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BDSM-Fetisch-Geschichte: Rough Play bis zur Bewusstlosigkeit

BDSM Fetish Story: Rough Play Until Unconsciousness



“You almost killed her!”

The words echoed again and again in the man's mind as he sought paths through the field paths. Small and stocky, yet with an engaging charisma. The path almost seemed to divide for him, so determinedly did he put one step in front of the other. Jogging was the right thing to do after the previous stressful evening. Sporting activity was his method of choice to relieve emotional stress. The silence was occasionally interrupted by the sound of an animal, conveying a false sense of peace. The memorable sentence hammered against the walls of his skull again. The forest and his beloved jogging didn't soothe his spirit today.

Damn, he was guilty! Accompanied by remorse, the man made it to a clearing. A wide wooden bench invited you to linger and looked out over meadows and arable land. The smartphone vibrated. His mood was gone. Exhausted, he sank onto the seat. Intuitively guessing who the message came from – his sub.

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He has been involved in the world of BDSM for many years, was able to get to know enriching people and be a valuable companion. He felt like a dom and accompanied subs to profound insights. He had loved each of them and given everything he had at his disposal. He maintained friendships with his ex-subs even after the royal era and didn't let anyone badmouth him because that's how he was at heart. He was happy to offer his help to others when needed.

His sub refused. He didn't know why. Jealousy took a toll on the relationship. Did she have reason to believe she wasn't everything to him? Why did she distrust his reasoning? Didn't believe his protestations? How is BDSM supposed to work if there is no trust?

“You almost killed her!”

This saying ran through his layers of consciousness like nitric acid. If it was just jealousy, he could live with that. But his emotional distress ran deeper. His sub pushed him to personal limits. By now he was afraid of seriously injuring her during a session. He was aware that he played his part in the escalation of some game situations. He never dared to bring up the topic in any conversation with like-minded people. His self-doubt was greater.

“A cathedral has himself under control, otherwise he is not a cathedral! The sub cannot be passionate enough. Appreciate that about her!”

He could literally hear people talking, so he swallowed all his thoughts.

And yet the ground threatened to slip away from under his feet. He found no understanding from his loved one. Although he genuinely loved her, she was the one who weighed him down in his feelings, drove him into a mental corner and provoked him to short-circuit actions.

He reflected, weighed up the pros and cons. For a long time he only saw the shares with him. He explained his feelings to his sub. The conversations all ended the same. She couldn't understand his concerns. Why didn't she recognize his suffering?

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Was he not allowed to draw clear lines that he wanted his sub to respect? Did he have to be part of whatever dynamic she wanted? Damn, the toxic spiral destroyed him! The man of old, radiant with enthusiasm and generosity, became a shadow. Manipulative behavior has nothing to do with submission.

“Don’t you have your sub under control?” the voices echoed in his head. In his view, the sub is the center of everything that happens. Your fulfillment becomes his fulfillment. The power imbalance is the starting point for a shared journey whose goal is truthfulness. The same rules apply to him as to her. She has the opportunity to verbalize taboos, like he does. The constant challenges were exhausting.

At some point she stopped being good for him. Unsuccessful situations did happen, he was aware of that. He was not a dreamer, but a realist. What bothered him was drilling into weak spots.

Somewhere, a forest creature screamed, breaking him from his thoughts. His fingers trembled as he read the message.

His hunch came true. She wrote how intensely she enjoyed his passion. He shouldn't be angry with her. Because she wanted to pass out, she insulted him until his hands squeezed her throat tighter and tighter. She wants to support him in growing beyond himself. So she slapped him, laughed at him and shouted at him about what a worm he was. She was happy and proud of him that their relationship reached a new level and that he was willing to give up his taboos for her. He lovingly looked after her in her absence and, as promised, did not call an ambulance. She wanted the cathedral to which she devoted herself just as eloquently. Next time she wants to be unconscious for longer. He could press harder and not take her back so quickly.

Attached to the letter were image files that showed strangulation marks on the neck. She was proud to bear his traces of love. A scarf to cover up just for work to avoid annoying questions. “I love you, my master. You are the best!” concluded the message.

He felt sick and spat out the bile that had formed as he looked through the text and images. She didn't realize how much he was suffering. He died a thousand deaths in the moments of their unconsciousness. He deeply loathed the way he allowed himself to be driven by her insults.

The ice they were walking on became thinner. For her sake, he took the hard approach. If it didn't happen, she criticized him and gave him the feedback that he was a failure. When she hit him in the face yesterday, she was completely overwhelmed. The burning sensation in his cheek was ultimately the last straw. He forgot himself. His sub rolled his eyes and lay limp beneath him. She previously asked him not to provide emergency services. Her sexuality was her business, she argued.

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Not once was the preliminary discussion about his feelings. He loved her and wanted nothing more than her fulfillment. He did a hell of a lot for that. He faced his resentments because she was an important person to him. But he didn't want to be driven to violence, even if it was what she wanted. He was extremely worried as she lay motionless beneath him. He thought he had strangled her. As he checked his pulse, her words came to mind: “If you call 911, I’ll leave you!”

The memory made his heartbeat quicken. His arm muscles twitched. A light film of sweat formed on his forehead. At first his sub preferred kinky games and full body bondage. Then she expressed her desire for rough play. She wanted to be raped by him and strangled until she lost consciousness. Fear of death, felt real, drove up her adrenaline level and made her addicted to the ever-increasing thrill.

Fear. For her well-being. Before yourself. Before the dynamics escalate. What is at the end of this consuming spiral? What? There was a bitter taste on his lips. When did this shit start? When would she stop? And how?

“I can’t take it anymore and I don’t recognize myself! My job as your Dom is to protect you from yourself. “Let’s please row back and find each other again, like before.” He put his fingers to the keyboard. Determined to bravely stand up for herself – and for both of them. The unpleasant relationship had to end, otherwise they would perish together.

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So he wrote to his sub: “Glad that you’re doing well. I'm relieved because I was very worried. Let me check on your marks later.” Her answer was quick: “You can be excited, sir. I will welcome you in lingerie. Maybe your hands will wrap around my neck again as a sign of your love? Or a belt, what do you think?”

Breathing heavily, he got up, started jogging and joined the winding path in front of him. Somewhere between the trees he heard the chirp of a robin, its lively peep appreciating the beauty of the day.

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