According to Wikipedia: Exhibitionism is the act of exposing in a public or semi-public context those parts of one’s body that are not normally exposed – for example, the breasts, genitals or buttocks. The practice may arise from a desire or compulsion to expose themselves in such a manner to groups of friends or acquaintances, or to strangers for their amusement or sexual satisfaction or to shock the bystander.
I see them watching me, though they are out of focus to me – blurred edges and low background noise, he is my clear vision… and the rope.
Between the rope and him, they take turns being my focus, truly. The cold fabric brushing across my skin – his warm arms coming around, a sharp tug to keep my attention on the moment -a firm word that reminds me that I am his to do with as he wishes, stroking up my skin – the suddenness of a slap on skin brushed sensitive, snaking between my thighs – fingers subtly dipping between my lips for brief pleasure, teasingly taunt across my nipples – and then painfully pinched, even rope threatening across my throat for just the briefest moment as my head is manipulated for a passionate kiss.
The people watching are barely there, at the edge of my conscious when I have so many other pressing things to hold me spellbound. But I know they are there, watching.
I sense them leaning in or sitting more upright when I first come off the floor in a suspension, perhaps to get a better look at the ties – for those whose interest lays in the rope, perhaps to see if I am secure and nothing pulled the wrong way – for those whose purpose is safety, perhaps to those who have never seen a suspension – for those whose are new and marveling at possibilities, perhaps to those who know how the rope feels as it bites into flesh and holds the weight – for those who also share the experience, perhaps to find beauty in the art form – for those whose eyes appreciate such things, perhaps to those perving a naked body – now raised to a more appreciative viewpoint.
And then when he spins me (as he most often does), when he transitions me for one position to another, there tends to a be a low murmur of voices as conversations on technique, on fun, on dizzying or stability experiences occurs. This is barely penetrated by me, as I am now up and flying, as I am being manipulated and completely not in control of what occurs to me, as I am bound and wholly at his mercy in the air. As always, he shares the spotlight – the rope is truly biting and gripping and settling around me, cocooning and safe even its own painful reassurance.
But when his cleverness comes, that’s when I hear the gasps or the conversations – briefly as I then zone the people watching me out entirely. But still, their noises perk my ears, my brain registers that they are aware of something that I am not…yet. They may see the knife, extra ropes, the nipple clamps, the vibrator before I do. My vantage point is what he wills; I do not control even that. The predicaments that he puts me in, that make me damn myself with movement unless I do exactly as he sets me up to do:
clamps tugging at my nipples if I move my head – the rope ties hair and nipple clamps together – him asking so softly for a kiss until I forget myself and lean to obey, only to be brought up short by the bite at my nipples;
rope tied in a knot at my clit and strung tight so that if I need to adjust slightly to be more comfortable I feel it sharply pressing into my sensitive nub;
my ankles or my wrists strung in such a way that I maintain a rigid position or adjust to a painful reminder of the rope to keep maintaining my stance;
a buzzing between my legs that torments not just the sensitive exposed intimate zones of me, but also reverberate up and down the rope traveling across the rest of my skin.
They watch me, they chuckle at his cleverness or wickedness, they ponder what I will do next to escape one sensation to find myself in another, they rejoice or cringe at the pain or sensation that is brought upon me.
I am a marionette truly up in strings and I move exactly as he wills it, as the rope commands it.
He (and the rope) is the reason I am up here naked to begin with. I do not consider myself an exhibitionist, though nudity has never affected me – to either see it or be seen, though someone once suggested that I am an exhibitionist. I am unhampered by clothes because he cannot be bothered with the inconvenience of working around fabric – because the rope prefers bare skin. Because after being seen, there may be a conversation with another such as he and he may get new ideas, may learn from or teach another. For myself, I am always willing and eager to be seen because I want the experience.
What I’ve learned is that there is such a contrast of feelings about being exposed in this way; it makes me feel both vulnerable to be viewed, to have others watching me and quietly discussing, to be put on as a show, to be an object at times and a silly little human trying to still have some semblance of control when it is obvious I have none; and then there is strength in the surrender of control, in the acceptance of the bite and the wrappings of the rope, of the defiance in the predicament, of the thoughts streaming through my head of what I can do next, what I can manipulate in such a tiny space that is completely unnatural to my normal physical environment. I don’t get this duality of feelings in the safety of my home.
In my love for him, for the rope he binds me in, I find strength while leaving myself so vulnerable. It is freeing.
I am not sure that they ever notice that – but I see myself watching for it in others when I am the spectator of another’s scene.