<b>Shaved</b>
The ancient Egyptians believed that hair was unholy. Since hair grew, it represented the passage of time, but the gods were endless and, so, lived outside of time. Egyptian priests shaved all the hair on their bodies (even their eyebrows) before entering their temples so that they wouldn't offend the gods.
Unlike the Egyptians, I like life in time. I like the bristling feel of your hair as it grows. It tickles my tongue, cock and hands as I use you. These bristled textures make you seem more childlike or like a small pet. These dependent images make we want to care for you as one would a favorite daughter or kitten. But the very helplessness inherent in these images drives my desire to dominate and abuse, to create new tortures and humiliations for you.
You are my child. My bristling toy. My purring Abyssinian. Your pussy slick with shaving foam. Your neck going loose as I run the dog clippers across your scalp. Your hair drifts in amber clumps to the floor. You're shedding time as I shave you. I bring you closer to the gods when I remove these vestiges of the temporal world.
Every encounter we have is designed to move you outside of time, with beauty and danger. I don't believe in gods, so all my offerings are, ultimately, for you. This is the irony of power. The gods don't exist without worshippers. Power and dominance are nothing without someone to command. Your flesh is my temple. Your blood and sweat are sacramental wine. My cock or the tip of a crop on your tongue is your Eucharist. Handcuffed, blindfolded and shaved, you are the Vatican, the Sphinx, the sacrificial cenote at Chichen Itza.
In this moment of suspension, in non-time, I move over you, savoring the sleekness of your skin and the animal feel of the small patches of hair I've permitted you. I give you new marks to register your passage through this world. This is what we can do before time finally catches us and turns our hair, our eyes and our bones to dust.
The ancient Egyptians believed that hair was unholy. Since hair grew, it represented the passage of time, but the gods were endless and, so, lived outside of time. Egyptian priests shaved all the hair on their bodies (even their eyebrows) before entering their temples so that they wouldn't offend the gods.
Unlike the Egyptians, I like life in time. I like the bristling feel of your hair as it grows. It tickles my tongue, cock and hands as I use you. These bristled textures make you seem more childlike or like a small pet. These dependent images make we want to care for you as one would a favorite daughter or kitten. But the very helplessness inherent in these images drives my desire to dominate and abuse, to create new tortures and humiliations for you.
You are my child. My bristling toy. My purring Abyssinian. Your pussy slick with shaving foam. Your neck going loose as I run the dog clippers across your scalp. Your hair drifts in amber clumps to the floor. You're shedding time as I shave you. I bring you closer to the gods when I remove these vestiges of the temporal world.
Every encounter we have is designed to move you outside of time, with beauty and danger. I don't believe in gods, so all my offerings are, ultimately, for you. This is the irony of power. The gods don't exist without worshippers. Power and dominance are nothing without someone to command. Your flesh is my temple. Your blood and sweat are sacramental wine. My cock or the tip of a crop on your tongue is your Eucharist. Handcuffed, blindfolded and shaved, you are the Vatican, the Sphinx, the sacrificial cenote at Chichen Itza.
In this moment of suspension, in non-time, I move over you, savoring the sleekness of your skin and the animal feel of the small patches of hair I've permitted you. I give you new marks to register your passage through this world. This is what we can do before time finally catches us and turns our hair, our eyes and our bones to dust.
dia:
i'm too drugged to read your entry, so I'm peeing text as a bookmark.