Note: This entry is considered Not Safe for Work. Should any of you, my dear readers, happen to be a part of my biological family, please do not continue – I would much rather keep the details of my lifestyle on a need-to-know basis. Thank you.
I am going to paint you an image in the hopes that you may understand. I do not think you will, understand that is, the context of such an image – imagination can be strictly limited at times – but the details may invoke emotions, thoughts, and insight. This image I will not paint for you to see with your eyes but with words, like a poem from a poet, and pray that you perceive it in the same degree.
Imagine for an instant a vast portrait of dark imaginations, a place where bodies are engaged in acts of wanton sex and violence, amidst the thunder of music and the screaming of voices. Imagine a dim glow that aligns the walls from floor lamps and red carpeting twists and turns across a labyrinth of equipment with lucrative and sinister notions. Imagine these people, each engaged in these activities, occupying their corner of the labyrinth – couples, groups, same or opposite genders. Their actions may differentiate but the effect is still the same.
The details of such lustful pursuits are parallel to one another at times. Careful observation may reveal a familiar face or even an attractive one. The sounds that echo from the lips of each person resembles pain or pleasure or both. The sight of tears and red marked flesh, writhing bare forms, all become a regular part of this sinful portrait; their expressions caught in freeze frame, frozen in the midst of their actions, traps them in that moment of time – a permanence of pain and pleasure, gay abandonment of sexual inhibitions and dark fantasies.
Between each and every person trapped in this labyrinth, you may notice that they are entirely focused on the exchange, apparently ignoring the world around them. The silhouettes of spectators do not affect the activities of these individuals. After all why should the rest of the world matter when it is they who pursue the carnal satisfactions alone together. The reality of such an image is an illusion, like the unspoken thoughts and feelings oft kept from knowledge; left for assumptions, one can mistake the true connotation of these activities, hesitate and question it.
For example, tears can be seen in a negative light, attributed to fear or anguish. The tears that fall from the side of a person’s cheek, their expression locked in agony, convey the image of suffering. By societal norms it may be grounds for intervention. It may be seen as the product of extreme physical stress such as pain, no doubt from the person locked in mid-swing with their flogger in hand. Against the dim light, the crier is hauntingly beautiful and prompts the effect of pity; likewise the perpetrator or Dom/me in this case, a person who is macabre and sadistic, sick in the eyes of some.
There is a savagery to this image but in truth it is a mere illusion. There is no definitive explanation to such a portrait, that perhaps some acts may be disciplinary, others at times may be out of love; the worst of this deceit is the cause of this wild image, the reality leading up to its development. What you are seeing is merely a consequence of some unseen event preceding to it.
Pictures paint a thousand words, as people often say, but actions speak louder than words…
…and my actions had a very definite purpose.
Time had become my enemy and the wild atmosphere of the dungeon erupted into a chaotic spectrum of lustful pursuits, untamed and uncontrolled; from each and every corner, out of the peripherals of my eyes, pale shapes of naked bodies gesticulated all around. The screams that trail across the stretch of open spacing within the maze of sex swings, rigger bars, and impact stations are a mixture between pain and pleasure. I added then the sounds of my partners and myself to the fray.
A sigh, a moan, a scream of pain; a whispered command, followed by the mingling of fingers. I studied the details with the intimacy of a familiar lover, aware of the limits imposed between strangers, but at those moments kept aside for the act at hand. I took my time then to examine the details and what I found was not unsatisfactory. The slick moisture of sweat against bare skin, the smooth screen of latex that separated bare flesh; a sharp gasp, followed by the jerk of a fistful of hair. A familiar ache that does not go unnoticed as curvaceous forms teasingly pressed against it.
The tears that fell were not tears of pain induced by negative emotions but reactionary, like the chemicals that flowed from the brain and into my system, and their true cause was not involuntary but consensual. It is a delicate detail that when realized becomes liberating and likewise demands absolute attention towards the matter at hand. Tears, like many other such imagery, can be illusory until the truth is revealed from them. What tears that fell from the eyes of the people I danced with were ‘happy’ tears during the parties of that weekend – the gentle embrace or the briefest of kisses spoke more than words could describe.
I studied then the details of their emotions, never daring to betray them, and what I discovered was intoxicating to say the least. Anticipation, eagerness and catharsis, followed then by euphoria and comfort. The details reflected these emotions thusly whether the warmth of bare skin to touch, the rhythmic shifting of hips and curves, or the firm perkiness of a stiffened nipple. These details are often unnoticed from outside observation. The world slipped away enough to become aware of these things and the illusion remained broken only between myself and the person before me.
It mattered not how many people I danced with that night (Translation: Yellow is a wanton pervert). I took my time to savor the details, permitting others to study mine in turn, from the sweat of my brow to the gaze in my eyes. My image is one of a savage love, harsh yet unpredictable; the truth of it is known only to those who experience and not perceive it, embrace and love it in return. I lost myself in the long hours of those nights in the weekend, remembering the details of everyone I’d met, and prolonged it until the harshness of reality came back.
My body peaked with adrenaline and the world became known to me. I discovered that it was an awe-inspiring yet surreal image that had pulled me in. The truth to such imagery was often ambiguous but never disappointing. Offered a place beyond speculation and observance, I gladly stepped forward, and became part of it.
Next Update: KinkFest Day Three