Phaze Fantasies, Vol. VI

by Jude Mason, Yvette Hines, Jessie Verino

  Now, back in her bedroom, standing in her new outfit, she was very happy with how she looked for tonight's little adventure. Her pencil skirt, made of white vinyl, was quite modest—it extended a good four inches or so beyond her knees—but it was very tight, skimming over her naked flesh like a second skin. It had been a deliberate decision to be naked under the skirt, tonight there would be no place for modesty. And as the skirt's design featured a full-length zip at both the front and the back, it projected an under-stated indecency that she thought the powers-that-be at So-UnReal-Ism might find appetising. But she knew she couldn't rely totally on under-statement and subtlety.

  So, around her waist she tied a foot-wide bondage belt, again fashioned from white PVC, adorned with chromed D-rings and buckled by steel claps. The belt was so tight that it gave her slim body a wasp waist, which, in turn, emphasised the delicious curve of her arse and fullness of her breasts.

  Her breasts...

  She might be slim but she had good breasts. Not huge, but pert and well-formed, and well worth advertising. And if there was one thing she knew about, it was advertising: advertising, after all, was her business. A small girl with the black-dyed hair in a shop called “Rage” had persuaded her to have her nipple pierced. When Svetlana had explained to her that she was putting together an outfit that communicated “submission", the girl had been adamant that a piercing was a must. Nothing, she explained, would more effectively signal Svetlana's attitude. Svetlana had gone to the parlour the girl had recommended as safe, had had the piercing done and had chosen as a nipple adornment a simple platinum stirrup, which now hung enticingly from her blackened nipple.

  Blackened...

  Her nipples were varnished a slick black colour—she was determined that they would be seen. Blackened nipples teamed with a white blouse of the sheerest, the most ephemeral lace, achieved just the degree of prominence she desired. As she stood looking at herself in the mirror, she was delighted by the effect created by the lace; it ghosted over her breasts like mist, accentuating their curves and their shadows, and, contrarily, making her look more naked with the blouse on, than she had seemed without it. For her jewellery, she'd chosen pieces made from chromed steel, as hard and as strong as her resolve. And celebrating her willingness to submit, the style of the jewellery was bondage-esque. Around her long, elegant neck she strapped a tall, stiff posture-collar that sported a D-ring, as did each of the steel manacles she buckled onto her wrists.

  The boots she chose to complement the ensemble were also white, rising over her ankles, sharp heeled and adorned with chromed buckles. Although, even in her bare feet she stood well above average height, Svetlana was delighted with the effect even these modest heels had on her appearance: in them she looked more commanding and much, much taller.

  She checked the clock that stood on her dressing table; it was almost midnight, time to leave. There was just one final addition to her ensemble; she reached for her mask. The mask she was to wear was exquisite, woven from strands of filigree sliver producing an almost organic shape, a shape that twisted and roiled over her face like some living thing, hiding her, but simultaneously making her seem decadent and alluring.

  And frighteningly available.

  * * * *

  When she arrived, twenty minutes later, outside So-UnReal-Ism there was already a crowd of a hundred or so people milling aimlessly around the entrance, waiting for the club's door to open. Whenever this happened, they'd surge forward to lobby the evening-suited man guarding the door. Inevitably, they would be forced to retreat, disconsolate and disappointed, when their pleas to be allowed in were rebuffed. The herd of wannabes ebbed and flowed like a tide.

  Watching from the edge of the crowd, Svetlana waited for Mr. Evening-Suit's next appearance and then strode determinedly up to him. “You again,” he said, in a voice so quiet that she had to strain to hear what he was saying, “are you ready to submit yet?"

  For some reason, the directness of the question unnerved Svetlana: it was blunt, it was uncompromising and it demanded an unambiguous answer. This moment, she knew, was the point of no return; to get into So-UnReal-Ism she had to put up or shut up.

  "Yes,” she replied, a little annoyed by the hesitant tremor in her voice.

  The man's mouth crooked in dismissive arrogance. “Show me how you would submit."

  For a second Svetlana was totally nonplussed, unable to think or do anything. It was possible to flirt with the idea of visiting a club like So-UnReal-Ism, it was possible to imagine what might go on in there, it was even possible to imagine, in a sanitised sort of way, participating in some of the club's ... activities, but it was quite another to be confronted, full on, with the reality and the consequences of what you were doing.

  As any neophyte will tell you, the step from imagination to participation is an enormous one.

  She knew though that she had no alternative but to take that fateful first step: if she wanted to test the accusations made in those malignant e-mails she had to enter So-UnReal-Ism. She wouldn't be able to live without knowing just what she might be...

  Shuffling her hips to ease the tight, tight skirt above her knees, she knelt down on the hard cold pavement before the masked man. Raising her hands to his fly, she eased the zip down and then slid her hand inside, tracing her fingers around the man's rapidly stiffening cock. Carefully she freed it from the confines of his tight trousers. The cock flicked out, into the cold of the night, its long, hard, purple-headed length bobbing excitedly just an inch or so from her mouth, and Svetlana smiled as she remembered her mother once counselling her that a Russian soul was never afraid to sin.

  And without this sinful sacrifice she would never know if the e-mail told lies or truth. There was no place here for bitten-lip dignity, just compliance and obedience.

  Oblivious to the shocked and, it must be said, envious stares of the crowd that stood transfixed around her, she opened her black-varnished lips and brought them to nestle over the rounded tip of the man's now fully engorged cock. And it was a handsome cock; although she had only made love to a handful of men in her entire life, she had come to realise that, just like faces, penises had uniquely distinctive appearances. They could be pleasing or ugly, appealing or distinctly unappealing. This cock was a good-looking one, smooth and light-coloured with a shiny purple eye.

  She wasn't terribly accomplished in fellatio and her experience was limited, so she was surprised by the taste of this man. As she roamed her tongue around the polished tip of his penis, the tang of the man's arousal was disconcertingly tart, a much sharper taste than that which she anticipated. And the man's smell was different too. Whereas her previous lovers had had a light, almost floral odour, this man's was much heavier, much more ... she hated to say it, masculine. His perfume came as a jolting shock, and she could feel the small, almost invisible hairs on her body tingle with aromatic excitement. Thus encouraged, she pushed her head forward, sliding her lips along his slick length, all-the-whilst caressing the gossamer thin skin of his prick with her tongue. Drawing the man into the warm wet invitation of her mouth, she caressed his taut length with her languid lips and tested the crown of the prick with her shrewd, searching tongue.

  Despite the protests of her residual conscience she found herself (reluctantly, almost guiltily) enjoying what she was doing, and found the cock that nestled so snugly in her mouth unbearably delicious. Her world contracted, and thoughts of the cold pavement, of the outraged stares of the crowd, of the snapping of cameras that recorded her sexual genuflection, receded. Now all her thoughts were focussed solely on the length of warm, sliding flesh that she held so firmly, and oh-so-willingly in her mouth.

  She redoubled her efforts, pummelling her mouth over his tool, all-the-whilst keeping her lips tight so that the erection had to struggle for entry, had to work to delve into the accommodating comfort of her mouth. And to add further encouragement, she reached up, sliding her hands around the man's arse, urging him deeper into her, digging her black tippe
d nails into his hard bottom.

  Her efforts were rewarded. The man's perfume mutated, becoming more pungent, heavier, signalling his imminent climax. From far away she heard his small defeated cry.

  Suddenly, the texture of his skin altered, and beneath her fingers she felt his muscles bunch and then twitch as he ejaculated into her mouth. His seed was sour, and for a moment her body recoiled, rejecting it, but then with a determination driven by steely resolve, she drank, sucking Mr Evening-Suit's emission down, down inside her. The man gasped, and for the first time he touched her, laying his hands almost reverently on top of her head. For a second they were motionless, as though locked in some erotic tableau, and then, as his prick subsided within her, as though coming back to consciousness, the man stood away from her. He shuffled his flagging penis back into his trousers, but Svetlana stopped him, and instead hungrily pushed out her tongue to take the last pearlescent tear of emission from the point of his penis. This done, the man zipped himself up, and then, unbelievably, reached out a hand to help her to her feet.

  "You can go in now,” he said and pushed the club's steel entrance door open.

  * * * *

  Svetlana took no second bidding; she was through the entrance in an instant, the door immediately closing behind her, muffling the disappointed protests of the crowd and simultaneously shrouding her in darkness. The darkness was so total, so all-enveloping that for a moment she was completely disorientated, not knowing whether she should go left or right, forward or back—or even if there were a left or right, or a forward or a back. Then, as she stood perplexed, and not a little afraid, in the stygian gloom, a line of tiny LED lights illuminated across the floor. With only a moment's hesitation, she set off to follow them, the spiked heels on her boots snapping on the hard, cold concrete floor, the sound ricocheting off into the black uncertainty ahead of her. Eventually, after what seemed to be an eternity of groping and shuffling along the corridor, she saw a sign ahead of her which said simply, “Enter". And below it, doused in the sign's timid red light, were drawn the words:

  "Love must be reinvented"

  It was an odd slogan to be on the door giving entry to the city's most notorious leather and pain club. She knew the quote well, it came from the French poet Arthur Rimbaud, and, remembering Rimbaud's troubled and tempestuous life, maybe, she decided, he wasn't such a bad patron for a place like So-UnReal-Ism to adopt as an inspiration. But for any BDSM club to quote twentieth-century French poets at its customers was, Svetlana thought, very peculiar.

  And “peculiar” was an adjective apt in describing the world that awaited her when she pushed through the heavy door into So-UnReal-Ism proper.

  So-UnReal-Ism was not what she had expected. In fact, So-UnReal-Ism displayed none of those BDSM clichés of neo-industrial décor and an aurally eviscerating rock soundtrack the media usually used when depicting clubs specialising in pain and submission. So-UnReal-ism looked and sounded, if anything, more like some huge avant-garde art gallery. The place she had emerged into was a temple to erotic excess and libertine indulgence, and Svetlana didn't apply the word “temple” lightly. From what she could see in the gloom, the building must once have been a huge church that had been requisitioned by the club for worship of a much more ungodly kind. As she walked down the aisle of the former church she was surprised by how much this thought disconcerted her; it seemed vaguely sacrilegious that those who attended So-UnReal-Ism should worship hedonistic pain in such a place.

  A little uncertainly Svetlana stumbled forward in the flickering darkness that shrouded the club, only spotlights set high up in the building's cupola providing fitful, swirling illumination. So-UnReal-Ism embraced the darkness of the theatre ... the theatre of the macabre, the club's scant illumination framing and displaying the huge murals, paintings and sculptures that decorated the place. As Svetlana walked further into the club, these gigantic artworks glowered down on her, every one of them seemly designed to shock and to disturb and to terrify.

  To her front, in a place where she guessed an altar had once stood, she was confronted by a wide stage that dominated the crowded ballroom. The stage was decorated by an enormous backdrop of the famous image taken from that triumph of Surrealist cinema, “Un Chien Andalou", an image that showed an eye being severed by a razor. Svetlana had to look away: for her this was one of the most unsettling acts ever committed to celluloid. Every time she saw this wickedly perverted scene, she was filled with nausea and disgust. Avoiding looking at this necessitated her having to shift her gaze and take in the other, equally troubling, artistic sights decorating the club.

  On her right, taking up the entire wall and rendered in a swirling maelstrom of oils and prurience was a gigantic, twenty-times life-sized picture of a man laughing as his erect penis was sawn from his body.

  There, to her left, rose a tremendous sculpture of two thirty-foot tall lovers literally fusing into one another as they copulated, one body mixing with and absorbing the other in what was presumably a representation of the all-consuming experience of orgasm.

  But disturbing as these and the rest of the art-works were, the major difficulty Svetlana had with the vast vaulted room she was walking through was the distinct impression she had that none of the verticals and horizontals were true. The whole place seemed to be slightly and very troublingly skewed and distorted, giving the feeling that it was somehow in the process of melting, that it was not quite of this dimension. Even the three steps she had to climb to reach the ballroom floor were set at non-uniform heights, each laying at a different angle, and it was only when she tried to place her foot on the final step that she realised it wasn't actually there: it was just a skilfully painted trompe d'oeil. As she tripped over the non-existent third step, her heart skipped a beat and for an instant, she believed she was falling, tumbling, into a bottomless nothingness: the floor of the ballroom had been pained to look as though there was no floor, as though there was just a hole looking down, down, down onto a cityscape far below. Even realising that it was just a painted illusion, it still took a moment for Svetlana to gather the courage necessary to step out onto the “nothingness".

  All this quirkiness was emphasised by the music that played through hidden speakers: it was discordant free-jazz, devoid of a recognisable melody and played in a time-signature that was almost impossible to recognise. The music was perfect for So-UnReal-Ism: it reflected and complemented the oddity of the construction, the decoration and the patrons.

  Ah ... the patrons.

  The place was crowded, and Svetlana had to push her way onto the ballroom floor through the cabal of misfits and iconoclasts congregated to celebrate their sexual iniquity. Crowded though it was, So-UnReal-Ism didn't have the frenetic atmosphere she associated with dance clubs. Here the club-goers simply seemed to drift around the place, enjoying their anonymity—they were all masked—and their strangeness. From what Svetlana could see of them as they flickered into and out of sight under the oscillating beams of the spotlights, they were very strange indeed. There was no commonality of style or fashion: everyone, it seemed, was determined to be as different as possible. There were leather freaks and Pierrots, there were men and women naked except for elaborate body art, there were nu-Romantics, old-Romantics, there was every style known to humankind ... and then some that were not yet known. The place was as a cacophony of individuality and free expression.

  As she stood at the edge of the dance-floor—still slightly uncomfortable about the image painted on the floor and by the vastness of the cupola opening over her head—she felt a presence behind her, and turning, found herself facing a tall man wearing a white dinner jacket and black trousers, the man accompanied by a small and dainty Chinese woman sporting a very tight and very brief dress made from scarlet PVC. The identities of both were hidden behind full-face masks constructed from black leather.

  "It is your first evening in So-UnReal-Ism. We will be your guides and your instructors. You may call me “Master", and my help-mate, “Little S
u". Please follow us.” Without waiting for a reply, the man arrogantly spun on his heel, and side-by-side with his companion walked towards a staircase that led up to the balcony that circled the ballroom floor. Svetlana was left with no alternative but to follow. As they climbed the stairs the man turned, “You are a newcomer, and as such you are not permitted to interact with the other guests. Tonight will determine if you are to be permitted to return to So-UnReal-Ism. Tonight we will test your resolve and your inclinations."

  "My inclinations?"

  "Indeed. We see in you the capacity to embrace the more pain centred aspects of the flesh. We would test you to establish if this belief is correct."

  This last statement gave Svetlana pause. To have people talk of her having such outré sexual inclinations was ... interesting. She had never thought about the darker side of sexual experience before, but if So-UnReal-Ism saw such potential in her, maybe it was a potential that the Boss could also come to appreciate. If the e-mails’ insinuations were correct, the Boss certainly had an affection for this sort of sex, and wither the Boss led, she would certainly follow.

  "But it is not just a passion for pain we look for in those we invite into So-UnReal-Ism,” the Master continued, “we also seek intelligence and a willingness to think the unthinkable. As you might already have begun to suspect, So-UnReal-Ism celebrates the teachings of Dada and Surrealism,” he spread an arm around to indicate the art that decorated the club, “but you should understand that it is not just the artistic inclinations of Surrealism we embrace but also, and more importantly, the political ones."

  "Political?” she asked.

  "Indeed, Surrealism and its progenitor Dada, were spawned by the revulsion of European intellectuals to the barbaric slaughter that was the First World War. They argued that every intelligent man and woman had a duty to reject the bourgeois morality and reasoning that made such a tragedy possible. Instead, they championed anarchy and irrationality. So-UnReal-Ism has adopted that creed and made it flesh."