http://tacticalcorsets.com/

And I promise I’m going to start posting more soon. I will. I will. I’m just kinda swamped. And not exactly in good ways.

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I came across this story @FilthyGorgeousThings.com recently and was profoundly turned on. Go on and read the story first, then come back. I’ll wait.

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Hot, right?

I’ve been wondering how I can incorporate a scene like that into my play. Some of my questions are logistical. What would I have him wear? Would I put him in some kind of bondage or just sit him in a chair? How long could I make it last?

My biggest concern is whether my object would get it. Would he grow conscious of his body the way the writer did? Would being watched doing nothing be enough of a turn on for both of us? If the scene did reach some kind of energetic peak, would that be enough? Could I simply dismiss him as the client did in the story? Or would I feel compelled to engage, touch. To make it physical. To take it further.

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While voyeurism hasn’t been a strong aspect of my play, the idea of witness  has always been an element. One of my early play partners was very into the idea of being inspected. Maybe that’s where it started. He’d be upright, but kneeling and I’d slowly walk around him, my heels clicking on the concrete floor, as I stared at him. I’d poke and prod at him like I was inspecting a horse. Or a side of beef. Or a used car. I’d find faults — so many faults — and tell him each and every one, the impatience and disapproval in my voice unmistakable. It was a game, yes. But I still meant it.

“I see you,” I would say. “You are naked before me and I see everything you hide from everyone else in this world who thinks they know you. I see who you really are and there is no hiding from me here.”

I also like placing my partners in front of the mirror, forcing them to look at themselves, to see what I’ve made of them. Stripped of their public clothes and bound in my leather. The posture collar that makes him stand taller. The leather corset that gives him a shape. The cuffs and spreader bar that position and hold him in place. I take of the blindfold and command, “Look at yourself.”

As my play progressed, I found that having someone else in the room, particularly for edgier torture or coerced bi scenes, often heightened the experience. A second set of eyes made you accountable, played with your pride. “Someone else is watching. I have to do my best. I must make Her proud,” I could practically hear him thinking.

A witness made what was happening no longer a secret between us, something that, when you walked away, you might be able to convince yourself never happened. No. You were seen doing that by an impartial, innocent observer. Who could TELL.

I liked highlighting these points to my play partners and seeing them process it, the awareness filtering through his consciousness until it manifested in his reactions. A flush. An inability to look me in the eye. Or sometimes a desperate eye contact, as if by focusing on me, he might forget the observer was there.

I made sure that didn’t happen.

I just received the following email (copied in its entirety):

i want to suck most extreme sweaty foot after sport with unsocks bare foot in sneakers is it posible ?

i realy wish to be your foot slave suck and clean your sweaty foot wish to suck your toenails dirt and more … its my dream..

You can listen to me talk about chastity,  rope bondage, and a long-held fantasy involving a very special bit of bed linen on Masocast.com.

Eighteen months ago, we spent a weekend in Venice in a 17th Century monastery that’d been converted into a luxury hotel.  Fittingly, he was locked in chastity.  After cuffing his wrists,  I wrapped my fingers in proscuitto di Parma and pushed them into his mouth, expressed mouthfuls of mozzarella di Bufala from my tongue to his, and proffered gristly bits of lamb chops and made him thank me for it.

In the middle of the night, I rolled over onto his bound body and used him as a chamber pot.  Later he said, “I felt like a real slave when you pissed in my mouth in the middle of the night. I have never felt that way before.”

The last I saw of  him, he’d dropped me off at the Four Seasons in Milan with a dazed look on his face.

A few days ago, he emailed me that he would be in town. “I haven’t played in a very long time..I would like to meet with you just catch up.”

Over lunch at a midtown sushi bar, discreetly tucked away on a second floor and known mostly by visiting Japanese executives and raw fish connoisseurs who wouldn’t be caught dead at Nobu, he propositioned me.

“I have this fantasy of being a prisoner, to be your slave and your captive for days,” he said.  “Would you be interested in that?”

I stared back at him, a thick slice of toro dissolving between my tongue and palate. “Not at all,” I answered, trying to keep a straight face but pleasure — visceral, carnal, gustatory — overwhelmed me. Sighing, I crossed my legs tighter. My feet twitched. My mouth watered.

“I want it to be the ultimate power exchange. You would decide what I eat or drink, if and when you permit it. Beat me, abandon me, use me: whatever you want to do.   I would be your helpless prisoner.”

“You couldn’t know how long you’d be kept,” I vollyed. “Maybe you would have an idea of when it would start. Like, you’d set aside a week and give me the dates. I’d have you abducted and brought to me. But you can’t know when it would end. Maybe I’d keep you for five days. Maybe for 17 hours.

“And you wouldn’t know what was coming.” I was digging into it now. “I could keep you in sensory deprivation bondage the entire time. You wouldn’t know who was touching you. Who was making you do things. Or  maybe I wouldn’t play with you at all. Just lock you up and leave you. You’d have no say, no control over what does or does not happen.”

I thought of my new cage and imagined him naked, hooded, chained and locked inside.

He noticed.

“You’re getting wet, aren’t you?” he asked.

With my chopsticks, I stabbed at the glistening sea bream on the tray in front of me and wolfed the wet, raw flesh into my mouth.

“Yes.”

“Jez,” one of the people I play with, wrote this in response to our most recent scene. While it would behoove me to write a few more posts first with my POV when it comes to play, I just couldn’t wait to share it. I just hope he’ll continue to play with me and be inspired to write more things like this.

The goulash game I play in the aftermath of any disaster; as the fire hoses play over the wreckage, as the dazed survivors tell their shocking events and the hostages recite forgiveness for their captors, is to imagine what I would have done in their place. I wonder if I would the one who rescued his comrades under impossible odds, who coolly kissed the plane onto the river, who stands shyly on the dais while friends fete my bravery and clear-headedness. Would I be that guy, or would I be the one who elbows aside the women and children to take the first seat in the lifeboat?

I mention this because recently you had fixed me with that searching look, eyes locked to mine curious, perhaps even offended, about why I used adjectives like ‘frightening’ and ‘unpleasant’ when describing some of our trippier games. I’ll admit to you now that in the hours prior to an appointment I’m sometimes surprised to see my hand drift to the phone as if unconsciously wanting to pass, to save the test ahead for another day.

The true answer is that as I learn and live more of  [your ] Experiences and the skill with which you direct it, I’m always struck by its complexity. The more I know, the less I know and long after the welts have faded, the scars healed, I’m still haunted by so many things I just don’t pretend to understand. Perhaps that’s where the true beauty of it lies; to experience so much exhilarating joy, so much fucking fun (I do, and it is). And then, to experience something else entirely.

A good case in point is probably The Cage. You had mentioned it [before] and even if you were straight as a die you’d have to admire its construction. Sturdy, unyielding and highly unlikely to provide anything in the way of comfort. While we talked earlier, I had noticed it from the corner of my eye, and dismissed it. Partly because I didn’t really understand its significance, partly because something inside of me really didn’t want to. Like a seasoned adversary, at first the cage feigned friendship. Tied securely to its bars, and uncomfortably spread over it, you worked your delicious and thorough way across my back. But then, it turned on me. Freedom became imprisonment as you beckoned me inside with a curt nod, and closed the door.

If I wanted an easy explanation, I could say that it’s all about you. That I want to prove myself to you like some medieval knight on a hopeless quest of chivalry, enduring any hardship, any humiliation for the champion of his ill-fated quest. And while that is definitely true, the deeper answer might be that you have now ingrained in me a really basic curiosity about how I might react to any situation. How is it, for example, I can take a sound beating, yet the simple proximity of your body next to mine, or your voice in my ear will cause me to physically dissolve? How could I be subject to the most extreme humiliation, yet falter when left in an innocent-looking cage for a matter of moments? There are always things that trip us up in life, like the cartoon character that misses the banana skin only to walk headlong into the streetlamp. You know this. I know you know this, and in the rhythm of the session I sense your absolute power to give and to take away is as intoxicating as it is, literally, fearsome. And of course, when you open the door I want to go in because that uncertainly is such a powerful drug.

And so the happy truth is, that in our normal lives, few of us are ever tested. Few of us will ever know how we will react, whether we will survive the test with grace or fail in shame. But I’m coming to understand that to discover the process with you is a fascinating and terrifying journey.

At the end of the session – in a final, thoughtful coupe de grâce, you have slathered my balls in Icy Hot – I am shaking uncontrollably with the feeling that they are being eaten away no less certainly as had they been covered in acid. As you hold me, whispering that it will soon be over, I realize how grateful I am that you are my guide through this shocking journey. It’s you who lifts the hood, who unshackles the cuffs, who unlocks the cage. It’s odd, trying to explain how I could never feel more masculine than when I’m chained, than when I’m humiliated, because there’s something intoxicating about being tested and being found worthy. And I am, of course, submissive so I live for that fleeting, quietly spoken word of praise at the end of a session as I crumble exhausted, beaten, at your feet.

When relaxing, I’ll often cup a breast much in the way some men will put their hand down their pants while watching TV (I do the hand-in-pants thing too, though). Turns out, I can have that comforting “held” feeling all the time.

Introducing: The Hand Bra.

Someone just told me about doing bondage with heavy duty rubber bands. Evidently, the muscle’s resistance to the tension and compression simply causes the bands to tighten more. What starts off as bearable bondage just gets worse the longer it stays on.

Now I just have to figure out where to find these things!

It’s a new dawn.  It’s a new day.  It’s a new life for me.

And I’m feelin’ good.