I was away on business for the last couple of Sinful Sundays and composed shots around empty hotel bedrooms. It might have seemed a bit sad, but I was happy enough to be on my own.
I think that, for quite a long time, I have been hiding from sex. For years really. A situation where there is the possibility or, worse still, the expectation, of sex has carried with it, not the brash confidence of youth, but the performance anxiety of middle age.
I’m only staying at the 5* Mandarin Oriental Hotel because my local business partner is paying the bill, but I’m now bored of its bland luxury. It’s been a long trip and I was feeling lonely earlier, which is how I had come to be in the hotel’s cocktail bar.
What would be too much sex? Could a scene ever be too hot; could it burn so brightly that the darkness left after the flames died down was just too black.
I find myself wondering these things in a lonely hotel room somewhere in Asia. My trip to the airport was interrupted by 90 minutes of the most outrageously erotic BDSM sex, orchestrated by my wonderful Mistress for my personal delectation and delight, as I stopped off at her London house.
I’m at a Hotel in Asia. Not been here long after a 14 hour flight. The room has that faceless luxury that only international hotels manage. It’s modern and plush and everything works, but it could be anywhere.
I once rented a chainsaw and had to wade through 20 pages of safety information before I learnt how to turn it on. I was STRONGLY advised to seek a course of instruction before first use and rightly so; in the wrong hands a chainsaw could cause untold havoc.
I’ve already described how it felt when Lilly broke down and cried in front of me as I removed her blindfold at the end of an intense kidnap scene. I was both concerned that I had pushed her too far and touched that she felt secure enough to show me the emotional vulnerability of that moment.
“How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is!
O brave new world,
That has such people in it!”
Shakespeare – The Tempest
Lilly is in a dungeon. It has stone walls, red leather fetish furniture and racks of whips, chains and floggers; yet she can see none of it, has seen none of it. She’s been blindfolded since she walked into the small hallway behind the anonymous front door of the terraced house.
Lilly has been kidnapped.
So, tomorrow, Saturday the 7th, I am going to attend the Femdom Ball, an event dedicated to female supremacy; a ballroom full of supremely dominant women in rubber, leather and lace. The men will be there only as submissive slaves to fetch and carry, to worship and obey; obeisant at all times to the glorious visions of dominant femininity around them.
Entering the hallway, I’m pleased to see Lilly’s stood exactly as I instructed, hands at shoulder height against the wall, her bag on the floor. She’s followed my other instructions: a dress that will slip off easily, little make up, simple hair. Good girl. I slip an eye mask over her head, tightening the Velcro; it denies her any light at all. For the next 30 minutes or so her world will be only sensation. Lots of sensation.
By way of a little light relief (for me that is) after all the introspection a heavy session tends to cause, here are some more pictures from our dungeon based judicial punishment scene. These didn’t make the other posts!