tinaslut
Executioner
A collection of what?
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The masochistic adventures of Eva Leopold
- Thread starter tinaslut
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tinaslut
Executioner
So let's get on with the story:
Chapter One Dark Desires Awakened
When I looked at my collection of whips, rods, crops and other implements for self-punishment, I felt a shiver ripple down my spine. Each piece was a testament to my deepest desires - a tangible embodiment of the pain and submission I craved. I stood before the mirror, my reflection distorted by the lustful haze clouding my vision.
The journey to acquire these tools had been a labour of love, one that spanned months and countless miles. I scoured every shop, market, and auction house, searching for the perfect instruments of self-punishment. Each acquisition brought me closer to satisfying my masochistic urges, yet it never seemed enough.
From antique stores to online auctions, no avenue was too obscure or distant. I sought out wooden and leather paddles, each one promising a different sensation. The thick leather ones left deep purple bruises that lingered for days, while the thin plastic varieties created bright red imprints that dissolved within hours.
In a dimly lit alleyway flea market, I discovered a set of ropes that promised hours of restraint. The silkiness of the material sent shivers down my spine, imagining the countless ways they could bind me. I couldn't resist their allure, adding them to my ever-growing collection.
One particularly memorable encounter occurred at a BDSM boutique nestled in a seedy part of town. The owner, a stern and intimidating woman, guided me through rows of whips, each one more elegant than the last. Her piercing gaze seemed to strip me bare, revealing the truth of my desires.
Despite the embarrassment, I persevered, selecting a flogger with delicate strands that whispered against my skin like a thousand tiny tongues. Its weight felt luxurious in my hand, the potential for pain and pleasure undeniable.
The final addition to my arsenal came from an unlikely source: a hardware store. There, amidst gardening tools and power drills, I stumbled upon a crop with a sturdy wooden handle. Its simplicity belied the pain it could deliver, a humble tool capable of bringing me to my knees.
With each acquisition, my heart raced with anticipation. Yet, as I surveyed the collection, I realized the implements were only tools, lacking the true dominance I craved. I needed someone to wield them, a cruel force that would shape me into their perfect slave.
But for now, I contented myself with practicing on my own, learning the subtle art of self-punishment. Each stroke would leave behind a mark, a tangible reminder of my journey toward submission. As I stood there, surveying my handiwork, I knew one thing for certain: the hunt for my true master had only just begun.
I stood before the mirror, my reflection distorted by the lustful haze clouding my vision. My hand instinctively traveled south, tracing the contours of my timeglass figure. A wave of lust surged through me, my fingers caressing my arousal delicately. The fantasy of enduring punishing whippings consumed my thoughts, images of birch rods and riding crops dancing in my mind.
Unable to resist, I procured my secret collection of implements, selecting whips and rods. A sense of guilt washed over me, but it was quickly replaced by exhilaration as I began to flog myself lightly at first, then increasing intensity. Wincing, yet finding pleasure, I continued until tears streamed down my face.
With trembling hands, I picked up a simple riding crop, its smooth handle cool to the touch. Raising it high above my head, I hesitated for a moment, nerves sparking like electricity in my veins. Then, with a swift motion, I brought the crop down on my thigh, the impact sending jolts of pleasure coursing through me.
"Oh God," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. The mark left behind was minimal, yet it ignited a fierce longing within me. Yearning for more, I raised the crop again and again, striking every inch of exposed skin until my body glowed with red welts.
Each stroke left behind a trail of pain, a cruel echo of the torment I so desperately desired. My long thick nipples hardened even more under the net top, pushing against the thin material as if begging for attention. I obliged, pinching them roughly until a sharp sting filled my chest.
My arousal grew with each strike, my sex dampening with anticipation. Reaching down, I touched myself, fingers sliding smoothly against wet folds. The sensation was exquisite, the pain and pleasure intermingling in an intoxicating dance.
As I thrust inside myself, my thoughts drifted to the dominant partner I longed for - someone cruel and unyielding. Someone who would claim me as their own, using me as they saw fit. The fantasy fueled my desire, pushing me closer to climax.
I came with a cry, my orgasm rippling through me like an electric current. Yet, as the waves subsided, I was left with an unexpected emptiness. Despite the intense pleasure, the self-inflicted punishment proved insufficient. I needed more, craved the real thing.
Looking at my reflection, I saw the marks I'd left upon myself: crimson lines tracing the contours of my body, a testament to my torment. Though gratifying, the experience left me wanting more. I needed a true master, one who could satisfy my masochistic urges without remorse.
As I stood there, breathless and spent, I vowed to continue my search for this elusive figure. My heart beat faster, driven by both fear and excitement. Somewhere out there existed a dominant who would match my deepest desires, and I would find that person at any cost.
The journey had begun, and with each self-inflicted wound, I grew closer to realizing my ultimate fantasy. But for now, I was left with the waning echo of my climax and the promise of a future yet to unfold.
Chapter One Dark Desires Awakened
When I looked at my collection of whips, rods, crops and other implements for self-punishment, I felt a shiver ripple down my spine. Each piece was a testament to my deepest desires - a tangible embodiment of the pain and submission I craved. I stood before the mirror, my reflection distorted by the lustful haze clouding my vision.
The journey to acquire these tools had been a labour of love, one that spanned months and countless miles. I scoured every shop, market, and auction house, searching for the perfect instruments of self-punishment. Each acquisition brought me closer to satisfying my masochistic urges, yet it never seemed enough.
From antique stores to online auctions, no avenue was too obscure or distant. I sought out wooden and leather paddles, each one promising a different sensation. The thick leather ones left deep purple bruises that lingered for days, while the thin plastic varieties created bright red imprints that dissolved within hours.
In a dimly lit alleyway flea market, I discovered a set of ropes that promised hours of restraint. The silkiness of the material sent shivers down my spine, imagining the countless ways they could bind me. I couldn't resist their allure, adding them to my ever-growing collection.
One particularly memorable encounter occurred at a BDSM boutique nestled in a seedy part of town. The owner, a stern and intimidating woman, guided me through rows of whips, each one more elegant than the last. Her piercing gaze seemed to strip me bare, revealing the truth of my desires.
Despite the embarrassment, I persevered, selecting a flogger with delicate strands that whispered against my skin like a thousand tiny tongues. Its weight felt luxurious in my hand, the potential for pain and pleasure undeniable.
The final addition to my arsenal came from an unlikely source: a hardware store. There, amidst gardening tools and power drills, I stumbled upon a crop with a sturdy wooden handle. Its simplicity belied the pain it could deliver, a humble tool capable of bringing me to my knees.
With each acquisition, my heart raced with anticipation. Yet, as I surveyed the collection, I realized the implements were only tools, lacking the true dominance I craved. I needed someone to wield them, a cruel force that would shape me into their perfect slave.
But for now, I contented myself with practicing on my own, learning the subtle art of self-punishment. Each stroke would leave behind a mark, a tangible reminder of my journey toward submission. As I stood there, surveying my handiwork, I knew one thing for certain: the hunt for my true master had only just begun.
I stood before the mirror, my reflection distorted by the lustful haze clouding my vision. My hand instinctively traveled south, tracing the contours of my timeglass figure. A wave of lust surged through me, my fingers caressing my arousal delicately. The fantasy of enduring punishing whippings consumed my thoughts, images of birch rods and riding crops dancing in my mind.
Unable to resist, I procured my secret collection of implements, selecting whips and rods. A sense of guilt washed over me, but it was quickly replaced by exhilaration as I began to flog myself lightly at first, then increasing intensity. Wincing, yet finding pleasure, I continued until tears streamed down my face.
With trembling hands, I picked up a simple riding crop, its smooth handle cool to the touch. Raising it high above my head, I hesitated for a moment, nerves sparking like electricity in my veins. Then, with a swift motion, I brought the crop down on my thigh, the impact sending jolts of pleasure coursing through me.
"Oh God," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. The mark left behind was minimal, yet it ignited a fierce longing within me. Yearning for more, I raised the crop again and again, striking every inch of exposed skin until my body glowed with red welts.
Each stroke left behind a trail of pain, a cruel echo of the torment I so desperately desired. My long thick nipples hardened even more under the net top, pushing against the thin material as if begging for attention. I obliged, pinching them roughly until a sharp sting filled my chest.
My arousal grew with each strike, my sex dampening with anticipation. Reaching down, I touched myself, fingers sliding smoothly against wet folds. The sensation was exquisite, the pain and pleasure intermingling in an intoxicating dance.
As I thrust inside myself, my thoughts drifted to the dominant partner I longed for - someone cruel and unyielding. Someone who would claim me as their own, using me as they saw fit. The fantasy fueled my desire, pushing me closer to climax.
I came with a cry, my orgasm rippling through me like an electric current. Yet, as the waves subsided, I was left with an unexpected emptiness. Despite the intense pleasure, the self-inflicted punishment proved insufficient. I needed more, craved the real thing.
Looking at my reflection, I saw the marks I'd left upon myself: crimson lines tracing the contours of my body, a testament to my torment. Though gratifying, the experience left me wanting more. I needed a true master, one who could satisfy my masochistic urges without remorse.
As I stood there, breathless and spent, I vowed to continue my search for this elusive figure. My heart beat faster, driven by both fear and excitement. Somewhere out there existed a dominant who would match my deepest desires, and I would find that person at any cost.
The journey had begun, and with each self-inflicted wound, I grew closer to realizing my ultimate fantasy. But for now, I was left with the waning echo of my climax and the promise of a future yet to unfold.
tinaslut
Executioner
Oh now I see, you mean my drawings. I will post them here now and then.
asswhipper
Onlooker
Excellent! Thank you!
tinaslut
Executioner
I guess you all know about the Krampus tradition. Eva Leopold got a job where the Krampus tested birch rods on her round plush derriere. Also tina got involved. She had promised to deliver some drawings and failed to do it in time. This enraged the Krampus who made tina join Eva at the pillory and as he was so furious also Eva Leopold got trashed much harder than before.
tinaslut
Executioner
Another chapter in the story of Eva Leopold.
Chapter Two Finding Solace in the Shadows
The vast expanse of the internet seemed to hold untold possibilities, a digital playground where fantasies could be fulfilled anonymously. With trembling fingers, I delved into the world of fetish forums and social media platforms, seeking others who shared my passion for pain and submission. Each interaction filled me with both hope and trepidation, unsure if anyone could truly understand the depth of my desires.
My first encounter was with a man who claimed to be a seasoned dom. Our exchanges were initially promising, his words dripping with promises of debasement and torment. His requests started innocuously: send me pictures of yourself bound and gagged, he demanded. Reluctantly, I complied, each image a testament to my deepest fears and desires.
But as our conversations escalated, so did his demands. He wanted me to degrade myself publicly, humiliating myself for his amusement. I hesitated, the fear of exposure overwhelming. Our connection fizzled, leaving me disillusioned and disheartened.
Undeterred, I sought out new contacts, hoping for a more satisfying experience. One such person was a woman who professed to share my love for bondage and self-inflicted pain. We met in a dingy basement, the air thick with sweat and anticipation. She bound me tightly, her fingers rough and calloused. The ropes cut into my skin, a welcome relief from the emotional turmoil I'd experienced thus far.
Yet, her methods failed to satisfy my needs. She lacked the sadistic edge I craved, her games tame and uninspired. Frustrated, I left the encounter, my frustration mounting with each step.
Another contact led me to a dark alleyway, where a mysterious figure awaited. Shadows cloaked him, his voice a low rumble. His commands were harsh, my submission instantaneous. He whipped me mercilessly, the pain searing through my flesh. But as quickly as he'd arrived, he disappeared, leaving me alone and aching.
A series of disappointments followed, each contact promising more than they delivered. One person even suggested I sought therapy, claiming my desires were unhealthy and deviant. The sting of those words lingered, a reminder of society's judgment.
Despite these setbacks, I clung to my fantasy, pouring my energy into self-punishment. Strokes became harder, more frequent. The flogger and crop became my constant companions, each strike a reminder of the master I longed for.
As the days passed, I found solace in my secret collection of implements for self-punishments. The pain provided a temporary escape, a reprieve from the reality of my failed encounters. Yet, the emptiness remained, a nagging void that could not be filled by my own hand. But I did as best as I could and each day I stood before the mirror punishing myself.
The first task was a simple one: the whip. Its weight felt natural in my hand, the violence a form of release. I'd strike myself mercilessly, the cuts and bruises a testament to my desire for punishment. Each stroke was deliberate, my body shaking with anticipation. The flogger followed, its strands cutting through the air with precision. I'd flog myself until my skin was raw, the pain a necessary evil.
Next came the clamps and clothespins on my nipples, their weight a constant reminder of my arousal. I'd clasp them tight, the tension excruciating. The piercing sensation drove me wild, my body begging for more.
Walking barefoot outdoors, I sought out broken glass, my feet trampling the sharp edges. The pain was intense, a rush of adrenaline coursing through me. The sensation was exhilarating, the wounds a source of pride. Inside, I'd insert tacks into my shoes, the discomfort a form of torture. Each step was a challenge, my feet screaming with every movement. The agony fueled my desire, a need for something more. I craved the sensation of drawing blood, each stroke becoming more forceful. My skin was marked, the wounds a testament to my submission. But still it was not what I really needed.
I yearned for a dominant Master, someone to truly own me. My thoughts drifted to the ideal partner, their cruelty a source of comfort. The vision was clear: a tall, muscular figure with a commanding presence. Their voice would be deep and gravelly, their demands unwavering. They'd force me to submit, their dominance unquestioned.
The fantasies were intense, my body writhing in pleasure. But they were merely fantasies, a substitute for the real thing. My daily punishments were not enough; I needed a true Master to satisfy my desires.
Days turned into weeks, my self-punishment a ritual. The marks on my body were a source of pride, but the emptiness lingered. I craved the touch of someone else, their dominance a necessary component.
I longed for a partner with experience, someone who could push me to the brink. Their methods would be extreme, their demands met with obedience. I'd willingly submit, their cruelty a form of salvation.
In my darkest moments, I imagined the perfect scene: a dungeon filled with instruments of torture. The room would be dimly lit, the atmosphere heavy with anticipation. My Master would stand in the center, their aura commanding.
Their voice would be low and menacing, their touch firm. They'd bind me with rope, their hands rough and skilled. The tension would build, my body begging for release.
Then, the pain would begin. Whips and floggers would strike my flesh, the agony a source of pleasure. Clamps and clothespins would adorn my nipples, their weight a constant reminder of submission. The pain would be intense, my body trembling with need.
But the release would be fleeting, the emptiness returning with each passing day. Self-punishment was no substitute for the real thing, the hunger within me insatiable.
And so, I continued my daily rituals of self-punishments, searching for a true Master. My fantasies were fueled by hope, the possibility of finding someone who understood my desires. The journey was arduous, but the potential for fulfillment was endless.
Chapter Two Finding Solace in the Shadows
The vast expanse of the internet seemed to hold untold possibilities, a digital playground where fantasies could be fulfilled anonymously. With trembling fingers, I delved into the world of fetish forums and social media platforms, seeking others who shared my passion for pain and submission. Each interaction filled me with both hope and trepidation, unsure if anyone could truly understand the depth of my desires.
My first encounter was with a man who claimed to be a seasoned dom. Our exchanges were initially promising, his words dripping with promises of debasement and torment. His requests started innocuously: send me pictures of yourself bound and gagged, he demanded. Reluctantly, I complied, each image a testament to my deepest fears and desires.
But as our conversations escalated, so did his demands. He wanted me to degrade myself publicly, humiliating myself for his amusement. I hesitated, the fear of exposure overwhelming. Our connection fizzled, leaving me disillusioned and disheartened.
Undeterred, I sought out new contacts, hoping for a more satisfying experience. One such person was a woman who professed to share my love for bondage and self-inflicted pain. We met in a dingy basement, the air thick with sweat and anticipation. She bound me tightly, her fingers rough and calloused. The ropes cut into my skin, a welcome relief from the emotional turmoil I'd experienced thus far.
Yet, her methods failed to satisfy my needs. She lacked the sadistic edge I craved, her games tame and uninspired. Frustrated, I left the encounter, my frustration mounting with each step.
Another contact led me to a dark alleyway, where a mysterious figure awaited. Shadows cloaked him, his voice a low rumble. His commands were harsh, my submission instantaneous. He whipped me mercilessly, the pain searing through my flesh. But as quickly as he'd arrived, he disappeared, leaving me alone and aching.
A series of disappointments followed, each contact promising more than they delivered. One person even suggested I sought therapy, claiming my desires were unhealthy and deviant. The sting of those words lingered, a reminder of society's judgment.
Despite these setbacks, I clung to my fantasy, pouring my energy into self-punishment. Strokes became harder, more frequent. The flogger and crop became my constant companions, each strike a reminder of the master I longed for.
As the days passed, I found solace in my secret collection of implements for self-punishments. The pain provided a temporary escape, a reprieve from the reality of my failed encounters. Yet, the emptiness remained, a nagging void that could not be filled by my own hand. But I did as best as I could and each day I stood before the mirror punishing myself.
The first task was a simple one: the whip. Its weight felt natural in my hand, the violence a form of release. I'd strike myself mercilessly, the cuts and bruises a testament to my desire for punishment. Each stroke was deliberate, my body shaking with anticipation. The flogger followed, its strands cutting through the air with precision. I'd flog myself until my skin was raw, the pain a necessary evil.
Next came the clamps and clothespins on my nipples, their weight a constant reminder of my arousal. I'd clasp them tight, the tension excruciating. The piercing sensation drove me wild, my body begging for more.
Walking barefoot outdoors, I sought out broken glass, my feet trampling the sharp edges. The pain was intense, a rush of adrenaline coursing through me. The sensation was exhilarating, the wounds a source of pride. Inside, I'd insert tacks into my shoes, the discomfort a form of torture. Each step was a challenge, my feet screaming with every movement. The agony fueled my desire, a need for something more. I craved the sensation of drawing blood, each stroke becoming more forceful. My skin was marked, the wounds a testament to my submission. But still it was not what I really needed.
I yearned for a dominant Master, someone to truly own me. My thoughts drifted to the ideal partner, their cruelty a source of comfort. The vision was clear: a tall, muscular figure with a commanding presence. Their voice would be deep and gravelly, their demands unwavering. They'd force me to submit, their dominance unquestioned.
The fantasies were intense, my body writhing in pleasure. But they were merely fantasies, a substitute for the real thing. My daily punishments were not enough; I needed a true Master to satisfy my desires.
Days turned into weeks, my self-punishment a ritual. The marks on my body were a source of pride, but the emptiness lingered. I craved the touch of someone else, their dominance a necessary component.
I longed for a partner with experience, someone who could push me to the brink. Their methods would be extreme, their demands met with obedience. I'd willingly submit, their cruelty a form of salvation.
In my darkest moments, I imagined the perfect scene: a dungeon filled with instruments of torture. The room would be dimly lit, the atmosphere heavy with anticipation. My Master would stand in the center, their aura commanding.
Their voice would be low and menacing, their touch firm. They'd bind me with rope, their hands rough and skilled. The tension would build, my body begging for release.
Then, the pain would begin. Whips and floggers would strike my flesh, the agony a source of pleasure. Clamps and clothespins would adorn my nipples, their weight a constant reminder of submission. The pain would be intense, my body trembling with need.
But the release would be fleeting, the emptiness returning with each passing day. Self-punishment was no substitute for the real thing, the hunger within me insatiable.
And so, I continued my daily rituals of self-punishments, searching for a true Master. My fantasies were fueled by hope, the possibility of finding someone who understood my desires. The journey was arduous, but the potential for fulfillment was endless.
tinaslut
Executioner
In case you want to read more about the perils and masochistic pleasures of Eva Leopold I can recommend my latest book, the first in a trilogy. It's over 60000 words and jam-packed with sex, suffering and pain. The book is available from https://www.fiction4all.com/ebooks/b19153-descent-into-obsession.htm
