A little story of pain-joy

in two acts

1st Act:
I stand stark naked, tied with wine-colored cuffs at my arms and feet and long for the first strokes of the whip. They fall slowly on my back. I can tell it’s the heavy black flogger with the long wide strands. The whip strokes my back almost tenderly, the strokes are steady and accurate, and I already feel a desire for increasing force. My shoulder blades stretch involuntarily into the strokes. I lean into the rhythm of the more and more violent and powerful strands smacking on my back and become completely calm. I already know that the strokes recover me, get me to myself in strange ways, make me feel like I start to widen and expand at the same time. I also feel how these two movements tie an ever-more-powerful ribbon between my top and me. Without permission I turn my head briefly towards her, and I catch a glimpse of her for a second as she swings back to deliver the next stroke with relish. How beautiful she is. She smiles, and I know that she will make me scream in pain today. I already answer her with a devoted “Yeeeeeees”, as the next stroke breaks on my back. I hear her giggling and indignantly murmuring something like “Do you think I gave you permission to do that?”. I moan loudly, smile, can’t resist the rogue lurking inside me and wiggle my naked ass provocatively and flirtatiously back and forth. I hear her burst out laughing behind me, turn back again, manage to get just a short glimpse of her cheeriness,laugh my joy about that into her face, and look a bit too sassy, just in case. Now I’m in deep trouble. Now she’ll take me to those limits, touch me up to my limits, and maybe a little bit beyond them. I smile again. We’ll both shed burdens during that journey, getting wider and softer. We will go to our limits together. What a big, inner joy. And a mighty, orgiastic laughter soars inside of me. …

Long break :-)

2nd Act:
You wear black leather pants, your bleached dreadlocks pinned up into a bun. Your wide, muscled chest is naked. You didn’t shave your wonderful strong beard just for me, and for that I play a while with your erogenous nipples on your big tits. You moan quietly, lustful . Without warning, I start to attach two mean clamp zippers over your beautiful breasts. Your breath gets quicker as the nasty clamps cling to your flesh. Now you moan in pain – and you know that it will get worse soon. I tantalize you dreamily a bit with the clamps, letting time pass. With a sudden tug I tear both zippers out of your flesh. You scream – and I see in your eyes how it grasps you, intoxicates you – the deep burning pain. I hold you and stroke you tenderly. You shiver and whimper a bit in my arms, and I feel your hunger getting hold of you. I am greedy for what the pain is doing to you, and feel something almost like awe for what we have opened up. Tenderly I stroke the scar on your back with my fingertips, thinking that I will go there today, where your juice of life is flowing, and lick my lips bloodthirstily. I remember you telling me how the pain opens a room for you, where the illness cannot harm you, can’t threaten you and can’t get you anymore; a room where it goes beyond you and the borders of the body, a room transcending the illness, a “whole” room, a curing room. I look tenderly in your big, wide eyes; see all your devotion growing in them, a devotion actually to me now. You overwhelm me with it, and out of the blue I come up to order you to tell me at least two convincing, politically incorrect “Blondinenwitze” (jokes about blondes) before I maybe could think of mistreating you a lot more. You look completely dumbfounded at me and finally join me in my exorbitant laughter. …

Chuluk
Devlin, english version
From both with love to the folks of the conference 2005.

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