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  • Writer's pictureMadazon Can-Can

Leather, Whiskey and Tobacco

It doesn't happen all at once.

The eye contact takes time because looking through a portal in another body can nearly destroy you...

If you aren't ready.

I faced you. Faced desire and it looked like madness. You offered me a session after gifting me the knowledge that I still have so far to go. The farthest pieces of me still holding on in the tension of my elbows and shoulders. My arms a physical manifestation of my mind...




so tightly to control.

"Let go."

You told me to allow my arms to fall and allow the leather flogger to fall and sweep past my shoulder. The falls have to fall. You have to fall.

You asked, "Do you still believe that the Devil didn't want to fall darling? Do you still think it was punishment he was after... or freedom?"


My shame is...that I still can't. I can't let go. And in trying to...I fail to do the thing I'm attempting. In trying so hard to fall, to let go, to surrender...I hold on. But, it's not something physical I grasp onto like a pencil or a lover's's in the mind and it's in my body. The tension in my shoulders shows my inability to let go. You notice and you aren't pleased.

Then you offer me a gift. "Strip Down."

I submit.

You beat me with leather. I hear the falls on your body and then feel them on mine. The sound of leather on my flesh comes after. The heat slowly builds in my skin and I smile as the beating continues. Completely naked with. my arms crossed, it is ritual and release. It is punishment and is leather and skin.

I'm completely obsessed.

It continues. Sound, leather, heat, color, sound, breath, laughter, leather, ecstasy, fear, pain, leather....obsessed.

Thank you. Thank you my friend.

I'm laid down as my forehead begins buzzing. Sound is different here.

Music still plays.

I am somewhere else.

The flogger is around my shoulders and I'm aware of change. This tool is a piece of me.

Next is whiskey. It hits like laurels and ends in leather. I drink and allow the flavor into my whole body. The earthly feeling of leather on my tongue in liquid forms etches its way into my blood stream and I touch the flogger with a deep devotion. You are in me.

We smoke a pipe together. Tobacco. Whiskey. Leather.

We laugh and speak as gentlemen do.

Allowing our lips to separate enough for the smoke to exit and our shame exits with it.

Ex-Mormons indulging in our fall from grace again and again and again as we smoke and the tobacco burns like the embers of Hellfire and we indulge and drink and smoke and laugh. The leather floggers on the bedside as you strike another match and I put my red lipstick back on.

"Get it?" you ask.

I exhale and look into your eyes. I resist speaking. I just breathe. That's enough for now.

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