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The Submission Sessions
Mar. 12th, 2011 03:02 amSession #23:
Operative: Mistress Drown.
Date: The Sun in the 19th Degree of Pisces: Anno IVxx aerae novae.
Total Elapsed Time: Three hours and 21 minutes.
Price: 500$
Location: An abandoned factory in south side Terminus.
There is an exquisite gratification that comes with the absolute obedience I have given her cruelty, but do not be mistaken in thinking that it is one limited to the flesh alone. Cross-legged in my rough asana and stripped to her satisfaction. Face wrapped in a welding mask, insulated to cut off all external vision and interiorly wired with a small blinking red light. Back lavished with lashes from a bundled electrical cord. Her sigil painted with lipstick across a pair of only worn once white panties and stitched across my chest. Fingers locked in lotus mudrā and palms up hands fishing wire sewn into my thighs. The body trembles with the cold and the pain. Through agony’s fire, I draw breath into my belly to give birth to a small universe. It expands into perfection’s fulfillment before fading steadily through the nostrils back into oblivion.
Her damage grounds me to the illusion of now, while the red light flashing against the screen of my eyelids pries open the secret gates leading to the Garden of Assassins. There, deep in the cartography of a venomous paradise, I will learn the slave’s strength and with it break free of the shackles that bind me to this prison-shell called ‘I’.
Session # 9:
Operative(s): A shifting collective of prostitutes picked almost entirely at random.
Date: The third Monday of every month.
Total Elapsed Time: One hour.
Price: Fluctuates per session depending on variables of the operatives and theatre rental.
Location: Shove Shove Theatre.
Let’s get one thing straight right off the bat. I am not like the rest of you freaks!
So, you like to get what… spanked? Whipped? Insulted? Forced at crop point into your mama’s bra? A little hot wax on the balls with a plastic bag wrapped around your head, perhaps?
Amateurs!
That’s not punishment. That’s a response. That’s a reaction. That’s something. Now this… this is real punishment.
I rent the theatre out for the night. Usually at three or four in the morning when the last show’s safely through and even the most persistent talk back is over. Don’t worry, it’s cool, I know the owners and they need the money. Which, as it happens to be, I got more than enough of here lately. Can’t really get into the specifics, but let’s just say maybe you’ve caught my cameo in a recent Tyler Perry comedy on the big screen? O, who knows, maybe even noticed a small recurring role on a certain locally shot vampire soap opera? Well, point is I got the cash to rent the theatre with no questions asked. From there I borrow my buddy’s pick-up truck… long story, drive around Voodooo Town for an hour or two and proceed to picking up as many hookers as I can fit in the back of the cab. I used to use an escort service…, but while I’m flush, I’m not stupid flush. Anyway, we drive back to the theatre. Then, after being assured it was all ‘cool’, they receive their instructions, file into the theatre, get butt naked and take their seats for the big show.
From there I take to the stage go right into my routines from there. I give them my best material. The Real A – List shit. Giving them, basically, the performance of a lifetime or at least, my lifetime. Mannn, some nights I’m juggling lit torches, some nights I’m belting out songs at the top of my lungs, some nights its Beckett to Marlowe to Aristophanes to the Bard and back again. Some nights it straight up acrobatics and puppets and poetry and…
… no matter what I do or how good I do it, they’ll just sit there quietly. Without expression, with the only exception being to yawn or fidget uncomfortably. When my hour’s up, they rise without applause and file wordlessly out of the theatre and hop back into the truck. When I come out to give them a lift back to the corner, they’ll refuse my obvious attempt to extract even the vaguest feedback from them.
After all it’s what I pay them for… because real pain, real pain is giving everything you’ve got and getting nothing back in return. Everything else is just masturbation with props.
Wait… maybe I’m thinking of improv?
Session # 47
Operative(s): Madame Never & her Scalpel Minions
Date: His birthday.
Total Elapsed Time: Off the clock.
Price: One original painting by the client and always of the Madame.
Location: Classified.
The first art, the first paintings really, appeared on canvases of stone walls and depicted the wild animals that our distant ancestors both hunted and were hunted by. A time when art and language and magic were one craft and wielded in defense of the tribe. Outside the caves, the primal night sky and the hunger of the monster gods waiting beneath it.
So it is, once a year, I paint her.
Deep in the basement of her wharehouse. Through a speaker attached to the ceiling, I can her and her assistants dispense their barbed chastisements, casual brutalitiesand calculated debasements to men desperate to rent penance. Many rank powerful amongst their tribe, great hunters of currency and plump gatherers of commodities. I hear them beg, whimper, cry, groan, slurp, coo, whine and suffer gladly. The music of their punishment is the model in which I paint her, my terrible and unforgiving muse.
At the stroke of midnight, when my birthday has officially ended. She cuts off the speaker. Walks down to the basement. Unlocks me from the cage and when I step out, I immediately hand over the painting to her, whether it is finished or not.
Madame Never always stares at it intently, sometimes for an entire hour… sometimes for a few seconds. But without fail she destroys it right in front of my eyes and then leaves. I follow her upstairs and no matter how bad the sufferings I’ve heard inflicted upon those who have passed before me… I know my punishment will be a hundred times worse.
Operative: Mistress Drown.
Date: The Sun in the 19th Degree of Pisces: Anno IVxx aerae novae.
Total Elapsed Time: Three hours and 21 minutes.
Price: 500$
Location: An abandoned factory in south side Terminus.
There is an exquisite gratification that comes with the absolute obedience I have given her cruelty, but do not be mistaken in thinking that it is one limited to the flesh alone. Cross-legged in my rough asana and stripped to her satisfaction. Face wrapped in a welding mask, insulated to cut off all external vision and interiorly wired with a small blinking red light. Back lavished with lashes from a bundled electrical cord. Her sigil painted with lipstick across a pair of only worn once white panties and stitched across my chest. Fingers locked in lotus mudrā and palms up hands fishing wire sewn into my thighs. The body trembles with the cold and the pain. Through agony’s fire, I draw breath into my belly to give birth to a small universe. It expands into perfection’s fulfillment before fading steadily through the nostrils back into oblivion.
Her damage grounds me to the illusion of now, while the red light flashing against the screen of my eyelids pries open the secret gates leading to the Garden of Assassins. There, deep in the cartography of a venomous paradise, I will learn the slave’s strength and with it break free of the shackles that bind me to this prison-shell called ‘I’.
Session # 9:
Operative(s): A shifting collective of prostitutes picked almost entirely at random.
Date: The third Monday of every month.
Total Elapsed Time: One hour.
Price: Fluctuates per session depending on variables of the operatives and theatre rental.
Location: Shove Shove Theatre.
Let’s get one thing straight right off the bat. I am not like the rest of you freaks!
So, you like to get what… spanked? Whipped? Insulted? Forced at crop point into your mama’s bra? A little hot wax on the balls with a plastic bag wrapped around your head, perhaps?
Amateurs!
That’s not punishment. That’s a response. That’s a reaction. That’s something. Now this… this is real punishment.
I rent the theatre out for the night. Usually at three or four in the morning when the last show’s safely through and even the most persistent talk back is over. Don’t worry, it’s cool, I know the owners and they need the money. Which, as it happens to be, I got more than enough of here lately. Can’t really get into the specifics, but let’s just say maybe you’ve caught my cameo in a recent Tyler Perry comedy on the big screen? O, who knows, maybe even noticed a small recurring role on a certain locally shot vampire soap opera? Well, point is I got the cash to rent the theatre with no questions asked. From there I borrow my buddy’s pick-up truck… long story, drive around Voodooo Town for an hour or two and proceed to picking up as many hookers as I can fit in the back of the cab. I used to use an escort service…, but while I’m flush, I’m not stupid flush. Anyway, we drive back to the theatre. Then, after being assured it was all ‘cool’, they receive their instructions, file into the theatre, get butt naked and take their seats for the big show.
From there I take to the stage go right into my routines from there. I give them my best material. The Real A – List shit. Giving them, basically, the performance of a lifetime or at least, my lifetime. Mannn, some nights I’m juggling lit torches, some nights I’m belting out songs at the top of my lungs, some nights its Beckett to Marlowe to Aristophanes to the Bard and back again. Some nights it straight up acrobatics and puppets and poetry and…
… no matter what I do or how good I do it, they’ll just sit there quietly. Without expression, with the only exception being to yawn or fidget uncomfortably. When my hour’s up, they rise without applause and file wordlessly out of the theatre and hop back into the truck. When I come out to give them a lift back to the corner, they’ll refuse my obvious attempt to extract even the vaguest feedback from them.
After all it’s what I pay them for… because real pain, real pain is giving everything you’ve got and getting nothing back in return. Everything else is just masturbation with props.
Wait… maybe I’m thinking of improv?
Session # 47
Operative(s): Madame Never & her Scalpel Minions
Date: His birthday.
Total Elapsed Time: Off the clock.
Price: One original painting by the client and always of the Madame.
Location: Classified.
The first art, the first paintings really, appeared on canvases of stone walls and depicted the wild animals that our distant ancestors both hunted and were hunted by. A time when art and language and magic were one craft and wielded in defense of the tribe. Outside the caves, the primal night sky and the hunger of the monster gods waiting beneath it.
So it is, once a year, I paint her.
Deep in the basement of her wharehouse. Through a speaker attached to the ceiling, I can her and her assistants dispense their barbed chastisements, casual brutalitiesand calculated debasements to men desperate to rent penance. Many rank powerful amongst their tribe, great hunters of currency and plump gatherers of commodities. I hear them beg, whimper, cry, groan, slurp, coo, whine and suffer gladly. The music of their punishment is the model in which I paint her, my terrible and unforgiving muse.
At the stroke of midnight, when my birthday has officially ended. She cuts off the speaker. Walks down to the basement. Unlocks me from the cage and when I step out, I immediately hand over the painting to her, whether it is finished or not.
Madame Never always stares at it intently, sometimes for an entire hour… sometimes for a few seconds. But without fail she destroys it right in front of my eyes and then leaves. I follow her upstairs and no matter how bad the sufferings I’ve heard inflicted upon those who have passed before me… I know my punishment will be a hundred times worse.
