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Sicktrick

Histoires de Parfums - 1740 [ Marquis de Sade ]

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He invites you in with a smile and a promise.

“Do you want a drink? ” he asks and before you answer there’s an elegant glass full of an unidentifiable liqueur placed on the small modern table in front of you. He’s at the bar, not far away from you, sipping from an identical glass. You pick it up, smell it and swallow a mouthful. Somehow, you feel that you need it. The spicey liquid travels fast and warms your chest, leaving a harsh sweet taste in your mouth. You close your eyes for a second and the corners of your mouth go slightly upward. Then you thank him.

There’s small talk but everything sounds, in your ears, as a double entendre. “Yes, I am good with my hands. ” he said when you admired the complicated ice pick he used after he had inquired if you were “feeling warm”. You do and is not just just the alcohol, is the pressure of the whole house, the splendid yet unsettling choices of paintings [ Flowers forgotten in a vase, putrefying in the weak sun. A beautiful woman in a luxurious night gown..partially eaten by moths ] and the apparently random artifacts [ Masks, Spices in weird bottles, A little tree ] that makes you feel trapped in a dream. You are not sure what kind of dream this is going to be and you can’t wake up. You don’t want to.

He leads, he always does, and with each room you feel more anxious to finally get somewhere, or out. You notice all the windows are shut and guarded by blood velvet. The air would be stale if not for something wonderful that seems to be burning everywhere infusing its intoxicating smell, patchouli and some flower. A contrast you’ll expect in the next days, but you won’t find it again. Not like that.

He has a story for everything, nothing seems to be impersonal, a caprice for someone who can afford anything. Sometimes he gently caresses the side of an object or other and a hint of smirk appears on his face, like there’s another part of the story that is not to be shared, not to you. That’s not to make you feel inferior or excluded. If anything you are grateful to be shown such a mysterious world and hopeful…hopeful you’ll get to be part of it. But waiting is torture.

You don’t say much and when you see the biggest latch you ever seen, you know that behind that door is what you’ve been waiting for. The journey ends here. He opens it and invites you in with courtesy. You step in and the door closes behind you with a bang.

Now you see the suspended bed and the whips and the handcuffs and everything else, carefully lined before you. They’re all made of leather, the most luxurious leather you ever smelled, rich and hypnotizing. And it’s all there for you. There’s nothing prudish about them, no shame. There will be pain, bur first there will be pleasure, and before that lust. Then again. and again. and again.

You feel your cock go hard when he kisses your lips while unbuttoning your shirt. The smell of leather surrounds him, and soon this smell will be all over you, etched in your flesh. His lips are vanilla sweet and dry. He bites you.

You realize you were wrong, this not where the journey ends, this is where it begins.

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