As one, the women stood away from Svetlana to sign her body. For variation these women chose to make their marks using thick lipsticks, the first smearing the perfume's name on Svetlana's cheek, and the second on her arse. It was obvious to Svetlana that the amount of unused flesh available to act as a canvas was rapidly diminishing. Finished, the women vanished into the blackness.
Their place was taken by a woman sporting a strange dildo and by a magnificently endowed black man. It was the dildo though that took Svetlana's attention. It was obviously double ended. One end disappeared deep into the woman's sex, leaving about six inches of red glass phallus jutting out. This faux-penis had obviously been designed to stimulate a woman's cunt and her anus simultaneously. Weird it might have been, but it was certainly effective: the woman cruised the glass penis into Svetlana's balm-slick sex, and simultaneously it penetrated Svetlana's anus. It was a marvellously perverted sensation. Svetlana rolled her hips, trying to compensate for the lack of power the woman was able to apply behind her thrusts. As she lay there enjoying the dual sensations stimulated by the dildo, Svetlana decided that the next time she was in congress with a woman equipped with such a phallus, then the best position would be for her to sit on the woman's lap.
That thought brought her sharply back to reality: what did she mean the next time? Before she could explore this thought further, she was brought out of her reverie by the sight of seven inches of very aroused and very appetising looking black flesh bouncing into view.
It certainly was appetising. The taste of the penis was delightful: it was somehow sweeter that the one she had enjoyed just a few moments before, and the smell of the wiry pubis was almost as wonderful. The owner of the penis was a thoughtful lover too: he caressed his dick slowly, almost tenderly, into her mouth, letting her enjoy the feel of its slick flesh dancing over her lips and her tongue. The gentleness of the two fucks Svetlana was enjoying was almost soothing, and it was with some disappointment that she felt the woman pull the dildo from her sex, muttering thanks and the other meaningless words that signalled climax.
So it progressed, Svetlana being fucked anally, orally and conventionally by so many people that she lost count, but eventually, after what seemed like hours, there were no more. Svetlana slumped exhausted across the stool, her anus and cunt aflame and her mouth aching from its exertions. Sweat, oil and smeared ink covered her body, and her own sexual balm coated the insides of her thighs. All she wanted was to be released from her bondage and to sleep.
"You really do look primeval, my dear Svetlana,” said the admiring Master, “you have done wonderfully, amazingly well. Your capacity for the erotic is truly astonishing. But there is just one more trial for you to undergo.” The paddle lashed across her upturned arse. From what she could feel, it was a bendy, plastic paddle, long and broad, and it was wielded by someone who was an expert in thrashings. She screamed, she tried so desperately to fight herself free of her bonds, but it was no use. All she knew was that she could stand no more, that her body and her passion was spent.
"Dada,” she gasped, and immediately her ordeal ended.
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Epilogue
He sat there, watching Svetlana as she prepared for this, the final presentation, a smile of triumph dancing on his lips. For the first time in her life she looked to be comfortable, almost careless of her sexuality. The white sequinned shrug she was wearing barely covered her breasts, and her coloured nipples, each pierced by a diamond stud, danced tantalisingly in and out of sight every time she moved. Her white PVC pencil skirt was skin-tight, showing that if Svetlana was wearing underwear it was very brief indeed. But the master-stroke, the piece de résistance, of her outfit, was the inch-wide steel collar that circled her neck, a collar where the word “iSUBmiT” was embossed in prominent red letters.
It was as though a butterfly had emerged from a chrysalis...
He dismissed the metaphor, angry with himself that he should ever have had the stupidity to conjure it. This was no butterfly: the girl that had struggled out of her cocoon of darkness and into daylight's savage censure was something much more dangerous than a butterfly.
Dangerous, because she was one who could change things.
Dangerous, because of what she represented.
She was that strangest of creatures, someone who had merged her fantasy world with her reality. Svetlana was Surrealism made flesh. She operated without reference to morality, to conscience or to restraint.
She had become a sexual anarchist.
She now demanded the same indifference to propriety from others.
Look out, world...
"Shall we begin,” suggested the Boss, taking the chair at the end of the conference table, and nodding Madam Durst to the seat at other end. Now the two most powerful people in the room book-ended the table, leaving Svetlana to stand between them. Pauline Trent took a seat alongside Madam Durst.
The gathered executives turned to Svetlana. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” she began, “the brief I gave to the director and editor of the “I Submit” video you are about to see was simple: it had to be surreal, it had to be intelligent, and it had to convey the message that it is the duty of every free-thinking woman to corrupt and debunk the accepted codes of moral behaviour.” She paused and then smiled an impish smile, “The only caveat I placed on the structure of the video was that it had to include the use of “I Submit".” There were relieved chuckles from around the table, “If we are to incite revolution, it should at least be a fragrant one. The results are, I think ... astonishing. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you ‘CuntDown'."
Even before the more tender spirits in the audience had a chance to protest, the lights in the room dimmed and Svetlana flicked the projector's remote control; immediately digital images began to spew onto the large screen at the end of the room. The video was built from the footage Norma X had shot of the masked Svetlana at So-UnReal-Ism. It was a brutal piece of cinematic erotica, and Svetlana was pleased that her role in it was hidden by both her mask and by the darkness of the stage where she'd performed. Oh, she was indifferent to being identified with the girl being used and abused in the video, but for the peace of mind of the Client, she was pleased her ... unveiling would take place after the “I Submit” campaign was underway.
Yes ... “CuntDown” was brutal, but Norma X had gone further than sheer sexual shock and awe. She had developed her video, just as the Surrealists had done, around an everyday object, which she had twisted to make it into a thing of fantasy. “CuntDown” featured that classic of Surrealism, the clock, though in Norma X's video the clock didn't melt in Dali-esque fashion, it simply ran backwards. And as each second clicked off, so Svetlana was shown being fucked or used or flagellated in a different way. It was sixty seconds of sexual variations as demonstrated by a woman/machine hybrid. And, of course, as the clock ticked back so the amount of “I Submit” graffiti decorating Svetlana's body lessened. Thus, as the video ran, as Svetlana was fucked more and more often, so contrarily her body became more and more pristine.
The message was clear: the more enthusiastically you embrace your perversions, the cleaner will be your soul.
When the video ended and the lights switched back on, Madam Durst led the applause. “Magnificent. It az an abzurdist quality, a bitterness unt a savagery zat iz zimply magnificent. I am staggered, never vould I av believed such passion, such base eroticism could be communicated zo effectively. It iz vonderful, it iz..."
"Unusable,” stated Pauline Trent flatly.
"How can you zay zat,” protested Madam Durst, “it iz a vork of..."
"Pornography?” suggested Pauline Trent.
"Zat iz not pornography. Pornography only stimulates vun organ; a vork of eroticism zuch az zat video stimulates ze mind, ze imagination unt ze gonads."
Pauline Trent was unmoved, “You can rationalise it all you want. The fact remains, ninety-nine percent of the population will classify it as pornography. We can't us
e it."
"Ve must use it,” snarled Madam Durst slamming the flat of her hand down on the table for emphasis.
The Boss leant forward, and there was an anger in his eyes that Svetlana had never seen before, “Madam Durst is right, Pauline, you must use it. This campaign is, in my admittedly biased opinion, the finest, most original and, potentially, most effective this Agency has ever created. And that video is a vital, an irreplaceable part of that campaign."
"That video is Dada-esque pornography,” sneered Pauline Trent.
When the Boss replied there was a quiet determination in his voice. “Today, when people think of Dada all they remember it as is as an art movement, but it was so much more than that. It was the ultimate in iconoclasty, and if there was ever a time when the world was in desperate need of iconoclasts it is today. This campaign could be opinion leading and opinion forming. This isn't a time for intelligent people to show how chicken-shit scared they are of the unusual and the revolutionary."
Jesus, thought Svetlana, he's just blown the campaign.
Then, amazingly, Pauline Trent began to laugh, “You misunderstand me, Michael, the intellectual and creative achievements of the campaign Svetlana is proposing are immense. It is a work of ... inspiration. But, the fact remains that the political ramifications of the more ... unusual aspects of the campaign cannot be ignored. Those groups who have appointed themselves the task of protecting our nation's morals are not to be taken lightly. They could destroy the company."
Svetlana sighed, this was the usual weak-kneed, protect the stock-price, don't piss-off Middle America, type of reaction she'd been expecting. She'd known from the word go that, even with the support of Madam Durst, the chances of her campaign getting the green-light were somewhere between zero and fuck-all. Corporate America was a lily-livered beast, and any whiff of controversy or of originality would see them scurry off to hide.
The Boss made one final effort, “If you surrender to convention, capitulate to the banal, then, Pauline, you are the enemy of women and of intellect."
It was stalemate.
And then Svetlana surprised them all.
"If, Pauline,” Svetlana began, in a quiet voice, “we were able to adequately insulate our corporation from the moral fall-out..."
"How?” Pauline asked.
"Maybe by creating a subsidiary to handle the perfume, a subsidiary whose ultimate ownership was hidden behind a trust, an off-shore domicile and nominee directors.” Svetlana's eyes gimleted those of Pauline, “It could act as a Trojan Horse, smuggling “I Submit's” new ideas and concepts into the mainstream. If we did that, we would be able to keep the company's reputation at arms-length from the moral outrage that you are so convinced is an inevitable consequence of this campaign."
The room was silent for several minutes as everyone assessed Svetlana's suggestion. Finally Pauline Trent readjusted her notepad on the table so that it was perfectly square with the edge, and then spoke, “Don't misunderstand me, I know porn sells, just look what it did for Paris Hilton's career. And I am sure this could be a very effective promotional campaign.” She paused for thought, “If this ... corporate insulation could be achieved, I would be willing to support the campaign..."
"Wunderbar,” breathed Madam Durst.
"...if one condition is met."
Here it comes, thought Svetlana.
"My condition is that the girl who starred in “CuntDown” is featured in all “I Submit” videos. Call me old-fashioned, but I would like to see some form of continuity in the campaign. That girl is marketable, and will, by default, become our endorsee. If ever there was a woman who epitomised your Surrealist manifesto, it is that one."
* * * *
They opened the champagne to celebrate the awarding of the campaign to the Agency, and Svetlana found herself in conversation with Pauline Trent. “Do you think you'll be able to contract the girl to star in the other videos?” Pauline asked.
Svetlana smiled a rueful smile, “Oh yes, I'm sure of it."
"Excellent. And tell me, where was the video shot?"
"At a club called So-UnReal-Ism."
"I've heard of it..."
"Perhaps you'd like to attend?"
The eyes of the two women locked for a moment. “It seems a little extreme."
"It is, but really, Pauline, you should learn more about Surrealism if you and I going to be working together on “I Submit", and So-UnReal-Ism is an excellent place to receive ... instruction. After all, you referenced the Surrealist manifesto just a few moments ago, and Surrealism is imagination unfettered and made flesh. Perhaps it is time, Pauline, to follow your imagination rather than your reason.” Svetlana rolled her shoulder allowing the shrug to slip down her arm to reveal her diamond studded nipple.
For a second Pauline hesitated; then she raised her fingers to gently, reverently almost, caress the hard tip of Svetlana's breast. “I hear it's very difficult to get into So-UnReal-Ism,” Pauline said, a flicker of excitement dusting her voice.
"That's not a problem. I know the Master,” Svetlana's gaze moved across to Michael, the owner of the Agency, “or as I prefer to call him, ‘the Boss'."
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Statues by Jessie Verino
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Also by Jessie Verino
Spellbound
Sensual Energy
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Chapter One
"How long can you maintain an erection?” Alexandria Darnoud asked the question with no more inflection than if she were asking him how fast he could type. Of course, this wasn't a normal job interview, and he'd lost what little modesty he'd had when he'd posed nude for the portfolio she now held.
Dante cleared his throat. “I'd guess I'm about average. Is it a requirement?"
She smiled demurely, in contrast to the subject matter. “No. In fact, very few of our statues are nudes and only a select few are chosen for centerpieces.” Still holding the photographs, her direct gaze wandered from his face and lingered on the image of his cock at full attention. “However, judging from your photographs, I'd say you're a little better than average. I'm sure our artists will want to work with you."
The casual statement made him squirm a bit in the soft leather chair. His research indicated the new statues were stuck on a pedestal in a dark hallway, and he hadn't expected to do more than that, but even the chance to attend one of her infamous parties made him ready to agree to anything.
Her enthusiasm made him wonder for a moment if she suspected he had applied for the job as an undercover assignment for the local tabloid, Rag Time, and then he quickly dismissed the idea. He and his boss had arranged his alias and cover story perfectly. She couldn't know the truth.
He inclined his head slightly, trying to hide his apprehension. “Thank you for the compliment, Miss Darnoud. I would consider it an honor to work with your artists."
Rumors regarding her artwork, and her parties, could be heard on every street corner in New Orleans. For a reporter, the chance to expose, in depth, what went on during those parties, was a priceless opportunity he couldn't resist. Every gossip reporter in the state had tried, but none of them had gotten past the front gate. At least he'd made it inside the mansion.
She closed his portfolio and handed it back to him with a contract. “Good. Our agreement is quite simple and quite exacting. We do not allow any type of enhancement, including chemical or herbal, which would increase your stamina or erection size. We do periodic testing to enforce this policy.” She shuffled several papers across her desk. “We will provide all training, make-up, and related services as part of your compensation, which is stated in the contract. After your probation period, you will enter the rotation for the parties. In addition, there is a non-disclosure agreement regarding your employment, which stays in effect for fifty years after termination. Fraternization with guests and other employees or staff is strictly prohibited. Any questions?"
Damn, she lo
oked too delicious with her full lips slightly parted, and her smoldering gaze too sexy, sitting poised behind the dark, cherry wood desk waiting for his answer. He leaned forward to take the contract, a little more than he should have, and deliberately lowered his voice to a husky, intimate tone. “What about fraternization with the boss?"
The question didn't appear to unsettle her at all. In fact, it brought a mischievous little smile to her face that made his heart race. She matched his movement and leaned toward him, just enough for him to glimpse the swell of her breasts in the vee of her silk blouse. “I'd be disappointed if you didn't try, Dante.” The use of his name gave him a false sense of intimacy. “I grew up in this home, nurtured in the bosom of what most people consider human perfection. It takes a lot to impress me."
He retrieved a pen from his pocket, and signed the contract without reading it. “I'm looking forward to the challenge. When do I start?"
* * * *
Alexandria waited and watched the security monitor until she saw Dante enter the studio at the rear of the house, then leaned back in her chair and fanned herself with the contract.
Literally hundreds of nude men and women had graced the mansion as living art since her great-grandmother acquired the house in 1901. Grandmère, a notorious madam from the infamous Storyville district, had held decadent, lavish parties every night of the week, showcasing her “museum” and causing a huge scandal. The tradition continued, becoming more refined over the years. The parties were less frequent, less decadent, and the living art had more style, but the sheen of sophistication didn't completely cover the mystery, the wickedness of scandal.
However, none of the statues had affected her more than other, more traditional works of art. Until now. Dante Reed, with his bold stare and bedroom eyes, sparked something inside her and made her skin tingle. It unsettled her. Threw her off balance.
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. VI Page 32