LoveClub

3 Bloodsmoke20

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Bloodsmoke207:30 am

I hate the dawn for being born from the night, and helping the day to achieve its victory. The day, though, is a feeble lord, one whom loses its power, defeated by the powerful moon. Just like me, the night can only fall with the help of a traitor. Daemon is my dawn.

I free myself from my scarf, I take off my sweater and pull down my trousers. I stand, naked before the barrel that I’ve already filled with gasoline earlier. I light a piece of newspaper, which I then drop into the barrel. The fire ignites, and the smoky fumes rise between the sparse roof tiles into the night. One by one, I grab and throw the blood soaked garments into the flames.

I mustn’t close my eyes! Not even for a second!

I have become cautious in the past couple of years. I had to. While fear is the gift of instinct, caution is a privilege that becomes natural without notice. Creepily natural – especially if we know from whom we received the blessing.

Blood is a stubborn substance. It stains like hell, so I have to wear new gear for each eventful night. I don’t buy anything fancy, though. I always shop for simple black clothes. This is what its like when taste meets efficiency. The dark cloth hides the red stains until daybreak, so I can quietly blend in with the shadows of the city, like a ghost.

I feel like one right now.

I’ve tried to convince myself that this night wasn’t any different from all the others. This isn’t true, though. I am unable to lie. I stare at the carefully folded clothes sitting over on the shelf. I crave their fresh washed smell, but I’m not clean enough to wear them. I’m still dirty. I step to the washbasin standing next to the barrel. I pick up the sponge, and I start squeezing while holding it above my head. The lukewarm water begins to pour onto my bald head. It zigzags down my torso and ends up dripping onto the shed’s floor.

With machine-like precision, I remove the remaining bloodstains from my body, tinting the water red. My skin shines in the flickering flames of the candle. Even though I’ve transformed the shed into quite a pleasant place, the insulation still needs some work. The red hot barrel only further feeds the summer heat that’s already stifling the place. Despite the wash, I begin to sweat. All the fuss seems to be so unnecessary.

I sit down at the desk, fishing out a notepad and the little jewelry box which I inherited from my grandma. I smooth the box with my hand, but push it to one side. I’m not in the need of visions of the past just now. I know using a notepad is out of date, but it’s the safest place to write down all the things I experience. This is one of the things that my teacher of caution had whispered into my ear. According to Daemon, even though the lines I type on the computer can be deleted, a clever hacker could resurrect them anytime. In an emergency, a notepad can be destroyed forever. Daemon was right, and I truly hate this.

Sunday, 19th of June

Memoire of Senses

This is How I Became Myself

I was 5 years old when I first experienced the feeling of an orgasm. My best friend’s thirty or so year old mom caused me that unforgettable moment of pleasure. On a summer day we were on the beach, where the older boys in the pool would play a game. They would jokingly try to tear off the younger kids’ swimming trunks. After a successful catch, they would hide their quarry somewhere amongst other people’s belongings. They were quick, and no matter how fast the victims swam, they never had a chance to catch the older boys. Felix, my friend, got caught up in this stupid joke. They ripped off his shorts, and the humiliation made him cry and scream; loud as an alarm. His mom, Klári, instantly ran over to us in despair, but Felix couldn’t say a word of what had happened. Klári quickly wrapped him in a towel, which she found on the ground, and accused me of doing this to her son. I got punished. Before I could do anything, she took my shorts off, laid me on her knees, and started spanking me in front of everyone. I remember the older boys with their regretless smiles, and the sympathetic look of all the other parents standing around us. I wasn’t really bothered by it though, since staring wasn’t uncommon to me. I was already used to being looked at. The right side of my face has a skin pigmentation disorder, the size of a palm, creeping up towards the top of my head. This caused unwanted attention. It makes me feel like a freak. Most people try to avoid me, and show no interest, but some are rather brave and curious about my hereditary condition. My mother took me to several doctors to seek help, but not one could ever do anything about it. The only thing they said was “learn to live with it son. Maybe in the future medicine will be more advanced...” Sure. Of course. Easy to say. I’d rather have them live with this sort of problem. My mom always said that it was a print left behind by God’s caring hand. She thought she could cheer me up. I thought it as more of a slap in the face.

Let’s get back to the incident on the beach. Klári thought that the grunts and groans I made while being spanked were the sounds of pain and agony, but they were actually sighs of pleasure coming forth. I felt joy as my d**k was rhythmically bumping against her smooth, naked leg from the torrid hot spanking. I managed to grab hold of her idle hand. Mistaking my pleasure for disobedience, she instantly put more force in to the beating. Hmm…. I can still feel the touch of those fingers on my ass.

Klári never knew that this was actually the best thing that had ever happened to me. I guess other children would’ve probably cried and begged for mercy, but instead, I was panting from the invigorating moment I had experienced. Not many people believe that immature children can think of punishment as a form of pleasure, but yes, this does happen. Here I am, a living example.

My life totally changed after the incident at the beach. Once you’ve had a taste of something joyful, you wish to feel it over and over again. Forever. Each night, after bedtime, I stuffed my blanket between my legs to practice the primeval movements of my instincts. I always tried to recall the memories of the beach incident, just for that extra push. The feeling itself remained, but it wasn’t the same anymore. Day by day, the memories were fading, and in the end, they became nothing more than a childhood vision of something spectacular. I knew it was out there somewhere. But where? I had to find it.

After this, I would always seek trouble, and as expected, my life took a 180-degree turn. I can’t express how much I wanted to feel that sensation again, with its tingling vibration, expanding all the way from my crotch, through the whole of my body, and finishing; disseminated on the top of my head and turning my face red. Just thinking about it gave me chills. Because of my never-ending pranks, they declared me a problematic child. In kindergarten I had this little game where I would drag the girls around on the floor by their ponytails. I pretended that they were my dogs.

The pain they felt made them scream and cry, but this gave me satisfaction, so I walked them around with a dauntless smile on my face. They were no more than dogs. The women in the nursery – who had no idea what had happened to the quiet, reclusive child – shouted at me, despised me, and punished me, but never ever laid a hand on me. I was obsessed with the feeling that I could do whatever I wanted. I had no boundaries, not even back then. I was hurting others for one reason: violence got me excited. If they punished me, that was good, but when I could punish someone that felt even better.

My mother, a religious woman, bitterly tolerated my behavior for months upon months. She tried to persuade me to do something about myself, but it never worked. I simply didn’t want to change. On a cold winter evening, during bath time, my mother finally slapped me across the face. I stared awkwardly. Was that all? I pondered. As soon as she thought she had hurt me, she started praying for forgiveness. The poor thing would’ve begged for absolution for giving birth to me if she had only known that I was actually disappointed by her frail slap. Back then, I had no idea that a mentally healthy child doesn’t feel s****l excitement from the touch of his mother.

The maternal slap and the cold bloodedness of the strict nurses at the nursery made me change my behavior. I became a low-key, lonely child. I alienated my mother, and our sacred bond became weaker. I managed to hide my secret even deeper within myself, and from this point on, I was on my own. Lonely and friendless. Everyone deserted me because of the huge mark on my face. The boys called me a freak, and the girls thought I was frightening. I became an outcast. I was mad at God for making fun of me, and I hated every living creature that felt happiness.

One Saturday, I was walking with my hood on around the outskirts of the city, when a car raced past, running over a frog right in front of me. I got caught up in the moment. Even though I didn’t yet realize it, I felt that there was only a thin veil separating life from death. Only a few people know in advance when they’ll pass through it.

But God always knows how much time He’s given to each person to spend on Earth. I came to the conclusion that if I’m the one ruling upon a creature’s death, then that will make me God. So, I ran to the lakeside, searched for a good-sized stone, and waited in silence. I carefully chose my target. The first frog I only hit. On the second frog I dropped a rock, which flattened most of it, but the third one I destroyed. The blood, the sticky insides and the sight of the guts made me feel free. Though it didn’t turn me on sexually, it made me feel strong again.

The frustration inside me disappeared in an instant. I began spending my afternoons at the lakeside more and more often, and it eventually became my hangout. I was by myself, and I didn’t have to give any explanations to anyone. As I advanced over the years, I started looking for victims that were bigger and harder to catch. Hedgehogs, cats, rabbits, chickens, dogs. My biggest trophy was a young deer that was hit by a car. Its heart was still beating when I found it on the side of the road. After a while, I got more interested in the pain and suffering they go through while dying, and then in death. Once, I severed a cat’s back two legs so it couldn’t run away, then I set it on fire and extinguished it by pissing on it. It bewildered me a great deal to decide what kind of tortures I should use on the different animals. Yet, my creativity proved to be limitless: I used knives, scissors, screwdrivers and saws. I buried the carcasses in the same spot, their final resting place at the base of a willow tree at the lakeside.

I was eleven years old when I first saw a naked woman. The experience was once again connected to Felix. Our friendship – by the way – wasn’t spawned by force. Fate brought together our families, so we had no other choice than to become friends. We eventually attended the same class in primary school. We could only count on each other. Felix was overweight, and I had that huge mark on my face, so the other students in class ignored us both. Since Felix lived closer to school than I did, I often had to stay over at his house. I hated it. Despite Felix being eleven, he could only go to sleep with his nightlight on, and the brightness is annoying when you’re trying to sleep. Even though his parents were constantly telling him not to worry about the dark, and that evil would only come for him if he sins, Felix was unable to get over his fear. Our parents truly believed that supernatural powers existed, but this only made me laugh. I’d probably be a sinner in their eyes, too, yet Lucifer still had not dragged me by my feet all the way down to hell. Even though we’d probably make good friends. Felix would find common ground with the devil, too. On an October night it turned out that he had lied, which was a sin according to the Ten Commandments. Mixing it with another sin was a highly immoral thing to do. His teenage cousin showed him some porn magazines in secret, and in a careless moment, my ingenious friend stole one. So it wasn’t really his fear, but more of his “fornication” that requested the nightlight. I remember when he dug out the magazine from his secret stash, hidden under the mattress, and started to skim through the pages with his red face. On the first page, there was a woman spreading her legs, showing her v****a. Felix was having fun and started rubbing his index finger against her hairy vag. I, however, had different things on my mind. Instead of the nakedness, it was the woman’s look that stirred my imagination. Her red, pursed lips sent me a kiss. It hypnotized me. Things started to heat up halfway through the magazine. To this day, I still remember what the series of images were called: The Dirty Launderette. Each photo had its own name, and being a young boy, I found these names to be very exciting. In reality, they were ridiculous. The editor was obviously not present at the photo shoot.

1. Photo: Hi, darling! I’m dirty!

A young woman – wearing a miniskirt and a tiny white top – took her car to the carwash. She had strong makeup, perfectly blow-dried hair, and shining skin. She was just getting out of her car, her panties flashed between her legs, and she was chatting to a shirtless man with a six-pack. The guy’s arm was decorated with the tattooed figure of a naked, blue woman.

I memorized the figure, and a couple of days later, I drew one on myself with a pen.

2. Photo: The long sprinkling hosepipe

The man helped her by hosing the car. The woman lifted her index finger to her lips, and she stared at the man’s muscular back with a lustful look. It turned on my imagination. The guy was wearing blue overalls with its straps hanging by his side. His hips were the only things keeping the pants on, and it became obvious that he wasn’t wearing any underwear at all. His skin shone and glimmered in the sunlight.

3. Photo: My body is too hot

The woman stepped over to the guy, grabbed the hose, and began pouring water on her breasts. Her white top got soaked right through, sticking to her chest, and making her n*****s visible. The man was feeling his crotch while staring at her boobs with eager anticipation.

4. Photo: Run my tap!

The couple is shown from behind. The now half-naked woman was sitting on the hood of the car. She swung her head back with her mouth wide open, and her blonde waist length hair hung motionlessly. Her skin was wet. You could see the drops of water on it. The man stepped sideways and was licking the model’s n*****s. It was one of those typically awkward porn positions that seemed totally natural back in the day. Today, however, I know that they’re only set like this to make the scenery look perfect.

5. Photo: Come and steer!

The photographer was quite inventive. He tried to shoot each photo from a different angle. For example, this one had been shot from the side. The woman leaned towards the man’s groin, holding his c**k between her lips, which was sticking out of his unbuttoned fly. Meanwhile, the man was grabbing her hair with his muscles tensing. The woman’s eyes were closed and her mouth shined from the saliva. Her lipstick, though, was spotless.

It could be pretty exciting working as a makeup artist on a porn shoot….

6. Photo: Change gear!

The girl was lying on the hood, and the man was giving her pleasure from behind. The guy was now ass-naked. The hair around his well-sized c**k was porn-trimmed. The photo was so sharp that even his bulging blue veins were visible. The man weaved his fingers around the woman’s neck with a contemptuous smile. The woman had a painful expression on her face, and squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t take her clothes off, but both her top and miniskirt were pulled down to her waist. Her genitals were shaved, and only a thin strip of pubic hair ran up the middle. The editor did a pretty bad job of choosing the best photos for the magazine. As I’ve said before, there were a series of hairy women posing in the front pages of the magazine. Long live retro!

7. Photo: Clean me inside and outside

The photographer was running out of ideas. This set was really similar to the one before, but the only difference was that the woman was now sitting on the hood with her legs wrapped around the guy’s waist. He was still grabbing the woman by the throat. The skin on his fingers had even gotten discolored in parts. The woman swung her head back, closing her eyes in pain. Her mouth was wide open, and the guy spat in it.

On the eighth photo, the woman looked relieved, and her face was splattered with c*m. This was Felix’s favorite, though I regarded photo number seven to be the best. It even made me gasp for air and caused my voice to tremble. Felix found this hilarious. He was always talking about genitals and cumming, but I found the faces to be much more important and interesting. A cunt can lie, but a face and its expression will tell you everything.

The characters of The Dirty Launderette made me realize who I am. I wasn’t alone, and what I needed did exist. Pain turns me on, and because of this, people think I am abnormal. Those idiots can’t even guess how much sensuality there is to be found in pain and suffering. It doesn’t matter whether you give or get it.