I never feel more like a doll than when I'm with him. He likes to dress me up, pose me, restrain me in elaborate ways so I can barely react or move when he fucks me.

I never feel more like a doll than when I’m with him. He likes to dress me up, pose me, restrain me in elaborate ways so I can barely react or move when he fucks me. He’ll take me to high-end erotic boutiques in London and buy me underwear so that when we go out for dinner later, under my clothes I’ll be dressed exactly to his specifications. For him, I’ll totter stupidly in heels (which he sometimes locks me into) because that’s what he likes me to wear, and I like it too, I like seeing myself through that gaze: dumbed-down, a diminished version of me which comprises so little of my actual self.

When I’m with him I’m docile and sweet in ways that would surprise my other lovers. I’m giggly and bland. Wide-eyed and dumb, I do what I’m told. I don’t fight or whine or try and bend the rules. I crawl meekly after him on hands and knees. I stand quietly for him as he encases me in tight latex, meticulously shines every inch of me, puts a tight hood over my head and leads me, blind, to the bedroom. 

He likes to hurt me only a little. Spanks me firmly but stops before leaving bruises. Tickles rather than tortures me with electricity. We play with sweet torment rather than pain. He’ll tie me down with the Doxy between my legs and switch it on low, then stand and watch as I become more and more frantic, restrained so well that I cannot move or struggle and – hooded and gagged – can barely breathe. That low, amused chuckle in the back of his throat when he switches it off and all I can do is moan. He’s not done playing with his toy, not yet.