Marked flesh – a photo essay

One of the many things I missed when my relationship with Adonis ended was his skill with sharp and pointy objects. From scratching with hat-pins to deliberate designs with porcupine quills to carefully planned and executed cuttings with scalpels, the pain and pleasure and delicious results were something I sorely missed.

I’ve chosen not to let anyone other than Adonis do that to me – it’s something peculiarly his and mine. There’s trust involved, but also the feedback of verbal and physical communication. The awareness that he knows what he’s doing and it’s turning me on but he’ll stop if I ask it, or pause if I need it.

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Sadistic Moments

There are moments that stay with me throughout the evening. Moments that I endeavour to hold onto, to clasp within my fingers and not lose in the rush of pain, of endorphins, of submission. Some are captured by the camera for later. Some are held only behind my eyelids.

There is Dionysos: slowly and deliberately rolling up the (crimson red) sleeves of his shirt, the fabric folding over and over as his forearms are revealed. There is me, kneeling before him: sharply chided as my eyes slide sideways to see what Kiana is doing. There is me, my face reddening as my eyes snap back to focus on his; his scowl; his fingers folding his shirt-sleeves.

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A Hard Day’s Play – Part 2

In this post: I get a great beating, and Aphrodite joins in the torment.

“Lie on your front,” Adonis orders me. I turn and sprawl on the ragged remains of my clothes. “I’m feeling violent today, and I’m not going to go easy on you.”

I nod, my head twisted on the pillows. “I know. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

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