If you turn the lights down you can see the electrical sparks from a violet wand, and they are pretty. I'm lying naked next to The Photographer, but if I turn my head to the side I'm as much spectator as participant, encouraged to watch by Lovely Couple as the tracery of spider thin veins crackle around his nipple piercings and he yelps in pain. I know he's not enjoying this, and that the sensation must be heightened for him because they are already sore from being played with earlier. If I stretch out my fingers to the left I can stroke his arm, but that is the limit of my reassurance.
There is a sense of putting on a performance, in the way that we are played with alternatively, tormented into responding with jerks or moans. An anticipation also, whilst one watches and listens to the other being shocked, or when the wand moves relentlessly towards a softer, more sensitive spot: breasts, inner thighs, cunt. The latter is very sensitive from having been freshly shaved only a few hours earlier, wet and tingling from the evening's play that preceded this floor show. When the burst is delivered it is stronger than I had expected and my murmurs of pleasure become a sudden cry as the pain hits me.
In a cruel finale, we are alternatively given a bar attachment to hold. The electricity will earth itself if you touch something with your other hand, or, in this case, mouth. First, The Photographer is asked to go down on me and of course I naturally arch up to meet his tongue and receive a shock. It doesn't stop me wanting to feel his mouth against my cunt, but the angle is a little tricky and we change places shortly afterwards. I can see the arc of electricity as it jumps from my outstretched tongue and onto his cock and he squirms uncomfortably, a very unfamiliar reaction for me in this particular act. The desire to pleasure him is balanced with the knowledge that any contact I make is neccessarily painful, and I feel conflicted. On the one hand I want to do as I'm told, to behave and to be good. But on the other I am being asked to hurt him and I can see his reaction, hear him cry out to my touch.
I like the feeling of electricity, the ghostly brush of a sharp burn that has no corresponding impact on the skin. Weightless yet absolutely present. At low levels it shivers against my flesh, half tickling, half scratching like a delicate intermittent tattoo. With more power, the jolts, shudders and gasps it inspires can be impressive. The psychology of it is exiting, that the voltage can be precisely meted out and increased gradually in stages. There is an air of experimental science to it all - how much, how strong and where.