The Poison Orgasm

I am amazed at the opposites of life: lovely and repulsive, unblemished and tainted, and of course, pleasure and pain. Seemingly opposites remain, yet how is it that paths cross so profoundly even to one exchanging for the other?

I was fighting the worst bought of poison oak I had ever had, covered over 70% of my body with shiny red, itchy, blistering welts. It pained me to look at myself. My form remained true, but the covering was marred horribly. The affliction spread freely in angry blotches as if seeking retribution. I felt unchaste -- violated in an almost Biblical way with visible evil. I avoided even glancing myself in my mirror while dressing or getting into the shower.

I received unsolicited pieces of advice from far and wide, finding several tidbits useful, but I adored one in particular. Supposedly, heat releases histamines --the hormones that make you itch -- so taking a hot shower was actually supposed to relieve itching. I was skeptical at first because the heat seemed as if it would unwisely fan the flames of hell, open pores, spread the rash, and damage my tarnished skin even further, but this advice checked out with my doctor provided that all the oils had been previously washed from my skin.

I had already scrubbed with oak-remover thoroughly and had showered at least a dozen times over the two days of suffering just to make doubly sure times six that I had removed the oils, so I was ready to experiment. I began lightly at first, steaming a bit and gradually backing into the shower stream until the first sprays splattered my caramelized skin. I imagined the itch imps swirling down the drain with faint dizzy cries, and then I felt it. I shuddered against the sensation. It felt so heavenly. Unbelievable -- it was almost intolerably good -- literally heaven within hell. I fluttered my eyes in response to confirm it for myself. It was as if the streams were embracing me and caressing the poison, irresistibly coaxing its blight to blessing. I twisted the shower head for maximum pressure and gyrated into its sputter, bending branch-like and fluttering my skin to let it touch each and every part of me, purifying the evil. I wanted to feel it all over, but I didn't want to give it up in the place it was currently pleasuring me. It was a spotlight -- an absolutely supreme and undeniable focus of titillation pulsing into me.

I opened myself completely and welcomed it inside; I felt I could both be filled and consumed by the pulsing liquid at the same time. Involuntarily I rose to my toes and opened my mouth, shifting my spotlight.

I turned and pressed my hands to the glass of my shower stall, bent and spread my legs, allowing the falling liquid to sweetly beguile the venom in my skin. I imagined the serpent courting Eve and began to sway under the stream, caressing my fluid lover, feeling his tendrils running down my sinews and funneling into my crack with slight overspray jumping off my butt cheeks. I rose again onto my toes and leaned forward slightly more to allow the stream to run lick my enraptured pussy. My muscles tightened and I heard my pleasure jump from my mouth. I held the fitful giddy sensation as long as I could, arching my back greedily, savoring my pillager through my lover.

I spun to offer completely and immediately my worst manifestation of evil -- my poisoned nipple. It had been a blithe of pain and obsessive itchiness for me since the rash's onset. It begged to be scrapped and scalded. I was so done with the suffering that I pushed it up into the stream, turning the heat up unbearably. The kneading water gripped me, pushing into my skin exquisitely, expertly intoxicating the toxin. I tightened, feeling my pleasure pushed to the edge. My peak rose quickly, and suddenly I crested in a consecrated divine adultery of pleasure through pain.

I rested my back on the glass, put my arms hands down below me, flexed my thighs, and slid down to the stall floor with a bang. My feet and butt flat, I tented my knees and let them fall, resting in the corner of the stall with my pussy in the stream, enjoying the post-pleasure shudders of my consecrated curse. I contemplated original sin: the knowledge of good and evil. What, after all, would sensual pleasure be without the apple?