shape of it. It's heavy, a chunky piece of kit. I can hear him moan a little as I lick around it, which makes me press down harder. Behind me I think I can hear laughter, and that makes me happy, glad to be amusing and diverting. Even with a mouthful of wax.

Kitty and puppy

The efforts of our joint profile appear to be bearing fruit, last night The Photographer and I went out to a small kinky gathering with New Friends - we got on really well, and had a very switchy night of deciding who we were going to do next. They introduced us both to a fantastic piece of electronic kit which had a series of remotely activated pads. These were placed on the girl's labia, either side of the clitoris. The warm-up was a firm but gently vibrating sensation, which was very pleasant, and then as the current increased it became sharper, more like the feel of a violet wand, but still with the vibration underneath the electricity so even at higher levels the pain was intermingled with definite, and intimate pleasure.

The Photographer was seconded to button pushing and took great delight in doing so, but it was a little as if he had sidelined himself from the action, or fallen into his more customary role as amused but detached dom. Given the fact that he doesn't get to submit as often as I do, and that turn about is fair play I decided that really he shouldn't be left out and that he should wear the collar for the rest of the night. On hands and knees in tight pvc trousers and later on, even less, hooked to a lead he made a wonderful gift of a puppy to our recent acquaintances, the female half was especially delighted, and amusement was had when we realised that Kitty (pet name from her other half) had a puppy. Who was, as usual wonderfully well behaved, even when strapped to a bench and the electrical pads placed on the top of his penis and at the base of his balls. Then the button pushed. Mercilessly.

The three of us spent quite a while alternately petting and abusing him, until he was quite spaced out and staring, glazed and smiling into space. At which point, we changed location to the St Andrew's Cross and I got to spend a bit of time glazed and smiling as I was flogged and had my nipple piercings toyed with at length. Puppy stayed firmly on the floor, his tongue industriously investigating the potential of Kitty's stockings to everyone's delight.

What was especially nice was the level of sexualised contact, and strong mutual attraction. Lots of kissing, groping, licking and alternating dynamics which were very exciting. Although an element of Britishness (perhaps?) prevented us from inviting them back to ours for a "coffee" afterwards, I'm sure that future encounters, now the ice has been broken, will see us being a little less coy.

Ultra violet

If you turn the lights down you can see the electrical sparks from a violet wand, and they are pretty. I'm lying naked next to The Photographer, but if I turn my head to the side I'm as much spectator as participant, encouraged to watch by Lovely Couple as the tracery of spider thin veins crackle around his nipple piercings and he yelps in pain. I know he's not enjoying this, and that the sensation must be heightened for him because they are already sore from being played with earlier. If I stretch out my fingers to the left I can stroke his arm, but that is the limit of my reassurance.

There is a sense of putting on a performance, in the way that we are played with alternatively, tormented into responding with jerks or moans. An anticipation also, whilst one watches and listens to the other being shocked, or when the wand moves relentlessly towards a softer, more sensitive spot: breasts, inner thighs, cunt. The latter is very sensitive from having been freshly shaved only a few hours earlier, wet and tingling from the evening's play that preceded this floor show. When the burst is delivered it is stronger than I had expected and my murmurs of pleasure become a sudden cry as the pain hits me.

In a cruel finale, we are alternatively given a bar attachment to hold. The electricity will earth itself if you touch something with your other hand, or, in this case, mouth. First, The Photographer is asked to go down on me and of course I naturally arch up to meet his tongue and receive a shock. It doesn't stop me wanting to feel his mouth against my cunt, but the angle is a little tricky and we change places shortly afterwards. I can see the arc of electricity as it jumps from my outstretched tongue and onto his cock and he squirms uncomfortably, a very unfamiliar reaction for me in this particular act. The desire to pleasure him is balanced with the knowledge that any contact I make is neccessarily painful, and I feel conflicted. On the one hand I want to do as I'm told, to behave and to be good. But on the other I am being asked to hurt him and I can see his reaction, hear him cry out to my touch.

I like the feeling of electricity, the ghostly brush of a sharp burn that has no corresponding impact on the skin. Weightless yet absolutely present. At low levels it shivers against my flesh, half tickling, half scratching like a delicate intermittent tattoo. With more power, the jolts, shudders and gasps it inspires can be impressive. The psychology of it is exiting, that the voltage can be precisely meted out and increased gradually in stages. There is an air of experimental science to it all - how much, how strong and where.

Shock treatment

I'm tied to a chair with latex tape and rope. My mouth is held open by a metal dental gag, wire jaws sitting behind my teeth, it feels light and cool against my face and is deceptively constricting. The construction is such that it rests in place and I can't dislodge or spit it out even though it feels like I should be able to. My thighs are burning hot from the cane whose bite is not getting any easier with use, I struggled against it and I think I screamed, but both of these things are reactive and have no effect on my situation: there's a gleaming focus in Ethical Hedonist's eyes which I both adore and fear as a sign of things to come.

He cuts the tape around my legs to survey the damage and feel how wet my cunt has become then, patiently, he inserts a small white pod with electroplates inside me. I don't know what to expect which scares and excites me so to progress forward is the only option. The meter is placed on my thigh and he holds the remote control loosely in his hand. The game is very simple: the voltage will escalate and I will respond. The pain is new: the shock hurts and forces a contraction in the muscles, holding them in place for as long as the current runs. It is a dull, heavy sensation, a little like being punched. Nothing like the crackling sharpness of electricity on skin, this is deep and hard. The intimacy of it is also extremely powerful, to be so trapped and to have something within me the effect of which I can neither see nor anticipate. He removes the gag so I can give clearer responses.

Aversion therapy combines an unpleasant sensation with undesireable behaviours in order to reduce or eliminate such actions, if not attitudes. The sensation can in theory be anything, but an electrical shock is a common example. He moves to kiss me and I reach towards him, I don't want to stop kissing him. Which leads me to three possible hypotheses for future trial: that the pain is not unbearable enough, that I am subconsciously engaged in palacatory behaviour although logically I know that there is no appeasement possible, or that I am actively and in-the-moment enjoying both of the sensations of power he is pressing upon me. Perhaps it is a combination of all of these, certainly they feel linked, and they are also pyschologically interred in the concept of torture or treatment: a facilatative violence seeking a certain outcome.

When he slapped my face earlier, I felt myself go a little limp. The stunned moment afterwards became a vast space, and I leaned towards him, not in anticipation of another blow, but as a reflex action, to make it easier for him to stroke my hair. As he kisses me, whilst increasing the voltage and shocking me again, I get the same reaction. Rather than pull away in revulsion at the one who is the cause of my discomfort, I strain to touch his tongue with mine, press my mouth increasingly desperately towards his. The outcome of the stimulation is my enhanced submission.