#Pervember 2: Bondage

Ahhhh, my favourite thing. There aren’t enough words in any language to express how much I love…want….need bondage in my life.

I was into bondage before I even knew what sex or arousal were. At the tender age of 5 I was the contemplator of lurid kidnap fantasies. Before I got into double age-digits, I saw the movie ‘Teenwolf’ and felt my first ever surge of sexual arousal at the scene where the girls are tied up on the floor, wriggling in jelly. From that point onwards, I couldn’t see a pair of cuffs without wanting them on me. The aesthetics of restraint appeal to me as much as the physicality – I love looking at shibari art. I love watching bondage porn, and I consider the St Andrews across to be the pinnacle of my shopping wish-list.

What is it about bondage that rings my bells? I could talk about the sensation of enclosure, the cold bite of metal cuffs and chain, the rasp of rope, the tight tug of tape – yes, I adore all of these but not simply for their own sake. They cannot explain on their own, the way that seeing bondage called to me long before I ever experienced these with my own skin and muscle and nerve endings.

It must be something more.

Something that awoke the submissive in me years before I learned the word. Something that brings its own joy, even outside the arena of sexual congress. I can’t put a name to it but it’s always been there inside me, holding out its wrists, yearning to be harnessed.

My fantasies always involve restraints of some form or other – whether rope, spreader bars, hands holding me still, chains, cuffs….no self-pleasure session feels complete without an element of bondage in my minds eye.

In partnered sex, I need for there to be some element of bondage; it’s inextricably woven into my submissive sexuality. It could be an instruction – keep still – or a whispered description of what could be done to me; it could be hands gripping my wrists or my hair grasped in fists, or a belt looped around my neck, ankles, elbows, or…..you get the idea, I think.

Bondage – in speculation or in application – makes me wetter more quickly and pleasurably than stroking my clit ever has.

But here’s a catch, you see. If my partner doesn’t enjoy restraining me as much as I enjoy submitting, then it’s not fun any more. That last thing I want is to feel humoured, catered to, endured. That brings to the surface all my teenage fears of this is not normal, this is perverted, this is something I should be ashamed of, I’m bad and disgusting and ridiculous which in the intervening years I have mostly managed to bury under comforting layers of knowledge, common sense and self-discovery. Those demons still lurk and are only held at bay with acceptance and enthusiastic participation. I want my partner to want to control me as much as I want to be controlled. In this enlightened community where consent, negotiation, openness and acceptance; I’ve finally found my happy place.

Tied spread-eagled and naked to a bed.

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