A Canvas for Pain.

Tied. Arms stretched. Legs spread.
My excited body quivers at his touch.

Candles flicker and shadows dance.
The sweet musky scent of sex surfaces.

Across my skin I feel him. His hand tenderly rides my curves.
My breath quickens, my pulse races, my nipples harden, my cunt aches.

Gently, almost imperceptibly he explores the topography where he will paint.
He is planning, mentally forming his artwork upon the willing canvas below him.

He speaks frankly of the things he will do to me, how he will paint my skin.
It is out of his sadistic desire that he will apply these brushstrokes of color.

It is out of his love for me that he will eagerly abuse me for his art.
My hunger and love for him challenges me to take as much or more than he gives out.

My emotions and expectations run rampant as he whispers, “This will hurt you so well.”
I already know it will and I begin the assent to the foggy spatial realm of a masochist.

The skin blushes at the first touch of the flogger.

The third blow of the paddle leaves a darker impact.

The last lash of the riding crop deepens the evidence of his artistic ability.

Tomorrow his art will be complete as time will bring truer colors to the human canvas.
Pink and red will be replaced with deep purple, brown, black. It will be a dark portrait.

The artwork is not static, but transforms daily to the more subtle shades of greens, blues and yellows before it ceases to be and must be repainted again.

I reel from the intoxicating sensations, letting the waves of euphoric endorphins ripple across my bare flesh and embed themselves into my carnal brain. Pain ceases, pleasure begins. I float. I fly. I cease to exist in reality. I am alone yet I am one with everything at that instant. Within that moment and no other, I am totally fulfilled and content. I have been loved into my Nirvana. Then all too soon, too suddenly, it is over, done.

Soothing words, soothing balms. Untied, unrestrained. Held close and tight. Rocked in his arms of safety and strength. He, my benefactor, praises my acceptance of his gift of art.

Kisses of gratitude. Tears of happiness. Sighs of pleasure and pain. Overwhelming joy at receiving his affection via the torment to my body. The imprints, the bruises, the welts…all manifestations and declarations of his love for me and my love for him.

Lovers, intertwined, braided together. Electric currents of sexual reciprocity, interdependent upon each other, inseparable. One gives, one accepts. One takes, one allows.

Pleasure. Pain.

Behold the pleasure of pain.

Behold love of a sadist.

Behold love of a masochist.

Behold love.

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