The Mantis, part 2
I'm not sure why I hesitated to do a full-on SM scene the first time around with The Mantis, even though he clearly wanted to. Maybe partly because it takes effort to be the Cruel Mistress. It's fun to be in charge, but it also means I have to think of everything, plan every move and stay in character. It's easier to just go with the flow--with vanilla sex you don't really have to think. There's also an element of the ridiculous to playing the Mistress. I only feel comfortable doing it when I know the other person, at least a little. I can strut and posture all I like, but if the guy looks bored or laughs, it's all over. Being the domme is not like flipping a switch.
People I meet at the Sub Rosa Society, including Marty, keep telling me that I don't "seem like a domme" whatever that means. I suppose it means I don't dress in leather or crack the whip with everyone I meet. But at work I keep getting told I'm too bossy and overbearing. So which is it? I hate constantly being told that I don't fit some cartoon stereotype of a dominatrix. Only a psychopath would behave like that 24/7 and with random strangers. It makes me feel like I have to prove that I really can be a domme, and the truth is, I think that so far I haven't been very good at it. I keep reverting back to vanilla sex because it's easier.
Well, no more. If I'm really going to do this with The Mantis, I have to do it right. This is my chance to play the dominatrix for real. Also I have to maintain some emotional distance. We're not going on dates, and he's not my boyfriend. I don't intend to waste time pining over him and wishing he were my boyfriend, like I did with K. We're going to have fun and that's that.
It's not long before The Mantis pays another visit to my roll-in dungeon, and this time I'm ready for him.
"Hey," he says as the door shuts behind him.
"Hello Mistress!" I bark at him, snapping my riding crop against my thigh.
His eyes light up. "Hello Mistress! Forgive my rudeness."
"No! Kneel down and kiss my feet!" I'm wearing a flouncy little black and pink floral dress and bare feet. He glances at me, then prepares himself with a little sigh. He takes his feet off the footrest, one at a time, placing them on the floor in front of him, then scoots his butt forward in the chair. Leaning over, he puts one long arm on the floor, then slowly lowers himself down. With his butt on the floor, he leans awkwardly over and kisses my bare foot, then glances up over the top of his wire-rim glasses to check my reaction. His cute, eager-to-please look encourages me to stay in character.
"Did I tell you to stop? More!" I order. He complies, but after a few minutes of dutifully kissing, he tries to caress my leg with one hand snaking up towards my butt.
I smack his shoulder playfully with the crop. "How dare you!"
He ducks his head. "Forgive me, Mistress."
"No! I see you need to be restrained." I pull out a shiny length of the white nylon rope that I recently purchased with Lulu at the gay hardware store. At last I get to practice my rope tying skills for real. Like I learned in oshibari class, I wrap his legs in neat stacked coils of rope from his ankles to his knees then tie it off at the top. He is immobilized, but the rope won't cut into his skin or come loose easily. I let him squirm around on the floor for a while as we both admire my handiwork.
"Um, Mistress?" he asks tentatively.
"I have to pee."
"Very well. But you have to let me watch." He nods. I'm not totally sure how he feels about me watching something so intimate, but what the hell. He's loving the Mistress act so far, I might as well play up the devotee aspect to my heart's content.
I remove the rope, neatly coiling it back up for storage as he transfers back into his chair. I show him to the bathroom, just off the kitchen. Once again, I'm glad I have a fully accessible apartment, with a larger than normal bathroom. He washes his hands, then positions himself in the middle of the room, just in front of the toilet. I hover beside him, staring openly. I'm loving that I can stare at him as much as I want without worrying, because he enjoys being ogled.
He reaches into the backpack slung across the back of his chair, and pulls out a catheter, lube, alcohol wipes and gauze. Then he slouches down in his chair a bit, unzips his pants and pulls out his cock. It's thin but long, even when it's soft. After a brief prep with the alcohol and lube, he slides the catheter in, staring me right in the eye as he does it.
I can't quite read his expression, but it seems to be a weirdly intense mix of embarrassment and excitement. I know humiliation turns him on, but I don't want to push him too far. I'm not sure how he feels about his ordinary daily functions being part of our SM play. He doesn't flinch under my dev stare though; he just stares back even harder, grinning the tiniest bit, like he's putting on a show for me, as the other end of the catheter drains into the toilet.
When he's finished, he removes the catheter, tosses it in the trash and washes his hands.
"Does it please you, Mistress?" he asks, his pupils huge with excitement. I guess watching him cath was not too invasive.
"Hmm, I suppose," I reply with studied indifference, not wanting to give him too much gratification yet. "Now get in the bedroom--that's an order!"
"Yes Mistress," he replies. I walk behind him and watch as he pushes across the kitchen and into the bedroom. He really has his chair set up wrong. The back is too high for a para, and the seat should be angled back a little so his butt is wedged in, helping with better posture. Instead his seat is flat and he slouches, his long torso always slightly stooped and his mantis legs sticking out to the sides. I would never have noticed his bad posture before dating Rollerboy, but now it seems so obvious. I don't say anything to him though. It's one thing to boss him around in the bedroom, quite another to tell him how to live his life.
When he reaches the bedroom, he positions his chair next to the bed, getting ready to transfer, but I order him to stop.
"Did I say you could get in my bed?"
"No Mistress. I'm sorry."
"I'll make you sorry!" It's hard not to laugh but I'm just having so much fun. This NSA arrangement is so freeing. I don't care what he thinks of me--I'm not trying to impress him. Instead I can just be completely myself, give into every urge, no matter how silly.
I slide open the drawer under my bed, which is filled with the gear I have accumulated, some high quality and some improvised. In the high quality category, I have a set of leather cuffs which buckle on and are safer and easier than police handcuffs or rope. I put one cuff on each of The Mantis' wrists and use a D-ring to clip them to the frame of his wheelchair. He pulls feebly against them, looking up at me with big eyes, letting me know he feels restrained.
"Did I say you could look at me?"
"No Mistress." He looks down at his lap in contrition.
"I can tell you still need correction." I pull out a plastic wrapped roll of stretchy gauze, one of a big collection gifted me by Patrick the Fireman. It's strong but soft, sticks to itself but can be reused indefinitely. I rip open the pack and wrap the gauze around his head, covering his eyes. I don't have a proper SM style blindfold but I prefer this anyway. It stays on better, and it's more clinical-looking.
"There, that's better," I say when I've finished bandaging his eyes and tucked in the ends.
"Thank you, Mistress."
"Did I say you could talk?"
I take out a ball gag and shove the red foam ball in his mouth then buckle the black leather strap behind his head.
When I've finished, I take a step back and look at him. With the cuffs, gauze blindfold and ball gag, it looks like a real SM scene, like you might see in porn. But how often is a wheelchair part of the scene? Not often enough, I say.
So I've got The Mantis fully restrained, cuffed to his chair, gagged and blindfolded. Now what? Fun as it is, SM is always work, especially for the top. He just sits there and takes it, but it's up to me to figure out each move, plan what to do, stay in character, and make sure he's enjoying it as much as I am. As with Rollerboy, I'm reminded of how much we rely on a guy's erection to serve as an indication of arousal. If he can't get hard, how do you know he's enjoying it?
I keep up a steady stream of dirty talk to keep tabs on how he's doing. "You like that? You like that? That's right, squirm, so pathetic..."
Fortunately, The Mantis is completely, obviously into everything I'm doing, and the more I humiliate and insult him, the more he loves it.
I lean over him and gently caress his neck, then his ears. He strains against the cuffs, trying to reach my legs with his fingers, but I bat him away.
"Not yet; you don't deserve it."
I reach down and touch his nipples, and he groans loudly through the ball gag, throwing his head back. I do it more, then lean down and run my tongue over one, then the other. I tease him more, kissing and caressing his nipples but not letting him touch or kiss or see me, until I feel like he can't stand it any longer.
I release the ball gag first and let him kiss me, deeply, hungrily. Then I release the cuffs and let him run his hands all over me, over my ass and between my legs. I order him to transfer onto the bed but make him keep the blindfold on as we roll around. I only take it off at the last moment, right before he goes down on me. I come like a freight train while he stares up at me.
Afterwards, as we're lying in bed together, he tells me a little more about himself. He grew up in a small town north of Raser City that is known as the pot capital of the West Coast. He was injured in a car accident when he was fifteen years old, riding with friends in the back of a pickup truck that got rear ended. Car accidents are one of my greatest fears, and I'm horrified to hear that he was conscious the entire time. I always had this morbidly reassuring idea that if the accident was bad enough, you would black out and not remember. But he remembers every detail.
"I was sitting in the back of the pickup with my legs inside a sleeping bag," he says. "Then after we were hit I tried to get up and realized I couldn't move my legs. I was like ooooh that ain't good."
"Did it hurt?"
He looks at me like I'm stupid. "Hell yeah it hurt! But that was nothing compared to after the paramedics got there. They said my lungs were filling up with blood and they had to drain it so they jammed a tube in one side. That was the worst pain I've ever felt. I was like no way are you doing that again on the other side, but the guy was just like, uh huh, get ready. Then he jammed it in again." He points to the scars on either side of his ribcage, divots the size of quarters.
He got a huge insurance payout after the accident, enough to live on for the rest of his life, but he blew through most of it in his twenties, being a fuckup alcoholic. He shows me huge scars on his lower back and the backs of his heels from pressure sores because he didn't take care of himself. He has lots of stupid drunk stories, like the time he rolled off a porch and into some bushes. But in his thirties he finally sobered up and started living like a responsible grown-up. Now he's thirty-nine, going to community college part time and trying to make art on the side, mostly ceramic sculpture. To earn some extra cash, he works part time as a research assistant on projects through his college, but since it's always soft money, that is, funded through grants and not a regular salary, he's always switching gigs when the grant ends. Right now he's working on a project at a minimum security prison to help rehabilitate inmates after release.
I listen to all of this with interest but try to stay distant. He's not my boyfriend. I don't want to make the mistake of projecting my fantasies onto him, and besides, we don't seem to have that much in common apart from our kinks. He doesn't mention anything about his wife, and I don't ask.
The third time The Mantis comes to play, I am now fully ready for him.
"Vile worm!" I bark at him as he rolls in the door. "Despicable insect! You made me wait a whole five minutes for you! How dare you arrive late!" He isn't really late, but he plays along happily.
"Forgive me, Mistress," he says, bowing his head. "Please punish me."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you! No, you're here for my amusement, correct?"
"I can't hear you!"
"Yes, Mistress! How may I amuse you?"
"That's better! What would amuse me would be for you to display yourself for me while I take photos." I pull out my digital camera and grin at him.
"Yes, Mistress. What would you like me to do?"
"Show me how you get hard."
He smirks back at me as he rolls to the center of the living room. As usual, he's dressed like an auto mechanic from the 1960s, in dark blue chinos, a dark blue button down shirt, open to show a white ribbed tank top underneath, and heavy steel-toe black boots, to protect his feet.
Locking eyes with me, he lifts one leg then the other off the foot plate onto the floor and slips off his boots, revealing white tube socks pulled up to his knees. Again with those socks!
"Take the socks off too. You look ridiculous."
"Yes, Mistress." He slides them off with one hand as the other hand drifts up to his nipple, playing with it through the thin fabric of his white tank top. He locks eyes with me again, then sets his bare feet on the floor and unzips his pants.
Like the rest of him, his cock is impressively long but thin. So far I've only seen it soft while he was cathing, but even hard it's still the same shape. I take a photo of him rubbing it, and one of my hand on it. The minute I stop touching it, it starts to go soft again.
The truth is I don't really care that much about his cock. This is all just performance. He's said that he doesn't use it for sex, since he can't feel it, and doesn't bother with drugs like Viagra. He was still a virgin when he was injured, so penetration has never been the focus of his adult sex life. I can't speak for him but for my part, I don't miss it at all. It's freeing, actually, to focus on other body parts instead.
I order him to take his pants off, and he does, slowly shimmying the pants from under his butt then lifting one leg at a time to pull them off. I take another photo of him sprawled in his chair, half naked. His thin, weirdly hairless legs lay at odd angles, with his toes pointed and his soft cock flopping to the side.
"Look at those skinny mantis legs," I taunt him as I snap the photo. "You really are a vile insect." He smirks some more, and his hand drifts back up to his nipple.
"Enough messing about, disgusting worm. Get in the bedroom, now!" I follow behind, still carrying my camera, as he pushes the short distance to the bedroom.
This time he does not make a move to transfer to the bed, but waits in his chair for me to give him another order.
I run my hands down his legs, feeling the slack muscles and prominent bones. His feet are pale and thin, the toes all pointed together. I take a close up of his feet hanging off the footrest.
"Your feet don't smell like other people's feet," I remark.
"I don't know, it's just a different smell." It's something I noticed with Rollerboy as well. The parts of his body below his injury had a different sweat smell than able bodied people, and The Mantis smells the same. It's not a bad smell, just distinctive. Kind of like rice that's been sitting in water. Wet, kind of mineral-y.
I never said anything to Rollerboy, because I didn't want to make him even more self-conscious than he already was. But I feel like I can say anything to The Mantis, and the more I reveal my dev self, the more he likes it. Sure enough, he's sitting there with his pupils huge and one hand playing with a nipple. I hadn't fully noticed him doing that earlier, but suddenly it all snaps together in my mind.
"Hey, you're masturbating!"
"That thing with your nipple, that's how you masturbate, right?"
"Ha, you caught me." He blushes slightly and ducks his head. "Most people don't even notice."
"What, so you just go around doing that in public?"
"Sure, why not? I see a hot girl and just..." He demonstrates. It really doesn't look like anything, unless you know that people with SCI develop super sensitivity above their injury level.
"Have you ever had a nipple orgasm?"
"No, but I've heard it's possible."
"Mmm, we're going to have to try," I promise. "But first, did I say you could touch yourself?" I slip back into character, and he eagerly follows along.
"I can see you need to be restrained."
I pull off his shirt and undershirt, then strap the leather cuffs on him and snap another photo of his hands clasped together in a supplicating pose. At the risk of being boring and repeating myself, I restrain him again the same way as last time, with his wrists bound to the frame of his chair with d-rings, the gauze for a blindfold and the ball gag. I can't help myself--it's just so hot to see him like that. I take a bunch more pictures to preserve the memory for later. I can tell he loves posing for me like this, even if he can't move or look at me.
Once I have taken photos from every angle, I unsnap the d-rings but leave the blindfold and ball gag in place and make him transfer to the bed and lie down. I loop the d-rings around the top slat of the wooden headboard and link them together, so his arms are restrained above his head. I take more photos of myself stepping on his face, of him sprawled out on the bed, keeping up a steady stream of flowery insults.
Now it's time for the real play. I put the camera down and open up the giant drawer of toys under the bed. Among my improvised low-budget gear is a big bag of wooden clothespins, some of which I have tied together with twine into long garlands. I put one clothespin on each nipple, then clip each pin of the garlands around his chest and on the insides of his arms, wherever I can find a good spot above the line of his injury. The thing about clothespins or any other pinching toy like nipple clamps is that they hurt a whole lot more coming off than going on, and the longer you leave them on, the more they hurt after you take them off. Once he's bristling with clothespins, I tease him a bit, toying with them, rubbing his ears, running my fingers around them. Then I grab one end of one of the garlands and yank it off as hard as I can. He squirms around, straining against the cuffs. I do it again with the second garland, and he reacts the same way. I rub my hands over the tiny red welts dotting his skin, but I leave the last two clothespins on his nipples much longer. I take out the ball gag so I can let him kiss me, and spend a lot longer kissing and caressing his sensitive ears, distracting him.
When I finally take the clothespins off his nipples, I do both at once, slowly easing them open. He groans loudly and bucks under me. I take the blindfold and cuffs off, and make him go down on me, which he does with enthusiasm and skill. I come again and again.
Once I'm finished, he flops down with his head next to mine on the pillow.
"Well?" I ask.
"That was amazing. Thank you," he says with a sigh. He's talking more normally now compared to the first time he came over. I realize that flat affect was because he was really nervous and shy around me. It tickles me to think he found me intimidating for real, not just pretend, but it's also nice that he's relaxing a bit finally.
"But holy shit, when you took those clothespins off, that hurt like hell."
I give an evil little laugh. "Good!"
"No, I mean it really hurt. Maybe nipple clamps would be better, since you can adjust them."
"It's ok. It was still awesome."
"You can use the safe word if anything is too much."
"I don't want you to get dysreflexia or something."
"Autonomic dysreflexia. You know, high blood pressure if your body is in pain below the line of your injury."
"Never heard of it."
"Oh my god, how do I know more about SCI than you?"
He just laughs. "Forgive my ignorance, Mistress." Ok, I realize that dysreflexia is probably just a quad thing, but still, I'm not letting him off the hook that easily.
"You are ignorant! Did it never even occur to you to do any research on SCI?"
He just shrugs. "Not really."
Seriously, what is with these dudes not knowing about their own conditions? Maybe it's some sort of perverse defense mechanism not to look anything up. I knew more about glaucoma than K did.
"You should be fucking grateful I even deign to see you! You know SCI isn't even my top dev preference," I declare haughtily.
"I am grateful. So what is your preference?"
"Oh yeah? I have a good friend who's blind."
"Oh my god, really? Can you introduce me?"
"Haha, maybe, but he doesn't live in Raser City. He still lives in our hometown. And I think he has a girlfriend."
I roll my eyes. "Ok, never mind then. I'm not meeting someone who lives four hours away."
He laughs. "I'll let you know if he ever comes down for a visit."
To reward him for all the torture he endured, I give his nipples some more love, licking and kissing and gently biting one then the other. He lays back and enjoys it. I really go at it, trying to get him to orgasm, but it doesn't happen
"I'll try again next time," I promise.
"That's ok, I still enjoyed it."
I get out the camera again and take some more photos of his skinny legs and feet, but I still feel like I'm not capturing his devvy appeal. The photos of his feet just look like anyone's knobby pale feet. I do better taking photos of his sinewy arms. He lies on his side, still naked, and flexes one arm. The contrast of his solid bicep with his bony hip, one flaccid leg flopped over the other, that's getting closer to my dev fantasies.
I save the photos to my hard drive, a souvenir of our time together.