8:38 a.m. at the station.
She's there, opens the passenger door, sits down and looks at me.
I can't believe what I'm seeing right now. It's 8:40 a.m.
We have been talking by SMS for a month.
Sixtine, my Parisian Dominatrix put me in touch with a young and future submissive, ingénue and novice who is waiting for this December day to “see” my second session with Sixtine.
Until this moment, this rainy, somewhat surreal Sunday, it’s just a fantasy, a dream. How can we imagine that an unknown young woman accompanies a 65-year-old man to Marseille to witness this intimate part, watch the beatings and humiliations and perhaps participate?
Yet she is there, serene and determined, smiling and magnificent at the age of twenty.
She is a very young woman, beautiful, brunette, long and thin, dressed like any girl of her age...
We left. Highway, direction Marseille. Two hours together. I must be discreet, courteous, elegant, neither intrusive nor vulgar. This is easy for me since I like these “values”, these marks of good education and then, there is of course what brings us together, all these people that I know since I recognized myself in them, one evening in 1999 , confessing and experiencing for the first time what were only dreams and fantasies.
She sets the tone. His speech is open, clear, funny and true, intelligent and straightforward. She loves life and the pleasures of a youth who discovers and enjoys the moment. She also likes what is forbidden, what does not yet seem of her age, which also moves me since I am the same. We discuss these practices of which I have taste and experience. I understand that she is telling the truth, that she is made that way, that she is not lying. The two-hour journey to the Sistine hotel lasts only a moment. My chatter, the telling of my stories, of my barbaric loves please him, speak to him. She already knows everything deep in her soul, so youthful and yet already well dressed. No taboo, no ellipse. The exchange is frank, direct, the words are crude, the sex is everywhere, simple and raw. She is one of the women who assume their freedom, their desires and their enjoyments. She is like me. Everything comes from very far away, from childhood and the fantasies that took me so long to recognize and then overcome. She is twenty years old and already grown up, I am her BDSM father, I am her big blood brother, I become her accomplice in a few minutes. We just understand each other. We are talking about the same thing, the same barbaric heart, the same blood, the same vines and the same torments, the same marks, the same burning, the same games that animate our stomach, the same dances of fire , of the yoke and its delicate, elegant universe, of the same aesthetics of the body and its links.
I explain to him that I like being submissive as much as submitting, preparing the room, putting up the black garlands and the leather whips, all these objects that one might think cruel but which are beautiful and are only there to raise and transcend the pleasure to come, making it a sublime thing, the experience of a secret desire which explodes without violence after hours and hours of skillful preparation of body and mind.
We arrive. We are early, let's have a coffee in front of the hotel: the inscription "Adult hospital" in large red letters, in front of us, is offset and it makes a funny sign, a protection. We become friends little by little, immediately, by dint of being acolytes and loving the same thing.
Room 404. One or two extrasystoles, temporary apprehension, my desire to be there can be felt, must be seen.
Madame opens to us, smiling and direct. The young girl feels comfortable, changes into a white submissive dress and high black pumps.
Take off your clothes. The order is given. I do not feel the slightest embarrassment in offering my shaved and alive penis in front of the submissive with whom I was discussing life a few minutes before.
The session can begin. I am naked on my back, a surgical drape placed on my stomach and open in the center, revealing the object of torture.
I have no fear, Sixtine is an expert, delicate and agile. the young girl, on her knees, looks at my penis then looks at me, deeply, intensely, like an eager and frank voyeur who tells me all her pleasure at being there, kneeling and yet proud.
I suddenly understand. Sistine explains to me that she is there to learn, to learn to become a mistress and to be able to submit her experience to enslaved women and men of whom she has a taste. She doesn't touch, she looks, she doesn't miss a single detail. She would like to be in Sistine's place but she can't, not yet. She must be “educated”, all her ambiguity, all mine too. My submission to the yoke of my mistress is an illusion since we are accomplices. It’s above all a sharing, there are two of us in this business. There are three of us, today, it's even more exciting, the game becomes more subtle and then there has to be one who receives the blows.
The first stroke of the needle is divine, exquisite “painful” stitch. I get hard, my pleasure and my excitement bring a new light to this lechery. So there are three of us. I am delighted !
Two women, one, expert and delicate, full of vice and sensuality, the other, future barbarian, so young so elegant, ravishing in her apparent candor.
Madame decided to sew the pouches around my penis which does not want to fit into its new bag. The patience and slowness of its thread, the end of which is a curved needle, do their delicious work. My offering is ready. I no longer have sex, I am becoming a woman! My private life is photographed in turmoil. I smile with pleasure.
Sixtine salivates in front of this new flesh, his immodest but living work. The submissive may blush, her pleasure as a voyeur is a sin of lust.
The comments keep my erection intact. Madam is going to take care of this little gaping hole awaiting its punishment. She takes my penis out of its new pouch and explains to our guest this particular anatomy which ends the penis with this delicious opening which we call meatus.
She presses the outline to make this sex heart beat better and open the hole. It presents the small steel probe whose tip resembles a tiny chrome acorn. I don't miss a beat. The pain is enchanted, the object hardens my glans from the inside. Sistine's nimble fingers come and go. She jerks me off from inside. I feel at any moment that my pleasure can come but my sperm cannot escape. Insane pleasure, holding back is useless. She masturbates with the other hand my penis which is maddened by so much outrage and shameful debauchery, demeaning but adored.
Madame comments on the technique, her know-how, the young student listens, excited about this new role, she refrains from participating in this new barbaric pleasure. Her fantasies fulfilled by the hand of the one whose slave she would like to become are seen in her eyes which are no longer candid.
But the session is not over. The scalpel is exposed. Sistine's fingers equipped with this blade approach my purse, noiselessly cutting into the thin skin there. She then cuts my inner thigh. I hold back from bleeding, my erect penis testifies to my lechery. She rubs the voyeur's white dress with my barely flowing blood. The fabric is stained, further disturbing this relentless scenario. Pasolini must rub his penis and the divine marquis write his salacious comments to Justine.
After all this refinement, here I am on my knees, arching my ass to better offer it to these two young women. The delicious spanking heats my skin. The sound of the slaps gives this moment the appropriate brutal resonance. A “shot of reality” too. I want more. The submissive wants 26. The whip is exquisite, delicious. I am on the edge of the abyss, that of rare and bestial pleasure, finally shared
Madame unstitches me, pulls the thread, cuts the needle. I barely feel the nylon sliding into my white-hot skin.
It's over, you have to leave your place. I wish it wouldn't stop.
We drink a glass, toast the health of our exquisite games.
We say to each other like good comrades see you soon.
The girl gets into the car.
Backtracking, way back, the match after the match, the comments, the lovely complicity.
It's raining, the road is black, black like our damned souls. Jubilant, frantic, to the end, our bodies are made like this, until the end of life. We come back to this pass, the bullfighter is me, the bull is her or the opposite, you, you are for the moment our memory at the height of your twenty years.
I barely remember our entire speech. You talk to me about domination, in training. It's your taste, it's your sin, no one can do anything about it. I could be your submissive, your mentor if we dream. We talk about everything, your work, music, jazz. I can't stop talking. I'm good with you. You know everything about me and I almost everything about you. There is no chance, said Eluard, there are only meetings.
It's already time, here we are in front of your house, very close to my house when I was also twenty years old. How this all makes sense. Thanks to the demanding Sistine, our stories blend together, a strange complicity, no barrier, no difference, we knew each other, we recognized each other as if my already long path had always crossed yours, as if yours which is barely beginning had always waited for this long Sunday, so rich, so full that we never finished talking about.
An alleged suitor