Tonight was a mind fuck as much as it was a fuck. When I said I needed a couple of hours to be able to sit down and stop my head from swimming, I meant days. But I've stretched out seven shots of tequila since seven o'clock, I've just taken three more, and the glow has dissipated enough to get this down. Normally I would just write this in longhand. All of these times in a room with Greg, go into my journal.
I've never shared what we do in the room and when I say room, I mean playroom I've written around it, in second/third person in some of my other stories but they were mostly just stories. I've never shared what's in my journal (the paper one), just didn't occur to me to do it. But, I received a lot of questions lately about my lifestyle why it is Greg and I are together when we seem to have so many problems from the outside, and this is a big reason why.
Have you ever-surrendered total control of your being your body your mind your soul and the skin that holds it all together to another person? If you never have, you've just never found the right person, and you should start today. I say that because, I've never felt more alive, more dead, more pain, more joy, more dread, more fuck than I have under Greg's control. Ahh yes, I am his sub never have been in any other relationship, but Greg's not like any other relationship. I'll give you a brief description of the fleshy sweaty machines involved so you can better picture who were are, and just what it looks like when we do the things we do to each other.
I'm 6 ft 1 in. But I'm lanky not skinny, just no available fat whatsoever, I don't work out a lot, just lift some weights to tone, actually the diabetes keeps any extra weight off. I usually weigh in at 160, but since Jack's death last week I've somehow managed to lose nearly 8 pounds. Normally I have black hair on my head (I am just about hairless everywhere else) when I don't shave my head. I have a lot of tattoos. I have six piercings in total well now it's five, I took out the nose piercing for the funeral, and haven't put it back in. The rest, well they're other places.
Greg is 6 ft 4 in. He's not over-built at all just completely, totally right in everyway when it comes to his form he maintains himself very well. He's usually around 250, and he has red hair. But his head is always shaved he used to shave his eyebrows too, but doesn't now, and has grown back his goatee. He's got three piercings most of which I love is the tongue piercing, because it can just do amazing things to my cock. He's got some pretty amazing blue/black eyes, they change colors with whatever he's wearing. He's got a left nipple ring, and a snake tatt that comes from his right shoulder and curls underneath his right pec.
We were lucky. Zeke's friend Trey Zeke is a pretty messed up cat had a playroom (I fucking hate the word dungeon), had the tools, and had the time. Greg had been mad at me all night, and all day, for what I never figured out. He's best in the room when we've just had a fight. He's part apology, and compassion the other part just wants to punish me some more, wants his pain to be my pain. He's best in the room when we've just had a fight.
Throughout this I'm including some of the things that Greg says during he's originally from Germany, moved from there when he was 14 to California he absolutely refuses to speak in German unless we're in the room. Mostly because his native language takes him some place deeper, mostly because I can't understand some of it, and it's that surprise, him telling me what he's going to do to me, and I can't understand it the lilt of his accent can hide danger, it can also make fear grow in your stomach or send it straight to your dick. Greg was kind enough to write some of this down for me.
Haltlos -- Groundless
There's preparation, a ritual involved before we ever go into the room. For Greg it's polishing his Docs, and shaving his head again. It doesn't matter if he just did it an hour ago; he does it again. Me? I just make sure my body is ready. Whenever we are going to the room, we don't talk. We don't say a word. I won't even look at Greg, but he's looking at me.
This afternoon it was hot and muggy, and my nerves were stretched, exposed, bleeding, and burning in the air because of everything that's happened. If I could paint you a picture, my soul, my self would be a full glass of water. And that glass would be sitting right at the edge of the table, and each time someone walks by the glass is moved by the vibrations, closer to the edge. And this afternoon, the physical pain from last night's fight had just subsided when somebody with heavy, heavy footsteps walked by and my glass tipped and started the swoon down water spilling out, the glass determined to break all of its bones on the marble floor and that was me, right after I suggested we find a room.
halt mich stop me
There's nothing like the look on my man we he knows that he's got me. There's nothing like the thunk, and the squeak of a sharp turn of his boots when he's coming for me. Nothing makes me harder than his four fingers and thumb like angry slow pistons digging into my shoulder to guide me into the room. I wanted so badly to touch him, to lean up against him and grab his crotch through his jeans, and rub up and down the length have him wrap his arm around my chest and crush me to him suck on the side of my neck, and push me forward and bend me over a chair
But that's everyday. The room isn't everyday, and when he's leading I can't touch, only if I'm told I can. So I stood there, all five pistons cranking into the muscle just under my neck, and he was standing so close that I could feel the hard edge of his cock through his jeans. It was barely touching the crack of my ass, and it took everything in my soul not to lean back in that grip and take what I wanted.
Greg leaned his head ever so slightly and whispered into my ear, 'Erregen Sie mich nicht' - Do not provoke me.
Each deep vowel pounded in my dick, like a pulse like an electric eel wrapped around my cock that would squeeze with each syllable.
binde du binds you
Trey's room was wonderful. He had a beautiful fir St. Andrew's cross, with a detachable butterfly chair, a T-post, some very nice leather restraints chains tools, and most importantly some excellent knives.
Okay now, only the most experienced top, should ever, ever, use knives. Because no matter how good you are there's always the possibility to trip, to fall into your partner to kill them. If you are going to do some knife play, use only the flat end and a duller blade as with anything, this is an art it's not about injury for injuries sake, and if you bleed for more than ten minutes, get a fever or a rash go to the hospital. And for god sakes, if you're not experienced enough use a neuro wheel, make some vampire gloves just leave the knife play to an expert.
I had to put that in there just because I had too.
Greg was excited to see the knives they were German, I don't remember the brand, and usually Greg won't handle anything but his own knife which is a Boker Applegate boot knife, but evidently he's worked with whatever Trey had, might have been a Linder, because he picked it up and smiled. My heart twisted, my stomach rose up to meet it, and I felt like I was going faint. Greg just steadied me, and rubbed the back of my neck while he hefted the knife and I swear with each heartbeat, I kept breathing out and not in.
Greg sneered, Trey quietly backed out of the room, and he dimmed the lights. And here's where the mind fuck begins.
Fessle mich Provoke me
Greg took a CD out of his goody bag the infamous black duffle. It was the Schindler's List soundtrack. Now that may sound weird, and it is fucking weird and messed up considering my background, and Greg's background because normally the room is just Beethoven, Symphony No. 9 in D minor, nothing like this. Greg flipped through some tracks, pushed play and then repeat. He turned to me, and I know this now because I asked him.
OFY'N Pripetshok / Nacht Aktion was playing. It's sung in Yiddish and it's about learning the ABC's well that sounds stupid when you say it like that but I don't know Yiddish, and it's children's voices singing this and I just kept getting images from the movie, and Greg's coming at me, the knife is at his side and we've begun it's all begun.
He reaches with his right hand and clamps down, holding me where I'm at, and that track of the children singing, and the tragically sad mellow one that follows has just repeated for the first time, and he brings the knife forward with his left hand gives that small cock to his head, and he's concentrating. He pulls me forward the tiniest bit and the knife, not the tip, but the edge is resting at the top of my chest. And there's nothing I can write that can impart the feeling of a blade so close to your neck, and you know there's nothing you can do the mercy is not in the knife it's in the man holding. My cock was full, up and down and in the two seconds it takes Greg pulls my t-shirt out just a tiny bit with this other hand, and in a flick he's run the knife from neck to navel through the shirt and suddenly I feel air.
His hand the one holding the knife is pressed tip up on my dick mirroring the position, and I dare not breath, because if my stomach expands it will push into the tip and I'll get cut.
Du offnen sich zu mir - You will open to me
And because this is the room, and we are who we are Greg pulls me into him, turns the knife at the last second so the tip doesn't puncture my stomach, but I can still feel the cold clinical steel, and a tiny burn where I know the line of the blade has run along my stomach and I could cum right then and there. There's that one half-second where I thought I did, because my balls pulled tight and there was that camera flash squeeze, but I didn't because I'm not allowed too.
Greg still had the knife in between us, but his other arm was wrapped around my back keeping me there, and he started to kiss me. Softly at first, and not really kisses but tiny lip nips tiny bites that got harder and wetter as he began to move the knife again. When both of our mouths were completely open, and his tongue was doing just what the knife was doing invading, twisting, turning pushing into my soft palette. Greg turned the knife, his hard knuckles grinding into the tip of my cock through the jeans, and as he was turning the knife he cut off the little metal button. I heard it hit the concrete floor in-between OYF'N Pripetshok and Natch Aktion and you have to understand, this is spooky this feels like a sin, doing this to this music but it's ethereal and beautiful too.
I hadn't been let up for air from his kiss, and I was starting to get light-headed when my knees slipped that tiniest bit, Greg managed to get the knife in-between my jeans and my flesh (commando only way to go), and with the non business edge of the blade one cold hard line on my cock, the blade moves down in one motion and my zipper is forgotten as the front of my pants are sliced open. There's no air hitting my cock, because the hard handle of the knife is pressed up against it. And I'm going to swoon here
Ahhh writing this is so slow tonight I hurt everywhere, and can't sit for more than ten minutes at a time haha, I see the trip to Big Bend might have to wait until Thursday, because there's no way in hell I'm sitting in a car for that long. Even on a plane.
Don't get me wrong when I say sore and hurt I'm thinking loved and satiated being uncomfortable for a day is a price I'm more than willing to pay but I'm so fucking tired right now.. the darvacet just kicked in, and I can't even think anymore.
Tomorrow night and we'll finish the rest of my day.