Chapter 67 The Show (Part Two)

• Suddenly, Carish removed the anal dilator from her submissive’s body, and he involuntarily jumped. She murmured things in his ear that calmed him down, and from my seat, I could see that the device had done Its job. She ran her hand again over his back, this time without the sharp blade, and began to circle with her perfect nails on the dilated anus while her tongue caressed the submissive’s cheek. When the screams of pleasure began to be heard a little louder, she withdrew, and only the violent male breathing could be heard. She returned to the table and took a thin whip with many spikes, I counted about seven.
• The lashes were felt, and he cried, groaned, laughed, and sobbed. My nerves were on edge with each blow, as I imagined that’s how my skin must have looked when the man beside me began to do the same to me. The red welts mixing with the purples and the occasional green standing out on the white skin, and small red lines like those on his back let me know he was bleeding, yet he enjoyed it. The difference — and a huge difference — is that he doesn’t think like his sister. No, he doesn’t seek mutual pleasure or think about the consent that the act should overflow. Only his pleasure matters, only his fantasy and desire to see a woman cry and break to the point of begging.
• In the time I had been learning and delving into the BDSM world — thanks to my job and my great sense of curiosity — I never saw, not a single person, who didn’t enjoy it. Who didn’t tell me “Yes, he hits me, spits on me, shits on me, pees on me, but I like it and allow it. We have this clarified beforehand,” No. He does things his way and for his own interest, from the first night at Nirvana, he made it clear to me, and that was something that wouldn’t change. George was sick as hell, and not even God himself could change that demon, so every second by his side confirmed to me that he wasn’t Dominant. The man was a sociopath. And of the worst kind: The powerful kind.