IV and Raven - InSex

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There is submission, and there is bottoming. To bottom is to accept powerful tight straps, manacles, cords gobbling her alive, excruciating positions, numbing of palms and feet, of limbs and mind. She gives over her clothing, her skin, arms, legs, and neck, her youthful breasts to be bitten, pinched, yanked, slapped. She gives up her scentedpussy, her gleaming cunt to be fucked, frigs hooked in her flexed flower of ass. Trying not tomake a sound (and failing), she accepts beatings with belts, whippings, floggings until she is raw. As a bottom, she is arched at the waist, her assets laid along a beam, her nip rings trussed to the floor, her nips spread like they’re made of rubber. Her wrists, eager for the ropes, are trussed behind her back and ratcheted upward, straining her joints. Anguish beats in her assets from lips to ass. Her gams are f0rced wide, and a straight razor, sharper than any knife, is drawn along her sphincter, that tight carnal smooch of defiled flesh. And further, the razor degustating her warm moist opening, the dark portal of damp fever bringing to mind the scrabbling of bodies, arms, legs, sweat, semen. That craven receptacle awaiting the dangerous slurp of the blade, a treacherous tongue, degustating her. Wanting more. Further still, to where her skin orbs and folds, rose-like, stinky of urinate and sex, where gusto is akin to rows of teeth gnawing at desire, at want, at her appetite gone . There. That’s where the razor leaves crimson trailings, the sullied running in rivulets of *. Yes. That is bottoming. That is the place of beginning. The obedient hears whisperings, hushed expresses behind powerful doors, rattling chains, moans. Submission, the submerged room, dark water, the flowing of cells thru veins, abbreviated silence. The quivering of flushed lush breasts kneaded and mashed by tough thumbs and thumbs, unknown tormenters given free reign over her assets and holes, gasping her with cock and semen. Terror, blind want inbetween the thighs, pelting anger and whips, fists, the * staccato of the soul. How much will a obedient give? All? And what, in the moment that she is took hold of by the ribs and battered open at the chest, is her reward? First, she is taught for the refreshment of others. Her nips must be suctioned and hung with bells to remind her with each step, how she is nothing, ridiculous, inconsequential. She learns to walk in unlikely shoes. Her head is harnessed and shackled to a gliding track, f0rcing her to stay on her toes. She’s kept moving with a lash at the ass, like she’s a goat, a cow, made to walk with a knotted string gliding inbetween her moist thighs, each step fumbling her pussy raw. She is a chunk of handiwork. Art. The obedient is not a "me". Not "I". Her skin is flayed along lines of incision. She is dismembered, cut apart chunk by piece, her organs eaten, her heart devoured. A obedient begs for more. For her rite of passage her * is siphoned into wine glasses, the titration of her soul, dark r@pture, blessing of defilement. She is painted with Beauty, Loyalty, and Destiny, and wettened in *. The submissive. A universe of nothing where she is no more. Original FileName: 20010416 - IV and Raven (IV, Raven)