The Loop Imlive - He is tall, thin, a little on my keyboard, LOL.

My stuff is here. I couldn't keep my hands from my partner, who w/o keys is revealed in my dominant's hand. I'm blindfolded, wrapped, gagged, handcuffed and restrained with love and fury. I leave the house soon after midnight, surrounded by his heavyset manhood and hand prints. Still handcuffed and gagged, I find refuge in another room. In this strange household, lit only by candles, are my mistress, my squiring slave, my slavegirl, my little whore, my beautiful deadly bitch, my nude lady in maid's garters, my footbridges, my leopard's manse, masturbating and moaning and whimpering all around me. A shadow crosses the room in a final lunge. I look wildly around. My vision is hazy and limited. Thick black shadow against pale cheeks; a knot of black silk cut into the corner of the jaw. A crucifix carved into the skull of a skull and cross bones. More a death stare than a cold stare. A voracious reader of blood on walls, and other than crucifix and skull and cross bones, I cannot see the source of the roaring sound that is the finest sound I have ever heard. It fills my head with the visions of execution, in particular the visions of my poor tortured soul.

Over and over again I hear the words of a prayer: O my Lord of mercy, give me light so I may see! O my God of dark pity, give me light so I may see the expression of my woman's agony in her torment, oh my God of how I long to feel O mercy, oh my goodness. I scan the room constantly, ceaselessly cutting my time short. Finally, I shudder, sighing deeply. I know that the muscles in my body ache; it is the ache of denying that which I cannot deny, denying who I am, cutting my sanctity short and releasing the pain. I return to my partner, and suck the blood from her arm. My lack of vision negates my vision of anything beyond my blindness. I try to regain some mobility by crawling over rough concrete and crawling over other bodies. I also search for other angles, of joy or sadness, that are now more than I can stand. The pictures and video in my mind tell of the passions that were squaring my soul for weeks and weeks. Many times during the last two days I dreamed of The Loop Imlive, of her hard work, of her hard living, of her long awaited visit. On the morning of her arrival, I phoned her only to find that she had not answered. I began to think that she had left work to play the piano in the gardens outside. After many weeks of planning and countless attempts to drink coffee in the garden, I was not prepared. The keys to the car were nowhere. A note asking the same thing, had been delivered the night before.

Disappointed and annoyed, I began to pack the house. The next thing I remember is seeing the huge four-posted bed in the parlor. A note was followed by a tall slender black slab, very badly needed. Written in bold red ink, asking for directions to the cottage. My stomach sank, as I knew that the cottage was only a stone's throw from the greenhouses and miles from the country roads that covered the land. The note was in the slightly accented hand of my secret admirer. I remember distinctly that the note had warned of the 'witch hunt' that would follow the note. It seemed to me then, that the ultimate fate of my beloved The Loop Imlive was in question. Did she die of loneliness, or was she now too embarrassed to worry about the consequences of my betrayal. I felt a sudden flush of embarrassment as I stepped into the large, empty room. The suddenness of the room's occupant left no room for my nervousness, so I stepped out of the shadow and hurriedly threw a towel across my arms in relief. Turning to the man behind me, I instinctively took my place. And the photographer, once again bent to whisper in my ear. "You have to ask for this particular model..." "Yes, ma'am." "How old are you?" "Twenty-three." "How tall are you?.