Tag Archives: BDSM

Where I Go in My Dreams (Part 15)

In which The Author has his medication increased

As my regular readers will know, Dr Mahmoud recently recommended a change of medication. I’m now taking 45mg of Mirtazapine at night – which seems to have unlocked the door to my weird dreamworld again. Today I’d like to tell you about two places where I go in my dreams: the first is a recurring feature of my nocturnal wanderings; the second is a one-off (so far, anyway), but had all the hallmarks of becoming a regular haunt. I’m putting them together, as they have a vague theme in common, and probably speak volumes about the way my mind works.
The first one is a newsagent’s shop, which has a close resemblance (physically) to Bob Mock’s old shop in Trecynon. It’s very difficult to picture the square in Trecynon when I was growing up, as it’s changed quite a bit. I might do a separate entry about that, in fact.
Bob Mock’s shop was roughly equivalent to the half of Mr Tatlah’s shop where the newspapers, greetings cards, pet food, household wares and freezer cabinets live. It seemed much deeper than it is now – I think the present storeroom must have been part of the shopfloor.
Anyway, the shop in question is always quite dimly lit, with a rack of newspapers and magazines just inside the door, and a counter at the opposite end. In the middle, there’s a display of stationery and toys. In my dreams, I’m usually browsing through the periodicals, and often manage to find some obscure bondage magazines tucked amongst them.
The second place is one which turned up in my dream a couple of days ago. I was in a part of Cardiff which I vaguely recognised, but which doesn’t exist on the ground. (It was around the corner from Dillons Bookstore, roughly where Halfords and MVC used to be, on The Hayes, before that whole block was demolished and St David’s 2 was built.)
There was a new development there, with a very impressive shop on several levels, brightly lit in a sort of science fiction style. Music was blasting from speakers, but I was the only customer in there. The displays were full of high-tech gear (cameras, stereos, laptops, and so forth), but it was the shop staff that really stuck in my mind. They were all young, female, and very pretty, wearing tight white rubber poloneck tops and black rubber trousers. Some of them had quite geeky glasses as well, and I remember one gorgeous redhead asked me if I needed any help. I told her I was looking for the magazine section, and she directed me to a corner of the building where there was a very impressive range of ‘specialist’ literature. While I was browsing, she told me that there was also an ‘adults only’ section behind a secret door.
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Undercover

In which The Author has a funny feeling

I blame Anubis, personally.
If I hadn’t imprinted a deep love/hate relationship with the deities of Ancient Egypt when I was six years old (see Feeling Like a Kid Again), I probably wouldn’t have gone down this particular neural pathway this afternoon.
As things stand, I’ve been in a very strange place for the past few days. I blame a combination of OTC painkillers, lager (the best natural analgesic I’ve encountered to date), and this picture, which was posted on Facebook about a week ago:

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I mentioned this photo in Feeling Like a Kid Again, and shortly afterwards I had a message from a kinky girl I know. I won’t name her here (although she’s popped up from time to time herein), and I had to share the picture with her. In fairness, a few hours before she’d shared a photo of a very attractive blonde woman wearing a spectacular steel collar, so I owed her a favour. I don’t do blondes, but I could definitely go for a woman in an extremely secure collar.
This is where things got weird again. A couple of months ago, I made an online purchase from Cathouse Clothing in Yorkshire. I’ve dealt with them before, as I told you in Behind the Mask, and I’d decided that it was time to reacquaint myself with their services. It was Cathouse which sold me my first lycra hood, which I wore regularly in and around Aberdare before the introduction of Pubwatch, and before CCTV became standard in pubs. I’ve no idea what happened to it. I suspect that a female friend of mine might have taken a liking to it, and talked me into taking it off one night. I was easily persuaded back in the day, remember…
When Les the photographer’s partner Katie C. had her online store, she was able to supply me with a full lycra hood.  She knew I had my leather hood, of course; that was partly the reason why Les and I had undertaken The Boys Village Photoshoot in 2009. Katie’s hood was different. It had no mouth and a sewn-in blindfold where the eyeholes would usually have been. She asked me why I wanted it particularly, and I told her that it was to help with my insomnia.
That was a blatant lie – have you ever tried sleeping with an erection? I once showed it to my Kinky Female Friend when we were having a pint together, and she took it into the Ladies’ to try it on. When she came back, I could tell she was both extremely fascinated and frightened by it.
‘Imagine that with a gag and earplugs,’ I whispered.
‘Oh my God,’ she gasped. ‘Total sensory deprivation!’
Our eyes met, and we decided to drop the subject immediately. I was massively turned on by the idea, and so was she.
I still have the leather mask which I bought in Soho about six or seven years ago, but it’s too bulky to be practical. I wore it a few times in the pubs in Aberdare, but the time has passed when people could get away with wearing anything other than the latest Chav fashions. It’s handy to keep in my pocket when I walk home in the pissing rain – laced on tightly, it keeps me nice and dry – but I’m fairly sure that I’d be stopped by the police after fifty yards or so.
Anyway, I bought a replacement for my lycra mask a couple of months ago. Rhian (of course) was fascinated by the unmarked package which arrived at the pub. It obviously wasn’t a book or a DVD. She couldn’t begin to guess what was inside the Jiffy bag with the Yorkshire postmark. I still haven’t told her. She’ll find out when (if?) she reads this.
On Saturday, the pain in my shoulder had reached such a pitch that I couldn’t even face leaving the house. With a perfect excuse for staying at home, I decided to embark on a project which I’d outlined about two years ago. I had a bath, shaved, dressed, and put my lycra hood on. I took one of my collars and secured it over the neckpiece, making sure that I couldn’t remove the hood without unlocking the collar first. Then I put on a poloneck sweater, locked another collar between the layers of fabric, and settled down for the day.
At first I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Remember, I’m used to wearing masks and hoods anyway, so it wasn’t a new experience. After a couple of hours, however, I started to feel strangely turned on. Even though I had access to the keys, and therefore I could end my self-imposed bondage in a minute, I decided that I’d continue the experiment for the entire day. I was able to eat and drink normally, and the only small problem was keeping my reading glasses on while doing the crossword. Apart from that, I felt entirely snug and comfortable, exactly as I had in the early days when I’d first worn a hood.
If I hadn’t had to come into town yesterday (see Do Not Exceed the Stated Dose), I think I’d have worn my hood all weekend. Unfortunately, the preponderance of CCTV in Aberdare, the paranoia of the pub managers, and the general intolerance of the town’s population of fuckwits, means that going out with my head covered is well-nigh impossible. I need to try and find a place where hoods/masks/fetish gear are at least acceptable, and preferably desirable.
At this point, my Kinky Female Friend re-enters the story. I found a fantastic video on YouTube this evening, of a woman who submits to having her entire head encased – not just strapped, but padlocked as well – in a hood allowing her only to breathe. I sent her the link on Facebook, and she replied with a ‘thumbs-up’ icon. Make of that what you will…
And finally: I had a message from a fellow Fetlife user a few days ago, telling me that I wasn’t the only guy who has a fetish for women in polonecks. That was encouraging. I logged into my account and posted a status along the lines of:
Xmas jumpers? Bah! Humbug! Unless it’s a poloneck sweater, don’t come knocking at my door.