What truly lies at the dark epicenter of thought?

What guides and nurtures the conscience?”

What is it that separates us from the animals? For surely we too mate, hunt and reproduce.

Is it that we are on top of the food chain? Hardly.

Is it that our sex drive surpasses every other living being? Somewhat… technically… though not the point in fact.

What is it then that tames and unlocks the secrets within? The silent, sleeping hound that revels in a new kind
of pleasure? A new kind of adventure… an unprecedented palette of pain.

This is a dirty, dirty, filthy post.

This blog post isn’t for the faint of heart. Nor is it for the conventional ‘beautiful’ mind. If your sexual personality opts for catharsis over chaos and an eternal calm minus those crushing storms… Please don’t read this. Save yourself the torture, the embarrassment and psychological shock (and possible cleansing). I am not going to bother explaining why these adventures and scenarios are important to me, and for that matter I am not ranting about this as a portal to boast my experiences… on the contrary it is a reflection; a twisted face in the stirring opaque pool… a face I recognize as my own. If you have no inner freak that seeks the uncanny… don’t fucking read any more.

If you have your freak on a leash: in a subjective or objective context then rip open those sovereign veils and prepare for a disturbing but evoking sexual episode.

So let the juices flow: A True Story.

Starring: The Master Incarnate.

Co:Starring: Sub-Mistress S.

Also Featured: Some strange Japanese anime, extreme, erotic but artistic BDSM photographs.

It’s Monday the 14th of July, 2008 and I return from the hospital ‘cos I’ve managed to injure my right wrist pretty badly. I couldn’t move it the last couple of days. And there was excruciating pain, but a glimmer of improvement after constant application of ice. Spending a Monday morning in a hospital isn’t my ideal idea of starting the week on a positive note. I don’t like hospitals. Medical Fetish I may endorse but ironically I can’t stand the smell and nauseous atmosphere of hospitals. The doctor who was e channeled by a cousin of mine was 45 minutes late, I was fortunate to have company with Sub-Mistress S joining me. So I am there to meet an expert orthopedic surgeon and I am no.2 on the waiting list. Dude finally arrives and patient no.1 ain’t there. So I walk in. His nurse (pleasant but not attractive) takes off the crepe bandage and the doctor examines my hand. He does the whole poking thing, which I bravely survive and then I am asked to take an x-ray. This took a fair deal of time and I take an x-ray and go back to the orthopedic ward. The doctor looks at it and shows me that due to an old injury (which I can’t recall… had many ‘cos of sports in college and then the stage) my bone in the right side of my right hand is permanently crooked. It’s bent out of place. That slightly disfigured bone has separated into two - leaving a small gap. Nothing can be done about it. I will have this for the rest of my life, and I can’t put any weight on it. If and when I do put pressure on it – it will continue to separate. Cherry fucking merry. So I have to keep the bandage on and take something for the swelling to go off. Thereafter I have to avoid putting pressure on it. Wow that is going to heavily affect my sex life. I can still hold a mic on stage and go nuts and chances are that I’ll keep busting it after every gig BUT does this mean I have to compromise so many wonderful positions and betray myself (and the other) of me being on top? I’ve always got my left hand :idea:

But here’s a twist to the twist. I am a left hander. How’s that twisted you ask?

I write and eat with my left hand. I am ambidextrous for walking my god – if you catch my drift or for multiple pleasuring tasks which helps you know (no one’s complained). But my strong hand is somehow my right. How did that happen? I don’t know. Just is. All sports: be it basketball, cricket, table tennis, smashing Chris Martin’s face in - it’s my right. So now my right hand is fucked.

The masochist in me smiles. The sadist frowns. I must say though that the masochist in me does have a shade of doubt. I can’t help feeling a certain discomfort knowing my hand won’t quite be the same.

Now for the post hospital joke of the “Heavy Metal artiste visits hospital with a busted hand” saga:

I have not the slightest clue as to what happened to it. Yeah. Yes. * Owu owu huttho.

I don’t know how it happened. Obviously either during a hectic band rehearsal (which is sad – at least it could have happened on stage) or while I’ve been doing agency related stuff. But as it now is… I have a fucked up hand. And naturally everyone thinks I hammered it onto something (in likeliness to “Extreme Metal artiste spends his bored time bashing walls”) or got into a fight. Me? Fight. Must be the hair. Or the nasty symbolic imagery tattooed onto my flesh. Must be the piercing. What the fuck.

And fuck mind you may spring up continuously throughout this post. And it’s mostly when it’s appropriate and a euphemism cannot be used to give out an intended meaning with such a lacerating edge.

So myself and Sub-Mistress S return home to discover that we would soon be left alone at home. I mean I have an excuse… but what’s hers? She conjures up a bizarre tale and with an injured hand, what the hell am I supposed to fucking do? So we have lunch (lovely devilled beef in steamed vegetable rice) and coke floats (chocolate ice cream with coke… sounds like beetle shit but is actually pretty good. Which after we have a Bong or two and put on a very, very cool laid back, gutsy 50’s style black and white George Clooney flick titled Good Night and Good Luck. Solid set of actors. Robert Downey Jr., Jeff Daniels, David Strathairn.
But damned thing kept getting weird (and I swear the Mary J was good but not that good) like suddenly the characters sounded like chipmunks. Now don’t laugh… Imagine seeing George Clooney with that serious expression of ‘I have to do what’s right this time’ look and he sounds like an old TDK cassette fast forwarded or fast rewound. Or Alvin or Theodore if you prefer. I crack myself up (and open) sometimes. :crazy:

So out comes the DVD & in comes more Mary J. Then Sub Mistress S suggests that we watch some erotica. I raise an eyebrow in approval. I tell her I am not interested in porn. She says its Japanese Anime Erotica called Sex Slave Training. I am curious. Whatever any one thinks or says the Japanese have a very warped and malignantly mysterious sense of BDSM: extreme, original and after all are the genius originators of Shibari bondage. Now I’ve never got off on cartoon porn, cartoons or animations save for comic illustrations by BDSM innovator Gord. But not being one to shun something different I oblige.

So it starts in an old school anime style, good caricature definition and a pretty straight forward but very well illustrated story. A girl – a virgin is captured by a Master and Mistress who decide to toy with her and make her a perfect slave cum slut. So a lot of real restrictive devices are used and this girl is shown the true art of domination.

This has never happened to me before, but I get hard. On fucking anime. Then Sub-Mistress S decides to feel my private Ryan and pain my nipples. The anime finished and I must say it’s a lot more impressive than a lot of porn out there.

I don’t watch porn though. Unless it’s something to do with Taylor Rayne or if it’s running at home and the guys are having a porno fest.

But I do watch erotica.

What’s the difference. Oh… there is a difference. A BIG fucking difference. One is chiseled from an artistically abstract mind with scenarios thought out that are truly mind altering and fetishistically(if there is such a word) enrapturing. The other (porn) is one two many similar scenarios, predictable, at times well shot and doesn’t sound like people are losing their marbles in the name of every cliché in the book. But more often than not, it’s very feeble, just a what you see is what you get thingy that works once in a blue neon moon.

There is nothing like feeling like you’re about to lose it. The spirit engulfed by the body. The mind that values power and control. The dark and uninhabited parts of your sublime. The otherside. The reality that shatters the illusion. That place where you touch the crown of purpose. This isn’t about the shade that is swallowed by the light. This is about the honest, fatally primitive yet evolving emotions nestled, provoked and pushed to the point of no return. Having said that I have no issue with porn. I just prefer erotica because I find it has relevance, it has a deeper meaning than what’s depicted on the surface, it’s dirty, it’s pure… it’s real. It gives the word Fuck a new face, new tears, a new smile. It gives passion a visceral seductive confidence – that you have control over dominating or control over your subjugation. If you think its about some fucked up fascination of seeing people suffer – it’s not. If you think it’s about getting your load off and been taken seriously – playing God or the Devil – it’s not. It’s not a game. It’s not some role playing scene.

It’s about believing in suspense. In the unpredictable. In the mystery of unlocking new doors and windows. Your singular moment of truth: where you’re either overwhelmed by being masterfully in control or in ecstatic, euphoric helplessness.

We go through one of my fetish and BDSM photo albums and are both turned on: and its strange ‘cos there’s a strange kind of feeling watching these things while being together with an individual who gets this world. Someone who isn’t narrow minded, a one trick pony, a traditionalist or a nymphomaniac who wants to get it over with faster than a blink of an eye. It almost feels like there’s a third person in the scenario. Not much of a scenario – we are at home in the dead heart of a Monday afternoon; me with a dysfunctional injured hand absolutely turned on and Sub-Mistress S being stimulated intensely.

I need to test my level of resilience. I need to see how innovative I can be. So I do what any good Master would do… I search for tools. Instruments of virtue. I also will see how I handle this sudden sexual episode minus one hand.

I undress my hand and blindfold her with my crepe bandage. Actually I mummify her face, taking out her eyes, her speech and her hearing. For those who get a kick out of asphyxiation; she started to lose herself. I kiss her neck, suck her ears… run my tongue along her shoulder blades then command her to take her shorts off and get down on her knees. She complies. All good slaves do, really. No. All perfect slaves do.

Perfect is open to interpretation. So is slave.

Now keep in mind that she can’t really make a sound or breathe easily… On her knees with her legs spread wide open I whisper to her to spread her knees and start fingering herself. Her other hand is coiled around my cock like a serpent wrapped around a sacred alter. So her first task is simple. Be in control of her predicament. Pleasure me while pleasuring herself. She shan’t dare stop. She must keep the motion of both hands in the same rhythmic pattern. The same tempo. The same speed. Then seated on the chair I ask her whose slave she is: she gives the right answer. Then I ask her to thrust and pleasure more frantically. I whisper and ask her to feel free to make any sound she desires. And she moans, groans and utters incoherent words I reach with my good hand and start massaging one of her nipples. The moaning continues. It builds then drops. It rises then ceases. I ask her again whose slave she is: she replies correctly.

Then I ask her whose slut she is: she replies correctly again.

Now her legs are burning out of the position she is in… she can’t make much sound… she can’t see a thing… but can feel and all her senses are now prised open. Her throat must feel parched. And her mind was anyway in a place most mortals are forbidden to go to. She was having a blast. I wasn’t in a mood to complain.

Then I ask her gently to shove four of her fingers into her pussy. After a moment of hesitance she thrusts away. The other hand despite the strain must continue to pleasure me. I use both my hands to foment her nipples and behold the muffled sounds of seamless pleasure build and build to a crescendo.

I then suddenly ask Sub-Mistress S in complete euphoric madness to stop. To have perfect posture and remain completely still. She mourns something. I can’t hear her. After a few seconds I tell her to take off again. This time faster. With more persistence. And she does. When she reaches a climatic peak I get her to stop and remain completely motionless again. I place my injured hand on her face pushed it back so her head is pointing up, I make sure she doesn’t lose balance and then let my fingers crawl and slide in and out with hers.

She’s as wet as winter.

Very soon she is on top of me, we are on a chair and flesh embraces flesh, souls entwined, minds bleeding into one and we thrust slowly at first, very slowly then vehemently, then dropped and slow once again… then a build… then a fluctuated yet calculated drop.

Then I ask her to stop and she is back on her knees. I unwrap her face and leave it only as a complete blindfold. Her nose and ears taken too. But her mouth experiences freedom again. For a little while at least.

With both her hands feeling, squeezing and ripping my nipples out of my body she deep throats me. And I welcome it. My chest burns. But my mind loves it. And how she sucks away like there’s no tomorrow. With some force I keep her head down for a few moments so she starts to drool all over and chokes. Then she continues to suck away without objection. Once again I am impressed.

Sub-Mistress S loves asphyxiation and so despite having to take breaths from her mouth – that proves to be a little difficult for her ‘cos her mouth is full. It’s full of me. I trail my fingers through my lips and then glide my injured hand into her anal region and then in. My hand is now in pain. Then she’s back on top of me. And bodies interlace and ebb and flow like two spirits dancing in the shadows of light. Shifting gears but despite the impossible sensation of throbbing versus the tickling (‘cos once there’s saliva on a guy’s private – it starts to react more sensitively) – but she doesn’t stop. I don’t stop either. I am on the edge of discovering nirvana and I realize the bare, hall (though empty save for us two fuckers is our official work space) isn’t the place for this. Anyone could drop by, pop by or decide to visit – and besides I was starting to feel like Christian Troy (Plastic Surgeon and unethical female aphrodisiac) from the awesome TV Series Nip/Tuck. I am many things but I am also supposed to be one of the responsible, practical Directors of our Agency with enough moral fiber to not let myself give into such needs during work hours.

I can justify it. But then I’ll ruin my bad boy image. So I feel I could at least convert this potential threat to anything other than a weakness and so ONLY then do I make certain the front door is bolted shut. My ethical side hasn’t yet forgiven me by the way.

Thereafter I give Sub-Mistress S a simple proposition. If we are to continue she should walk with her blindfold on her own through the hall and past all other corridors, sections and make it to my room without any sight or assistance from me for which she would be rewarded. “Yes, Master” hisses out of those darkening lips and she sways like a marionette with her sense impaired and I must say rather brilliantly finds her way to my bedroom and then on to my bed. There was no grumbling, no fuss made when she collided with any objects and gracefully made it past all obstacles to her sanctuary to be.

Once in the room I decide to not enforce any bondage – I was not going to restrict her arms and legs from movement this time. As an obedient slave she poses for me in her nude supremacy. She lies on the bed exposing her rear and expects a good flogging. I comply with the mutual silent urge and she mourns in a vortex of pleasured agony. I get some ice and gently run it all over her body, snaking it across every curve, every part and orifice. Then I kiss her and lick off the trail of water the ice had left behind.

Then the two naked bodies intertwine yet again except this time I am on top. I use my left hand to adjust my scepter into place inside her mercury induced alcove while I purposely use my injured right hand to keep my body in balance. I start to shudder as pain crashes through my arm. My body screams with a plea which I do not heed. My hand starts to throb but I ignore it and once my left arm is free I am back in balance. And so for what seemed to be an eternity of uncalculated bliss we re-created and re-defined the meaning of rapture… of sacrosanct elation… changing rhythms, dropping and raising the speed: it’s not my fault if I make it sound like a Prog Rock song!

Sub-Mistress S has dripped her mercury all over my bed and me and so I grab a t-shirt and clean us up, and clean her as well. After some more sensual flogging which she welcomes with her groans she is on her knees crawling about my room, on the floor reaching out for me. I watch in sadistic amusement as she crawls all over the room, knocking into things and (in fact don’t laugh but I went and took a leak, washed my private and returned) there she was divine as ever, blind to the world but still searching adamantly to reward her Master.

Back to power, passion play… We change the position to something otherworldly but it worked and so rocking back and forth, thrusting so the bodies are in a coiled embrace we have intercourse for awhile more. After a few more position changes – I tilt her so she’s almost off the bed, but I am stopping her from falling off… She wraps her legs around me as I use my hands to take the full force and take the weight of both bodies. Pain rips through my injured hand and I see cosmic oceans of light and colors. But with the shuddering, haunting pain comes the bliss – and where the two feelings meet is where pain becomes exalted and a part of the ritual. I swear I thought my wrist would just snap and the bones would protrude out of its skin but it held on… it stayed faithfully in tact all through the hurt… the hell… the tempest.

Then a leather collar is applied to her neck and it also works as an asphyxiating instrument as I tug at it, she loses air. We assume another position where Sub-Mistress S is at the brink of the bed like a pirate balancing on the tip of a plank and I wrap my legs around her this time. She restricted my good hand from any movement. Now the interesting thing is that we were positioned in a way that if she was about to fall, I had to use all the strength of my injured hand to tug at the collar so she gets an indication to swing forwards and not back.
Now how twisted is that? While blending into one solid motion if she shifted somewhat or I did she would fall – then with one hand I had to tighten the collar so she would pull back into a less threatening position. But with my injured hand. As the biting pain trickled up and down my body, as the bones on my right hand wailed for mercy, as my mind fought between the euphoria and the insanity of it all – I kept tugging at the collar and my hand plunged into a very, very insincere and morbid place. It hurt like hell. But it felt unbelievable.

Naturally a great many hours had waltzed us by... I ask her how she feels… She asks me how it feels which she had momentarily forgotten she is not supposed to do. She deserves one final punishment divine and so I ask her to open her mouth as wide as possible and gag her with a sturdy leather belt- the blindfold is still on mind you. She has to pleasure herself with four fingers inside her, the other stroking the scepter. I angle her so she can still resume what she’s doing undeterred and slip four of my fingers into her as well. With saliva dripping from her bound mouth and sounds that would have petrified Danni Filth away S seemed to be loving every savory fracture in time.

With the gag taken out she deep throats me once more. And this time I climax; my first but also it’s so electric I felt like my astral body shattered out of the physical and soared to the four corners of the earth. Finally we lie panting, gaining our strength, our rationale and principals back into focus. Mondays are usually hectic but this particular day gave the word ‘hectic’ a new meaning.

I am staring at my bandaged hand – which seems to be still echoing through the passages of unparalleled pain. I can’t help but think of the unparalleled pleasure when the two extremities, the rapid emotions of pain and pleasure met and drowned in perfect (dis)harmony. The fuel and the fire. The wind and the rain. The earth and her tears. I for one will always think twice before complaining about Mondays again.

Somehow Alice in Chains’ dark, lamentation ‘Heaven beside You, Hell Within’ keeps looping in my head.

Whatever you choose to call it – the point is Sub-Mistress S and I both agree that it was the purest thing we’d experienced in a LONG time. It was a sacred Monday. And I wouldn’t change a thing.

FUCK.