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By (user no longer on site) OP
over a year ago
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I see her pussy convulse, twitch, pulsing with rhythm, drips of wetness evident, like tear drops from her womb - as she used her fingers and the bottle in her other orifice - as if Carl Orff was inside her conducting his brilliant and famous Cantata of orgasmic decadence.
It was debased. Hedonism. Sexual flagellation. Crude to some, perfection to us, offensive to most, and still yet ecstasy to others - but here, to all of us, she was being punished. Perfectly punished in the honour of the Marquis. Ceding her sexuality, her feminism to a holy perversion.
It was the Chalice of Redemption; the name of the glass bottle she was using. She called to her known yet unknown god, begging him to give her permission to come...begging. She wanted to come, wanted her vagina to weep; weep tears marked with the orgasm of whores lest we forgot to earn his forgiveness.
We all did.
I needed too. We all have house names; never our real names, sometimes no names at all. Krishna; lover of many men - that's her House name - her legs are spread, restrained with Sika deer leather straps, exposing the pinkness of her flesh. In and out, deep and deeper.
Hysteria.
"Please...please let me come...I'm begging you...please..." Her soft delicate whimpers echoing erotically in the stillness, like the thunderous deafening flaps of a butterfly's wings in your ears. Powerless too escape. Fluttering chaotically hoping... no not hoping, longing ... longing for this freedom, but true freedom was only gained by pain. I know this now.
How can one gain true pleasure without shedding tears of deep pain?
Her husband looked on, gazed upon the tormented body of his wife.
Total anonymity; even debauchery has its rules, money buying discretion, but I recognised Krishna's body and her husband’s phallus. The way her labia minora curls like a crumpled flower where it once emerged into an unfolding rose. She allowed me to delicately taste it in one of our ritual sessions. Allowed me to reach in her inner folds plucking the hidden nectar. Made me open my mouth as she came, told me that night she still finds new pleasures and until that stops her lust for it will never end. First time I saw a woman writhe in so much pleasure. Second time I tasted a woman’s come. The first time…
I glance at him, our Master. He just stares, motionless; a perverse almost holy fire flickering deep within his eyes, hidden behind the Venetian mask. He owned me - willingly, owned all of us. We were his slaves. Husbands, wives, mistresses, boyfriends, girlfriends - we gave him our all - our soul and he gave us the beautiful bestiality, the bold submission, the gentle yet puissant dominance - every dark pleasure our minds could conceive, he gave it life and we did as well. We needed no more fig leaves to cover our naked bodies now marred in darkness. With him we knew no more sin. They weren't any trains of jealousy between us. He told us - "If one desires to be a Slave of Pleasure, to travel it's true journey, then one must be stripped of his identity." He was very strict about this. He took our names, even our history. He made us confess our sins in the Room of Deliverance, made us reveal our hidden shames and nightmares. Decadent confessions, which would never see the light of day in normal society, had to be revealed in the RoD - and our desires. It was his way of taking our indulgences, our deepest minds. Fin de siècle – degeneration to erotic new beginnings. He saw to it.
We had to be initiated; collared into The Pleasure House of Darkness as this was our calling.
"Seek pleasure!" he commanded, "seek the hidden wonders and knowledge which the universe offers with open hands. Let the journey; the unknown quicken your dead pulse..." Krishna erupted.
Her voice breathless. Her shaven ebony pussy avidly and frantically throbbing like a euphoric madman, speaking to her ass which seemed to be keeping the same pulsing rhythm, revealing to the world that God must be real, because he created orgasms.
We all craved her madness, her religious connection. The rhythm causing her cum to run onto the Altar. The Master walked over, taking the bottle which fell onto the altar and gave it to someone who stood in the crowd of masked robed people. Unable to tell if they were male or female, they took it, sucked on it. A sign of what was to begin; a decadence of fire. Secretly each of us wanted to be her. To be burnt and ripped by sensuality, tormented by desires anger, gripped by passions brimstone flames until we are forever no more.
Krishna would be left there, tied onto the Altar of Decadence, a captive in her finery, a prisoner of her delectable sins for any and all to use her as they wished. Her breasts, vagina, mouth; every orifice, no body part spared or hole granted remission. A blank canvas to be painted on again and again until she was truly used, until each artist had filled her with every luxurious colour lust had on its ancient palette. A free being, rippling across the ocean of natural undulating desire and pleasure. This was real carnality, not fantasy. This was the living and loving of our dark fantasies. Fantasies which would horrify, shock and repulse.
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