Testing the waters

So, there is a couple of different notions of waters that I’m going to write about in this post. First, water as a fetish, then waterbondage and what comes with that. Lastly,  watersports, or piss-play.

It is an odd thing, discovering a new fetish. I started this journey about two years ago, a journey into pervery, and all of this is of course a continuous exploration. Of those things that has been most remarkable has been the fact that I started to do needles, which, for anyone who knows me and knows about my knifephobia, is a huge step. Another step, not as big, but certainly interesting, was how I a couple of months ago realised that I have a fetish for water, a fetish that I have previously not pronounced as one. But here it goes: I’m a aquaphiliac/hydrophiliac. How did I come to that conclusion then? Well, I actually needed to see it in print in order to connect the dots from the past, the present and the future. A little book that described different types of fetishes, and one of them was having a fetish for water, in what ever shape or form that fetish might be experienced. For me, it is mostly about sensation. There is something in water that makes me feel alive, that makes me feel strong. The slickness of skin, turning into an element of nature, in some ways transcending a notion of flesh. Flesh that sometimes does not seem to be enough becomes perfect or bettered in water, and it becomes something that I can more easily relate to. Through moving in water, I feel myself more. That is of course something that almost all of my sexual practices bring with them, but extra clear when water is involved.

I’ve always felt good in water, swimming, taking a shower, standing in the rain (had numerous colds due to my love to stand in rain getting soaked, especially in the spring and during the summer), my head being held down under water, someone forcing me to shower in cold water, being led to believe that I am drowning. Water-boarding or getting showered by a cold stream. A cock in me, while head being held under the surface, feeling him fucking me and not caring about me shaking. And fingers clinching my nose shut, my body held by a tight rope harness, dipped and seeing him through the surface. Or being threatened, hanging close, close to the surface. Beneath or below the surface, expectation, fear and focus.

Emma Alexa snorkelling by Richard Knightly

First of all, the sensation of water, the touch of water is very erotic. The slick, flowing part makes my skin breathe in a different manner, much like the feeling of latex. I think there is a correlation there. If you ever had showered or taken a swim in latex, you know what I am talking about, and if you can but have not yet done it, do.
So this is more than BDSM, it is sensation. It is a fetish and it is a practice. And do you know what?  I miss my fetishes. At the moment I’m dealing with a body that does not feel like mine, and because of that, certain fetishes that has the nature of being associated with touch, latex is now very far away from me.
But that is another post. But anyhow, I’m missing my fetish. And curse the day that there became a divide in the BDSM and fetish world. Because I want all the crackers. Greedy fucking girl. I tortured the VISA card the other week, and looking forward to all the slick items that will drop in to my postbox.

But it was water I was talking about. My body becomes a possibility, a movement and is soaked. Like when he grabs my body and force my face into the stream of water coming from the shower head. Says nothing, just holding me there, grasping for air. I cannot distinguish the details of his face because of the stream of water, but I can feel his eyes all over my body,watching my reactions.

And in water I become a tease. Before play and when we are just suppose to shower I’m rubbing myself against more things than soap.  It is one of the few occasions when I can seduce and feel seductive. The water streaming over my body makes me powerful, even when it makes me grasp for air.

Then there is the piss. The watersports  and this is something that has to do with humiliation. As it is one of my partners main-fetishes I did not write it off immediately, although I must say I never thought about it until he spoke of it.  No harm can be done trying yes? 🙂

Golden Shower, Model: BoyKitten, Photo by Razoir

This was hard for me, on many levels. I guess I’ve been socialized into the whole thing about bodily-fluids as waste and as ‘unclean’. There is nothing ‘unclean’ about piss really, but to make my brain understand that is another story.
I crave the feeling of being stripped of control, pushed deeply down in to something that is for someone else and with me as a mere object, a frame and/or a receptacle. This is not about fetishist pleasures, that is not the objective. It touches on different elements of sexuality, such as disgust/abject, submission, fronts and layers.

Disgust/abject, because sex and piss are so far away from each other, at least where I come from. As many others, I grew up learning all about staying clean, not making a mess, about the body as a limit of what is appropriate or not. The physical body (especially female) is one of constant improvement, a degradation of all that is seen as ‘not feminine’ enough, a special hiding-place created for the bodily excretions, such as urine, feces, spit, menstrual blood, snot and pus. Which can seem a bit odd, because women are still also so often seen as the body she inhabits and nothing more. But the tampon has to be hidden, there is only joint pissing if one has to go somewhere where there is no other alternative.
And I’m kind of riding on top of all this. While often being accused of not being especially feminine (when did I even say I was!?) and not really that bothered by periods (especially after the arrival of the MoonCup, everyone should have one!) for a number of reasons, I still find pissplay hard.

Submission is hard. It is not easy, even when one could pretend it is. It is about merging and meeting desires on terms and conditions that sometimes can be ever so changing. I could say that communication is everything, but when everything has been communicated then? What is there left? When engaging in piss-play I want to trust, and I do. But my brain keep on giving me smart, little comments, worrying about things I should not, because he will take of it. He knows and does it, always. So how can I get in to a frame of mind? Is this because I feel like I loose something when it happens? Is this about the fronts and the layers?

Fronts and layers…yes.  When sitting squatting, fully dressed, being told to piss, it goes against something strong in me, something that makes me not even want to be in the same room as someone else while they are taking a piss otherwise. I want to be squeaky clean in a way, I like order. I like concepts that are tangible within that framework. In a messy room, my thinking patterns becomes fucked up, in clothes that are not what I usually would pick I feel trapped. As a creature of habit and control, I yearn to be picked in to pieces and maybe even put back again. That is where the layers come in. How many layers can one reach? Doll once spoke of people as being onions, multi layered and always changing. But when does one start to cry as the onion is dismantled? Strangely enough, I can often brush off the humiliating feeling, I am so focused on that I know that I might get clean. It is easier to rip a front than to strip layer after layer.

All of this makes me sound like I don’t like watersports. And while there is a certain truth about that I don’t fetishize the piss nor the tactility  associated with it, I yearn to be dismantled in that way that I think I can see how piss would. And that is something I never thought I would say.
And the deeper he goes, the deeper I want him to push me And in the end, I might cry. Out of relief, happiness and the feeling of safety.

The Basement Body

The bus is moving and I want to moan out loud. His smile is barely visible but he know as well as I do that it takes a certain amount of self-discipline to not yell out loud. Under my coat small wires lead down in my panties, thin wires attached to small sticky notes of paper. It may seem completely innocent, but it is everything but innocent. He sits next to me, stroking my hair with one of his hands, the other he keeps in his pocket. The double-decker keeps on moving like only double-deckers in London move, with harsh jumps forward and twitchy stops. Like a small animal that is not sure of weather to move forward or to stay in the same spot. I know what the little device in his pocket looks like, imagine a electronical key for a car. But the reason why it rests perfectly between his fingers is not because that he is a proud owner of a Volvo or a Toyota, it is because of the electric impulses it controls. Small, battery-driven electrical impulses shoot out from the little black box attached to the belt of my trousers, hidden under my leatherjacket.  The goal for these impulses is my cunt. Or rather the lips of my cunt, close, close to my clit. A deep, tickling massage that by time intensifies. I try to concentrate on looking at London but the view is pretty uninteresting. And I don’t want to meet his eyes. His eyes that undress me in his mind.

What are you thinking about?

How come you make me want to much. And I think about how it is weird that it is still so bright outside, the sun is still shining although it is seven o’clock.

It’ll the nice going to Club Fukk. Cool and nice. Don’t forget to take care of my stuff in the wardrobe. I’ll take care of the rest.

Understood

He laughs, scratches me in the neck and place a light kiss on my cheek. He is dressed in black, well cut trousers, a white shirt and a jacket. The tie is in the bag, the big black bag.
We are headed towards a club were the heat comes from bodies that press against eachother, not from the sun. We know that everything we might need can be found there, close friends, fuck buddies, the possibility of voyeurism and exhibitionism. Condoms, latexgloves and lube. But we want more. I want more. I want to feel hands pressing against my skin and I want adrenaline. That is where the big, heavy, black bag comes in to the picture. The content of this bag is one that only he knows about. That is how we do it. That is how we always do it.

This is our stop
I’m wearing what I was asked to wear. A simple, white tanktop, a sportsbra and military-green cargo pants. A leatherjacket and sunglasses together with my darkbrown hair in a braid, a leatherbracelet. I like walking through the neighborhood with him, passing a thai-restaurant but I am hungry for something else. He presses down the button on the little device in his pocket, and as we pass alleyway after alleyway I silently moan and ask him to either Stop or fuck me here and now among the rubbish.

Not yet. Get a grip of yourself.
There is a chilling tone in his voice that I am not prepared for. It showers me with a cold feeling, silences me trying to get attention and then we arrive to the club, not a minute too late.
As we walk through the door a welcoming and familiar voice greets us. The warm hugs happen all while still having the electrics pounding the lips of my cunt.
I take care of all the items that are going in to the cloak room.  I can hear their voices while doing this, and fragments of their discussion makes me curious.
…just wanted to tell you, so there is no uncomfortable misunderstandings.

That is very appreciated, but there should really be no problems.

Have fun!
As he walks over to me, I can’t help but ask.
What was that about?

This

In the same split second I’m pushed against the uneven stonewall, arms locked behind my back. A cloth is pulled over my head, an in that moment I am the willing victim, trapped, the one who want to run away but still stay. I’m pushed ahead of him, against a wall that proves to be a door, stumbling along. My memory tells me that we are inside the club now, going in the direction of the dancefloor. The world looks different from under the cloth with nothing to orientate myself with. Automatically I stop to try to figure out my position, but he continues pushing me ahead, pushing me away from the dancefloor and then one more wall against my cheek. Uneven, cold and slightly sticky. His fingers slowly move inside me while he whispers to me that I should only speak if asked. And he will ask me only about the last 24 hours. And I will tell him everything.

So, it started to happen, the dangerous, all of those things we have talked so much about. And I know that I only have to express the words
‘I’ve only slept and nothing else’  and it will all stop. But I want to go there, become challenged, used, scared, cum hard and long. And I want to use lust with him. All that he can give, all that he want to give.

You can’t go anywhere. You can’t anything else but what I tell you and right now I want you to tell me everything. There is no other way to make this stop.

First I don’t believe him. Test him. His grip around my wrists relaxes slightly when we move through the club and I give it a try. Or my legs try to run, but the cloth over my head and my arms and hands behind my back makes it harder than I thought.
Two seconds later and then I can feel his body again, gripping and pushing me down on the floor.

Was that you trying to escape? Was that really you trying to escape from all this? You probably have to try harder than that. Have you not realized you are mine? That you are mine and you are going to tell me everything. If your vocabulary feels restriced I got things here that can help you. I got water, a knife, electricity, a gun and of course my hands. Amongst many other things. Tell me all about every step you took, all your slutty thoughts, everyone you spoke to, what you said, how often you touched yourself. If you do good I might even reward you, but if you keep information from me I have no other choice than to use those resources that I got at hand. And I might already have to use some of those in other to make you realize that I am serious

And then I can feel the cold metal. It starts with metallcuffs around my ankles, then my wrists. And then the chains, heavy and icing cold, pulled between the cuffs, force me into a sitting fetus-position, making my back ache. He keeps me there, can feel his eyes crawling over my body.
He lies me down on the side, the concrete floor feels sticky and the grovel press in to my skin, almost in search of where it hurts the most.

You don’t think I’m serious do you? That I can’t beat you until you are a wet heap of blood and then leave you here? Or is it water that you want? Something to drink, something that will help you loose that tongue and start to speak.
And that is something I really want. Water. To get the cloth off my head and get away the dry sensation and to be able to breathe. I nod and start to try to lift my head but instead I feel water running down my face, slowly drenching the cloth that start to try to find its way into my nose and mouth. I try to move, change how the cloth falls over my face but then he firmly press my head down. And then, I just try to adapt, to control my breathing trough the wet fabric and my whole body aches, and my cunt is pulsating and I feel the beat of my heart, not trying to give anything away.

In my own world, I hardly notice when he first grips me, and then push me over on to my back. The wet concrete floor is cold and again his boot is pressing against me, against my chest and then his hands around my throat.
I can strangle you right here and now. But you are not saying anything. Is that because you are stupid and don’t realize that you can get away from all of this?

The wet clothes are sticky against my skin and the small stones dig their way deep into my shoulderblades.  The chains are still there, but not as tight. I can move now but know what happened last time I tried to move.
His boot is removed from my chest and the cloth is pulled off from my face. A torch light up in my face, making me blind, disorientates and distorts all shadows. A faceslap and I have to breathe to be able to remain in a upright position.
These are in the way. You wear your clothes like armour. Sit still, don’t move a millimeter.
I hear a click and a cold blade. A knife opens the tank top, cutting it slowly while the torch still lights up my face, blinding.  He rips the top off, then cut my sports-bra,  grabbing each breast and clamp them, clamps that are connected with the little evil black box, I know because the my breasts start to pulsate.
Faceslaps and now my eyes are watering, tears streaming down my red, sore cheeks. But I don’t say anything. When he starts to hit my back with the palm of his hands I can also somewhere in those hits feel gentler strokes. Maybe it’s my imagination or maybe he actually strokes me. It is a fact that confuses me even more, and the hot flashes from his beating hands travels over my back in the speed of light.  But the rush that follows make me strong, convinced of how strong I can be in my helplessness. I can only give him what I want to give, and I feed on what he wants to give me.
Time pass, time that is relative. The intensity of the electricity is boosted, but I can’t pay attention to that when he continues to beat me. Instead I scream, first time out loud and guttural. I yell something about that I want him to stop, but he does not stop. Instead he lies me down, on the ground, I can feel his sweat, locate exactly where his body is for the first time; I can  feel him and his heartbeats next to me.
You will be free as son as you tell me what I want to hear. You remember it all and you know what I want to hear, is that not true, yes? Answer me.
My head nods, but I don’t say anything. I say nothing.
That was what I thought

He pulls me up on the knees. Heavy arms weighed down by chains. My head drop and I am as heavy in my body as I am light.  A body heavy as a thousand tons but yet a body light as a feather. He grips my plaited hair, turn my face towards him and give my forehead a brief, light kiss. And in that moment I come.

Heavy as a thousand tons but still a body light as a feather.

I say nothing, shakes, but not because I’m cold but because of the adrenaline. I have said nothing.