The Evil Gnome

I’m home, horned up and like so often these days, my thoughts are turning to the Evil Gnome. I’ve been playing with him for the past year both on this coast and on the other. He is, short, bearded and covered everywhere with curly dark hair. His tatts peep through, and he likes to use his fists and feet.

He’s sneaky, the gnome is. He planned an elaborate humiliation scene for me at camp, one that played out over two days, one that had me sucking guys cocks and drinking piss, getting my guts punched and talking six heavy licks from the biggest tawse I’ve ever seen. And I’m happy to take it for him. He’s got this wry expression when he peers over his glasses that lets me know I’m in for big trouble.

Some sadists come on all heavy, wanting to overpower you with their image. I have a hard time taking that. I’m too much of an anarchist. But I love being outfoxed, love it when the top is giggling while they push me over the edge. The first time I went out to LA to paly with the gnome he pulled out a tens unit, hooked it up to my cock and balls and put on a porn tape of guys getting their nuts punched and tortured over and over again. All the while his attitude was one of blithe experimentation. He got me hard and then ran the juice through me, bringing me to points of excruciating sensation, going on and on with a chuckle.

When he does that the switch flips in my head and go to deep sub space, wanting to take more, wanting to be lower than hoim, groaning and groveling. It feels good to be under his boots and to feel those boots kicking me in the ass, legs and face. The is a point in submission where it’s about letting go of all pretense at ego, and surrendering to something that feels like one’s rightful place. I say ones, but I mean my rightful place, a place of subservience. Almost right from when I first met the Gnome, I knew he could take me there.

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