Belonging to you

Lying on my back, almost in the fetal position, in the middle of your boudoir, feet, hands and head trapped in a straitjacket, I listen to you talk about real estate and auctions. From time to time, as if nothing had happened, you nonchalantly run a roller over my thighs or my sex. Despite the pain, I feel good. Very good, in fact, as seeing you laugh at my pain excites my libido.

The session ended several minutes ago, but you decided to extend it to try out a new accessory (the straitjacket) and take this opportunity to gently torture me.
For a moment, I imagine myself in your place, in front of the picture of this man you hardly know. Perfectly immobilized, in a frankly humiliating position, genitals offered and anus spread wide. You don't seem at all embarrassed, just as if we were having a drink and discussing the weather. I play along and answer as best I can. From time to time, I even try a bit of humor that brings a smile to your face.
You tell me you want to take me back. When I hesitate, you give up. A few minutes earlier, you had given me an orgasm of unprecedented intensity, closely followed by a totally unexpected anal orgasm. This was a first for me, and a colorful discovery of new sensations: a sensory firework that suddenly set my whole body ablaze and electrified me.
These two orgasms I experienced lying on my back, my hands tied to my feet, my feet hanging from chains, the chains fixed to the ceiling.
You face me, between my legs, and sodomize me, alternating powerful, uncompromising lumbar thrusts with soft, voluptuous embraces. You try out different sizes of dildo. The biggest is too big, the smallest too small, an intermediate size seems to do the trick. At least, I think so, because in my position, I can't see much, I can only feel. Feel the pleasure of being fucked, of being your submissive, of being used as a sex object. Belonging to you. To have no power of decision, not even the desire: to be what you want me to be.
Each stroke of your loins is punctuated by the clanking of the chains that extend my body in tune with the tempo of the music coming from the next room: a sensual orchestra of sounds, images and sensations. At times, you brutally accelerate the rhythm, and I moan, screaming in pain or pleasure, I don't know. At other times, you slow down, whisper a few words in my ear and then speed up again. Finally, you remove the chastity cage.
You placed this cage on my sex just a few minutes before, taking care not to pinch my skin.
My sex doesn't seem to agree. It struggles, rebels, tenses up, seeks an erection by any means necessary. You help it along, encouraging it with your vibrator, but nothing helps: the metal of the cage is too solid. I'm frustrated, but that was your goal. You confirm this with a gently sadistic smile.
Sitting on my face, those are indeed clamps you're now hooking to the skin of my testicles. I can't see, but I can feel. And above all, I remember. I remember that what hurts is not the insertion but the removal, that the pain is yet to come and that I'm on probation. The pain is sharp and precise, almost surgical, but disappears as quickly as it appeared: I have the feeling that a needle has just pierced the skin of my testicle.
Before I suffered these torments, I was facing you, on my knees, my hands clasped behind my back. You, sitting comfortably upright on a chair, pinching my nipples and pulling my hair; shoving your hand down my throat or plunging my head into your breasts. I'm tossed about, shaken, but just having my hands hooked behind my back excites me terribly. Images whirl around in my head, I project myself, imagine everything that's going to happen to me, but you bring me back to reality with a slap, almost a caress.
Caught off guard, I let out a cry of surprise, which seems to surprise you too. You're a watered sprinkler!
There's this question you're asking me that I don't know the answer to. A rule of the game that you explained to me last year, I have no recollection of. And it doesn't suit you at all, you demand that I answer it correctly. It's the start of the session, but my mind is already foggy, I can't think: I rack my brains, stammer, try to remember but it doesn't come. So I try to bluff my way through by rephrasing an answer I'd already given. Obviously, you don't know what you're being told, so you immediately recognize the scam. I'm afraid I'm going to incur your wrath, but in the end you don't take too much offence. I'm almost disappointed.
I see myself on the subway platform half an hour earlier. I look at the clock feverishly, afraid of being late. To pass the time, I try to skim a few pages of my book without success. It's been a year since I've seen you, and I'm anxious and impatient, nervous and excited. Will I make it through the session? Will I live up to your expectations? Will I enjoy myself?
I tell myself that there's an element of risk in realizing fantasies, in moving from the ideal to the real: the risk of being disappointed, of finding that the physical sensation is too far removed from the imagined one. But I know now, thanks to the two sessions I've already had with you, that the key to a session is trust: trust in me, of course, but above all trust in you, who are guiding me through this exploration with such finesse, intelligence and elegance.
I'm eager to find out what you have in store for me, and happy to be spending time with you again.
Testimony of J.