March 2014
SHE IS, by all the modern definitions of the word so relentlessly expounded upon in the media, beautiful. Her hair, long and dimensional and thick, doesn’t simply crown the top of her head. It luxuriates in glorious flows of rich darkest Ecuadorian bistre cacao onto the table, spreading out in elegance, and if she were upright, walking, it wouldn’t bounce, it would undulate seductively. Were someone brash enough to dare run their fingers through it, it would fold back into place on its own, admonishing the partier to do it again and get lost in there forever, and to come into her power. Her coiffure is expensive, the maintenance of it requires staff, and my assessment of it is barbaric: how long is it, what kind of braid could be wound into the ropes to hang her by it, and what would she offer to make that not happen. I am but a fiend, jaded and indifferent.
Her skin is radiant, perfect. She has no tattoos, no marks, no moles. Her makeup, like her hair, is divine and flawless and no quick-slap coat of paint: it is sheer artistry. She had to have gotten up early for it, and, no doubt, had her latte delivered to her as it was going on in a room full of minions whose sole reason to breathe was to tend to her and her many, many needs. Her full lips glisten and call out their temptations to have an intimate something I have to nestle between them for long periods of time, and she moves them in ways that say welcome. She blinks around the aerial shade of brown of her eyes slowly so I can get a good look at her eye shadow, with all its delicate luminescences that I have to stare at and observe to understand the complexities of its subtle color gradations, and how the lines of her liner seem to move when she closes and reopens her eyes into something that makes her appear most agreeable. It’s a tempo thing, part of the bag of tricks women wield against men. Her eyelashes are pronounced, but not ridiculously long. Mercifully, no glitter there. I wonder if her mascara would run under the right circumstances.
Her face is unreal, it is so perfect. Completely symmetrical, it combines youth and innocence with seduction and sheer raw sex. It should be difficult to look at her, but she has all the appearances of being friendly and inviting, easy to talk to, were it permitted. She effortlessly ranks high among the most exquisite women I have ever seen, and would statistically stop traffic in every country on earth.
Laid out as she is on a narrow table with her hands up over her head, she wiggles the cuffs on her wrists which are heavy black leather, shiny and polished and clean and obviously new, never even worn before. No scuff marks are on them, and the padding on her wrist-side is fluffy and white. There is a black rope running through the chrome links on them, and it takes me a while to discern that it is silk. She stretches a time or two and tests her range of motion. On the other end of the table, her dainty feet have a companion set of cuffs. She has been bound to the table at the ends, and she has lots of ability to squirm, but no leverage or freedom to sit up, or even twist herself onto her side. She is slightly stretched, and there is a hint of the rack.
Her body, too, is a work of art, sculpted and shaped and toned with the obviousness of relentless hours at the gym. Her breasts have implants, and they stand up firm and tall and bulbous on her chest in a way actual human female breasts cannot. Her nipples are vigorously erect and veritably cry out to be flicked, pinched, bitten, chewed by the darker sides I carry with me. Her stomach is stone-flat, and the breathing motions in her upper chest induces waveforms and ripples through it that flow from her diaphragm all the way down the rest of her abdomen to the most visible cleft of her sex. She isn’t just shaved, she has had laser hair removal of every follicle on her entire body below her neck, not to mention labioplasty to make her clitoris plain and obvious. It’s impossible to see it from this angle, but her legs are thin enough that it would be easy to conclude that, were she standing with her hair flowing in the breeze and her knees were together, there would be a gap between her thighs where her pretty pussy lips would hang down into just enough to capture attention away from whatever else could be around her.
She is designed. Everything about her, from the perfection of her ingenious manicure to the clever angles she holds her feet on the table have been carefully crafted to create an image of a woman that at least a man, at least me, would have a hard time looking away from. She has all the right curves and lines and all the little motions she makes by just lying there scream out for attention, for observation. Her chest—and thereby, her breasts—heaves as she breathes and arches her back and her matching-collared neck rolls her head this way and that while she waits. Her demeanor is expectant and serene, and she alternates opening and closing her mouth. Her teeth are perfect and iridescent, and her tongue glistens and behaves itself as it peeks to the edge of her lips. She is not just to be seen, she is to be concentrated upon, and fantasized about. She is a living bid for the stuff of dreams.
The room is abstract, white fading off toward gray in all directions. The table is black, and there is a second table behind it that is hard to see what all is on it.
The man comes in, dressed all in black casual—he is nearly invisible, and plays the parts of Noh that I am not supposed to really see, and it is easy to supplant his flat imageless image with my own—and the show is set about to begin. The starlet focuses on him and his non-descriptedness in attempts to entice him by amplifying what motions she can do on the table. She does not speak; she bats her eyes in his direction and smiles a smile that is to be interpreted that she is honored to be here, to be here with him, but it strikes me as plasticene. It is a supermodel’s smile.
He circles around to the other side of her and turns toward the second table, returning to tower over her holding a long stick on hand. No, it’s a riding crop, also shiny and new. He begins rubbing the shaft and the popper over her and she moves away from it as it crosses her ribcage. He lets it fall and land harmlessly on her by only its own weight a few places on her: the tops of her thighs, across her stomach a time or two, even on her face and cheeks, which gets her to squinch her eyes shut. He flicks it down onto the middle of her chest, directly on her sternum, accelerating it only slightly faster than what gravity could do, and pats her with it, slowly increasing the tempo and the force he applies until he has to grasp it firmly with his hand to keep from dropping it. The swats become enough that it barely makes a sound against her skin, and as it gets louder, her breathing changes into something slower, deeper, in what I would like to think is an effort to control herself as he makes more and more noise with the crop. His wrist is flicking and the end of the crop vanishes in the air until it reappears on wherever it lands on her, making a solid slap, getting her to tense up where he struck and have the impact radiate out on her body like a waveform, getting her to gasp once. Her mouth opens and her eyes widen and she is efforting herself to not make any noise, to not interfere with what the weapon is doing against her, and still he applies more and more pressure with each downstroke, more speed, getting higher and higher velocities to wend their way through the end of the leather stick. He hits her now on her expensive breasts and her eyes widen and her head and jaw freezes with a slight shake of her head, and he smiles as he traces a line of attack from there down her tummy, getting her abdominal muscles to contract down toward the table. He moves the ictus of the whip down through where she would had shaved just this morning if she had had pubic hair in the first place and he says his first words.
“Spread your legs; as far as you can.”
The ankle bindings keep her from doing little beyond parting her knees, but as she does, he directs the crop down off the tops of her thighs toward her inner thighs, and her hips thrust around as he strikes her faster and faster and closer and closer to her sex, and he periodically re-admonishes her to do as he says when her reflexes kick in and she appears to disobey him. Her breathing is noisy by now, and she no longer able to suppress the little reactions to being hit and she tries, oh how she tries to do what he says, and she lifts her pussy up off the table as far as her bondage will allow for in what is to be considered to be representative of the limits of her strength and endurance and she holds her breath, and he spats the crop directly onto where her clit should be, right at the top of her pussy lips, and she groans and closes her legs around the crop. He lets go of it, and she rolls it back and forth, waving it like a flag, moaning, and making the first sound that could be identified as a word: “Oh.”
He smiles and lets her settle herself down before pulling the crop out from between her legs. She lurches at the extraction with her mouth open, her eyes wide. He runs his other hand up and down her, where he had been striking her, and she writhes from the comfort, and goes back to undulating herself up to meet his hand as it flows around her, stroking her ever so lightly.
They eyes manage to lock and he nods his head. She inhales deeply and exhales with her first expression that could almost pass as a sentence: “Oh, sir,” which she reiterates time and time again as he continues to stroke his hands over her contortions, tickling her a time or two, getting her to throw herself about in her bondage with peals of laughter. He turns back to the second table, and she continues saying the two little words, and something bothers me. She appears to have some kind of a disconnect with what is happening here, and her mind is obviously somewhere else. It does not seem to be subspace. It’s more that she’s daydreaming of something like maybe a beach.
The very-precisely constructed archetype of a ravishingly beautiful woman laid out and restrained, naked, helpless—with a fully clothed man standing over her, able to do anything he wants to her—is the draw, the appeal for revenge against all the put-downs women have expressed not just to him or to me, but to all men everywhere, and the notion that she is here to pay for the sins of all womankind has with it a sheer attraction that is so beautiful it is difficult to look at. Except, that is not what is going on here. She pronounces her two-word vocabulary with the echoes of a woman looking down and trying to comfort a five-year old boy who scraped his knee, and it is apparent by this point that this is all script, all planned to the finest detail, probably even rehearsed. It is an entertainment.
He produces a vibrator, one of the big strong ones that looks technological and makes no effort in its construction toward simulating a man—form follows function, even in things that buzz—and it is the kind that plugs into the wall, and he places it right square between her legs directly on the target she has so craftily constructed for men and she lurches. Now she is engaged with what is happening, and she squirms and she moans and she begs with the two words she is allowed for a mere minute and a half before she risks everything and asks to “please, please, please” and can she “have permission to come.” It took no time whatsoever to go from the simulations of agony to the simulations of ecstasy. His eyelids compress and he says that when he gets to “one” she can come, and she frumps as though she was five and sets back to quivering. He counts backwards from ten, and when he says the final word after the shortest of delays, and he pronounces the word of permission long and slow, she arches up off the table and cries out and goes back to saying “oh, sir” and throws herself against the ropes and makes unintelligible noises. She has the screaming orgasm of the ages. She squirts; I don’t know, maybe she urinates.
She settles down and turns her head with a smile I have seen before. She glows with the smile that happens at the front of the big churches when the offering plate is passed, and gets full. She is in complete control and has been from the start, and everything has happened exactly as she had predicted and planned, and she is smug, and she is getting paid now.
She is the very embodiment of all the women I have ever known that would have nothing to do with me and all the women I have ever been taught that I could have absolutely nothing to do with, that all she has for me is ridicule and disgust and loathing, no matter what I do, no matter how I act, no matter what I say, and my education process kicks in hard and concludes her smile is avarice. This girl, this woman is sin itself but the sin is not mine, it is hers: vanity, greed, the appearance of lust, she induces envy and desire for what cannot be had, and the sin that is mine is wrath and I have been played, as it is all an act, a show, and she is something I should walk away from and I do.
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SHE IS a woman that I might take a second glance at in public, but no more. The kind of beauty one sees in common places, like in the service industry. Pretty, but not overpoweringly so. One who, as she performs her task of waitressing or checking out the groceries or making me a latte, when she smiles, it proves relaxing, reaffirming, a cause for pause to make a bright spot in my day, but no more. It would get her a tip. She has a good body, quite naked, sporting dishwater blonde hair in an unkempt pageboy with her roots starting to show, and if she didn’t look so tired, she might have a sunny disposition.
Her hands are in cuffs; scruffy old ones that are at least humane: they have handles built into them she can hang on to with the leather around her wrists done up tight and secure with several small padlocks on each arm; they are nothing she can just take off. They are somehow attached to heavy hemp ropes in ways I can’t quite see—ah yes, carabiners, also with locks—that lead up to ratchet pulleys that latch onto the rope as it is pulled through, and her arms are drawn up above her head so she is fully stretched into a “Y”, and she is vulnerable, in more ways than her bondage relays. Her feet remain unseen, but it is plain she is standing, and not dangling airborne from the ceiling. She stretches up enough that I can at least imagine she is standing on her unobservable toes, and she breathes deep from her diaphragm; her breasts are relatively immobile and pulled tight, at least at the moment. She is unshaved under her arms and at the tops of her legs and between them, too, and it confirms the dye-job from her god-given camel-colored hair. She looks human. She chews her nails.
There seems to be some kind of conversation going on with her by the two men who are readying her, but what they say cannot be heard. All that can be made out are her responses: “Yes,” “It has been,” and “I completely hate it.” After her last comment, she hangs her head as though she is ashamed to have to admit that, and she shudders once, and her flattened nipples begin to rise. It may be a fear response.
The room is bare but obviously an unfinished basement; enough of the ceiling rafters are visible where the pulleys are attached to make it clear the ceiling is flat, not at angles—and thence, not an attic—and the lighting is not well-designed. There is enough light to keep the shadows at bay, but it does nothing beyond making her visible. She breathes and blinks. After a moment of just her standing there, collecting her thoughts, she raises her head to nod it and she forces a smile, and my day is made. It is then that I notice she is alone, but only for a scant few seconds.
The two men who had been stringing her up step back into view and begin prowling around her. They are both old enough to be her father, overweight, and it looks like they slept in their clothes which I recognize as cheaper than my own. She keeps her eyes on one of them religiously, and her lips quiver. Simultaneously, they pull their arms back to reveal their bags of tricks they have in mind for this woman, this girl, this victim, with whips in their hands, and they both swing forward in concert, slowly, gently, exerting just enough to get centrifugal force to lengthen out the lines into casual arcs, so they can gauge their distances from her, and both whips touch her lightly at the same time. They make no sound. Her torso wiggles a tiny bit in response, and she compresses her lips and rolls her eyes across the ceiling once.
She blinks several times at the one man, and keeps her mouth shut, and exhales and inhales noisily through her nose.
The men both pull their arms back, again in synch, and push their whips against her a second time. There is still no sound from the impact, but the way she licks her lips and swallows suggest it might have been a little harder. It is the last time they manage to hit her at the same moment. They have their own schedules to keep, and though they partner with each other, stroke for stroke, they no longer match rhythm, and set up unsteady syncopations for the rest of the affair. The men keep alternating their glances between each other and the woman. The man she keeps her eyes on does not blink very much, and his breathing is labored throughout the session.
The complimentary snake whips are ancient, a dull grayish-brown, obviously in long service and well used, approximately five feet in length, and completely flexible. One of them is bent, as though a strand had broken. The leather lines narrow to an almost-sharp end with no popper, and they wrap around her as they strike, and as the men circle her, swinging their arms, the swishes and the cracks start sounding.
They whip her, front and back. At first, one only whips her with back-hand strokes, the other with fore-arm strokes.
She rolls her head to keep the one man in sight as much as possible and she never so much as acknowledges the other. When the man she looks to steps behind her, and wraps the whip around her sides with the tip circling onto the tops of her thighs, her stomach, her breasts, she hangs her head and closes her eyes and her mouth falls open and she gasps. When he is far enough around her other side, she snaps her head up to him with a stricken look on her face, and when she sees him again, she relaxes a little, and her breathing kicks up to panting. The expression she bears delivers the notion that she is being supported through this by the mere fact that she can once again see him. She mouths the words of affection to him.
The tempo picks up, as does the force, and the attack strengthens and the harm is becoming apparent. For no reason I can discern, both whips start hitting her from both directions from both men, as they move from deliberate, one-directional strokes, to both swinging both ways, back and forth, each doubling the number of times they are hitting her within the previous timeframe of a single stroke. The whip marks are beginning to show on her and she glistens with sweat; she shimmies in what is almost a jig of pulsations. Her body was not pristine when they started: she was covered with bruises and most of them have been on her long enough to be fading to yellow and brown and green, and she has what looks like burn scars around her belly button. The lines from the whips redden, and some of them begin to bleed. Another unseen signal passes between the men, and their rotation around her changes direction, from counter-clockwise to clockwise.
The man she looks to for strength again passes around behind her, out of her range of vision, and she begins thrashing about, moaning from what so now obviously hurts, and she begins to dance, lifting her knees one at a time, twisting herself around as the force and frequency of the lashes continues to increase. The swish of the whips is near constant, and when the next rotation sets in, and the man she is here for is where she can see him, her face crumples, and she begins shaking her head back and forth, and she cries out. She had expended what was left of her strength for the sole reason to hold out for him to see her downfall, so he could witness her succumb to what he was doing to her, what he had arranged to have happen to her, wrought by himself and his minion.
The whipping is relentless and both men are obvious in their expenditures of strength against her. They necessarily have to slow down their fore-and-back-handed swinging to compensate for how hard they are now hitting her. The men are out of breath, and she is crying and throwing her head around. Still it goes on, and the second man, the one who she has still not even looked at stops what he is doing behind her and steps forward and strokes her, checking her, which offers her enough comfort to lift her head back to the man she is trying to impress. Another unheard question is asked, and she responds with “N-no,” and then “Yes.” She heaves her breasts as she tries to still herself, to reposition herself to face the man she is her rock, her salvation.
The men step back to their positions, and let her have it. Hard and fast, and then harder and faster, whipping her everywhere at once, and she looks up to the ceiling and screams. They do not let up; she screams again. And again. And again, shrill, hard, long and loud. The whips are unseen, they are flying so fast, the men’s arms blur, and the marks crop up instantly, deep red lines, criss-crossing her entire body, from her armpits down to her knees, she is completely marked side to side, front to back, top to bottom, and blood rivulets down her until it is splatted away by the whips.
The second man is behind her and says the first thing either man pronounces that can be heard: “Spread your legs.”
The whipping stops and she trembles and shakes uncontrollably. Her lover is in front of her and he reaches his hand to her face which she falls directly into and takes a step towards him, as far as the ropes will allow. She says “Ah” several times, fast at first, then slowing down. He lifts her head up and he waits for her to look at him and he nods. Her lips throb, and she steps back, and obeys. She squinches her eyes shut and performs what appears to be a superhuman feat as her knees part as far as she can get them and still stand.
He retreats from her and she relaxes into a beatific appearance in the sudden quiet, quiet except for the sounds of breathing—hers, the men’s, mine—and she, waiting through the seconds of respite, fills with adoration and reverence when she beholds her owner, and the second man swings up from behind, between her legs, through her sex, and the first vertical line appears, running up from her public hair. Both of her knees snap together, lifting up, catching the whip, and she dangles, off the floor for the first time, and the whip is released by the man behind her. It undulates like a snake across the floor. The expression on her face changes into disbelief, and she regains herself in less than a moment, and tears flow down her face, and she looks up toward heaven once again. Her mascara runs.
Her mouth drops open and her breathing palpitates, and she does the impossible. She lowers her feet and spreads her legs, and the whip she had caught between them falls to the floor and she stops breathing. It gets picked right back up; this isn’t over yet. Both men hunker down and reposition themselves to lean around her to acknowledge each other, and they pull their arms back together, and as the same time, they whip her—double-crack—between her legs and she stands there, squirming on her toes but doing everything she can to keep her legs apart, to keep her sex exposed to the beating, taking it with flinches and lurches and cringes and groans, and they hit her intimacies time and time again, the whips striking front and back, accelerating back into the whirlwind, windmilling the strikes. Her legs shake violently.
She finds her voice and she lifts it, loud and strong with a cry that raises, stopping and restarting her screech, twice, three times she has to catch her breath as she screams until she is at the top of her range, and she gasps, heaving and wheezing and barely whispers “Mercy.”
Everything stops; time stands still. Her feet give way and she swings in space. The man she came here with steps up to her and he tangles his fingers through her hair and pronounces his first audible sentence: “Are you sure?” She nods and bawls, and it sounds like she is apologizing.
“One more. A big one. It’s tradition.”
She makes long sounding panicky rasps as he steps back and somehow she calms and struggles to put her feet back beneath herself to support herself. The man waits for her to settles down the contortions of her face before he accepts her consent; she pants it several times. He steps out of sight, and the other man runs his hand around behind her before he draws as far back as she can, and lets fly a stripe down across her back at an angle disparate to all her other lines with every ounce of strength he has. The strike is a gunshot. He vanishes.
She doesn’t make a sound, but she moves as though she were standing in an earthquake. The pressure is visible on her face, and it looks like she might throw up.
Her man comes back to stand before her with his arms crossed as he waits for her to look up at him, which she cannot quite do. Her head raises, but her dull brown eyes are downcast, off to the side from where he stands. She looks miserable, unhappy, but it does not appear that she feels that way about him, but in herself, in her performance of what must be her duty to him, and she appears to be disappointed, but not in him;, it looks like she believes that she had failed him. She nods and braces herself, stiffening up every muscle she has.
He outdoes the other man in ferocity and force, and he grunts as he whips his woman a final time, a mighty blow that raises immediate welts across both of her breasts; they bound and recoil from the impact. This time, she gasps, and sobs, and weeps and makes unintelligible cries; she babbles. Whatever strength she had in her legs fails for what has to be the last time, and she leans forward, putting her weight onto her upheld arms, and dangles around in a peculiar arch.
He drops the whip and stands as close as he can to her, and she collapses into him as far as the ropes to the ceiling will let her. He catches her and lifts her up and she cries long and loud and buries her head into his neck. His arms go around her waist and he puts his hands across the tops of her shoulders, the one place he can reach she has not been whipped, and he, too, breaks down and cries and shudders with her, until at last the miracle happens, and she struggles to put her feet back underneath herself and she leans up to kiss him and she comforts him.
There is no reason given, no explanation, no justification. The negotiation of how they got there happened in their own privacies as well as whatever the hell happened next, and I have no question whatsoever that I am a brash invader; I am ashamed to be party to their most-forbidden daring secret, to have spied on their clandestine intimate glory, and this, this I will dwell on as I apply my own hands against myself, many, many times, and it will be my honor to do so again and again in absolute awe of what I had beheld, for the remainder of my days.
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