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The muse and the painter

Written by Alessia schiava di Djablo.

Silence distressing provide fire ice the pain. Everything blurs the exact moment when darkness falls , the darkness . My head is wrapped in a black bag . The ritual takes place . Four rings to the wall as if we were in the dungeons of a castle. Bare feet are sculpted from the cold floor. One by one, my limbs are wrapped in sturdy leather . A click , a dangling chain , the body is stretched to avoid instinctively look for a vague shelter.

His steps , his smell , I locked bitch ready to become his canvas , I muse, painter Him . The wait stiffens and makes me nervous . Beginning to puff air from the mouth impatient. The arts thesis , hands that cling to the bare steel chains . I wonder when the "brush" will fall on me. Even the wait is part of the game, his game. Other steps , here is approaching. I'm naked , we , my flesh is now ready.

A snap , like a lightning fills my head . Apparently no pain, actually the pain more acute. The whiplash that you do not touch the body but the mind, falls apart , it triggers fear. That crazy waiting made ​​of cold sweats, questions , doubts . The shot , the one that scratches , does not arrive, I feel insane . His caress on the skin as it makes me furious . I can not pretend . A slave does not want to , he claims , a slave desires. He plays the puppet master juggler with my fear with the grueling wait . Is close to me and caress me . Noooo cry from me, Take me, hit me , graffiami are exposed defenseless . Tender meat aspen , are yours. Other passages , other expectations .

Fire! E 'come before the sudden " stroke " . The opera begins, the thin end of his whip hits me with extreme precision , envelops me as to want to cut. Another , and another, fire , lava , the skin is rubbed on the vertebrae . A breast , a buttock , side, his "work " has begun. I stand on tiptoe . The note and punctual with a lick of leather sadism relegates even the sole of the foot. As a painter, he also painted the frame crowds . Abstract arabesque intersect on my body. I can not scream , I'm dumb , I'm struggling with my pride bitch bastard . My belly is painful burns with sin , I want to cry but trembling resist flaunting courage. The artist does not have any mercy , never leaves incomplete works and I, your muse , your canvas will feel the power of the imagination. I would, I would like to look into his eyes pinched, I would like to lick your hand through the crowds which gives me pain.

The work is complete. Her hand soft touching my skin swells , describes the signs that my view can only imagine. My head is in oblivion , I hear choirs of hell, and I guess I feel the sabbath ebre dancers whirl of passion and cut through the air . I come unhooked , collapse on him , that now envelops me , caress me , the adrenaline has faded now leads the passion of a kiss on the hair. Now , yes now , I cry happy to be fulfilled to become yet another of his works, he dresses me with a cloth, it takes me in his arms, resting her head on his shoulder and close my eyes .

My pleasure will come later, when I can only caress each sign and enjoy his present absence. One way to have him with me , and always through the signs , his seal of artist 's pain. And ' maybe this madness ? I won my paradise , and if it were folly will always be clear and true . I can still feel the smell of the whip merge with that of my desire to be still his flesh .

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