Prelude, on stage and after

Prelude.

I don't know how many times I've reread the answers I gave to the questionnaire. At least as many as the message indicating the available slots and the one detailing the rules inside the Justice Room.

I've never felt comfortable with the expression "I'm very excited", but this time I may have started to see where it makes sense. When the appointment was fixed and I opened the confirmation e-mail, I felt really excited. Incredibly happy to have got the appointment, I almost jumped for joy, literally. And I remember smiling at my phone. Is that the right translation?

There was still the wait. 

And so, looking forward to it, I reread my answers, regretting not having been perhaps more expansive or more precise. I reread from bottom to top, top to bottom, focusing, coming back to the beginning. 

And then your e-mails, detailed in every sense too; staring at them, almost hypnotized, as if hoping to uncover some hidden word that I wouldn't have seen right away, as if I wanted to learn them, like poems... 

Anyway, I couldn't wait. 

On stage.

I was there. I could savor every moment of this delicious moment between us. This private, ultra-intimate interlude, where we could be another self with another soul. Without shame. I was there. 

I don't know what I like most about swifts or whips: their sound, what they represent, or the idea that they are instruments, requiring technique, learning and mastery. They are nothing without the person at the other end of the spectrum. And artists often reveal themselves through their instruments. 

I could enjoy the hum and ozone smell of the wand and its prickles on the tips of my breasts. Hear the clank of chains as the body reacts. Indulge in the comforting softness of caresses. Explore the surface of the gag with my tongue. Endure the heat of the swifts' impacts, imagining their choreography. Try to recognize the sensation and thump of a cane or riding crop on the buttocks. To welcome the thumb and forefinger that awaken my nipples before the clamps. To be supported by the tension of the straps that hold my arms, body and thighs flat against the cross. Open myself up to the finger or object that intrudes on my intimacy. 

I felt alive, understood, safe. Curious and greedy too.

And then...

Here too, it happens mainly in the brain. 

Soothing, certainly. Regained energy too. And those delicious scars. The fleeting impression that an electric patch is on the glans, that the anus is titillated. Neurons respond to each other. It's chemical and electric. 

Yes, I have been read, listened to and understood by someone who knows what to do with what is entrusted to him and adapts. 

It happens in the body too. 

And the 1,000 little aches and pains on your bottom? Those are quite physical. The desire to feel them again. Curiosity as to whether that little blue mark on your buttocks would fade in the evening, in two days, three? Or more? Yes, more, it's still there. 

Everything physical fades away, leaving traces in the brain. The sounds, the sensations, the desire to feel again. 

This desire to be completely immobilized again, squeezed, to be at your mercy again. 

That deep look, a whispered word close by, barely heard, and then something obscures the view and ...