 |
AFF -
The largest Adult Personals with over 20 million members! POST FOR FREE! |
The Agony of Paradise
Part 1
My name is Hillary Wilson. In my business career, I have
provided a service, a very exclusive service, indeed, a very exclusive AND unique service.
People pay me to give them pain!
No, I am not a professional dominatrix. I accept no clients who expect me to diminish them. I will agree there are elements of
my service which are similar to what the professional dominatrices do, but the major difference is that my role is to support my
clients achieve orgasm at their pain plateau. Indeed, I will often
encourage my clients to exceed the plain plateau they thought they had.
Yes, what I do is dangerous but before I entered my present profession, I was a neurosurgeon. Hence, not only am I able to
care for the needs of my clients, I also can competently examine them for an analysis of their health to see if they can undergo
their planned ordeal. There have also been occasions when I have been able to advise my clients of ways to improve their ordeal as
well as to accentuate their feelings.
Why did a neurosurgeon drop her practice and enter the field I am in? First of all, I got tired of the bullshit of the
medical game. I saw too many quacks get away with varying degrees of incompetence, and nobody punished them. I also made
a lot of money, so much that I simply retired. Well, maybe retired is too strong; more correctly, I semi-retired. Many of
my clients have become patients as well. This works out well for both of us.
It is true that my service is very expensive. It is that so that only the most serious pain seekers can afford me. This
eliminates the simple thrill seekers who might be troublesome at some time in the future. But there are ways for those who
cannot afford me to gain their fulfillment through a sort of scholarship fund. I'll explain that later.
My business is strictly referral. Only an introduction from an existing client will even get me to talk to a potential
client. When we agree to meet, it's done in a very public place in some large city. I carry an electronic device which will identify
any nearby recording device or radio transmitter. Only once did I detect any such device and my client who had referred the potential
client had been hoodwinked. Even so, I punished her by abandoning her for a full year.
When an agreement is reached, I tell the new client to meet me in Caracas, Venezuela. I do have to do my work outside the
country and Venezuela is just right. I have a coffee plantation, and nearby, in a totally private location, I have my pain palace.
The client is told to never attempt to locate my establishment, and
this goes for all my clients, not just new ones, but the established ones too. They then sign a self-incriminating document
which would make it just about totally unlikely that any would disclose me. When we leave Caracas, we do it in my luxury fitted
van (I tried a limo but the limo just couldn't stand up to the terrain). We drive for an hour into the jungle and, by use of
darkened windows and strategic turning, I lose most of them quickly. Nevertheless, at a moment, I put a blinding hood over
their heads so that they can't see a thing.
We then stop at a remote jungle airstrip where I pilot a small plane the remaining distance to my coffee plantation. The
final location, when we reach it, may not even be in Venezuela. The client is then taken from the plane, with the helmet still on,
to another van and is driven the final twenty miles to the pain palace. In this way, they don't even have the chance to
see the airplane or note its markings. When we arrive at the pain palace, a regimen is started that will lead up to the particular
pain event within one to three days.
My annual income is never less than one million per year, and all that is tax free.
Well now, after all the introductory remarks, you might wonder how I came to get into such a business. You already know why I
left the medical profession, but my entry to my present field was sort of bizarre. A man with whom I had been keeping company asked
me to check him out one day. With both of us nude, I completed
the check up, although it took a couple hours with time out for various erotic activities. When I pronounced him fit, he pressed
me to test his heart. I listened again, but found nothing. He insisted he had to know if he was likely to have a heart attack
under intense stress. I told him I simply could not guarantee that, but if he wanted to come by the office, I could do an EKG and
do some other tests that would identify his propensity for such an attack.
Two days later, I did the tests and again pronounced him fit. I then asked him why he wanted to know this. At first, he was
evasive; but, when I became angry with his simplistic nonsensical answers, he finally confessed that he was about to
have a flogging. A what, I asked. He repeated, a flogging. He then went on to add that he was into serious pain, and he was going
to undergo a flogging to take him to his limit.
I knew about masochists. I hadn't ever expected to meet one of such intensity. He explained that before the person who was to
flog him would do it, he had to produce a doctor's written certificate as to the condition of his health. I was somewhat
concerned with this turn of events. I really had no idea of the effect of a serious flogging on the physiology of a human
being. I knew that people had been flogged as late as the nineteenth century and most of them had not died, but I was
unaware of the intensity. And I was convinced my friend wanted a very intense flogging.
On a whim, I said I would sign the certificate but I would have to go along just in case anything went wrong. He starred at
me, and then smilingly agreed. The arrangements were made and two nites later, I found myself in a country home. The owners were a
couple. Both were dressed in leather. My friend presented his
certificate and introduced me. They wanted to know what I wanted to have done to me, but I assured them I was just there to observe
my patient in the event of anything unforseen happening. They shrugged.
Very quickly, my friend was stripped and then tied, face in, to an upright post in the middle of the room. When he was
secured, the woman brought forward a cat-of-nine-tails. The man took it, and then began to flog my friend. The first stroke left
angry red marks. The second stroke brought flecks of blood. I sat
there, with some apprehension, and even more amazement, as my friend was struck forty times by the fearsome instrument. When he
passed out, she was immediately at his side.
After several minutes, and he had been released, he was comfortable enough, but he laid on his stomach. After a drink of
whiskey, he said he was ready for the rest. I was shocked. It was unbelievable. He got to his feet and again embraced the post. He
was again secured. The flogging re-commenced. This time it took only twenty strokes before he passed out.
When he came to, he asked what I thought. I knew he didn't want me to tell him I thought he was crazy. I wouldn't have done
that anyway since I knew he had gone into this with his eyes open. Ordinarily, he would have stayed at the home in the country until
the next day but he asked if I would drive him home, which I did,
with him laying and kneeling in the back.
Back at his home, I treated his back. It was a real mess. Several of the cuts were deep enough to scab over and I thought
two of them might leave scars.
He reminded me I hadn't answered his question about what I thought. Stalling, I asked him where he had met the couple, and he
told me through a mutual friend, the name of whom also amazed me.
-the end-
