Between past, present and imagination

When I walked in and saw you in your black vinyl catsuit and patent waders, I thought something unusual was going to happen. Then I thought, well, it's not so different from all the other times! Something unusual always happens! 

I've got into the habit of forcing myself not to anticipate any more, in order to remain open to what you come up with. What's the point in anticipating what's going to happen when you'll make it a point of honor to take me on the wrong foot and into even more wonderful territory?

This outfit, far removed from your usual world, suits you remarkably well. 

You used it to drag me, one question after another, back to the origins of my desire for confinement. Oh, I saw you coming and let myself go with pleasure. 

Lying down in Martha's outfit, a chain around her wrists. Lying down.

Touch after touch, you've taken me back to the roots that I believe led me to have the desires I have today. 

And I dove in. 

Real sensations.

Your voice, your touch, your breath.

The sounds of the street, the neighbors, the room, the creak of vinyl, the jingle of chains. 

The absence of music. 

Silence sometimes.

The scents of the room, the candles, your perfume, the scent of the leather.

The physical constraint of ropes, handcuffs, belts, blindfolds and gags. 

The feel of nylon on my legs.

The weight of the chains on my body.

Memories of past sensations. 

The glow of the green lamp.

The roughness of my bedroom carpet. 

The creak of the wicker on my bed. 

The clatter of the heating pipe. 

The metallic scent of the chain.

The thrill of nudity.

And the mixture of the two.

The air on my skin as soft as yesterday.

The weight of the chain, similar to what I remember.

The tension of inescapable constraints as I dreamed them in those moments.

The sound of your footsteps echoed those of my friend at the time, so directive in our childhood games.

This film, in my head, moving back and forth between past, present and imagination, always confined, constrained, perhaps a little ashamed. But always so sweet. 

The music of pleasure. A leap of more than forty years back in time. The music of the present.

I cried for a long time when I came back in 2025, and the tears are still very close a week later as I write these lines. 

These are tears of joy. The joy of having been able to relive such sweet moments. 

These moments had not escaped my memory. Rightly or wrongly, I consider them to be the foundation of my adult sexuality. But to relive them with such intensity, to fill them with present-day, very real sensations, and to imagine this nine-year-old me confronted with the realization of my wildest dreams, I wouldn't have thought possible. 

It's sometimes said that when you don't know where you're going, it's good to remember where you came from. 

I don't regret the decisions I've made about my sexuality over the past forty-plus years. All these decisions led me to take the risk of meeting you three years ago. 

The trip you're offering me is sumptuous.