March 4, 2017
Diary 3rd – 4th March
The night turns itself inside out. Dreams come: bizarre, yes – but so vivid they seem more real than waking life. Dreams of photographs and ciphers, spies and bloody murder. And in amongst this chaotic mayhem, Madame Lamson!
See her standing tall in a black corset, tattoos twining up her left arm. No panties, just that thick bush of rusty-red curls. Another, smaller tattoo on her right side just above the groin: this a simple wreath of wild flowers. Black fishnet stockings on her legs, and a riding crop held lightly in both hands.
Sets such impossible tasks. Then punishes failure without a hint of compassion in her hard green eyes. She is the original switch bitch!
Long, lacquered red nails. And that smile on her face, the one that follows you everywhere; metamorphosing, ultimately, into an aristocratic smirk for the men and women groveling round her spiky high heels.
Madame Lamson holds the keys to the gates of hell. Her crop on your flesh leaves red patterns of pain, and eventually you grow drunk on this pain, which is like the sun coming out and making you dizzy, so that you feel your head will just float away to another, rarer place.
Her mouth is all curves and ripeness – like her body. Faint dusting of freckles on her cheeks, and her hair when the sunlight catches it from the window glows red. She is unforgiving and relentless. And her victims feel themselves sliding into a slow-motion loss of control – unable to apply the brakes.
She told you once that she loved candyfloss and carousels. Remember that? Her favorite film was ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’! Your head tried to followed the trail of her words, remember? She spoke so softly, so sweetly, while mercilessly inserting a thumb nail into your urethra.
You almost cried out your safeword when she did that, didn’t you? It was almost too much. Her likes, you thought, were in-feckin’-credible, considering what a bad bitch she could be.
She also told you her favorite colour was pink…!
Our lives together are a song in which music and poetry have become a single, beautiful harmony.
The past is a splinter in my soul, a wound that turns slowly septic. Whatever happened, I wonder, to Gail La Mare?
At age ten I went to the cinema (the name of the film is unimportant) and fell in love with a young actress appearing in the main feature: thirteen or fourteen years of age, she travelled on a ferry across Hong Kong harbor, and I became besotted with her – with the fall of her hair, with her large, almond-shaped eyes, and with the sound of her voice.
At the end of that film, I experienced a most dreadful sense of loss…
I went to see the film again. And again. Every day for a week, I went to see my one true love, who remained so impossibly distant from me…and yet so near.
At night I dreamt about her. In my dreams she became my ‘girl’ and we kissed each other with an innocent passion.
I spent all my pocket money on seeing that film, and then stole cash from my mother’s ‘piggy-bank’ (the only time I’ve ever done such a thing) so that I could continue to go watch my ‘love’. I was like an addict in desperate need of a fix.
And all these years later, as an adult, I can still feel that poor child’s pain…
Each of us, it’s true, are capable of writing various, strikingly different autobiographies, according to the viewpoint chosen and our principle of selection.
November 12, 2016
Pain enters the body. It is sharp at first. Then awful. Then contradictory. Like nothing else. Nothing: and it’s when the pain becomes unbearable that it begins to go away, changes, becomes something good to moan at, scream at, takes over all of your body, your head, all of the strength in your body, your head, and in your totally defeated ability to think. This can’t be called pain anymore, it might be called death.
The North China Lover: A Novel
October 13, 2016
It’s often said that cowards make the best torturers. Cowards have good imaginations, imaginations that torment them with all the worst stuff of nightmare, all the horrors that could befall them. This provides an excellent arsenal when it comes to inflicting misery on others. And their final qualification is that they understand the fears of their victim better than the victim does himself.
Prince of Fools
October 9, 2016
Recently a friend told me that she had ordered a set of nipple clamps online. She has very sensitive nipples and had this fantasy about mild breast torture. However, when they arrived and she fitted one on an engorged nipple, she found the pain too great.
‘I took it off straight away,’ she said. ‘They’ve sat in a drawer ever since. I don’t know how anyone can stand them?’
Well, I gave her the following explanation:
Applying a clothespin to one’s arm initially produces pain that may be quite intense as the skin and surface muscles are compressed. Peripheral nerve fibres detect this pressure and transmit a pain signal to the spinal cord and on to the brain. At first it is the fast pain signals that get through, and the intensity of the pain experienced is fairly proportional to the amount of pressure applied. Everyone would agree that this is acute pain.
The slower pain signals are not far behind, however, and a dull ache may soon be noticed. After a short while, the pain coming from the pinched tissue will begin to be decreased by the closing of the spinal nerve gates. This is because the brain begins to view the pain signals as non-harmful. The pressure may be painful initially but it is not injuring the person in any way. As time goes on, the pain message is given less priority by the brain and the person’s awareness of it decreases greatly.
The brain knows that the clothespin is not causing any injury. Therefore, the brain gradually “turns the volume down” on the pain message to the point of it being barely noticeable after about thirty minutes. The compression on skin and muscle is still occurring, but it is now perceived as a mild discomfort if it is noticed at all.
‘Be that as it may,’ she said. ‘Those bloody things can stay in my drawer forever…’
August 28, 2016
I had this girl once Jessica who was bit hard. She liked to workout at the gym and fancied herself as Buffy the vampire slayer in her spare time. Once in The Apollo this guy came over and took an empty chair from our table without asking if it was free, which it wasn’t.
Anyway, Jess launches herself from her seat and grabs the fast departing chair. ‘’Scuse me,’ she says. ‘This is taken.’
‘Really? It’s first come first served here, luv,’ he says. ‘Shouldn’t you at least say please, if you want something?’
‘Yeah, your right.’ She kicked him straight in the balls. He didn’t see it coming; had no idea. Down he went like a sack of potatoes. ‘Please,’ she said, and took back the chair.
Anyhow Jess don’t take shit off anyone. She likes to be in control. One night when we’d both had more than a few drinks, she challenged me to a game of cards.
‘What game are we playing?’ I asked.
‘We’ll play nut-cracker poker, yeah.’
I’d never heard of it before and was apprehensive. ‘What are the rules?’ I asked.
The rules she explained to me went something like this: each card represented a punch, squeeze, knee, or kick to the balls; the number of the card was the number of blows to be struck, or the number of seconds each squeeze would last. The Joker represented a sixty second handjob from her as a relief from all the rough treatment.
‘Hang on a sec,’ said I. ‘You’ve got no balls?’
‘I’m the banker,’ she said. ‘I take five cards at a time, see. And then I do what the cards tell me – to you. So we have here the eight of spades, ten of hearts, three of diamonds which means I’m going to give you eight kicks in the balls, a hard ten second squeeze and three punches. But we also have the King of diamonds, which counts as twenty, so you get an additional twenty second squeeze. See, it’s all about you…’
‘I’m not playing?’ I said.
‘But you’ve got a Joker there, too. That’s sixty seconds of me wanking you. You don’t want?’
‘Yes, I want. But it’s the kicks and punches…’
‘You’ve got to take the rough with the smooth.’ She shrugged. ‘If it’s hurting too much you can wimp out. We’ll have a safe word, yeah. Shout out ‘Sissy’ and I’ll stop.’
‘What’s the point of the game?’
‘To see if you’re man enough.’
‘When’s the game over?’
‘When you wimp out…Or when you cum. But if you wimp it, you have to eat me out as a forfeit.’
So, to cut a long story short, I ended up on the sofa in the nude. She dealt the cards and that first hand included three club cards: the four, six and ten.
‘Stand with your legs apart,’ she said. I did. She drove her knee into my balls with so much force my legs buckled. I tried to straighten but as I did so she powered that knee back into her gently swaying target. I hit the floor. ‘There’s a nine of hearts in the hand,’ she said. ‘That’s a nine second squeeze. Shall I do that before the rest of your kicks?’
I slowly rose from my knees. ‘I don’t think I like this game,’ I said, but she already had a firm hold of my balls. The pain was unbelievable, oscillating up from my balls to my brain, exploding behind my eyes in bright red neon. It took a few seconds before I screamed ‘Sissy’ and she released me, laughing.
‘Well, that didn’t last long, did it?’ she said. ‘Better get back on your knees.’ She sat back on the sofa and spread her legs wide. ‘You’ve got a lot of licking to do. About an hour’s worth, I’d say. bon appétit, my little wimp…’
June 5, 2016
Zebra Longwings, Monarchs, Blue Clouds lurid against
yellow goldenrod, the stems riddled with galls, the galls with larva,
x’d open by a woodpecker’s stabbing beak.
We walk where the life is spilling out, where the prey
views the predator with indifference. If not this way, another.
Until then, the spread of genetic material.
To protect your skin from the sun, carry this green umbrella,
spin the handle, soft shoe; it’s the long summer and we
require a gentle entertainment. The children are swarming,
querulous in the heat, ignoring the prohibition against touching
pagoda gold, the hand-painted beams shipped from Thailand
over the seas. Every year the pagoda shines less, every year
naga statues guard the bridge with expressions of reproach.
My hand hasn’t one atom of gold on it. No excess worth
lines my nails. The raptors in their cages glazed with boredom,
kestrels and kites, the yawning owls, all track us as we pass,
jessed for public display, for demonstrations of ferocity
in service to delight. This dumb show. This mock danger.
Happy in service, pleased to be part of, my hand in yours,
grasping at some semblance of normal. This is how
foreign substances are absorbed, we grow around the hurt,
eat as we ate before, laugh as we once laughed, present
damage as decoration, our fingers borrowing gleam by
caustic oils—darling, when they walked from that other
bed of flowers they had just learned shame. For us to
advance we must learn to lance that swelling.
Sunday sadomasochism: a memoir of kink and decadent surrender to the will of a dominatrix, à la Française
April 17, 2016
‘As long as your head, your mind, is still working and is not too much preoccupied with the strange state of your body, we can continue to explore boundaries…like two innocent lambs starting out on a fresh adventure in a world we only half-imagined. We know there must be limits, but as to what these are we have no idea…?’
He didn’t reply to her; he couldn’t. The huge rubber gag in his mouth, shaped like an erect male phallus, prevented coherent speech…That, and her knee pressing on his windpipe which also filled his eyes with tears.
The room – the spatial confines of his current incarceration – was reasonably comfortable for a torture chamber*. He attributed this to her painstaking devotion to the arts of domination. Here she could utilize her many and diverse talents without fear of interruption, and in a level of comfort to which she was well accustomed.
He felt slightly dissociated. There, yet elsewhere. He hardly understood the list of alleged transgressions she recited to him. Each transgression, real or imaginary, was emphasised by a fresh act of violence on his body. He would learn. She would teach him…
Her face was quite old behind that mask of makeup. The makeup gave an appearance of dignity and rejuvenation. But her eyes…well, the way they stared at him, into him…gave him the impression she was possibly quite insane.
His ordeal continued. The acts were chaotic, patternless. And yet almost ritualistic in their intensity. Occasionally she paused to whisper endearments to him, stroked his chest with gentle fingertips. Her scent was pleasant, all pervading. Then she did something to him…something indescribable, which caused him to bite down so hard on the gag he felt his teeth must break!
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘The pain is exquisite, is it not? One day I would like to brand you. Burn my name into you thigh…Such a burn turns a deep tobacco brown so quickly. The pain of it lasts for weeks…And you will wear my name near your little cock, forever!’
He wondered what her face would look like if it weren’t decorated with so much makeup? She kissed him gently on the forehead, and began again with her sharp metal needles. So much like light, the pain came and went. The pain that filled the world, that needed to be captured, that begged to be capture in a photograph or on canvass. A Van Gogh of rubberised gloves and impossible steel implements. Red fingers cracked the sky. And he opened…his body no more than a wound, existing simply for her amusement. The seizures of pain took him repeatedly and without apology.
‘You think the pain defines you?’ she asked. ‘It doesn’t. The void defines you. You’re addicted to the void. Your body is simply a translation of my desire. Are we pain? Or are we art…?’
Finally it ended and she freed him from bondage. She caressed him; whispered sweet words in his ear, where tiny ghosts lay hidden from her view. Heaven finally came to grips with hell. His cock stirred under the gentle ministrations of her fingers. Fingertips fluttering like nervous birds…He briefly touched her ruffly butt panties while shedding his seed in milky smears on her long stockinged leg.
Later he returned to his own rooms overlooking the river; and to the untranslated collections of French poetry, the books of folklore, witchcraft and superstitions. To the unmade bed where he would lay down his wounds and remember her laughter like waves on a cloudless day as she inflicted fresh hurt. Here, eventually, he’d find peace…
* While many people know Mme Jarosseau has une chambre secrète, to be her “guest” within it is by invitation only. Such a visit is certainly not for the faint of heart, and each “guest” is expected to present an appropriate ‘Gift’ or ‘Tribute’ to Madame. Her complex errotic games are not to everyone’s taste. But anyone who has attended one of her sadomasochistic sessions will never forget the experience…her frightening greeting on arrival:
‘En retard! Il va en être puni et sévèrement!’