The taste of nylon

Three months after our first meeting and a few email exchanges, you're once again doing me the honor of receiving me. Making a point of being punctual, I arrive at the door of your building at the precise time of our appointment, climb the stairs four at a time and knock on your door.
You open the door, smile and let me in.

The ritual for gently entering your world is the same as for the first session. After exchanging a few words, I undress in front of you, at the pace you set for me. I know that with each piece of clothing I take off, a piece of my social armor disappears.
I also know that the smiles you offer me, the gently mocking words you utter, are all ropes you stretch out to draw me towards the place I need to take. Of course, I grasp these ropes, confident and eager to follow you.

Naked and showered, I then present myself at the door of your Boudoir. Before pressing the knocker, I take one last breath.
I hesitate.
To make it resonate is to accept to tip over, to embark on a journey that I know will be another landmark. A dazzling idea comes to me and suggests that I flee. I chase it, knock and wait for your answer.

Here I am, on my knees, with my hands on my head. You put a collar around my neck and take out of its case the chastity cage you plan to install over my sex. At the sight of it, I worry a little but don't dare tell you. You realize this, of course, but carry on as if nothing had happened.
It's not so easy to put in place, but with four hands, we manage. Contrary to what I'd feared, it doesn't hurt, but rather acts as a sort of anaesthetic. The effect is rather unexpected, but ultimately quite pleasant. So much so that, during the session that follows, the sensations I feel on the other parts of my body are tinged with a particular color: purified, raw, intensified, not parasitized by the perception of an erection.

With a ball gag in my mouth preventing me from uttering a single intelligible word, my first instruction is to adore your feet. I'm new to the exercise and don't really know how to go about it. Embarrassed by the ball in my mouth that prevents me from kissing them, I rub my face over your feet, under your feet, massaging them as best I can.
Despite my best efforts, you're not satisfied with my work. You remove my gag and dig your toes into the back of my throat. Your feet force their way through my teeth and abuse my palate. They taste of nylon and the pleasure of submission.
From my position lying on my back, I sometimes catch furtive glimpses of your upper thighs. I'd like to put my hands on them, touch them, caress them, but I don't dare. I just watch.

You unceremoniously drag me a few meters and make me lie on my back, a cushion under my buttocks, my legs raised and brutally shove a dildo into my mouth. Surprised, I nearly choke. You're enjoying this and you tell me so - happily! - on familiar terms.
With my head stuck, dare I say nailed, I can't get away from you; you play with it, increasing the pressure in my mouth, pinching my nose to prevent me from breathing, letting go and starting again.


You order me to look you in the eye, and I try, but it takes a lot of effort to stay focused. Tossed, shaken and tossed about by your kidney blows and your abuse, I feel as if I've lost my grip on everything, that I've lost all control. What little willpower I had left seems to have vanished.


As I emerge from the shower, the tea you offer me struggles to bring me back to my senses. I'm having trouble even holding a conversation with you, so many images of what I've just been through are coming back and telescoping. There's a battle going on in my mind: my social self, stunned by sanctimonious injunctions, is rebelling against what my deeper self, eager for new adventures, has put it through. Unsurprisingly, it's the latter that gets the upper hand.

Testimony of J.