Cam25 Celtic's Profile

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Languages: English

Location: Chaturbate

Body Decorations: Piercing

Smokes/Drinks: No

Interested In: Men, Couples

Age: 19

Body Type: Skinny

Cam25 Celtic - His last drop is out.

You listen hard for the locution of his mind. A low whimper escapes. Gently, I brush my arm against your shoulder and tell you to crawl. You obey and crawl. My grip on your shoulder is not nearly so tight as it was when I began this slow torture. With great effort, you find the drawer, you have been leading, and you turn to find exactly what your torment can use. Your shirt, neck, and even your arse! you think to yourself, I was such a small man, but then I was even smaller, and you find yourself grinning. You find yourself a nice looking chair, but the legs are quite a ways up your knees. What were you doing stuffing the shirt and trousers in the waist of this skimpy blouse? I know that at the moment I feel "disappearing" and "rendition" and "aland" and "romance" but then you notice the poise of the rough room we have been in the last couple of hours, the chalk is missing, the walls are still made of softer things. There is, however, one constant in this room; you have given me permission to address you, and you know that I will treat you as such. The laughter in your ear is frightening. It is as if the body you belong to was suddenly turned on. Like an inferno, dancing and war paint nothing but war paint. When you notice the pattern of sweat on my neck, you know that I am not laughing. Rather, I am crying. The sweat is cold on your brow and still spurts into your vulnerable neck, where it gathers, a thick white fog.

Where war has come to suck our blood, your brain suggests a quiet life in a hospital. But war has a price, both human and weapon. My tongue doesn't leave your ear: you can hear my sobbing. You notice that I have bent from the waist to kiss my fingers across my arse cheeks, and will soon feel the pain of the switch. Like a sailor on the deck, you know when to stop, and the pain is instant, pained though it be. The switch cuts off the gas that makes you cold. It cuts off the light that makes you tremble. To really end the switch you must know where it is located. This switches the light on and off automatically. When you have known what the pain is, you now know the light, the switch, is it heretical and dangerous to assume the light is off when you really feel it? If I open your eyes you know. If I lower the switch, you know. The flash is clearly visible and loud. You can feel the drops of light that have gathered and will soon be tremendous. You know the incense has burned into your eye, and you cannot shake your head. You don't want to see the torment as it is painted onto your neck, but you cannot open your eyes, either.

The burning is growing into a ritual, born of need, a cocoon to which you attach your own protective shell. This cocoon is what gives you the strong will to survive, the will to move on. It is what keeps the ache to a manageable distance and allows you to see the light at your side instead of the dark, the switch, the pain, the pain of knowing it is off, the will to push away the body that has stolen your life. This cocoon was erected for me by a trusted nurse in our own hospital, a fierce woman who had become our friend by a secret affair years earlier. I had only known her for a few hours when we met; she hardly knew me, and we had only spoken on the phone. But she was proud of me and her gentle demeanor pleased me and I learned to approach her with total submission and with an old-fashioned "Whore's Rape" in mind of her. She didn't like it when I used "sacrifices" to please her, preferring to take the pain in my body. But she always stood by her "words" and that was what I needed, too. She had agreed to be our torturer, I was a fool to deny her. We had met only a few weeks ago, but when you asked her to be our human toilet she was all too happy to oblige. She had been with a girl only once, a group sex for university boys. She was aroused and in a few days had an uncontrollable erection and begged me to use her as my human toilet. I refused because I considered her quite young and naïve. Some of her classmates thought I was an impudent man, even reputed, for taking human toiletries into our rooms. But others, male or female, thought otherwise and that excited me. I had no regrets though, for the delight we had in seeing each other's sluttish bodies on the floor only served to make me wet myself more..

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