DistantThunder
Posts: 48
Joined: 8/5/2004
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It is strange what people think about when they are lying on their backs staring at the buzzing, hissing tubes of hopsital lighting. Lying there with really nothing of great importance to to do except... well... lie there.
Unusual thoughts emerge such as... "I wonder how many tiles are in that ceiling?" or "I hope they need a urine sample soon, I REALLY need to go." and of course "Does the tin man from the Wizard of Oz have a little spout where he pees from and does it look the same as the one on top of his head?" Of course the primary thoughts that engulf one as they are lying there, nurses rushing around speaking in fast voices and doctors squeezing in various flirtations to the nurses between orders of "Give me 10 CC's of that green stuff..." or "Hurry up, I have an early Tee time in the morning..." is of course "I should have moved before the damn thing hit my head..."
Please, allow me to elaborate as to the events that have brought us to this harrowing moment in time.
It was early 2000 and I had been planning a scene with my ex-wife for several days and it is events just such as this which might go a long way towards explaining why she is called the "EX" wife, well events such as this and the fact that she often spoke to Joan of Arc that lived in her head (ENTIRELY DIFFERENT STORY... stay up with me here people and stop getting distracted)
Now, for those that have known me for some time here and the regular readers of my journals, it is a well known fact that I am often referred to as the "Imp". This is primarily due to the fact that I try and work naughty bits of humor into everything I do... I am a riot at school plays and funerals... This is because in my not so humble opinion, this lifestyle is about decadence, yes there is groovy sex, but let's face it, sex can be obtained through charm or if absolutely necessary a platinum American Express card on Main Street and as far as the sadism and masochism, take one hammer, aim at nail and miss... same effect. What I focus on is the luscious, thick and ambiant fact that within the secretive walls of this lifestyle we are allowed to be anything our obviously twisted minds can muster... within the SSC boundaries and quite frankly this should paint a smile on all of our faces simply per the fact that in BDSM terms, a whimper equals devilish grins, the spankings equal just earned rewards and wax is not just for candles anymore. Yet, my sense of humor also extends to the BDSM scenes that I put together (Please REMOVE the image of Robin WIlliams with a whip... thank you... the management.)
The evening had been heavy with anticipation, the candles lit, the bondage bench readied and the shackles set into the... Loves move the keyboards a bit, you are drooling *Grumbles a bit* Freaks... the shackles set into the wall with reinforced hooks carefully placed into the studs of said wall. She kneeled before me in a picture of shere radiance, the costumage was a carefully selected black keyhole teddy exposing the healthy mass of cleavage pushing its way up through the opening in the fabric, her hair carefully braided into two rows on the side of her head, allowing me a fuller view of her face.
Now, in advance of this event I had taken time to pre-set a few of the more intimidating devices to try and help alleviate her fears, she was still rather new to all of this and just the sight of some of the floggers, crops, single tails, tens units... Will you PLEASE stop drooling... would send her into hives. I am a nice Imp in that way. I had carefully worked the top of the flogger so that it would pop off at a given moment, the spoon I use to dribble wax onto flessh had had several holes drilled into it, things of these nature to give a more comical view of these tools of the trade. All of this to help calm her fears and to be quite honest, because I find that laughter is one of the most erotic sounds on the planet, the logic being that if a person is earnestly laughing, they are truly enjoying the moment, even if that is through tears of pain... Kind of explains why I am so often writing in here doesn't it... *Watches as several hundred wheels begin turning in unison and nod slowly*.
I will always remember the sound that the satin of the teddy made as it grazed the nylon fishnet pantyhose and her voice, filled with timidity as she said "Master, this girl awaits her instructions..."
Please keep in mind that humor is not simply throwing out a joke or a bit of slap-dash slapstick, timing is critical, hell timing is everything, so to simply jump straight to the punchline is much like pre-mature ejaculation... So I put on my best scary, stern face, sitting in my throne like chair with the velvet seat I had purchased for twenty bucks at a garage sale. Crossing my legs with a bit of aristocratic aries, I leaned back giving a level stare of evaluation. She was glorious, her blonde hair pulled back revealing her smooth skin, the way the candle light made shadows dance on her chest as it slid into the darker regions of the cleavage, the soft texture of her pale thighs... DAMN!!! Now I am drooling.
I gave a nonchalant wave of my hand towards the strangely shaped bottle of wine, delivering the simple order of "I am thirsty, resolve this." With a sense of absolute grace and pure intentions she crawled from her station on all fours to the bottle, performing one of the most perfect libation ceremonies I have ever seen, from the cleansing of the glass, to the pouring of the wine to the rising from the floor, walking to me, kneeling once more and offering it over her head in true homage, all of it was perfect.
I took a few sips, placing the glass next to me (A note for those curious, I HATE WINE... just thought I would mention that.) still observing her with a satisfied smile, it had taken a great deal of time and training to perfect these motions and I was filled with a pride in her that goes beyond this limited vocabulary we use.
Several other ceremonies of devotion were performed when I at last decided that it was time to reward her for her efforts with what she desired most and that was sensual pain... How I do love those masochists. So her wrists and ankles were carefully placed in the restraints and a rough kiss placed first on her mouth as I roughly bit and suckled at every morsel of skin I could see... I have a thing for biting.
I had decided that the recipe for the evening would first be a warm up of flesh to flesh spanking, then some soft flogging before we moved into the heavier flogging and cropping and all of this was simply the preshow for a some clover clamps, a zipper and a damn good waxing that should appease those masochist demons, at least for these weekend. Now, remember those pre-set humor elements I had done earlier? This had been done because of the newness of the clover clamps, my hopes of lifting the shroud of evil and darkness from their use and in my sincere hopes that she would be laughing too hard to truly notice the pressure on her nipples. See? Nice Imp.
I had just set the votive candles beneath the oil burner (You know those cheap oil burners you can get at dollar stores, I find they are FANTASTIC for melting wax evenly and if one takes a spoon they gain more control of the wax for use on a person instead of simply haphazzardly dripping wax on flesh... brilliant huh? Just a note of warning DON'T GET STEEL BURNERS I DON'T CARE HOW MUCH OF A BARGAIN THEY SEEM!!!) watching as the wax inside turned from little bricks into a smooth clear liquid and so it was when the last bit of brick first popped up from the bottom, floated for a moment on the surface and at last merged with the liquid around it I knew the time had come for the humor to be instituted before the big game.
Fate is a strange Mistress, her face hidden by a veil of mystery and her actions never revealed until the veil is lifted and it is never the face we expected to find, now is it? I could tell she was nervous as my open hand swung down on her G-string clad bottom, the tension in her muscles as each stroke caused her to tighten ever more and the heavy odor of sweat that clung to the air. I will never forget the expression of absolute determination in her eyes when I reached over for the flogger, the flogger I had "PRE-SET", yet hidden behind that look was a delicious sensation of fear, of knowing what would come next.
I had designed it so that when the time was right I could simply push my thumb into the base of the ball holding the tendrils (There is something to be said about cheaply made torture device made in Asian countries for comedic Imps) and the entire head would fly off. This would give room for humorous cursing, a bit of fumbling and remove that evil edge from the air... remind her that she was not simply with a Dominant, not simply with a friend, but with a man that truly loved her.
The road to Hell is paved with not just good intentions, but great intentions and so on the fifth or sixth downstroke I pushed at base of the tendril ball and just as I had planned the head of the flogger went flying off, slammed into the wall, knocked over the bottle of massage oil and made a resounding thud on the tile floor (Please keep the tile floor bit in your memories) and just as I had planned, her face parted in a beautiful, elated smile, made all the more wonderful by the release of tense laughter. I made some grumbling sounds, coupled with embarrassed apologies as I chased the head of the flogger around in the muck of the massage oil that had spilled and my plan was going PERFECTLY MWA HAHAHAHAHA!!!!
There was one thing I had failed to take into account during the planning of my "SCENE" you see, when massage oil spills onto a hard surface like oh... TILED FLOOR... you have made an environment better suited for hockey than half naked people playing kinky games. The soles of my boots were the next part of the problem, you see they had no known treads, well they did have treads in the most elementary of terms, but for all intensive purposes I was in leather socks... sloshing around in massage oil... purposely kicking the head of a flogger around Buster Keaton style.
I can still recall the strange sensation of weightlessness when my foot hit at just the right angle and at just the right spot. That "This is a strange sensation of weightlessness..." Thought as both of my legs slid out from underneath me and my next thought to myself was... "Myself, why are you feet horizontal to the wall and not on the floor where they so often are?"
Before myself could respond to such a RIDICULOUS question my shoulder felt the unique stabbing sensation of the edge of the table that was holding the stainless steel oil burner that was currently holding the melted wax... Newton would have truly been impressed by the demonstration of inertia, as one force put pressure on the end of an unstable surface, the equal amount of force was exerted on the opposite end of the object and since the fulcrum point of the object was NOT in fact the CENTER of the object the height of any materials ON the object currently in motion sent the materials into the air with an even greater force... i.e. when my shoulder hit the damn table everything went flying into the air, including the oil burner holding the wax which indeed hit the ceiling, sending hot wax raining down, that which didn't adhere directly to the ceiling (THAT was fun explaining to the landlord the day we moved out due to the impending divorce...) and this was all about the time my head impacted on the HARD tile floor.
It is strange, those moments of impending disaster, how everything seems to move in slow motion, giving us time to reflect on the multitudes of mistakes that had just been made. I believe this is so when we pass through the pearly gates and have to explain to Saint Peter how we got there, we can explain in detail what happened and as he wanders off in hysterical laughter to bring other saints over, point, hold his side and have you explain in detail to the other saints how you got there, you don't miss any details as THEY begin laughing.
The first thing to hit me was the hot wax, most of which was now on my face and had it NOT been for the impact of my head on the floor I am certain I would have been able to cover up before more ensuing damage could occur, but I was a bit stunned and watching... just watching as the stainless steel pot (NOT EVEN FOR A DOLLAR PEOPLE) did several cartwheels in the air as it rapidly descended on me. As I lay there watching these events play out, much like watching a victim in scary movie as she approaches the attic door, I thought to myself... "Myself, truly, what are the statistical chances of that stainless steel pot actually hitting me. I mean, given the square footage of the room and my smaller frame, what are the chances that nine inch in diameter, rather heavy, stainless steel pot is actually going to come down on YOUR head myself?"
Myself answered "Well yourself, considering the vast statistical chances that a fool would prearrange his own demise, slip on massage oil, land square on his back with wax currently hardening on his face and that he would be asking such STUPID question of himself... I'd say..." It was at that very moment that the bottom of the pot connected with my forehead... "Pretty damn good..."
In homage of quick release shackels I can only say that given the amount of time it took my ex-wife to release herself, get to the floor next to me in the quater inch of oily goo on the floor and begin lending tender care, between tears of laughter in her eyes, I'd say the ol' girl could easily apply for some form of BDSM olympics, if such a thing exists and let this be a lesson to all of you new arrivals to the wide world of kink, quick release shackles... buy them... live them... LOVE them.
It was not so much the hidden smiles or not so hidden laughter by the hospital staff nor was it the interrogation by the attending doctor herself that was so infuriating. Rather, it was the fact that my ex-wife, instead of concocting some story wherein a derange serial wax nut broke in and attacked me, she opted instead for the truth. Which, in itself, was nearly impossible to interpret through her guffaw laughter and a translator had to be brought in... I believe they were impervious to humor, so that they could understand why a grown man dressed in leather had a three inch gash in his head, but could have been much worse, oddly enough, if not for the protective layering of WAX that was now flaking on this freaks face. Even during the week that followed, despite the fact that I had SEEN to it that sitting would be an EXTREMELY uncomfortable act for her to do, all it took was seeing the stainless steel oil burner pot to send her to the floor, holding her side saying "What are the chances it would... WHA HAHAHAHA HIT YOU... IN THE... HEAD WHA HAHAHAHA!!!"
In retrospect, now that the scar has healed, the divorced was finalized and my slapstick is FAR more pre-planned, I can only say it was worth it, every painful second of it. As I said, laughter to me is like Prozac, it informs me that the person I am with is not just in a state of absolute joy, but it also resolves that ever itching question of "Is this a consensual act?" WELL DUH she's laughing...
So for all those new arrivals out there who are worried that you haven't the steel or mettle to be one of those glowering, glaring, leather-clad scary types... DON'T BE!!! In the world of kink, my motto is, if it works, IT WORKS. If you wish to surround yourself with laughter DO IT... If your tastes lean more towards the humorous than the frightening DO IT and if you happen to feel that a smile can be just as intimidating as a sneer... Then my loves... DO IT. There are no pre-set rules here, no cookie cutter standards, let the luxeriant decadence and joy fill every ounce of honry, kinky moclecule in your wicked, bawdy little bods... Because this is about release of inner demons and I have found that to point at them and laugh is equally as effective as cringing in fear.
Now... GO AWAY... Don't you have work to do or something? Git... scat.... (WRONG KINK YA FREAKS) geez...
Dazvidanya,
D.T.
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Hospital Contemplations... - 
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