By Lisabet Sarai
Why do I bother? Another new BDSM club
– they're sprouting like mushrooms these days – but it's always
the same. The egos. The poseurs. The clueless wannabees drawn by
imagined glamor or the trendiness of black leather with a set of
cuffs dangling from your belt. The would-be serial killers gloating
over the chance to draw blood. The doormats and the pain sluts, ready
for anything that will pierce the bubble of numbness encasing them.
My costume broadcasts what I'm seeking,
but it's obvious I won't find it here. As I sit at the bar, sipping
plain tonic and wishing it were something stronger, I eye the burly
guy flogging a girl on the cross. Sweat beads on his hairy chest,
which is crisscrossed by an expensive studded harness. Framed by
matching chaps, his bare buttocks flex with each ferocious stroke.
His boots glitter with steel chain. He looks like the perfect top,
but look again. Drunk on his own power, he's hitting her much too
hard. She's way beyond what she can take, but she's too dazed or too
embarrassed to safeword. He doesn't know, can't read the signs. Of
course, how could you expect him to know? They just met half an hour
ago.
They come to play, when the reality is
deadly serious. They don't understand that it's not about force but
about acceptance. Closed in their private fantasies, they miss the
point. Nothing works if you're not open – the dom and the sub both.
Chris knew. Ah, Christopher. My dark
poet. My master. The bitter tonic fizzes on my tongue. Will the empty
ache under my sternum ever go away?
Chris knew how to coax me open, from
the very first time he hung me from the ceiling in his dingy basement
apartment. He was born to master me, or so we both liked to pretend,
though we both knew that was romantic hogwash. My beloved, cruel,
deviant Chris.
I would have done anything for him. I
ate his shit once, because he asked me to, to prove my total
devotion. It was disgusting – I still gag, recalling the stench,
the slimy texture – and yet thrilling at the same time, to realize
how completely I belonged to him. A flogging? That's nothing. I wear
Chris' brand on the inside of my right thigh.
It took us three years to get to that
point, though, three years of building trust and pushing limits.
Every morning during those years I woke in a fever, trembling in
anticipation of the tests he might set me that day. Never did he
disappoint me. Although he was a true sadist – my suffering brought
him the most profound pleasure – he still cherished and nurtured
me, recognizing and honoring the depths of my surrender.
I suppose he was a bit crazy, extreme
in his wild quest for more profound experience, more intense
sensation. I loved that insanity, though, that uncertainty, the sense
of threat that edged even his most affectionate caress. I wanted to
be everything for him – his acolyte, his slave, his muse, his
nurse, his whore. Because he was open, I sensed his emptiness. I
yearned to fill it.
Someone else would see black humor in
the manner of his death. Chris perished with a rope around his neck,
splattered with his own cum. Auto-erotic asphyxiation - such a BDSM
cliché! How embarrassing, especially considering his expertise in
the art of bondage.
Don't go there. Don't think about Chris
now, here. But how can I not, when that's what I so desperately need,
a master who is willing to take everything from me, and give me
everything in return?
His passing ripped a jagged hole in my
existence. Nearly a decade later, after the pills, the therapy, the
electroshock, after two years in a vanilla marriage where I tried to
pretend I was normal, the chasm still yawns. I haven't recovered.
I've just gotten more skilled at hiding my wounds.
Meanwhile, I can't deny the twisted
need at my core. I've tried all the avenues. Clubs. Chat rooms.
Munches. Personal ads. I've been beaten and buggered and pissed on,
but really, since Chris, no one has touched me.
“Miss?” The pierced and tattooed
bartender places a tumbler full of golden liquid in front of me.
“This is for you.”
“What?” The honey-and-smoke scent
of premium single malt tickles my nose. “I-I'm not indulging in any
alcohol tonight.” I've learned the hard way that when I drink in a
kink club, I tend to make bad decisions.
“He insists.”
“He? Who?” I scan the crowded
room. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to me.
“The man who ordered the Scotch for
you.”
“Who's that?”
“He's not here right now. But he
expects to be obeyed.”
The barkeep hands me a folded sheet of
cream-colored linen paper then backs away. I run a fingertip over the
slightly nubby surface, curious about this unexpected missive despite
my jaded attitude. The dim, red-tinged light in the club made it a
bit difficult to see, but I think I detect traces of a monogram
embossed in the paper. I flip the note open and try to read its
contents. The graceful script is regular and fairly easy to decipher;
despite its flowing lines, I suspect it's a printer font, not hand
written.
I know what you need, Zoë.
A chill crawls up my spine. How can he
know my name? I always use a pseudonym when I sign in at a club.
I've been watching you.
Oh great. A stalker. My heart beats faster, with fear, but something else, too. Excitement. Chris would play games like this sometimes.
You need a real master, not one of
these counterfeits around you.
Everything about you cries out to be
taken. Used. Known. Owned.
Yearning surges through me. Tears prick
the corner of my eyes. I dash them away and read on.
Drink the scotch. Savor it. It is my
gift to you.
Then, if you want what I have to
offer, go home. Remove your clothing and lie down on your bed,
completely still. Don't move a muscle until you get my message on
your mobile phone. That's very important. If you move at all, you'll
disappoint me.
And I will know. I'm watching you,
my lovely Zoë. Remember
that as you hold yourself immobile, fighting the urge to twitch, to
scratch, to reach between your legs and rub that juicy clit that begs
for your attention.
Give me your stillness. And in
return, I will give you everything you crave.
M.
I shake my head. I
can't believe this, I just can't. It's another trick, a lie, someone
having a laugh at my expense.
But what if I'm
wrong?
The single malt is
ambrosial, liquid heat coursing down my throat and lighting up my
body. I sip it deliberately, knowing somehow that M would want me to take my time.
Then I visit my
locker, grab my things, and leave, my heart slamming against my ribs
and my pussy soaked.
****
This is the first
chapter of a novel I've been contemplating for some time. I don't
have a title. I don't even really have a plot, just a concept, a
theme – really, a message.
The message: the
essence of dominance and submission is psychological, spiritual,
emotional - not physical.
I've toyed with
this theme before. In my short story “Just a Spanking”, the
psychological effects of a spanking bring a sub to orgasm even though
the dom never touches her in any sexual way. In “Stroke”, a
partially paralyzed Dom nevertheless manages to dominate his secretly
submissive nurse. In “Higher Power”, a magician proves that that
the power of mental connection between dominant and submissive can
counteract the effects of swords and a guillotine. When the sub
momentarily loses faith in her master, though, when she doubts his
power, her spine is severed.
Not the most
light-hearted tale, I admit, though I suggest that with her renewed
dedication and trust, her master may heal her. Needless to say,
Cleis didn't want that story!
This novel, though,
will go far further. M does indeed turn out to be the master Zoë
so desperately craves. Chapter by chapter, he sets her new
tests and draws her closer to him. His intuition is unfailing. He
metes out both pleasures and punishments, fulfilling Zoë's
kinkiest fantasies. The pain of her loss begins to ebb. Her devotion
to her mysterious Dom grows.
However, he
dominates her by proxy. They do not meet until well past the middle
of the book. And then Zoë
learns that M is a quadriplegic, paralyzed from the neck down in an
auto accident.
Yes, you read that
right. I'm contemplating an erotic novel in which the hero is an
almost completely disabled cripple.
He's physically
attractive, intelligent, wealthy, with the power to control others,
but he can't control his own body. He can't whip her or bind her. He
can't come on her tits or force his way into her ass. He can't feel
her touch on his cock.
Could this possibly
work? Could I make this erotic?
Maybe.
Could I every sell
it to a publisher?
Highly unlikely.
And if I did, I'd undoubtedly be beset by angry hordes who'd
castigate me for fetishizing disability (which is not at all my
intention) or inaccurately portraying the life and capabilities of a
quadriplegic (which might be a relevant criticism). I'm sure I'd also
get plenty of criticism for writing a book that was a “downer” in
a world and a genre where happy endings are prized.
And yet, when I
imagine this novel, I do see the ending as happy. M could very well
be the exactly the master to heal and nurture my damaged heroine. Zoë
could serve him in concrete as well as symbolic ways, with the
satisfaction that she's truly meeting his needs, needs that would
make most subs run away screaming.
Still
– I'm sure I'd be accused of deep political incorrectness if I ever
brought this into the world, possibly even by practitioners of BDSM.
So
I'll probably never write this novel. But I'm so, so tempted.
I've
been thinking about this book for a long time, without writing a
word. Then, I sat down to consider the Grip topic for this cycle and
wrote the chapter above in about an hour. Clearly the book is waiting
there, growing inside me.
Maybe
it's time to let it out.
