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The online diary of an ethical pervert.

Saturday, 13 December 2008

Pained expressions - Part 1

Shuttered Lens ties me to a chair. Slow, methodical and sure. My arms are bound behind me, legs spread a little and lashed by the ankle to each side. There is a plastic clip on each of my nipples, the pain was sharp and hot when they first went on, clamping tightly against the piercing running through the flesh. Almost as soon as they went on I could feel myself come out in a cold, nervous sweat, and I think I grinned. After the initial bite, the pain flattens a little, coming in constant, rapid waves, rising up through my stomach and along my skin, to the points themselves. I course along with them, feeling them roll and build like the mirror image of an orgasm.

I'm blindfolded and shut down from the world. There is just the pain and whatever part of me it is that is experiencing the pain: stimuli and receptor is the sum of my existence. I'm aware, on some low level that I'm making noise, shifting, groaning and letting out little moans as I mouth at the air, uttering words that are not words. I can't form language from within this space, I can't conceive of the pain because there is no part of me that is able to stand outside of it, to observe it and my reactions in order to describe the sensations. It's hard to unpick them from memory, although I am still reasonably sore and have plenty of tenderness to remind me of where the feelings where the strongest.

It hurts, there is no other way of describing it, I am in pain, I am caught up in this powerful sensation that is flowing through me, a sensation that is just this side of bearable. Just. The small part of me capable of any rational thought whatsoever keeps repeating "any moment now you will have to stop". But the moment passes. Each moment passes. Because I want to carry on, to see what the next wave brings with it. In tandem with the fear (and it is a fear) of having to stop, there is the desire to move on, to feel more, to experience more.

The blindfold is removed and I can see that The Photographer is also bound to a chair, in a similar fashion. There are thin white cords stretching from his piercings to mine. I can feel each jerk and twitch as sure as he must be able to feel me. Shuttered Lens stands behind him, finishing the ties. I can see both of their faces, both absorbed in the moment: the one placid, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, breathing coming a little heavier as the ties are pulled tighter. The other smiling at the reactions. There's a neat dynamic at work here, an exploration of pain and its effects both on those inflicting and receiving. And we have an entire evening at our disposal to work through the preliminaries.

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