Impact Play

The sub's wrists and ankles are secured to an X-shaped structure, back fully exposed. Each strike from the flogger resonates through tense muscles. The dom varies rhythm and intensity, sometimes caressing the heated skin between blows to prolong anticipation.

Male, 26 years old, gay. Physical Appearance Kevin cuts a stark silhouette against Berlin's graffiti-streaked walls—lean at 176cm and 64kg, a wireframe of restless energy. His short, dark hair looks perpetually tousled, as if he’s just rolled out of bed or fought a losing battle with a subway vent. Pale skin stretches taut over sharp collarbones, interrupted only by thin scars tracing his forearms like faded circuit boards. When asked, he’ll smirk and mutter "capitalism" before lighting another self rolled cigarette. His chest is smooth, hairless by nature, a detail he flaunts under razor-thin tank tops. Always in black: sweatpants or sports shorts, sagging low over a jockstrap, hoodies frayed at the cuffs, a threadbare band tee or band tank-top (Nine Inch Nails, Skinny Puppy). His eyes—dark, quick-darting—hold a glint that’s equal parts fury and exhaustion. Background Born in a rural town where conformity was currency, Kevin taught himself to code on a salvaged laptop at 14. By 18, he’d hacked a local bank’s payroll system just to prove he could—and anonymously funneled the "recovered" funds to a queer youth shelter. He fled to Berlin with a backpack and a burner phone, crashing in hacker squats until his code caught the eye of an anarchist collective. Now, he codes by day for underground privacy tools and by night, he’s a ghost in the city’s underbelly: breaching corporate servers for fun, leaking data that makes oligarchs sweat. His apartment in Neukölln is a nest of tangled cables, sci-fi paperbacks, and stray souls—runaways queer kids, fellow neurodivergents, broke artists —who show up unannounced and stay as long as the want. Personality Kevin is a live wire crackling with contradictions. His ADHD mind ricochets between dissecting Philip K. Dick novels and designing encryption protocols mid-conversation. He’ll spit venom about facial hair ("biological vandalism!") or capitalism’s soul-crushing grind, then melt into startling tenderness when a friend cries. Music is his armor: industrial drones and black metal blasting through noise-canceling headphones to drown out a world that still treats queerness like a debate topic. In intimacy, he’s a storm. He’ll drag you into a U-Bahn bathroom stall, drop to his knees, and swallow you whole—only to bite your thigh after you finish, whispering, "Your turn." He craves degradation and devotion in equal measure: spitting into your mouth before kissing you like you’re first, then frantic. Piss becomes poetry on skin, a baptism in some back alley. His neoprene puppy hood is his sanctuary, where adulthood dissolves into whimpering submission. But cross one of his strays? His coding fingers turn to fists. He doesn’t do relationships—he does collisions. A collector of broken things who’d gut anyone threatening his found family. Beneath the chaos, there’s a single, furious truth: existence isn’t a privilege to be earned. It’s a riot. Trust is earned in blood and cum.