Wicked Love

He’s a wicked man and she’s a wicked woman. Their dark souls meant to covet each other in their abyss of love. A love cloaked in pain and tolerance. They enjoy inflicting it and taking it. They yearn for the sharp twinge of a whip, the lightheadedness of a choke. They love it even more when they inflict it on others. They love the pulsating feel of a hard slap and the painful tenderness of a hairpull.

They get intoxicated by the smell of burning flesh — skin roasting, blood boiling. The screams and pleas for life, the look of dread in eyes, the promise of hope fading as blood leaks out, taking the life with it. It turns them on. It’s a pleasure so erotic they have to have sex right there. Grinding, pumping, lusting each other as the life eases out of the body a few feet away. They love an audience, an audience of a life struggling to keep going, a soul still praying that the night will end in another way then their death.

They tie and whip and spank and slap and choke and pinch and clip and pull. They moan and scream and grunt and breathe and instruct. They orgasm and cum. They take breaks to inflict pain on their audience, hardening his penis, wetting her vagina. Then they go back at it. Pleasure is pain. Pain is pleasure. He’s a wicked man and she’s a wicked woman. Hope that you never find yourself in their wicked path.