Phaze Fantasies, Vol. VI

by Jude Mason, Yvette Hines, Jessie Verino

  "Make me come...” the man begged.

  Svetlana ignored the plea, but knew she had to be careful. She could tell by his smell, and by the texture of his skin, that he was close to orgasm, and the last thing she wanted was to fail when in sight of the perfect denouement. Svetlana climbed back up onto her feet, “Be patient, soon you will have release. But first we must prepare you for the finale.” She snapped her fingers and, once again, Little Su appeared from the side of the stage carrying a second wooden box that she placed at Svetlana's feet. The first thing Svetlana drew out of the box was a series of rings made out of stretchable plastic, “These cock rings, I am assured, will help you maintain your erection even in the face of a great deal of pain.” She took his tool in her mouth to lubricate him and then slipped the rings over his engorged penis. “And, of course, we've got to ensure that we practice safe sex, so a whipping belt is an essential, especially as I am something of a neophyte in the art of flagellation,” Little Su handed a thick and very wide belt to Svetlana who strapped it tightly around the man's waist. “Finally, of course, we need your safe word. Might I suggest “Surrender"?"

  A reluctant nod from the man.

  "Now we are ready,” Svetlana said with a smile as she took the leather crop from Little Su. As the handle of the crop nestled so comfortably in the palm of her damp hand, Svetlana felt a surge of almost transcendental power. She felt the crop's supple, easy strength and sensed its dark hunger for pain. For Svetlana it was a moment of sexual epiphany. “I have been advised to use a crop. Apparently it is easier to handle than a whip or a strap and hence more accurate, which, as you probably appreciate, is vital in the realm of corporal punishment.” It was a peculiar sensation for Svetlana, to have the ability to visit pain, pain vicious and sudden, on a man. As she stood there on stage, the crop seemed to throb in her hand, as though it had a life and desires of its own. She made an exploratory cut with the crop, marvelling at the sound it made as it sliced though the air. The tension, the excitement vibrating in the whip was palpable. She looked at the man's arse, admiring the firm musculature, the even swooping curves, the perfect symmetry of the stiff flesh, the way the dark body hair shadowed and flecked the dips and curves of his cheeks...

  Without warning, she flicked her wrist and brought the crop sternly—but not too painfully—across the man's arse. The wincing and shuddering that the blow provoked in the man was engendered more by surprise than by pain, but Svetlana was pleased by the man's stoic refusal to scream. It showed that he was willing to endure. The audience, though, had no such inhibitions, yelling out “One” in encouragement. Svetlana moved to the man and gently rubbed a little of the salve perfumed with “I Submit” over the rapidly reddening stripe. “Flagellation is the very antithesis of reality,” she crooned as she worked the ointment into the skin. “Our reality presupposes a striving for a life free from trouble and strife, BDSM welcomes, encourages trouble and strife. In this way, the philosophy of the sadomasochist and of the Surrealist merges."

  She moved back a step and retracted her arm for a second cut. She wondered if her audience was watching her, desiring her, seeing how her body flexed, how her strong stomach muscles coiled, how her long legs bunched and how her breasts swung. This time she invested more venom into the stroke. And this time the reaction of the tethered man was driven less by surprise and considerably more by pain.

  "Two", screamed the mob.

  Only when the man's shuddering and shaking had subsided did Svetlana whisper in his ear, “It is no wonder, then, that the morally taboo contemplations of the Marquis de Sade should be so enthusiastically espoused by the Surrealists. They considered de Sade to be an apostle of liberty.” Again she smeared the unguent onto the man's glowing arse, but this time she meandered her slick hands around to his front to check on the state of his erection and to take the opportunity to run her long hard nails along its length. Svetlana was delighted to discover that the man's cock was as hot as his arse.

  "But there are other parallels between sado-masochism and surrealism. Dali, Giacometti and others delighted in taking a mundane object from this, the external, world and mutating it so that it had a perverse and obtuse existence in the internal world of our imagination and of our fantasies. They believed, by doing this they somehow broke down the barriers between the two worlds and reinvigorated our appreciation of both. Does this not have resonance with the use of ordinary household items in sado-masochistic acts: the use of the so-called ‘pervertibles'?"

  Svetlana threw the crop to one side and took the strange object that Little Su handed to her. “I found this in my kitchen and I knew immediately that it was perfect, that if any object was imbued with latent surrealism it was this,” and she waved it in front of the man's face. It was a long plastic kitchen spatula, the blade of which was perhaps nine inches long, vaguely triangular in shape and equipped with three long slots. It made, as the man soon discovered, an ideal paddle. For the next five minutes Svetlana bewailed the man's arse with the spatula, stopping between each slash of the spatula to tend to the ever deepening blush of his arse with the cooling balm and to tease at his increasingly ripe erection with her nails, her lips, her tongue and with her buttocks. It was a slow, deliberate flagellation intertwining the man's sexual stimulation with the pain of the blows from the spatula.

  Her patience and deliberation had their reward. After the seventh blow of the spatula, the merest touch of her fingers was enough to have the man's cock vibrating on the brink of climax. It was obvious to Svetlana that just one more blow would be enough to have him spilling his seed. Appreciating this, Svetlana handed the spatula to Little Su, who took it with a nod of understanding, the small Chinese girl waiting whilst Svetlana wandered slowly around the man to stand to his front. She smiled at him and then knelt before him, taking his tool, oh so carefully, into her mouth. She made no attempt to fellate him or to arouse him, she just cocooned him her hot, damp embrace. It was Little Su who struck the last blow with the spatula, and this final frisson of pain was enough to push him over the brink. With a grunt of ecstatic release he bowed his body forward, pushing himself deep into Svetlana's willing mouth, filling her with his warm, tart seed.

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  Chapter Four

  Who was he seeing today?

  The Svetlana who inhabited the demimonde of So-UnReal-Ism, or the Svetlana who bestrode the business world of the Agency?

  Or both ... simultaneously ... fused?

  Her transformation from Ice Princess into Princess of Darkness was complete, but somehow the end result was neither of them, but rather a combination of them.

  Reality and Fantasy as one.

  Surrealist schizophrenia made into delectable flesh.

  As he watched her checking her notes before commencing the presentation, he could see the changes in her. The girl he was studying was one who had embraced the noirish side of eroticism ... but could still function in the Real world. Function well enough to change the Real world and make it ... UnReal.

  She still favoured the combination of white blouse and tight pencil skirt, but subtle changes had rendered these into a much sexier outfit than the one of only a week before. Today, instead of the heavy white cotton she'd previously favoured, her blouse was fashioned from much more fragile and transparent white voile, and, as a result, the varnished nipples that tipped her breasts were readily seen. The blouse had also been tailored differently: it was sleeveless and cut short so that it ended shy of the waistband of her skirt. Now the blouse merely emphasised the fact that beneath it Svetlana was disturbingly naked. There had been a material transformation in her skirt too. No longer was it made from heavy twill, today Svetlana wore a PVC skirt that followed the curves of her hips and thighs with an alluring tightness. And if her jewellery of seven days ago had hinted at a BDSM motif, the pieces she was now wearing announced it with unashamed abandon. He especially liked the steel collar clasped around her neck: it was thick and strong and uncompromising ... almos
t as uncompromising as her presentation. Almost...

  * * * *

  "Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, nodding a greeting to the ten or so suits gathered around the conference table, “Last week, I promised you a preview of the type of video we are proposing to help promote and consolidate “I Submit's” position as a perfume with degenerate and outré associations, a perfume tied-in, if you will pardon the expression, with the underground art scene. For this purpose I have borrowed a video directed by a young English film-maker called Norma X. Whilst this video wasn't made specifically to support “I Submit", it does, I believe, convey the flavour of the video style I favour."

  In the end, they played the twenty five second video five times. The first two times none of those present could quite believe their eyes, the third time they believed them but were too stunned to make a judgment, the fourth they made a judgment, but despite that decided to watch it a fifth time just to be able to tell their grandchildren about what they had seen.

  Thinking about it later, it was apparent to Svetlana that the director had taken inspiration from Oliver Stone's Natural Born Killers and had filmed the action on a variety of film-stocks—35mm, Super8, B&W, cheap video—and edited them into a maelstrom of action scenes. Where her other inspiration had come from, Svetlana had no idea: she could think of no mainstream film that showed a naked girl being covered in paint and then being rolled in black dust. But, just as the audience had decided that the video was just an up-dated and very self-conscious pastiche of a hippy “happening", their mouths had been shocked open as a huge guillotine had sliced across the stomach of the model, cutting her in two, to leave the two halves of her body rolling merrily around in the dust independently of one another.

  "Natural Born Chien Andalou Noir", anyone?

  There was a deep and profound silence in the room, a silence so heavy that it seemed to have a physical weight, and that weight seemed in turn to be slowing time and motion into syrup-like sluggards. All eyes turned towards Madam Durst, waiting for her reaction.

  "Amazing...” Madam Durst nodded sagaciously, then sucked hungrily on her ever present black charoot, “absolutely amazing. Zis director, zis Norma X has real talent. I tink it iz perfect..."

  "But isn't it a little too ... chauvinistic,” Pauline Trent objected, “the woman as victim etc."

  Svetlana shrugged, “The director used the footage that was available, and it is, after all, only a prototype. Hopefully, if you choose to take this project further and to appoint our Agency, we'll have input from directors with a myriad of sexual standpoints. I think it is important to remember that all Dada, all surrealism, is confrontational, and, as a result seeks to confront and affront everybody. That includes not just the soft targets of the political and religious establishment, but the nouveau-establishment movements such as the gays, the feminists, the environmentalists. The aim of the “I Submit” campaign will be to piss off everybody."

  A middle-aged man, immaculately dressed and coiffed, who had been introduced to Svetlana as head of the Venture Capital group that was backing Madam Durst, shook his head dismissively. “It's no good ... it's too revolutionary ... it's too dangerous. We're being asked to provide twenty-five million dollars worth of funding to support this campaign and for that we need something more ... conventional."

  "Pah, you money men av no testicles,” sneered Madam Durst. “Twenty-five million to launch a perfume iz chicken-feed. I bet Chanel spent zat much on ze Nichole Kidman video alone. If ve are to make an impact ve must be courageous, ve must be villing to take risks."

  "Yeah, but it's our money you're risking."

  "Unt I am risking my reputation unt my life's work. Zis campaign of Zvetlana's iz a campaign ov genius: ve must use it, ve must embrace it."

  "I dunno, it's so radical. What do you think, Pauline?"

  Pauline Trent took a sip of water then cleared her throat. “This is perhaps the most unusual pitch I've ever attended. On first pass, I'd say that the imagery the Agency is proposing to use is corrosive, that it is potentially destructive for any product associated with it, and that it seeks scandal for scandal's sake. In short, it is a travesty of a campaign.” The money-man beamed triumphantly across to a downcast Madam Durst. His triumph was short-lived. “But..."

  As that single word hung in the air, Svetlana snatched a look at Pauline Trent. That Pauline had been affected by watching the video was unmistakable: her round face was flushed, there was a decided glint in her sharp blue eyes, she played incessantly with her bobbed hair, and most tellingly of all, she'd taken off the jacket to her severely cut trouser suit.

  "...but, I am drawn, in a perverse sort of way, to being persuaded by Svetlana's arguments. Marketing is a dead art: we've lost confidence in our culture and we've lost confidence in our own abilities. Look at us,” and here she waved an arm around the table, “we're intelligent, creative people, but here we are shying away from trying to imbue our products with life and personality. If we're not careful we'll simply use the soft-option of the celebrity endorsement. Maybe you're right, Svetlana, that it's time to try something new and revolutionary."

  "Revolution is dangerous,” muttered the Venture Capitalist.

  "Too right it is. Maybe the world's not ready for grindhouse advertising—if Tarantino and Rodriguez can fail with grindhouse then so can anybody—but I've just got a feeling that we're on the cusp of a change."

  It was Madam Durst who squared the circle, “I ‘av a proposal. I vill personally finance ze production of ze first of ze “I Zubmit” videos, which Zvetlana will produce. Ve vill view zat in two veeks unt zen make ze final decision."

  * * * *

  "The Master phoned. ‘E said you'd be coming. Wanna drink?"

  Svetlana shook her head, it was only just gone noon, much too early for her to start imbibing. But Norma X had no such inhibitions: she shrugged away Svetlana's refusal, poured herself a wham-bam slug of vodka and tossed it back in one. “'E said you wanted to commission a promo-video. I ain't never done a promo-video before. What's it promo-ing?"

  "A perfume. A perfume called ‘I Submit'."

  "Cool. But I don't do conventional..."

  "I don't want conventional, I want surreal."

  "Surreal costs."

  "How much?"

  "Twenty grand."

  "I've got a budget of ten."

  The girl shrugged, whether it was a shrug of agreement or disagreement, Svetlana couldn't be sure, “I'm into porn. Av a look at that lot over there. Tell me what you think."

  And that's how Svetlana came to spend the afternoon reviewing Norma X's collection of DVDs in a derelict garage in deepest Harlem. It was a seedy place, which seemed to function as Norma X's studio, home, and from the way she was drinking, bar. Two hours later and ten DVDs into Norma X's porn collection, Svetlana decided she'd had enough of mindless sex and went in search of her hostess, who she found fiddling with a Nikon DSLR in a workshop at the back of the garage.

  "It's crap,” Svetlana announced, “and the problem is it's not even arousing crap."

  "Maybe that's the point,” Norma X suggested, pointing the camera at Svetlana and clicking off a cluster of frames. “It could be that that's what people who buy this stuff want."

  Svetlana nodded her head, “Yeah, but it's depressing to think we're being swamped in the tsunami of second- and third-rate porn. If we don't do something better than that with “I Submit” then we'll just be lost in the crowd."

  "I get a free-hand creatively?” asked Norma X, still taking shots of Svetlana.

  "Of course, the only stipulation is that somewhere in the video you have to show “I Submit” being used."

  "Fair enough. But for ten grand I ain't gonna be able to afford any of the actors I wanna use."

  It was Svetlana's turn to shrug.

  There was silence in the little workshop as Norma X studied the pictures she'd taken of Svetlana. “You that bird who was up on the stage of So-UnReal-Ism a couple of nights back?"

&
nbsp; "Yes..."

  "Okay, this is the deal. I'll do it if you'll do it."

  * * * *

  "Tonight you must demonstrate your total subservience,” intoned the Master, as once again he stood with Svetlana in the wings of So-UnReal-Ism's stage. “To become a So-UnReal-Ist you must merge fantasy with reality, you must invade the dreams of others, you must live out your most licentious sexual vision. Tonight your submission must be total ... must be absolute. You must abandon yourself to the whims, to the caprices and to the hungers of others, to let them make free with your flesh ... to let them feed on your body. All your thoughts, all your desires, all your own needs must be subsumed to the wishes of others. You must abandon yourself to pain, and sacrifice yourself to erotic torture. Tonight you have the opportunity to rival Messalina, to give yourself to as many lovers as you crave and to take them in as many ways as you are able.” He turned to look intently into her eyes and then asked, “This is your final trial. Are you ready?"

  "Yes,” Svetlana replied, simply and decisively.

  Taking her arm, the Master led her out onto the stage, her appearance under the spotlights provoking gasps of admiration from the audience. For her performance that evening, she had chosen to wear a dress that she thought appropriately dream-like: it was a white full-length Grecian robe made from the most ephemeral of tulle, a robe that flowed over her naked body like bleached shadow, allowing her wonderful, glorious figure to slide in and out of view every time she took a step. Apart from her robe and her silver mask, she wore nothing: no jewellery, no adornments and no manacles.

  They stopped in the centre of the stage, and Svetlana bowed her appreciation to the audience, the long pigtail she was wearing tumbling over her shoulder. This had been the single piece of direction she'd received from Norma X: the instruction to dress her hair in a single long pigtail that pulled her hair hard back from her face.