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You go to Him as a trembling supplicant might, on bruised knees and with the stripes from His lash still fresh upon your skin.
"Domine, non sum dignus, ut intres sub tectum meum, sed tantum dic verbo, et sanabitur anima mea..."
You taste the brine of your own sweat in your mouth because it has been a great effort to hold those two heavy books aloft on your palms for so long.
Only your eyes plead for mercy and release. You cannot speak. Little did you know that a ball gag would force you to slaver so. Your warm spittle gathers at the corners of your mouth and cascades down your lovely neck and the torso of your trembling naked body in warm, frothy rivulets.
Your head is held erect by a leather harness -- an intricate web of leather straps and metal buckles. It is attached by a taut piece of rope to the jarringly cold stainless hook thrust deeply into your anal canal.
The range of motion in your head and neck is severely restricted. When you try to rest your chin upon your chest the great hook buries itself more deeply still inside you. It is more than you can take, but you crave every inch nonetheless.
Every muscle aches. As you shimmy toward the Vicar on those poor, battered knees you become suddenly aware of the small stainless steel vices still pinching your nipples.
They're heavier now than they were thirty minutes ago, when He first secured them to your breasts after what seemed like an eternity of suctioning. So hard did the Vicar work that a small droplet of pearly white fluid blossomed on the skin and dripped slowly down the curvature of your perfect breast.
Your nervous eyes dart about the room. They settle on a table, upon which is set a silver tray. Your vision traces the contours of a single perfect rose, large and crimson red, the stem of which stands inside a slender clear vase. Next to that is a gleaming stainless champagne bucket, filled to the brim with ice.
That, you think to yourself, is the strange sound you have been hearing -- the cubes in the steel pail crackling in the rising heat of the chamber and clinking against one another, jostling for space. A small bottle sits nestled in the center of the bucket. Around it, arranged like sentries, stand two formidible pyrex dildos and three tapering plugs of varying sizes, each one crafted of amber-colored glass and half-buried in the ice.
You shiver. You know that, in a short while, the Vicar will untie the knot that binds the hook to the harness on your head. He will slowly and methodically remove the great balled hook from your well stretched porta. He will blindfold you, flog you hard with forty deerskin tresses and then drop a large, silvery dollop of ice cold lubricant between your reddened cheeks.
Then the Vicar will probe you, moving from the smallest to the largest of the freezing plugs as you struggle valiantly but fruitlessly against your restraints and labor against the gag in your mouth. Finally you will yield to the gelid thrust of the two glass monsters in the pail, the second of which will warm itself deep inside you while the Vicar uncorks the chilled split of Veuve Clicquot and fills His glass to sip.
And here you thought that Hell was always hot....
Your Infernal Confessor has been strangely silent this night. You long to hear the sound of His sonorous voice, but He withholds. The silence sharpens your desire. Perhaps if I am especially good, you think, He will recite for me, command me, excoriate me, read to me with His boots resting upon my back like His footstool.
You gasp at the first touch of His gloved hand. There is still so much more work to be done...
Experienced and articulate Gentleman in his early fifties -- broad of shoulder, tall of stature, blue of eye -- seeks the company of a woman of wit, style and substance for mutually enlivening play. I will be Father Confessor to your trembling penitent, stern Teacher to your ill-behaved and recalcitrant pupil, strict Daddy to your naughty girl, Master to your slave, Pen to your vellum.
If you are are looking for strict monogamy please look elsewhere. I will not be, because I cannot be, your ladder out of a bad vanilla marriage or a failing monogamous relationship. That's not who I am. My ideal partner is poly and pansexual -- and willing to switch with everyone but me.
Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together
Thoughts so all unlike each other;
To mutter and mock a broken charm,
To dally with wrong that does no harm.
Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty
At each wild word to feel within
A sweet recoil of love and pity.
And what, if in a world of sin
(O sorrow and shame should this be true!)
Such giddiness of heart and brain
Comes seldom save from rage and pain,
So talks as it's most used to do.
"People who avoid facing facts are bounded by phantoms." - Aleister Crowley, Diaries (October 25th, 1939)
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