10 Jun We are not your pretty

Pumped up. Adrenaline is shooting through my body already.
We are changing the plans. I’m furious, and my focus has shifted. Furious at the world, protective of you. Protective enough that I want to hurt you
You sink into my ropes but I keep you unbalanced, keeping you on the ground, making it hurt. Fuck the pretty suspensions they want to see. Fuck the circus, I want to hurt you. I’m not here to close myself into a pretty palace of staying nice.
I don’t need to use much force, but the extra pressure in both of us, I can feel it feeding what we are doing when I grip your wrists and breathe out painfully slowly as I push the wrists together and tie them. It could be fast, I want it more painful than fast.

If someone tells you, when you are dancing and laughing with your partner in ropes, that you might disturb or offend onlookers, you know what; I want to do exactly that. Because that laughter and the silliness and then the joy of our mutually beneficial sadomasochistic practices are two sides of the same coin. When I see you in pain, a pain that I have inflicted on you, it crash into my belly, like a white, bubbling, wave of the sea. It could be also described as oil, like dark slick oil, when we meet those elements of who we are that we don’t let out very often. But this time, the sun is high, it is also high summer and the air is easy to breath. It feels, yes it does feel like the strong currents of the sea that results in waves rolling over us. Because our bodies are working, yours with processing pain and mine with administering it, we are sweating, the sweat trickling down into my eyes, the sunblock making my eyes hurt just a bit. Your eyes are closed, you see now only with your skin, that raw skin which I am rubbing with this rope, pressing, moving, pulling. The coil of rope I unravel is flying through my hands snapping at the inside of your leg. Shivers travels through your body as you wimper, first I feel it in my chest, then it travels through the rope, making it all the way to the uplines attached to the chest tie. The ring moves, the sun hits it and blinds me for a moment. You are still shivering. My hand grips your jaw, your eyes open and meet mine; I’m here, still going to hurt, and you can take it. I know you can. You stop shivering. We have not said a word.

A counter tension, your leg is pulled outwards, away from you, pulling horizontally, hovering right above the ground. Mark this moment. Torture is not about force. Torture is drawn out moments of tension, with even smaller moments of release, the ones that bring you a breath without pain and a slight thought, that this might be over. It is not. You are not getting away, the respite is only momentarily. My fingernails running across your stretched leg, I want you to shake, to shiver, to show what they can be offended about. Fuck them and their pretty, their children they want to protect by me not offending them me and my partners joy in this pain they have no power over. If they are so scared about the children, learn how to speak to them. I’m so fucking fed up about them acting as if their world is the one I should adapt to, to bend over, to kneel and to pray at the altar of their offspring.

Another countertension, in how many ways can I pull your body? In as many ways as I could break it. I won’t. Because we want to do this again. We will do this again.


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