"That seems a very negative philosophy..."
"Not so: in the history of political advancement it is always necessary to destroy before reconstruction can begin. New thoughts, new attitudes and new philosophies are always built upon the rubble of discredited value-systems."
"But first you have to accept that our system is flawed. Isn't Surrealism a case, as the old African proverb tells us, of burning down the village just to feel the warmth?"
The Master turned to look at her, and she felt his stare boring into her, “I am surprised that a woman of your intelligence can make such a statement. I would have thought it patently obvious that the political, the religious and the artistic values of the so-called civilised nations of our planet are worn-out, vacuous and desiccated. Any culture, such as the one the world is currently in thrall to, which so readily embraces war as a political tool, that kow-tows to the pernicious beliefs of fundamentalist religion and which takes an irrational pride in moral affectation, is a culture in intellectual and ethical decline. To paraphrase Karl Marx, “liberty, equality, fraternity” have been replaced as watchwords for civilised values by “hierocracy, prudery, artillery"."
Svetlana laughed, it seemed a very pompous creed for what was, after all, just a BDSM club. “So how is So-UnReal-Ism making political waves?"
"You may laugh, but the creed of So-UnReal-Ism is very serious. The promotion of dark sex is perhaps one of the most effective instruments of political subversion available to people, such as myself, who wish to change attitudes. Once the flesh is free, the mind will follow. That is why the state, the church and all the other members of the establishment are so intent on outlawing outré sex."
The Master stopped at the top of the staircase and pointed to a huge reproduction of a swirling, tumbling mass of black lines. “This is a reproduction of “Automatic Drawing” by André Masson. The automatic technique—be it applied to music, painting, drawing, rapping or whatever—involves spontaneous, improvised creation without reference to censoring thought or conscience. Using this method, Surrealism seeks to merge the fantastic with the rational so that reality mutates into surreality. So-UnReal-Ism brings this technique to the realm of the erotic: here sex is performed without the concerns for morality and without stultifying self-censorship.” The Master's eyes flared behind his mask, “The philosophy of So-UnReal-Ism is the revolt of the libido."
Suddenly light flashed on the distant ceiling of the club, and Svetlana watched in stunned astonishment as for, perhaps thirty seconds, a video was projected against the flat white plaster. As a piece of film-making it was anarchic and irreverent, a cacophony, a hyper-charged deluge of snap-cut, jump-cut images of men and women being the subject of flagellation. It would have been easy to dismiss the piece as witless trash, a graceless, humourless, styleless turd of a video that was obviously contemptuous of such elitist concepts as pacing, lighting, continuity and acting. But it wasn't easy: by its very prurience, by its dismissal and ignorance of all the rules of film-making and by its sheer maniacal energy it grabbed Svetlana's attention and held it. It transcended pornography and mutated into a provocatively disturbing statement on sexual freedom. “Wow, I've never seen anything like that before."
"There are very few talents working in the world of film as nihilistic or as talented as the girl who directed that piece and, I am pleased to say, it was made using footage shot in this club. The director's name is Norma X and she's called the piece ‘PhotoShocked'. Norma has an interesting approach to her directing, she follows the adage “it's easy to do things properly, but it's so much more satisfying to fuck them up."
"It's brilliant in a perverted sort of way."
"No, it's not perverted, it's just brilliant. Norma is a real revolutionary.” He smiled at Svetlana and reached out to drift a manicured nail over her left nipple, flicking absent-mindedly at the piece of jewellery that hung from it. “The question comes, Svetlana: are you a revolutionary or a bourgeoisie?"
"No, the question comes,” thought Svetlana, “how do you know my name?"
Svetlana found that she had been manoeuvred into a small area—very much like a box in a theatre—which overlooked the stage which lay some fifty feet or so below her. From this vantage point, leaning over the balustrade at the lip of the box, Svetlana found herself looking down to the crowd swaying below. It took several moments for her to be able to make out details of the crowd undulating beneath her; the spotlights that swung like pendulums over the floor meant that the dancers flickered in and out of the light. It was like watching ripples on a moonlight-speckled lake. As she watched, she felt a strange urge to be one of them, to embrace the sort of outré sex they relished. In a place like So-UnReal-Ism there was no need to hide her hungers, there was no need to fear that she would affront, there was no need to exclude herself...
Shivers of fear, disgust and excitement trembled through her body.
Excitement...
Yes, So-UnReal-Ism was an exciting place, and she wanted—needed—to experience it to the full. Svetlana turned back towards the staircase. She wanted to go down and become part of the crowd, she wanted to get down to the dance floor...
A strong hand grabbed her wrist. “No, you cannot leave the balcony.” The statement from the Master was implacable, “You must stay here until I say you are ready. If you walk away from me now you will never enter So-UnReal-Ism again."
"Please..."
There was a resolute shake of the Master's head, “You must prove yourself."
For a long moment, the eyes of Svetlana and of the Master locked, and it was Svetlana who looked away. “I'll stay. I'll do anything you wish.” She turned back to the balustrade and gazed down at the dancers. As she watched, she saw a man shimmy through the press of the crowd towards the front of the dance-floor and climb up onto the stage, his appearance accompanied by cheers from the crowd. Now that she could see him more clearly, Svetlana had to marvel at his sexual chutzpah. All he was wearing was a pair of tight black plastic shorts and a devil mask. Svetlana smiled a little ruefully, wondering how marvellous it would be if this tall, handsome and very well-formed man was hers. It was the first time in a very long while that she had actually desired a man.
As Svetlana watched, to even louder cheers from the crowd, a naked and statuesque blonde girl sauntered out of the wings and across to the centre of the stage. She might have been masked but she was obviously beautiful; the way she moved and the way she held herself bespoke a confidence in her body that only the loveliest of women radiate. Automatically Svetlana inventoried her own body and compared it to that of the blonde's. Which of them had the better body was a question of taste. Svetlana's legs were longer and, to her mind, better shaped, but the girl's breasts were impressive and they jiggled quite alluringly as she walked. It was a good walk too: the blonde had probably had dancing lessons when she was younger. All-in-all Svetlana didn't think that the blonde was in anyway her superior ... just different.
Different in that it was the blonde who was now standing in the middle of the stage alongside the man Svetlana coveted and not Svetlana.
"I like her mask,” the Master whispered in Svetlana's ear. “I understand she created the mask herself weaving it out of strips of red leather. In a world such as we live in, where sex is subject to so many taboos, a mask announces the decision to violate these taboos. I think her mask does that very eloquently."
Mesmerised by the tableau vivant that was developing on the stage beneath her, Svetlana edged hard up against the balcony's balustrade and gripped hard onto the loops of steel that decorated it. That grip became even harder as she saw the man tie the blonde to two heavy chains that snaked down from the ceiling to the centre of the stage, tie her so that she now stood crucified before the audience: a latter-day Vitruvian Woman with her ankles and her wrists manacled akimbo in a “X” shape. Satisfied that the blonde was imprisoned by the bonds, the man confidently, arrogantly almost, moved to the edge of the stage and spoke to the audience. What he said w
as lost in the hubbub of voices and drowned by the jazz snaking through the club, but the reaction was marked. Immediately there was a flurry of activity in the crowd until, finally, a young girl, slim, dark and wearing a short black leather dress and a half-mask in the form of a cat, clambered up onto the stage to stand beside the chained blonde.
Svetlana felt the warm breath of the Master on her ear, “Watch carefully. The first step to becoming welcome in So-UnReal-Ism is to prove your sexual proclivities by allowing a man or a woman to impose their sexual will on you, just as tonight this man will impose his on this girl."
As though cued by the Master's observation, on the stage the man snaked his hand around the blonde's body and began to tremble his long fingers against the stiffening nipple of her right breast. This provoked excitement in the girl—it was apparent by the way she writhed against her fetters—but equally it provoked jealously in Svetlana. And not just jealousy, but envy too: she was envious that the blonde was being stimulated by the man and she was not.
It should be her down there tied to the chains!
Yet as she watched, Svetlana was conscious that she was experiencing other emotions apart from jealousy and envy. She was becoming fascinated by what was being done to the blonde girl, and that fascination was mutating into a burgeoning sexual excitement. Never had Svetlana thought of being in such a position as the blonde girl now so happily found herself: naked, vulnerable, at the mercy of a handsome man. It was an erotic fantasy made real, and Svetlana was aroused by being part of it, albeit a peripheral part.
"But why should that be?" she thought. Surely she had come to So-UnReal-Ism to learn: to learn about herself ... and to learn about the erotic. Svetlana turned to the Master, “You say that I must prove my willingness to submit by allowing a man to impose his will on me. So why wait? Why don't you visit upon me all that that man will visit on the blonde girl?"
"You are prepared to do that? You do realise that he may ... punish her."
Svetlana nodded, “I want to feel everything that girl feels, experience everything that she experiences, enjoy the pain that she enjoys."
With a rueful shake of his head, the Master replied, “So be it,” and he produced two pairs of handcuffs from his jacket pocket and, leaning forward, used them to clasp Svetlana's wrists to two of the balustrade's steel loops. “Shuffle your feet back,” he ordered, “I want you positioned so your arse is up in the air.” Svetlana did as she was instructed, manoeuvring herself such that her body, from her wrists to her waist, became almost horizontal with the floor. This done, she felt the Master's hand stroking over the stretched white PVC that covered her arse. It was a delightfully mischievous feeling. The knowledge that this man and this woman-Little Su had come to stand by Svetlana's side-could do with her whatever he wished and she, handcuffed as she was, would be unable to prevent him doing it, was enormously stimulating.
"You are very beautiful, and very, very desirable,” murmured the Master, as his hand snaked under her body and gently massaged the swell of her breast, his palm coasting over the stiffening nipple. Just as the Master's attentions were becoming more overt, so Svetlana gazed out to the stage to see that the man's fondling of the blonde had similarly become more intense and intimate. It was easy for Svetlana to imagine that it was she who stood with the man on that stage; that it was the man's hands and not the Master's that were delving so deliciously around her breasts, and this vicarious imagining she found incredibly arousing. The blonde's body became a stand-in, a locum for her own. So it was, through eyes half-closed by rising excitement, that Svetlana watched as the man beckoned the girl in the leather dress forward and indicated that she should kneel in front of the blonde. The rest was inevitable, the girl pushed her head towards the blonde's sex, and although Svetlana's view was partially blocked by the girl's bobbing head, it was obvious that the girl in the leather dress was enthusiastically eating the blonde.
The Master made Svetlana's fantasies real. She felt the zip on the rear of her skirt being pulled, and the bifurcated skirt falling away from her body to reveal her naked arse. A hand slipped cunningly between her thighs and immediately a finger began to explore her sex, teasing around her clitoris, running salaciously along her labia and questing sternly into the dark confines of her quim. Little Su stooped down and, ducking under her, squirmed between Svetlana's legs. Svetlana had never been with a woman before, in her native land, lesbianism was frowned upon as a sin, as something unholy and prurient, but as she felt Little Su's mouth began the first tentative teasing of the lips of her sex, Svetlana gave not one thought to these primitive moral censures. All she knew was the unbelievably marvellous sensation of the woman's tongue as it began to search, seeking the comforting warmth of Svetlana's soaked cunt.
As Little Su's mouth nibbled and teased, so the Master's fingers coasted over Svetlana's balm-slick labia, making her flinch forward to rise accommodatingly up onto her toes. Little Su seized this opportunity to assert her sexual dominance. For Svetlana, there was an almost dream-like quality in the way the woman's long and supple tongue tracked its way along the soft, vulnerable flesh on the inside of her thigh. It was intoxicating, especially when she felt the woman's shoulders fidget their way between her legs and lever them further apart, opening her sex wider and more invitingly to the advancing mouth and to the Master's testing fingers. A zephyr of cold air from the a/c flexed around the damp lips of Svetlana's sex, sending a frisson of excitement ricocheting over her skin.
Skilfully, Little Su's clever, educated tongue searched the dark niches of Svetlana's cunt, her mouth snuggling into her slick heat. A gasp of anguished pleasure broke from Svetlana's mouth as the woman's tongue made its first fleeting, tremulous contact with the bead of her clitoris. Svetlana shook with glee, rattling her handcuffs helplessly as she strained her body to press her sex harder against the woman's mouth, pleading for-no, demanding-more. And Little Su reciprocated: her teeth began to torture the hardening nub of the clitoris, her tongue began to lap at her creaming labia, whilst her hands began to caress that most coy of places, the dark confine of Svetlana's anus. Mewing with rising excitement, Svetlana clenched hard at the steel loops that so marvellously imprisoned her, enjoying the self same delights that were being inflicted on the blonde fifty feet below her on the stage.
The effect of the physical and of the visual experience Svetlana was enjoying was bizarre: it was almost as though she was undergoing an out-of-body experience, as though she was some disembodied spirit swirling around the ether, simultaneously enjoying the pleasuring of her own body and, vicariously, the pleasuring of the blonde's body.
It was a surreal experience...
She froze for a moment, transfixed by the thought.
Surreal...
The aim of the surreal as propounded by the Master was to revolutionise human experience, to free men and women from the falsehoods of rationality and from the chilling and destructive confines of a restrictive sexual morality.
In Svetlana's case, it was succeeding.
Through hooded and lust-glazed eyes she saw the man strap a wide belt around the blonde's waist. Immediately the Master's mouth was at her ear to explain. “All forms of flagellation are martial activities, and involve one person—the Top—inflicting pain on the Bottom. If not managed in a caring, in a controlled way, whipping is a hugely dangerous activity, which is why clubs such as So-UnReal-Ism insist upon the Top acting in a disciplined way and demand that Bottoms wear protective belts just like the one you are wearing. In addition, the man and the blonde girl will have agreed a safe-word, a safe-word which, once uttered by the submissive, will lead to an immediate cessation of the flogging."
The crop that the man used on the blonde was perhaps a metre long and was composed of a thin, supple core wrapped in plaited leather. The stroke he inflicted was aimed to bisect the blonde's arse horizontally across its twin swells. It was an amazingly accurate blow, though not, the watching Svetlana was convinced, a particularly hard one. Despite the circums
pection of the blow, the blonde reacted as though she was enduring the agony of the damned, writhing theatrically to the impact, rolling forward against her bonds and in so doing forcing herself against the hungry mouth of the kneeling girl. But Svetlana knew she wasn't hurt, that she wasn't pained. There was no gasp of stunned astonishment, there was no blanching of cheeks, there was no gritting of teeth or clenching of jaw, there was no widening of eyes.
No, all there was, Svetlana was convinced, was a pastiche of agony.
For Svetlana the way the blonde mimed ersatz pain was a betrayal. It betrayed the Top's lusts and his desires, and this she, Svetlana, would never do. If that man ever whipped her, she would insist on him visiting such agony on her body that there would be no doubt as to her willingness to do everything and anything to please him, nor any doubt that both their sexual thirsts were being slaked.
For a moment she froze, even the delicious ministrations of Little Su's tongue relegated to indifference. What did she mean; both their sexual thirsts? Even as she asked the question of her self, she knew the answer: she wanted to be whipped. She wanted to feel pain, and to meld it with the ecstasy of sexual fulfilment. She wanted the dark pleasures of the lash, and she wanted them unadulterated and unrestrained. Just thinking about the whip landing so joyously across her arse made her buck with pleasure. She turned her head to the Master and snarled at him, “Whip me, pain me, make me howl. Don't hold back, don't pretend, don't restrain yourself.” With a wanton wiggle she offered her naked arse to the man, the wiggle having the secondary benefit of encouraging Little Su to use her mouth and her fingers more enthusiastically.
Without a word, the Master did as he was bade, taking a crop that hung from the wall, and flexing it between his hands.
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. VI Page 27