Trekkie
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Joined: 5/23/2009
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Note for people who need them: This story deals with breath control. (Duh.) Breath control is really, really, dangerous. In constructing the story, I did everything I could to make things as "safe" as possible, because I want the story to be believable. This does not, in any way, mean that recreating these events will be safe.
Things were starting to get . . interesting
“The dance” had started out rather traditionally. Nothing wrong with tradition. And besides, every session has to start out somehow. But my feeling, 15 minutes into my first session with this new domme, was that this one was going to be different, maybe more along the lines I was looking for. (Although, I've had these feelings before, too. I'm always optimistic.)
But the little things were there. She'd got me in the middle of the room, in a standing spread-eagle. A traditional enough position, but the wrist cuffs were tightly applied. (Which I always preferred. Most dommes put them on looser, which means that if I pulled against them, they slid onto my hands and thumb, which in turn forced me to avoid struggling against them (thus depriving my of something I wanted: The struggle.) Most dommes, I spent a great deal of the session wishing the restraints were tighter.)
But not this one. This domme had fastened the restraints tightly, the way I preferred them. And they were stretched fully towards the ceiling, too. (Which is hard to do, with me. Because of my height, she'd had to attach my wrist restraints while the suspension bar was around my shoulder height, then use the power winch to hoist them.) (I'd been somewhat disappointed. Once again, I'm in a session where I'm fantasizing about a domme who forces me to do things, but what I'm really doing is almost helping them get me into position.)
I wasn't suspended, but it was close. Already, this was one of the few times in my too-brief history of sessioning in which I felt that I could struggle all I wanted, and not worry about either accidentally escaping or injuring myself. So, maybe the fact that I had to consent to being put into this position, doesn't mean it's not a good position to be in. I approved of her taste in tightness.
I reflected once again about the delicious conflict in which more or tighter restraints actually gave me more freedom.
She'd applied a ring gag. I'd never much worn one, before, although they'd always been something I'd had a “thing” for. A “gag” that didn't really make things quieter. (Made them louder, in fact.) Something that I'd always associated with female subs, even though it's not feminine at all. Lots of conflicting feelings associated with that particular piece of gear.
(Fortunately, I like having conflicting emotions.)
Then she'd applied a gas mask over the ring gag.
Again, conflicting feelings. I, myself, don't really associate a gas mask with a ring gag. They “clash”, somehow, to me, even though with the mask on, the ring gag doesn't show. It's not really a fetish I'm into, although I did, as usual, make a point of telling the domme that “she has the authority to do things I don't like”. Not really a dislike, for me, either. Just something I'm more neutral on.
While the gasmask, itself, didn't really “do much” for me, applying it was really fun. The feelings of her pulling and tugging all of the rubber and straps and hoses all over my face, while my hands struggled, way up above me, whether to fight it or to help her get it on straighter I'm never certain. The clinical way in which she really didn't need help or cooperation, or even speech from me.
The gasmask had affected my vision, both because of the plastic lenses and because she'd had to remove my glasses before applying it. I'm not blind without them. I could see her when she walked in front of me. But I couldn't really, for example, see facial expressions any more. I tell myself to think of it as a kind of partial blindfold. (But I'm still kind of disappointed.)
But now that it's on, it's kind of anticlimactic for me. I've read of folks describing “the heady smell of rubber”, and all of that stuff. But just like the other times I've played with the things, not only doesn't it do much for me, but I frankly don't even notice the smell much. I wish she'd used one of my leather hoods, instead. They're both tighter and, in my opinion, better looking.
I remind myself about how silly it is for me to be getting disappointed because “I'm being tortured and they're not doing it the exact way I want them to”
I start to fantasize about the kinds of things she can to to me to “relieve my boredom”. As often, my thoughts go to thinking about clamps and weights on my nipples and other places.
She seems to be having similar thoughts. She's not reaching right away for more gear. She's simply walking around, looking at me, kind of thoughtful. (At least, that's what I think she's thinking.)
She seems to come to some kind of decision. She nods, walks towards me.
She covers up my air tube.
I'd known it was coming. All of the work applying the gasmask, adjusting it, attaching hoses, getting the hoses placed where she wanted. There's only one possible reason for her to go through all of that work, and that's so she can cover it up. Everybody in the room (meaning, myself and her) had known this moment was coming for ten minutes.
Of course, she still caught me without a lung full of air, anyway. Just because I'd known she was going to do it didn't magically give me the ability to inhale for the last 10 minutes, and hold a half hour's worth of air in my lungs. But that didn't stop me from chewing myself out, anyway: “Dummy. You knew this was coming. Why weren't you ready?”
Everything froze for a while. She looked into my eyes (“Gaze into my eyes”, Count Dracula said) and waited. As is usual for me, my first reaction to things like this is to attempt to suppress any reaction, so I just stood there, motionless, not even attempting to breathe, looking back at her.
After a while, she still hadn't removed her hand. I started to wonder what she was waiting for. “Dummy” I told myself. “She's waiting for you to try to breathe. We both know it won't work, but she wants you to try, anyway.”
So I start trying to breathe. Whadda ya know? It doesn't work. We both knew it wasn't going to work, but she wanted to feel it, so it's OK with me. I try real hard to inhale, just to impress her with the power that we both knew she had, anyway.
She doesn't let go.
OK, so she wants a show. I try to breathe harder. I toss my head. Try to rattle my chains. (They don't rattle. No slack. But I move them around a little, anyway.)
After a while, I'm really struggling. I'm mad at myself. “Dummy. All you're doing is using up the Oxygen in your blood. Where's your self control? Can't you even control your own body?” But no, I can't control it. I'm thrashing uncontrollably. Even making some vocal noises. Swinging a bit in the chains.
When I come to, the gas mask is gone. I'm still dangling from the chains, still wearing the ring gag. But I'm breathing. She's standing in front of me, the look of concern starting to fade a bit.
“Catch your breath for a while. Get things back to normal. Relax a bit. That part's over.”
“Relax. I'll talk to you for a bit, while you recover.”
She brings over a chair. Puts it behind me. Then lowers the suspension bar, allowing me to sit. She continues to lower the bar, until it's slightly above my head. My wrists are still chained to it, but now I'm sitting, and the only weight on my wrists is the weight of my bent arms. I begin moving my fingers, letting the circulation return to my hands. (They'd gone numb, because, obviously, when I'd been unconscious, they'd been supporting my weight.)
I'm still wearing the ring gag. (Still breathing heavily.) My wrists are chained to a suspension bar. (Although it's been lowered.) My ankles are still spread. But basically, I'm sitting in a chair, catching my breath.
She pulls up a chair for herself, facing me.
“I see a lot of men in this job. They all tell me they same thing.”
I think of Lilly von Schtup, from Blazing Saddles. “I've been with thousands of men, again and again. They sing the same tune.”
“They say that they don't want to be in control. Just like you did.”
“But when they come in here, they utterly refuse to actually give up that control”
“They all come in here with these ideas. They think that, because they're the customer, that I'll do whatever they tell me. Or they tell me that what they really want is for me to 'make' them do something that they actually wanted to do in the first place.”
“They think that it's a game. That they're play acting. That if they gave me an order, I'd do it. That if they really wanted to, they'd just escape those restraints. That they could seduce me or pay me or threaten me or use their superior strength and they'd be in charge.”
“I had clients who had been seeing me every few weeks, for years. And they still never actually admitted, to themselves, that I was in control. Deep down, they always told themselves that they were just going along with acting like I was in control.”
“They'd come in here every few weeks, and say that they were giving up control. And yet, inside themselves, they steadfastly believed that with each visit, that they were extending their control over me.”
“And part of me was actually acting that way, too. I was, on some level, allowing that control, too.”
“Which, in turn, was killing the relationship. After a while, the routines would get stale. I'd find myself doing whatever we did last time, that they liked. And after a while of that, they'd get tired, and leave.”
“It took me a while, but I've come to the conclusion that people are just incapable of voluntarily giving up control. I don't think it can be done. They can't surrender. They have to be conquered, so to speak.”
“Which brings us to what just happened. I have to tell you that what I just did really isn't what I'm 'into'. I know it's dangerous. I've done it more than a dozen times without any damage. But I'm well aware that 'I've done it a dozen times and nobody's died' isn't the same thing as 'safe'. And it's really not what I most enjoy, either. Feels too much like torture, to me, and while I know that lots of kinky people like to use that word, I'm also aware that they're not into the reality.”
“However, we also both know, deep down in our guts, that a few minutes ago, you were trying to escape with all of your strength. Your weren't acting. Heck, you weren't even thinking. You were acting on an instinctive level, responding to a completely real threat to your very life. There is nothing that you or I can do that will ever cause you to exert more strength than what you just did. What you just did was the maximum exertion of strength that you are physically capable of.”
“And we both know that it failed. Because of what I just did, now we both know, beyond any argument or doubt, that no, you can't just exert your manly manliness or pull out a can of spinach or something and overpower me or the restraints. Now you know.”
“The bad news is “ (I instantly become more worried) “that's not the only lesson that needs to be learned..” (I begin to devote more attention to pulling on the wrist restraints.)
“I've now explained, through the only means possible that you can't use strength to 'take back' the control that you pretended to surrender. If you really want to not be in control, then you also need to know, deep down, that you can't use your wits to escape, either.”
“You have a choice. I'll describe your options, so that you can be fully aware of the decision you're making. Please think about the choices.”
“If you've decided that you really don't want to give up control, if what you really want is to find a domme who'll play pretend with you, , if you've changed your mind, then you can let me know. Use your safeword, and I'll release you, and we'll both decide that you really didn't want what you said you wanted, when you contacted me. Nobody's fault. It's not even a mis-communication. I'll assume that you honestly believed it when you said you didn't want control, but that the reality wasn't what you imagined.”
“Or, if you really want what you said you wanted: to not be in control, then there's a second step we need to go through. If you agree, then we're going to have one more period of 'no safeword'. Once you agree, then you don't have a choice but to see things through to the end. So I want you to know what the plan is going to be.”
“If you agree, then I'm going to hoist you back up into that standing position you were in.”
“And I'm going to leave you alone. For half an hour, (maybe more if I'm enjoying myself), you will be free to attempt to escape. I may leave the room and leave you alone. I may watch. (I enjoy watching.) I may come in and apply some torment or other to you. I'll say it's “to give you motivation to escape”, but really it will be for my amusement.”
“Use any method you want. Struggle. Strength. Anything. Heck, try talking me out of it, if you want. I could really enjoy listening to you beg. I might even remove the gag.”
“But you will try to escape. Because I'm going to give you the best motivation I can give you.”
“After I've decided that you've had long enough. . . When I decide that it's really sunk in, subconsciously, that no, you're never going to get loose unless I let you. . . When you've learned, deep down, that if I were to drop dead of a heart attack right now, that you'd die, days later, still standing in that same position . . .
“Then, I'm going to put that gasmask on you, and cut off your air. Again.”
“I'll let you think about if for a few minutes. It's a big decision. You can walk out, and keep seeing other dommes like the ones you've been disappointed with in the past. The ones where you'll pretend they're in charge.”
“Or you can spend the next half hour, struggling against restraints that you've already determined you can't break. Struggling to escape from a threat that's only a short time away. A threat that you've already experienced once. In the clutches of someone who's actually enjoying your helpless struggles and your discomfort and your real fear. Struggling while knowing that the only way to avoid the impending threat is for you to escape from the restraints that you already know you can't break.”
“And, if you go through this ordeal, then, when you wake up again, still helpless, then your real session of helplessness, of being a plaything for someone else's amusement, will start.”
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Breath. Control. - 
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