Bug

"Can you make me into a bug?" I asked.

I had come across a photograph of a gal lying back on a bench with her thighs hoisted back alongside her torso, tied tight with straps to the edge of the bench. Her arms were then strapped alongside her calves, her feet and hands palmed together and her jaw pulled upward and tight to the top of the bench. Immovable. A fine representation, intended or not, of an insect you might stumble across on the sidewalk that was no longer among the living.

Part of my fascination and pleasure I find with bondage is the restriction - the physical restriction has an immediate consequence of a near complete mental release, a quieting of my mind I have rarely replicated elsewhere. Having had a number of rough personal experiences shortly before this play session, that "bug" tie interested me like no other at the time.

I was denied. Not on the tie itself, but on being made into a bug. I was in fact ordered not to come bearing a hardened shell that would impede my emotional release, no protection against the physical and mental vulnerability I desired. You can't NOT appreciate that sort of care.

That was a wonderful tie - I loved it the first time and still do. But I still think of it as the "Bug".

It appears I still have some work to do . . .