The Elegant, Implacable Efficiency of Handcuffs

I can appreciate the visual appeal of a body in the embrace of elaborate Japanese ropework or the quirky creativity of immobilising a man in an upright coffin with an inflatable lining, but on the whole My Lady and I are both on a different and much more pragmatic page when it comes to bondage. The best restraints, as far as we’re concerned, are ones that permit a dominant (like her) to reduce a submissive (like me) to a state of abject powerlessness and vulnerability as easily as possible. It’s not about aesthetics, sensuality, the latest gear, or complexity for its own sake; it’s about making the dominant’s power over the submissive concrete, physical, and unchallengeable. A boy kneeling naked but unrestrained at a woman’s feet could, in theory, get up and run off at any moment. A boy chained by the ankle to a ring in the floor will be staying right there, like it or not, until someone lets him go.

Chained ankles have their merits, but My Lady and I both have a particular appreciation for the elegant, implacable efficiency of handcuffs, especially when used to lock, say, a man’s wrists together behind his back. A few precise clicks of steel against steel, and the prisoner is abject and deliciously vulnerable, his arms unceremoniously rendered useless. He has no way to fend off hands groping the most intimate parts of his body, straps and canes licking at his flesh, even hungry mouths kissing, sucking or biting. He’s also easy to control, unable to mount much resistance against captors who might choose to drag him down the stairs to some hidden dungeon or perhaps bundle him into a vehicle so that he can be taken somewhere really scary. A man with his hands cuffed behind him is a man who is pretty much at someone’s mercy.

Under normal circumstances, My Lady doesn’t have any way of subjecting me to that level of helplessness. We live far enough apart that she can’t generally even keep tabs on me except through the e-mail reports I’m required to send at least every couple of days, let alone put me in handcuffs or any other form of restraint. I obey her instructions and follow her rules because of the seriousness of my decision to voluntarily surrender to her authority, not because she has mechanisms in place to literally force me to do what she says. When the going gets tough, it’s my own commitment to being her servant, plaything and willing victim that makes me leave the nipple clamps in place for every second of the time she decreed, or stick to her limits on alcohol consumption when I would dearly love just one more drink, or take a deep breath and slide the butt plug deep into my subservient ass.

When I visited her late last year, however, she took advantage of the situation to experiment with more tangible forms of control. Taking me to a kinky party in a house with an incredibly well-equipped basement gave her a golden opportunity. At one point I found myself being ushered by My Lady and one of our hosts into a cage that was low enough to make standing, kneeling or even sitting impossible, though I had plenty of room to stretch out on my front, back or side. After the cage door was closed and locked, though, they were quick to snatch away even that limited freedom of movement. They ordered me onto my back, cuffed my wrists to the bars on opposite sides of the cage, and cuffed my ankles together outside the bars at the foot. And there I was, unable to roll over or even scratch my itches, held immobile by leather and steel as the party went on around me. People ambled by, carried on conversations, sometimes even leaned or sat on the cage as they chatted. “Are you still there?” a woman asked me at one point, sounding amused. I was clothed all through this little ordeal, but my shirt was open, and eventually My Lady dropped by to check on me and reached into the cage to give one of my nipples a gentle pinch. Even if I’d been unrestrained, I would never have dared to try to stop her, or even to pull away. But knowing I physically couldn’t do anything to evade or fend off her touch took my sense of helplessness and subservience to a whole new level.

The next day, My Lady and her partner did put me in handcuffs. However, they found it practical to lock my wrists together in front of my body, so I was spared the more abject helplessness of having them pinioned behind my back. Next time, I might very well not be so lucky.

It’s Always Submission O’Clock

Some time ago I made a video of myself performing an obscene, degrading act and sent a brief clip to My Lady. The obscene act was one that I’d been ordered to perform, but the video was my idea. My Lady is usually satisfied with written descriptions of the things I do in response to her instructions, and in this case she’d left the method of documentation up to me. Nevertheless, ambition got the better of me and I decided that a video would be just the thing.

The video didn’t work out especially well. The big problem was that I practised a key part of the obscene act with my right hand while I was figuring out how to position the camera, but in the heat of the moment I performed the same action with my left. As a result (I’m skipping steps here, but the details aren’t important) the climax of the obscene act wasn’t fully in the camera’s field of view. I presented the botched clip to My Lady with a wry comment about not being a cinematographer.

I’m under orders to show My Lady different views of my slave quarters (that is, my little apartment) when taking photos and videos for her, and in this case there was a clock in the background as I performed the obscene act. Unlike the act, the clock was clearly visible in the video. It wasn’t – and isn’t – anything fancy, just a plain, cheap, round plastic wall clock that was there when I moved in. However, My Lady noticed it in the video, and mentioned that she felt more connected to me because she could see what time it had been when I was carrying out her instructions.

Despite being rather touched by that thought, I had to reply with a confession. The clock ran out of batteries fairly soon after I moved into my slave quarters, I explained sheepishly, and I never bothered to put new ones in. I have a wristwatch, an alarm clock next to my bed, and a clock on the laptop I’m using to type this blog post; if anything, I can hardly escape knowing what time it is, and the clock on the wall has always seemed superfluous. I was more than content to have it be right twice a day (at 12:13). This prompted a rather curt response from My Lady:

Even so, I like analog wall clocks. Get a battery for it.

Nothing could be more mundane than putting a battery in a stopped clock, but that instruction made me feel the weight of My Lady’s yoke. There was no “please” or “if you don’t mind”, no choice in the matter, just a blunt command issued in the full expectation that I would obey. My own feelings about analogue wall clocks (less than enthusiastic, as it happens) were totally irrelevant, because My Lady is the dominant and I’m the submissive. In other words, I’m the one in the collar, and I do what she says.

It turned out that the clock only needed a single AA battery, and I happened to have one on hand. It’s been running fine ever since. When my slave quarters are otherwise silent I can hear a very faint electronic ticking, which I could live without, but it doesn’t bother me much and is completely inaudible when the air conditioning is on. When I want to know the time, I still look at my computer, my wristwatch or my alarm clock, depending on exactly where I am. But the wall clock is there, implacably ticking off the seconds, minutes and hours, reminding me who’s boss. Around here it’s always submission o’clock.

My Lady Has Never Seen My Penis

I should acknowledge, in the interest of accuracy, that the statement headlining this post may not be quite literally true. My Lady, of course, is Dilo Keith, the proprietress of this blog. Once I sent her a video clip that showed me nude on all fours, kissing a photo of her boots that was laid out on the floor. As I knelt up at the end, the tip of my dick intruded into the camera’s field of view for just a few frames. Somewhat similarly, the still photos of my naked self in various postures that I’ve e-mailed to her now and then have included a couple in which my scrotum could be seen peeking out demurely from behind one thigh. All those photos, however, were intended to document things that I was doing for her while unclothed, rather than to display my body, and the camera didn’t happen to capture a good view of my genitals.

As a result, My Lady has never had what I would call a proper look at what’s between my legs, despite the fact that I’ve been obeying her long-distance instructions for more than a year now. Even the one occasion so far when my travels brought me into her neck of the woods didn’t change that part of the status quo between us. She was having a busy few days, and there wasn’t time for anything but dinner with her and her partner followed by a quick session back in my hotel room. It was thrilling to kneel before her in the flesh, to take orders in person for a change and feel her hands buckle leather around my neck, but she kept me fully clothed from start to finish.

Of course, she could change the status quo with nothing more than a brief instruction to send her a photo of myself in a posture that happened to expose my cock and balls. It’s perpetually a bit mystifying to me that she’s never bothered. I don’t have any illusions about the raw aesthetic appeal of my chubby, pasty, hairy physique, and My Lady doesn’t seem too prone to getting excited about male bodies for their own sake anyway. However, it surprises me that she hasn’t demanded a look at the contents of my briefs out of simple curiosity, or to reinforce her sense of possession and control and my complementary sense of being her abject plaything.

Viewing the most intimate parts of someone’s body seems an easy and obvious way to assert power over that person, a near-irresistible bit of low-hanging fruit (a particularly appropriate turn of phrase, I guess, in the case of a male subject) for any dominant looking for methods to reduce a submissive to a delectable state of humility and vulnerability. I were ever to find myself in charge of a long-distance submissive, I’m pretty sure that I would order her to provide a full frontal nude for exactly those reasons, unless she had some kind of limit about sending compromising images. I wouldn’t issue that instruction on the first day of the relationship, but it would probably come within the first few weeks, or perhaps the few first months if the submissive was especially shy or skittish. And yet, I write this blog post as the humble servant of a woman who has exercised firm, sadistic and often very intimate control over me for a good year and half now, but who has never (really) seen my penis.

It’s a situation that I find slightly improbable, wryly amusing, and in a backhanded way actually very exciting. What makes submission to My Lady an adventure, and an authentic experience of surrender and servitude, is the fact that I’ve put myself under the authority of a human being with thoughts, feelings and priorities – not to mention kinks and desires – that are sometimes very different from my own. I have to accept that she’s the one in the driver’s seat (whereas I’m bound and gagged in the trunk), stick to her rules even when I don’t quite see the point of them, and do what she actually tells me as opposed to what I think submission ought to entail. Commands from her that I could never have anticipated, like the order to buy a pair of green underwear that I received fairly soon after I began submitting to her, are the ones that really make me feel the implacable tug of her control.

Not being ordered to do something can have a similar impact, admittedly in a more diffuse and subtle way. It was curious to Sherlock Holmes that the dog did nothing in the night-time, and it’s curious to me that My Lady has never demanded that full frontal photo. Just as buying green underwear reminded me that she sometimes wants things that I find surprising, having been allowed to keep my genitals to myself all this time reminds me that I can also be surprised by the things she happens not to want – or at least, happens not to be in any hurry to lay claim to. Either way, her ability to keep me guessing, the unpredictable and sometimes even idiosyncratic element in her dominance, is intriguing, unnerving and thoroughly erotic.

If My Lady ever does ask for a full frontal photo, or something equally revealing, surrendering that bit of privacy that I’ve hitherto been allowed to retain will be exciting too. She’s hinted that such an instruction might come soon, but hasn’t told me anything definite. If and when she requires me to bare myself for the camera, perhaps I’ll ask her for permission to tell you about it afterwards.