Sunday, 28 February 2010


It’s two in the morning. In the opening scene of Edward Albee’s WHO’ AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF, George and Martha stumble home, tipsy, from a party. They bicker, in the way drunks do, about things that don’t really matter. They laugh, stupidly.
The loud snap of a door latch.


Martha; “What a dump!” The play begins.

Yes, is 2am and Dionysus is on the prowl. Dionysus is alive and well, this night in New England, in the 20th century. His red gaze falls on his two old disciples, George and Martha. The beast has been unleashed; he wakes from his long slumber, and snarls. George and Martha will act out Dionysus’ ritual and sacrifice. They will scream, and go mad. They will paw and claw at each other. They will do real damage. The ritual will end in death, just as it did every year, centuries ago, in Eleusis.

Dionysus, is the Greek god of fertility, wine, and ecstasy, A complex deity, Dionysus played two very different roles in Greek mythology. As the god of fertility, he was closely linked with crops, the harvest, and the changing of the seasons. As the god of wine and ecstasy, he was associated with drunkenness, madness, and unrestrained sexuality. His nature included a productive, life-giving side and a bestial, destructive side.

The audience knows immediately, that George and Martha have acted out this orgy of violent, verbal blood letting before. How we know; well, no-one tells us, it’s just a gut feeling. The humiliating word games they play; “Get the Guest.” The stories that they tell, suggest that this obscene rite has been performed before. George and Martha are in the grip of a repetition compulsion. Just as Hades and Persephone act out their ritual of death and re-birth, so do George and Martha. The Dionysian mysteries were repeated annually; the sacrifice, the ritual tearing of human flesh to please the god, ensured healthy crops and fertility for the coming year.

George and Martha are part of this eternal conflict. Their game is cyclical and they play it through to its bitter conclusion. Only then, can they achieve sanity, sanctity and restore order.

Two guests arrive and they are immediately drawn into George and Martha’s ugly, painful scenario.

I watched the film of WHO’S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF, this week. I didn’t want to; I knew I was in for a rough ride. I’ve seen the stage play and seen the film. Both left me shattered. The film stars Richard Burton as George and Elizabeth Taylor as Martha. George Segal is Scott and Sandy Dennis is Honey. The film is made in black and white, which works well; the stark images, helping to convey the creeping, sinister feeling that everything is slipping out of control. Usually, I would prefer to watch a stage play over a film, but the close up camera work, lingering on facial expressions, adds to the tension. I feel as if I’ve watched a violation, something profane. Something I should have stopped, but was helpless to do anything.

There’s a hopeless slippage going on, that things are not what they seem.

Psychological terrorism.

At one point, Martha says to George. “Truth and illusion. You don’t know the difference.” George responds; “No. But we carry on as if we do.”

We no longer know which is which.

While Martha is showing Honey where the bathroom is, George tests Nick's verbal sparring skills, but the young man is no match for his host. Realizing he and his wife are becoming embroiled in the middle of marital warfare, he suggests they depart, but George cajoles him into staying.

Upon returning to the living room alone, Honey innocently mentions to George she was unaware he and Martha had a son on the verge of celebrating his sixteenth birthday.

Martha has broken the rules by talking about their son, and will be punished.

But at this stage of the play, it is Martha who is controlling the action. George seems like an amateur compared to Martha’s bitter vitriol.

Martha reappears in a new outfit - sleek fitting slacks and a revealing blouse - and when her husband makes a snide remark about the ensemble, she begins to demean his abilities as a teacher, then escalates her seduction of Nick, complimenting him on the body he developed as both a quarterback and a state boxing champion, while criticizing George's paunch.

Honey again raises the subject of George and Martha's son, prompting the couple to engage in a conversation, which Martha quickly tries to end without success.

To counterattack George's relentless comments about the boy, she tells their guests that her husband is unsure the child is his own. They argue about the colour of the boy's eyes until George threatens to expose the truth about the boy. Furious, Martha accuses him of being a failure, whose youthful idealistic plans for the future slowly deteriorated as he came to realize he wasn't aggressive enough to follow in his father-in-law's footsteps, leaving her stuck with a flop. Inebriated and upset by Martha's behaviour, Honey rushes from the room.

Honey’s comical hysterical exits and entrances, provide the audience with a much needed relaxation of tension. We are already feeling battered; we need to breathe before the next round of screeching annihilation. It’s a relief to be allowed to laugh; it’s only when we laugh at Honey’s antics, we realise how our jaws have been set in a grimace of horror, like Munch’s SCREAM.

Honey is the Greek Chorus, commenting inanely, sometimes profoundly. Often simply repeating the last word of the dialogue. Sandy Dennis’ wonderful comic timing, and physical comedy, releases us, from the tension, for a beat, or two.

Honey wants to dance; she loves to dance. “I dance like the wind,” she tells us, while skipping and waving a silk shawl. Her dance is reminiscent of a Dionysian orgy.

“Following the torches as they dipped and swayed in the darkness, they climbed mountain paths with head thrown back and eyes glazed, dancing to the beat of the drum which stirred their blood. In this state of ekstasis or enthusiasmos, they abandoned themselves, dancing wildly and shouting 'Euoi!' [the god's name] and at that moment of intense rapture became identified with the god himself. They became filled with his spirit and acquired divine powers.” (WIKI)

The play is overshadowed by children, or the lack of them. Honey has had a “hysterical pregnancy.” “She goes up, she goes down.” One of the first questions George asks of Scott is whether he and Honey have children. George tells a story about a boy. Blonde haired and beautiful. He shot his mother and killed his father in a road accident. He’d swerved to avoid a porcupine. The story has a peculiar resonance with what George says to Martha about their own son.

Martha; “our son is coming home tomorrow, for his 16th birthday.” George tells her that their son is dead. He drove into a tree, trying to avoid a porcupine on the road. Martha bursts into a hysterical rage. George has killed their son. He has no right.

But George has taken control of the action. He was in control all along; the audience and Martha just didn’t realise it.

Martha asks George, where is the telegram notifying them of the death of their son? George says he’s eaten it. He hasn’t; there was no telegram. Honey colludes with George. She tells Martha, “He did eat it, I watched him.” George’s statement is a blatant, bitter parody of the Eucharist. Transubstantiation, the participant consumes the wafer, the body of Christ. The disciple consumes the Divine and becomes the Divine.

Was any of this true? Was there a son? Was a boy, killed? We don’t know, and that really is unsettling. We know that the telegram is a lie; what else is a lie?

Truth and illusion.

There’s a strange feeling of calm as George begins to pray. The final act is entitled “Exorcism.” Is this an exorcism or a requiem? A prayer for reconciliation? Is it a funeral mass? While George is reciting the prayer, Martha talks. The two voices speaking simultaneously, produce a rhythmic, calming, lulling effect. Order is slowly being restored.

George; Kyrie Eleison. (Lord have mercy.)

George; Christe Eleison. (Christ have mercy.)

George; Kyrie Eleison. (Lord have mercy.)

Honey; Amen. (So be it.) Honey, as the Chorus, speaks the final word of Dionysus’ revels. The games are over.

Kyrie Eleison is Greek, and is a part of many liturgical rites in Eastern and Western Christianity.

Scott and Honey leave, almost unnoticed. George and Martha relax. The actors take their curtain call. The credits roll to Alex North’s tranquil music. George and Martha prepare to go to bed.

Dionysus is sated and sleeps.

Tuesday, 23 February 2010


Two wonderful minds working together. Perfect symmetry. Lizabet Surai and M.Christian, pulling together for the same cause; Planned Parenthood. M.Christian has decided to put together a collection of his stories in aid of this organisation. The stories are diverse and really quite astonishing in their range. But I can’t really say it better than Lizabet herself.

“I was thrilled when Chris agreed to assemble a collection of his stories for the Coming Together Presents series. As I worked on this book, I was reminded yet again what a creative and versatile writer he is. Coming Together Presents M.Christian ranges from the leather bars of San Francisco to the deserts of Mars. The characters include rock-and-rollers, dykes with attitude, horny office workers, tortured artists, inter-galactic lawyers, even Mona Lisa. The atmosphere is tough and gritty in one tale, lyrical in the next, and teasingly tongue-in-cheek in a third.”

One theme runs through the stories; desire in its many incarnations. Sometimes it’s dark desire; teetering on the forbidden. At other times it’s playful, at others it’s wistful; perhaps just a dipping in of the toe. You know the sort of thing; where you run away giggling.

And of course, I have my favourites…

WINK is a dialogue between two guys. Almost like a court room dramatisation; Lou questions the narrator about his sex life with curvy Shirley. Why won’t he get to the point? What is it he wants to know? Christian expertly teases us with his clever words; with the skill of a clever lawyer, he draws out the dialogue hypnotically until there’s no escape for his narrator. The teasing and the humour are the best parts of this story. We know that Lou is drawing us into thinking about the taboo. Something dirty; something forbidden. Finally, the narrator understands where Lou is going. Lou wants to know about butt sex with a woman. And when I say he wants to know; Lou wants to know everything. From how the narrator initiated it, to its conclusion. And most importantly, how does the narrator know that Shirley likes it; really likes it?

He tells him.

In GRIZZLY, Christian introduces us to a little known aspect of Queer culture. The Bears. I do know about the Bears. I’ve a friend who is one; big, hairy, sexy and gloriously male. So very different from the effete men that you usually come across in Queer culture. Not that there’s anything wrong with effete; it’s just not for me.

Here’s a bit about the Bears, from Wiki.

"The self-identification of gay men as Bears originated in San Francisco in the 1980s as an outgrowth of gay biker clubs like the Rainbow Motorcycle club, and then later the leather and “girth and mirth" communities. It was created by men who felt that mainstream gay culture was unwelcoming to men who did not fit a particular body norm (hairless and young) Also, many gay men in rural America never identified with the stereotypical urban gay lifestyle, and went searching for an alternative which more closely resembled the idealised blue collar American male image…"

Rocky is a Bear and he’s adored by his lover, Paul. But something isn’t quite right. Paul is afraid of the dark, erotic desire that Rocky brings out in him.

“ beneath this costuming he was a great, and very furry beast - and he turned Paul on, something fierce.”

That is how Paul sees Rocky as something primal; something feral, belonging to nature in its darkest sense. But what Paul is afraid of is himself; of letting go.

Rocky leaves.

It takes months for Paul to think through his fears. Then one day, he knows; Rocky is coming back.

Paul’s cock is hard for the first time in weeks.

“All it had taken was to remember his grizzly ... and his powerful growl.”

In SMILE MONA, at last I understand the circumstances behind the enigmatic smile.

Christian writes a back story for La Giaconda. A story of a life stifled, without hope. Boredom and sadness. But now she has a reason to smile that small smile. She’s knows ecstasy; she knows its brilliant colours, its numinous sounds, its cascade of tastes, smells and the rapture of its wonderful touch. The Mona Lisa has been reborn. Perceptive genius that he was, Leonardo saw it in her face and painted it sensuously, in her haunting smile. Did the smile ever leave her face? Perhaps not; for she has a secret so great, that it is all hers. Her aging, coarse husband will never know it. The Mona Lisa has a secret that will see her through her lonely days and lonely nights.

In EVOLUTION, Christian explores the desire of change. No, not just the desire of change; an overwhelming need to change. Evolution or extinction; life or a slow death. It’s a stark choice, but sometimes those stark choices are all we have. In this story, Rocky and Willow have spent long days, nights, months, thinking out the changes that will make their lives complete.
First Rocky, then Willow. The change will be physically painful; there will be scars that are very real. The change will take great courage. But it is necessary.

Sunday morning to Sunday morning, fuck to fuck; the years pass, and slowly the changes are put into place. These aren’t the kind of changes that take place naturally in life. These changes take positive thought and action. Sometimes we have to be brave and face our demons, before we can be complete human beings; leading the lives we deserve, which are not necessarily the lives handed out to us at the beginning.

M.Christian’s stories are pitch perfect and there’s so many more; more than I’ve been able to mention here. Christian has dedicated his book to Planned Parenthood. It’s a cause he believes in. Here’s what he has to say about it.

"Yes, Planned Parenthood has become a kind of pariah, a pretend-it-doesn't exist organization, but this is why it needs as much financial and emotional support as it can get: they are fighting for everyone to have access to sexual information and reproductive health but also for women to be in control of their own bodies.

But more importantly they are the resource for those who need them most, those who must face the truth of who they are, and if they truly can either have, or give someone else, a worthwhile life."

The U.K. has problems uncomfortably similar. We need those people who shout about the right to information; the right to an unbiased sexual education for our kids. And there is a definite need for folk across the generations to be properly informed about sexual health. As I write, Syphilis is on the increase; Chlamydia, an STI that can have no symptoms, causes infertility in women; it's often not diagnosed until it’s too late.

And as for parenthood;

From BBC News:
“The UK has the highest teenage birth rates in Western Europe - twice as high as in Germany, three times as high as in France and six times as high as in the Netherlands…

The debate on how best to tackle teenage pregnancy has arisen again as latest figures show the rate in under-16s in England and Wales has increased. The government says it can do no more without the help of parents, while others are again calling for a broadening of sex and relationship education in schools.”

Thursday, 18 February 2010


Here’s a real treat coming up! M.Christian’s first ever novel; RUNNING DRY is scheduled for re-print! I don’t know the dates yet, but Christian’s debut novel is being published by Camel books. First published in 2006, it’s getting the recognition it deserves.

In RUNNING DRY, M. Christian, elegantly re-writes the eternal themes of love, loss, betrayal, fear and death. With a flourish of his pen (or lap-top and cursor) Christian gives us a potent potpourri, that has little to do with gracious fragrances and everything to do with the pungent stench of bodily fluids; blood, bile, saliva and mucus.

This is a vampire story with a difference. Unlike Anne Rice’s exotic, erotic Lestat and Bram Stoker’s sinister Count Dracula, M.Christian’s vampires are riddled with guilt about what they have to do to survive. Ernst Doud, paints his guilt, with portraits lurid with the blood of his victims. Doud has a conscience, and he makes it up to those he has killed with a visual, tangible lament. His remorse is palpable.

There’s a mystery here. Who is Doud? Who is Sergio? What is their secret? Why has Doud given up on his art? Why is Sergio trying to seek out Doud? Why does Doud want to kill Sergio? What is Shelly’s place in all of this?

Yes, Doud and Sergio are monsters. They know it; Vince is a monster too. But he’s worse; he’s a killer without a conscience.

There is no “dark trick” in RUNNING DRY. Doud, Sergio and Vince won’t spellbind you with a glamour. In the tradition of the most gruesome fairy tales from the Brothers Grimm, or Angela Carter, they grab you, gobble you up; eat you. Your death won’t be romantic, erotic; sexy. Just complete, total annihilation.

The scene where Doud fights Vince in the desert, is terrifying. It’s visual; like watching a film. My heart is racing, as I read. I can feel the heat of the desert, scorching my lungs. I screw up my eyes, against the glare of the sun; the painful blue of the desert sky.

M.Christian, possesses a rare gift; that of making elegant, lucid prose appear effortless.

Just listen to this;

“…the world acquired sound, the ground achieved traction, the air thinned, the rose-red glow ceased. As his body slowed from the blinding acceleration Doud had forced upon it, the monster’s body completely disintegrated. A body once ninety-five percent water became nothing but a desiccated five percent, falling apart into dust, ash, and a few brittle bones; life and moisture gone.”

Don’t you wish you’d written that? I do!

As a first novel,RUNNING DRY, anticipates the promise of more delicious work to come. Christian has certainly not disappointed, following RUNNING DRY with THE VERY BLOODY MARYS, the haunting ME2, the disturbing PAINTED DOLL and the exploration of one artist’s character, in BRUSHES.

For me, RUNNING DRY is every bit as good for a second reading; better. Buy it, borrow it, read it. It won’t fail you.

Tuesday, 16 February 2010

Review of THE ROAD, from The Viscount Andrew.

I saw this film knowing nothing about the novel, or its writer. The story, in a nut shell is about a father and son coping with the horrific aftermath of some nameless calamity that has befallen the world. Almost everyone is dead, and the dead seem to be the lucky ones, as those that survive must compete with each other and in a Darwinian sense; it's dog eat dog, or in this case man eat man.

The film uses voice over and flash back to great effect and it is filmed in an almost sepia monotone. It has the usual deserted supermarkets and in one scene a deserted multiplex cinema, where a can of diet coke is salvaged and relished as a special treat. I thought that was a clever touch and self referential, adding to the idea that this could actually happen.

In essence, the choices left to the survivors are limited, almost no one is to be trusted and some scenes are quite horrific. I have since learned, that some of the truly horrific cannibalism scenes in the book have been toned down. However, there are still one or two gruesome scenes that bring home the fact that that people have been reduced to the level of the commodities they once farmed or produced. One scene in a deserted house has numerous, naked, wretched people locked in a basement, as they are farmed for food.

We don't know the cause of the disaster, we don't know the name of the father but the journey he takes with his son as they try to reach the coast is desperately harrowing. Some of the people they encounter are not the enemy, but the father insists to his son that they must be seen that way. Their only weapon is a gun with two bullets; the control or dominion that these humans still have is the choice to kill themselves, if needs must. The film gives us a sense of the life they had previously. The departure of the boy’s mother, following the Apocalypse, and her inability, or wish to survive in such a world; the scenes of the birth of the baby that she loses and of her departure walking off into the night to certain death are heart rending.

The film is well worth a look. Brilliantly acted, but very bleak and you leave the cinema feeling that you have been on some kind of arduous journey yourself -- so don't go and see it if you want to be uplifted. There were one or two scenes where I thought to myself, there is no way the father would really break open that basement door and walk down those steps. In essence, unlike some films in this genre, this film did seem real; it did feel like something that could happen.

There is a fear, I think, that if society breaks down, those that are already lawless will take over and take control. However, if the naturally just and fair are unshackled by laws preventing them from defending themselves, then the balance is even, as you would kill to protect your kids; it boils down to a question of numbers. In essence then, the child seems to be the vessel that holds the fire, that will maintain a sense of civilisation. Fortunately as it turns out, there are others that can be trusted. There are no happy endings with this one; but it really does make you think.

Friday, 12 February 2010


Saint Valentine’s day, and he had nothing to give to his lady. The love of his life. No roses for Ulena; not even a card. Nothing except himself and she already owned him, body and soul.

How had she known? He hadn’t known himself; not really. But during the days, and nights of ritual torture and humiliation, Joseph had had plenty of time for reflection. And he’d come to realise that his Mistress had gently coaxed him into realising his true orientation. He was a submissive.

He thought about childhood games, how he’d always try to manipulate them, so that he’d be the prisoner; the one who was captured and tied up. He’d experienced his first na├»ve arousals, struggling against his bonds. He’d had his first orgasm: pale and empty, alone in the dark, tightly bound with string around his wrists and ankles. He’d been imprisoned; they’d kicked him under the bed, where it was dusty and dark. The tight confine making him feel as if he were in a coffin. How there was one woman in his past, who’d been sexually aggressive; riding him violently. Digging her finger nails into him; lacerating his back. God, how that had turned him on. But he’d never thought deeply about his desires; until now. Surely, he wasn’t natural?

What sort of man was he, that he’d thank his girlfriend for pissing into his mouth? Or grovelling at her feet, begging her to let him orgasm after hours of a bobbing, painful erection? In fact the only time he could achieve orgasm these days was at Ulena’s command. He’d tried to masturbate away a throbbing erection, just that morning in the shower. He’d failed miserably. His massive, hard cock was proof; as if he needed it.

He squirmed uncomfortably on the hard, wrought iron balcony seat as he gazed out over the Primrose Hill vista. He would have marvelled at the view of London town displayed before him, if it weren’t for his damn erection.

He breathed in the cold February air, watching as his breath plumed into smoky clouds. He was tempted to try masturbating again, but knew it would end in sweaty, painful failure. Ulena’s training had worked.

He also knew he would be in trouble for cooling himself down, on the balcony. He was hot after his workout and shower. But his Mistress was particular about his health; taking care of him as if he were a prize stallion, or bull. She ordered him to work out every morning and evening. She wanted him in perfect, glossy condition. He would be punished. Well let her do her worst, he thought rebelliously. The delayed gratification of his orgasm would be all the better for it. These days and nights he had orgasms like he’d never thought possible. He’d come, with his ears ringing, three or four times in a night, exploding into a sticky, white mess. A couple of times he’d lost consciousness. His Mistress had been impressed and allowed him to sleep in her bed. Usually he slept on the floor, on a sheet of newspaper; curled up like a pet dog. Joseph didn’t mind. As long as he was close to his Mistress, inhaling the Chanel number 5 fragrance she always wore; it was enough for him. His thoughts caused his erection to throb. He again shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

He hooked another chair with his bare foot; perhaps his erection would ease if he raised his legs off the ground. It didn’t.

Ulena pushed open the heavy oak door, into the temple of Diana and looked around admiringly at the display. She was satisfied. The dozens of red roses she’d had delivered from Harrods had arrived, and had been beautifully arranged on antique marble stands; in fragile porcelain vases, from ancient China and in antique, Russian silver and crystal vases. Her breath drifted on the chilly air; she shivered, hugging her opulent fur coat around her. February in England always seemed to be the coldest month of the winter. The old stone temple was icy; it needed to be, to keep the roses fresh. But tonight, Saint Valentine’s night, the fires would be blazing, the branding irons would be glowing white hot in the brazier, and the flowers would be opening out, releasing their exotic perfume.

Tonight Ulena would put her mark on Joseph. She closed her eyes and imagined his agonised, animalistic bellows echoing around the temple, as the irons were buried hard into his smooth, round buttocks. Her own insignia, forever carved into his perfect flesh. When the lesions were healed, she would run her fingertips over them; knowing that she owned this flesh. He would belong to her.

She plucked a long stemmed rose from a display. She would give it to Joseph. It was still very early in the morning. If she hurried, she would just catch him as he finished his morning workout. He would be surprised at the act of tenderness.

Saint Valentine’s day. The day for lovers; Ulena never sent cards to celebrate Saint Valentine’s day. But if she did, she would sign her name, boldly. A card from her would strike fear into the heart of the recipient. But what would be the point? She could have any man she desired. Ulena never received Valentine’s day cards. Nobody dared.

Joseph both longed for, and dreaded, Ulena’s return. She was like a drug to him. Her kindnesses were few and far between, but when they came, he would weep with gratitude. Her cruelties were always simmering beneath the surface. And he knew that she had plans for his morning session with her. He tried hard to please her; but it was impossible. Always, there would be some misdemeanour that would entail punishment. Her coffee might be too hot, or too cold; or he’d failed to load the dishwasher properly. Sometimes he drew her attention to his failings; he relished the control she had over him. The rhythmic, stinging slap of her hand on his buttocks gave him solace.

She’d known he’d been masturbating, as soon as she confronted him on the balcony. For a small, slender woman, she was surprisingly strong and she tangled her slender fingers in his long, dark hair, and marched him into the bathroom.

She dragged off his thick sweater and unzipped his jeans. He desperately wanted her to touch him, but he knew she wouldn’t. She never did. She liked to watch him touch himself, unable to orgasm until she gave the command. She’d watch him fuck her friends; and though he could bring the women to orgasm, he was not allowed to come, until Ulena spoke the word.

She’d order him to pleasure her with his tongue, coming to a wild and crashing orgasm; but she’d never let him penetrate her.

“Slut.” she hissed. Her anger all too real. “You can keep that all day as your punishment,” pointing to his pulsating, drooling cock.
“Please Mistress,” Joseph blubbed. “Let me come. I’ll do anything. It hurts.”

She laughed at his tears and produced from a drawer a set of golden toothed nipple clamps. Joseph had seen them before. He’d been with her when she’d bought them at the Slave Fayre. That was the day she’d completely humiliated him, by commanding him to strip in front of all those people, when she’d had him measured up for a Japanese harness. A set of ropes and straps, designed to keep a slave immobile for hours.

Joseph recalled the sales woman on the restraints stand. She’d had dark hair and slanting, oriental eyes; in another life, Joseph would have been attracted to her. But now, he was devoted to his Mistress.

The woman had lingered over his cock and balls, as she measured him.
“May I?” she asked Ulena. Ulena nodded.

The woman tested the weight of his testicles in the palm of her hand.
“Impressive,” she remarked to Ulena, as if he were a prize show animal. “Does he serve you well?” She handed Ulena her business card. “Let me know if you decide to sell him on. I’ll get you a better price for him, than if you put him into the auction.”

Joseph was scared. Surely, she wasn’t training him to sell him on when she tired of him. He loved Ulena so much, he would die if he were separated from her. He couldn’t bear it.

At the Slave Fayre, Joseph had realised that there was a whole community based around submissive men and women and their Mistresses. He’d felt reassured, but daunted too; and excited. So he wasn’t the only one; he wasn’t totally weird. Just different from macho guys. He saw men collared like dogs, on their hands and knees, being kicked into submission by their Mistresses. Two dark, hairy, collared males, were fighting over a female, with breasts so large they resembled a cows’ udders. They were sniffing her rear end, both had huge erections; they were ready to mate. Snapping, snarling, growling, biting. Joseph briefly felt sorry for the woman being so humiliated; then he noticed her erect nipples and her fat, swollen labia lips. Her inner thighs glistened damp. She gazed up at her Owner pleadingly, with her huge, dark eyes. She wanted it. Joseph could see she was trembling with need, whimpering, panting. Her Owner soothed her, rubbing her behind her ear.

“Good dog, ” he heard the Owner say. “Not one of these.”

Did that mean she was going to be mated to something more refined? Joseph knew it was only a game; but he could see that both bitch and Owner were totally engrossed in their parts. Why were they doing this to themselves? Why was he doing this to himself? It was beyond Joseph. All he knew was that despite the pain and humiliation, he felt happier and freer now than at any other time in his life. He glanced at his Mistress; she had an excited flush on her high cheekbones as she watched the fracas with the dogs. Joseph wondered if she ever thought about this strange life they shared. Perhaps one day he would dare to ask her.

He’d felt proud of his Mistress. Proud to be with her. She had dressed like a super-model for the occasion and was every inch a Mistress in her skin tight, black leather jeans. She’d pulled down the zipper on her black, leather jacket, almost exposing her beautiful breasts. With her neat blonde hair, expertly cut level with her jaw-line, she looked like a goddess for the twenty first century.

He was surprised that she could stand, let alone walk in her black killer heels; but somehow she did. Gliding gracefully from stand to stand; she was easily the most beautiful Mistress there and despite his bowed head, he could see she was attracting a lot of attention.

That day she’d also bought a cock clamp. A vicious looking instrument, that he was hoping she’d forgotten. It was designed to clamp a semi-erect cock into place. A sort of male version of a chastity belt. The tight device made the wearer aroused, but the spiteful spikes on the inside of the gadget made full erection impossibly painful. The guy wearing it would be in a state of anticipated pleasure and pain, for as long as his Mistress desired he wear it. He had felt Ulena’s eyes on his face, as the woman explained the mechanics to her. The sales woman had even demonstrated the device on her beautiful young model. Joseph watched the model’s painful grimace and heard him groan, as the clamp was padlocked with a loud click into place.

“Try and make him erect,” the sales woman had said to Ulena.

Ulena leant down and blew gently on the tip of the model’s cock. Her straight, blonde hair brushed his groin. She poked out her small tongue and lapped at the swelling cock, as if she were a kitten lapping up cream. The model groaned in agony as his cock tried to swell, and the spikes inside the clamp pierced him.

Joseph felt no empathy, in fact he had seethed with jealousy. She had never done that to him. She had refused even to touch his cock, unless she was fitting a cock ring on it.

But this Saint Valentine’s Day, Joseph knelt before his Mistress, groaning and sinking to the floor, as the clamp teeth bit into his nipple. He wore only his jeans; they were unzipped. Ulena knew how pain turned him on; she liked to watch the veins in his cock stand out, the moment before he orgasmed. She’d decided to let him orgasm. She knew he was hoping she’d forgotten about the cock clamp. She hadn’t. She was going to make him wear it today for work. She needed him flaccid in order to fit it.

A wave of agonizing pain crawled over his belly and into his groin as Ulena attached the second clamp to his tight nipple. Sweat trickled through his hair. The pain shot up his spine. He needed to defecate and he clamped down his muscles on his treacherous bowel sphincter. He tried to smile up at his Mistress, standing above him. His lips trembled; tears sprang in his eyes.

“Sshh, little slave,” she whispered. “It’s your Saint Valentine’s day gift. Be happy.”
She gently, touched his face with the crimson rose. He took it from her slender fingers and moaned his thanks.

She tugged, not gently, on the chain linking the clamps. The pain roiled over him. He closed his eyes, tight, seeing flashes of brilliant colours. Heady Chanel number 5 mingled with the smell of his sweat. The room tipped from side to side. His gut clenched and he retched through a wave of nausea. He thought he was passing out, then he breathed through the agony, as she had trained him to do.

Ulena gently stroked his hair. Pleasure and pain. Particularly, Joseph’s pleasure and pain. There was nothing like it.
“May I speak, Mistress?”
She could barely understand him. He gibbered through clenched teeth.
She placed a slender finger on his lips, silencing him.

She was quiet for what seemed like a long time, holding his gaze. Joseph’s heart plummeted; so did his erection. She was going to dismiss him. Take on another slave. Sell him at the slave auction. Contact the oriental woman from the Slave Fayre.

He opened his mouth to speak again. To beg her to keep him. He willed his erection to come back. To please her. But his cock remained flaccid; he was afraid.

Ulena shook her head, her blonde hair moving softly against her jaw. When she spoke, her voice was low and husky.

“Tonight,” she said. We are going to visit a temple. The temple of Diana. You will be naked; presented before a lot of people. Despite the cold outside; it will be hot. Fires will burn. You will be exhibited. Women will touch you; be intimate with you. They may order their male slaves to be sexually active with you, and use you.”

She cleared her throat, as if she were having difficulty breathing. Her colour was crimson on her cheekbones. She fidgeted, from one foot to another. She was aroused. Joseph could smell her.

“Then, you will be restrained; strapped over a strong, padded, metal beam. Your wrists tied to your ankles. You will struggle as you realise what is to befall you. You know that you will experience pain, that you will never have dreamt possible. There will be braziers burning either side of you. You will feel their heat caressing your naked skin. Two strong men will take branding irons from the flames. The irons will be white hot. They will pause briefly, then simultaneously, at my signal, the irons will be buried in each of your naked buttocks, branding you as mine.”

Ulena ran her tongue over her lips, moistening them. Her voice continued; mesmerizing him. It was as if she were telling a story. Talking about someone else; anyone but him.

“To ensure the branding is complete the irons will be buried in your flesh for some minutes. The insignia will mark you as mine, for the rest of your life. You will smell the spluttering of your burning flesh; hear the sizzle of your meat as you cook. You will scream and curse me, because it is I, who will be controlling this ritual. You will probably piss yourself; your bowels might even let you down. You may ejaculate. You may vomit. When you are weeping and exhausted you will be taken away and your wounds carefully tended.”

Ulena gazed at him wide eyed. She looked vulnerable and scared. Suddenly aware of the horror she was asking of him.

“Can you do this for me?”

Joseph had felt the blood drain from his face as she’d been speaking. Telling him about this atrocity. This calculated act of debauchery that she had planned to the last detail.

How had they got into this twisted, perverse relationship?

He was silent. His joy was complete. She wasn’t going to sell him. She must love him, just a little. She wanted to keep him. Have him branded as hers forever.

“Now, what was it you wanted to ask me?”

He took a long, slow breath. Hadn’t he been wondering what he could give his lady for Saint Valentine’s day? His cock was hardening again.

He held her gaze and nodded.

“Mistress,” he said. “Will you marry me?”

Saturday, 6 February 2010



What do Slaves and Submissives want from a Master, or Mistress? Once again I’m looking to the past to help me find an answer. In GREAT EXPECTATIONS, Charles Dickens gives writers of Erotica a template for a Mistress, in the character of Miss Havisham. Miss Havisham is clever and cruel. She knows all about psychological manipulation; she’s an adept.

And how we love our Slave and Submissive stories. Reading them, writing them. I’ll never forget when I first came to Erotica and read a Slave story, by Patrick Califia. I felt like I had come home. The girl in the story finally realises her dream. She is neither weird, nor insane. She’s simply different and that’s okay. It’s okay to be submissive. It’s okay to be different.

Away from fantasy land, I would rather die than submit to someone who has physical control over me. I am not turned on by cruel treatment; by someone’s desire to dominate me. But psychological control -- well, that’s something else. Like many people, I’ve succumbed to the terror, and unhappiness of mind games, without even realising it.

Pip is a child, caught up in Miss Havisham’s cruel game of psychological manipulation. Through Miss Havisham’s bizarre and obsessive behaviour, Pip is manipulated into loving Estella.

BREAK HIS HEART. Miss Havisham, Estella and Pip.

Miss Havisham, is a prototype of a Mistress. Miss Havisham, is what she is. Despite her sad story, she could have behaved differently. She devotes her life into seeking revenge on the male sex and she is training the beautiful Estella, to continue her work, by becoming a Mistress herself.

At the end of the novel, Miss Havisham tells Pip;

"Believe this: when she first came to me, I meant to save her from misery like my own. At first I meant no more. But as she grew, and promised to be very beautiful, I gradually did worse, and with my praises, and with my jewels, and with my teachings, and with this figure of myself always before her a warning to back and point my lessons, I stole her heart away and put ice in its place...

Dickens provides Miss Havisham with a back story.

As an adult, Miss Havisham fell in love with a man named Compeyson, who was only out to swindle her of her riches. Her cousin Matthew Pocket warned her to be careful, but she was too much in love to listen. At twenty minutes to nine on their wedding day, while she was dressing, Miss Havisham received a letter from Compeyson and realizing that he had defrauded her and she had been left at the altar, she falls into a sort of pathological grief, that defines her as a character and drives the plot of the novel.

So, once again, I’m looking to the great writers of the past, whether it’s the Greek story tellers, or the Victorians, to help me to understand where writers of the 21st century, find their inspiration. Whether we write about subs or doms, heroes or villains. Whether we write just for fun, for ourselves, or in hope of riches and fame, we owe a debt to those folk whispering forbidden stories in the firelight; or, like the Victorians, scribbling their little stories by candlelight, and ruining their eyesight in chilly rooms. We should thank them all.

Tuesday, 2 February 2010

Leonard Cohen - The Future (Official Music Video)

My friends in the UK will know about the recent case of the 2 kids, torturing 2 other kids. Horrific -- reminded me of Leonard Cohen's great poetry...