As strange as it may seem, I wasn't that anxious about meeting you. I had gone through all the social networks, scoured the internet down to the smallest nooks and crannies, analyzed and scrutinized each photo, zoomé, dézoomé, resized each image, read and re-read each of your texts. I had had you on the phone the day before and the exchange had been very courteous, friendly, which had reinforced the feeling of confidence that I felt.
It is therefore the flower with the gun and with the assurance of the man who knows where he comes from and where he is going that I open the door of your building. I feel ready for the challenge, prepared and confident, repeating to myself that to conquer without danger we triumph without glory.
Going up the stairs I think of one of your audios in which you evoke the universe inside which opposes the universe outside.. I smile at the idea that I am at the heart of the transition process. My head is still full of the little hassles of everyday life and the little joys of the next day..
Here I am now in front of your door. I take a deep breath, tuck my shirt into my pants and hit three light taps. A few seconds of silence before hearing a noise behind the door. I guess you looking at me through the peephole.
You open.
It only took me a second, this second during which I meet your gaze for the first time, to suddenly lose all my insurance. I who have several times played and internally repeated this scene (with, I say it in all modesty, some critical success), I suddenly forget my text and literally break down in front of you. I become liquid, pire, gaseous ! As for you, you are there, really nice, super smiling, a touch of amused irony in the corner of the eyes.
To the jokes that you make to me, I answer stammering, the cultural references you are requesting, I mumble even more. you laugh, are you kinding me, you tell me i look like a five year old, you are right, I know it.
Entering your universe is done according to a ritual that you explain to me : i have to undress, wash up and knock on the door. I run, open and enter, naked as a worm, in this timeless room. I see the red velvet of the curtains, varnished oak parquet, the moldings at the intersection of the walls and the ceiling. I see the paintings and the chains hanging from the ceiling. Here I am in your lair and it doesn't seem possible to go back. You ask me questions, I answer totally aside, have to try three times to articulate an intelligible sentence. A part of me is laughing at this., me room and send me images of this scene in other contexts. I smile yellow, it doesn't really help me.
In the middle of this room, so, you talk to me, you dance, you waltz around me. You pinch me, you caress me, you scratch me.
Me, I watch you on the sly. I find you breathtakingly beautiful and madly elegant. I try by all means to catch your eye. He hypnotizes me, that look. I would like to get lost in it but you are not fooled : you offer it, you remove it, you distill it.
I'm now standing in the middle of the room, arms in the air, the hands hung by handcuffs to the chains which fall from the ceiling. Even my other me, so hilarious ten minutes ago, don't dare to laugh at me when you take a whip. He and I are worried, I did not expect that.
I dread the pain but don't show it : I still have an ounce of pride.
Of this ounce, the blows of the hammer quickly get the better of it : they rain. On the buttocks, on the back, on the window. I am alternately gagged, blind, hampered. Bitten, buttock, pinched, sodomized. The pain is sharp but when it is associated with the softness of caresses or words, it turns into a sensation that I discover with surprise : in my body, an avalanche of contradictory information collide, talk to each other, respond to each other. Some members tremble with pleasure, others in pain. I would like to ask myself, dwell on what i feel, analyze it, but my brain doesn't understand anything anymore. I feel immersed in a fine mist that invades me little by little.
The music is amazing, excruciating, belle. I recognize the sublime voice of Nick Cave, Janis Joplin's Wonderful Timbre. My other self is now with me, he finds more than his account. I'm in some kind of communion. You spit on me, I love that, I want more.
A slap leaves. In front of my surprised look, you pretend to be too, I want more too.
You brag about having read my questionnaire perfectly and kindly challenge me on the expression “light masochism”. It is true that at this precise moment, in the position I'm in, this expression seems a bit stupid to me. I mumble, a little ashamed. But when you ask me if I indicated the wax as a limit, I see this as an opportunity to take some meager revenge and, my turn, to chamber you by answering you that ultimately you did not read it that well, this quiz. The words don't come out, missed ! That said, I don't even know what I wrote anymore.
Here I am now with clamps on my breasts connected by a chain that you put in my mouth. You lift my head up to pull the chain. It hurts a lot but your face is inches from mine. I lower my head, you insist, I pick her up, one of the clamps comes off. Sharp pain, unexpected, which collides with the sweetness of our tete à tete.
It's so strange that I laugh. You are also laughing, I believe.
There comes a time when you seem to hesitate on what to do next before going to get a box that you present to me as “the pleasure box”. I can't quite make out what's inside but I have the impression that it's drawing material and I wonder what pencils and erasers are doing in this story. Eventually, they are not pencils, neither erasers but sorts of clothespins that you hang meticulously, conscientiously, methodically to the skin of my testicles.
New pains, new sensations, conflicting new information. I have, at the level of the lower abdomen, a string of clothes pegs, it looks like a swarm of crabs clinging to a rock. You tell me there are ten, I do not believe you, I know there are at least a hundred.
To remove them, you offer me a card game. There is one that particularly hurts me but I won't tell you, I'm afraid you'll decide to take it down last. Despite my foggy senses, I calculate, I count, try it and give you a number. You take away the most painful from me first ! Small victory that I do not sulk : it is not the triumph of him who conquered without danger but, from where I am, it looks a bit like it.
You increase the sound of the music and propose to me to finish a moment of tenderness, a space of sensuality. You caress my somewhat bruised body, you speak to me gently, you hum softly, I believe. I get carried away, I discover the voluptuousness and happiness of having been, during what seemed to me to last the space of a moment, a playground, a puppet at your mercy.
I don't cum, the pleasure is elsewhere.
You untie me with kindness, show me what to do to get the blood flowing and send me to take a shower.
The parenthesis closes gently in front of a cup of tea. We talk for a few minutes, I take leave of you and go to find, quietly, the outside world.
Testimony of J.
