Eye of the Beholder (MF, rom, bdsm, semiotics)(1/10)


THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER


The roses planted outside Professor Larson's office were dark red, the 
color of spilled blood.

"And . . . just where did you come up with this idea?"

I shifted in my chair, trying not to let her startled reaction throw me 
off track.

"I want to do something unusual.  Something no one has done before."

"Well, in that respect, I think you may have succeeded.  I haven't 
heard of anyone examining this genre in such a fashion."

 I had picked Phoebe Larson because I thought she would be able to 
address my proposed thesis topic without being put off by the sexual 
aspects of it.  I mean, this was a woman who had done her doctoral 
dissertation on underground erotica written by medieval nuns.  If 
anyone else in the department would be better able to help me with what 
I wanted to do, I didn't know who they were.

She pushed her gold-rimmed reading glasses up her narrow nose and 
continued studying my proposal.

"This is certainly going to be a challenge, I can tell you that much."

"I've been gathering literature for it all summer."

She looked up at me, a small smile creasing her lips.

"Have you?"

"Yes."

"Such as?"

"Well, 'The Story of "O."'  The 'Sleeping Beauty' series by Anne Rice.  
Some of de Sade's books, although I think it may be stronger stuff than 
I want to work with."

"Which ones?"

"'Justine' and 'Juliette.'  I just finished the first one."

"I don't know that I would put De Sade is the same category as the rest 
of this.  In any case, his work has been thoroughly dissected over the 
years.  It might be worth some attention in your literature review, but 
for your analysis you ought to focus on something more recent."

"I thought of that.  I found a series of studies by this German 
scholar--"

"Iwan Bloch.  That ground has been plowed extensively."

"Right.  So I won't focus on de Sade.  But what I've found is that a 
lot of the most recent works are being published on the Internet.  
There's more there than I realized."

"All right.  Can you articulate for me what is you plan to do?"

I took a deep breath.

"I want to explore the semiotic aspects of BDSM erotica.  I want to 
find out what the central signifiers are that tie all this together and 
make it so appealing to some people and so offensive to others.  I 
don't know yet what my thesis is going to be.  That's going to take a 
lot of research to formulate, but I'm certain there's something in 
there."

The smile broadened.

"Are you planning any actual fieldwork for this, or do you think you'll 
spend all your time in the library?"

"Uh . .  ."

I shifted nervously again.  Was she serious?

"I don't know."

She set my proposal down on her desk and leaned back in her chair.

"Danny, you're biting off maybe more than you realize here.  It's going 
to take more than library research to get at the heart of your topic."

A question formed in my mind, but I wasn't sure I could let it out.

"What do you mean?"

"I simply mean that BDSM, from what I know of it, is more than erotica.  
I don't mean that fieldwork needs to be the heart of this project, but 
it's something to consider."

I exhaled slowly.

"Does this mean you'll be my advisor?"

She smiled again.

"Yes.  But I'm going to demand a lot out of you.  Erotica is so often 
slighted by serious researchers.  Let me warn you that I take the 
subject very seriously."

I let myself relax.

"Okay.  Thanks."

* * *

And thus began the second year of my pursuit of a Master's degree in 
English Literature.  Not everyone wrote a thesis these days--you could 
take the comprehensive exams in lieu of it now--but I had always wanted 
to tackle something offbeat and challenging rather than take the less 
complicated (if not necessarily easier) way out.  The conventional 
bodies of literature had begun to bore me, and I had decided that 
summer that using BDSM might be a way to inject some life into my 
analyses.

That night, I got to thinking about what Phoebe Larson had said.  What 
exactly did she mean by "fieldwork"?  She didn't seriously expect me to 
don some fetish outfit and descend into a dungeon, did she?  Not that 
it might not be helpful, but it was maybe further than I wanted to go.

Plenty of other possibilities occurred to me, however, the foremost 
being some sort of interview.  That meant I had to leave the books 
behind and find someone who was deeply into BDSM.  Not such an easy 
task.

As I told Phoebe, I had begun gathering a lot of literature, starting 
with the "classics" of the genre, but I soon discovered that most of 
the high-quality recent works were being published online.  That might 
be the place to start.

I dug Monday's "Daily Bruin" out of the clutter on my desk.  In the 
back, I had circled a small ad in the classifieds: "Meet Friends and 
Have Fun."  It was an advertisement for a local bulletin board system, 
which I thought might be a more focused place to find someone than 
trolling on America Online.  I wanted to actually meet this person, not 
chat with them from 3000 miles away.

I turned on my computer and dialed into the number in the ad.  Once I 
was connected and through the sign-up procedure, I began browsing 
through the system.  It had a chat area, where I lurked for a few 
minutes, not wanting to simply blurt out my idea.  Not finding any 
leads, I wandered into the public forums.

There I found two definite possibilities.  One was the "Cybersex" 
forum, but it was anonymous, and anonymity was not what I had in mind.  
The other was "The Dungeon," apparently a recent addition, where I 
found quite a few BDSM-related posts.

I pondered for a moment about what to do.  I could simply contact some 
of these people by e-mail, but I wondered if that were the best way to 
go about it.  I knew enough about the subject to know that people who 
were really into this lifestyle tended to be clannish and defensive, 
and did not welcome anyone who could be pegged as a "wannabe" or a 
dilettante.  Writing to them along the lines of "Hi, I'm doing my 
Master's thesis on BDSM, can we get together for coffee to discuss it?" 
was bound to trigger defense mechanisms if it didn't piss them off 
altogether.

So, I thought, why not take a different tack?  Instead of seeking my 
interview subjects directly, why not do something to bring them to me?   
In "The Dungeon," I had seen quite a few BDSM stories posted by the 
users.  Most of them struck me as amateurish, and though I couldn't 
pretend to be an expert on BDSM, I thought I could make up the 
difference with my writing abilities.  I liked to write fiction as a 
hobby and had tried my hand at erotica on a few occasions.

I sat down to write a story that night and came up with something I 
thought might do.  It was very spare, no plot, very little scene 
description, and virtually no characterization--a stroke story, if you 
want definitions--but I was still proud of it.  I felt like I had 
achieved a good level of kink, enough to catch people's notice.  I 
mixed in a few traditional elements and a few elements I thought up on 
my own, things I thought might be fun to try were I really doing 
something like this.

What's that you say?  Too much exposition here?  Okay.  What follows is 
the story I posted:

* * *

II.

I've been waiting a long time for this night, and when she arrives, I'm 
ready for her.

She doesn't say a word, she doesn't even look at me, but she follows me 
down to the dungeon.  When we're inside, I bolt the door securely 
behind us.  She stands there waiting, hands folded in front of her, 
eyes downcast.

I motion to her, and she undresses quickly.  In a minute or so, she's 
naked before me, and I inspect her small, firm body. Her breasts are 
high and full, a bit too large for her slight frame. Her blonde hair is 
long and thick, and her eyes are a deep green. Her sex is smooth and 
bare, plucked clean during our last session.

I hand her the first item, a leather bodysuit, and she steps into it.  
I help her lace up the back, and just before I pull the hood over her 
head, I insert two plugs in her ears.  I lace up the hood, pulling her 
hair through a hole in the back, leaving her almost completely covered.  
Only her mouth, nipples, labia, and buttocks are exposed.  I check the 
fit and then pull the laces tight until she can barely breathe.

Blind and deaf now, I have to lead her to the rack, which lies on the 
floor.  It is constructed from two stainless steel poles, welded 
together.  Wrist and ankle chains hang from the ends, and sturdy nylon 
straps are attached to bind her arms, legs and torso.  I lay her down 
on it and secure her wrists and ankles, then tighten the straps on her 
body.  Finally, I attach a spreader to each of her hands, so that she 
cannot even wiggle her fingers.

Above us, on the ceiling, are four eyebolts, spaced for the rack. I 
attach chains to her ankles and wrists, and lift her into the air.  I 
leave her hanging like that and sit down to wait.

I pause for perhaps five minutes, watching her becoming aroused before 
I've even started on her.  Her nipples erect, her sex gets wet and 
swollen, and I know her mind is creating far worse perversions than I 
could ever subject her to.  When I decide her anticipation has peaked, 
I stand and strip, then fetch the solution I've prepared for her: honey 
and Tabasco sauce.  With my finger, I spread it over her nipples, then 
her clitoris and inner lips, her anus, and finally working a bit inside 
her.

She moans and writhes in her restraints as the solution starts to bite.  
I fetch a pear gag and fit it into her mouth to quiet her, strapping it 
tightly behind her head.  I wait a few moments more as the solution 
continues to work.  The wetness is almost running out of her now.  I 
find a dildo for her, the biggest one I have, almost ten inches long 
and two-and-a-half inches thick.  I slather the honey-Tabasco mixture 
generously over it and slip it into her.  She gasps and strains as she 
tries to accept it, and soon I have it all the way in.  I buckle it to 
her bodysuit and fetch another dildo for her ass.  I smear the mixture 
over that one as well and thrust it in.  Then I buckle it to the other 
dildo and her bodysuit.

She's writhing piteously now as the solution heats up her insides, 
thrusting her hips, vainly seeking some release.  I ignore her and 
attach a chained set of clips to her nipples and clitoris. She begins 
to whimper at the pain of it all, but she's not fooling me.

I watch her for a minute or so, and then fetch a riding crop and a 
feather.  I begin to tickle her nipples with the feather, and when I 
see her react, I smack her nipple with the riding crop.  I continue 
like that for several minutes, tickling and smacking her, irregularly 
so she can't anticipate anything.  Tickling for a while, then smacking 
her once, tickling a bit more then smacking her repeatedly.  I keep it 
up until her nipples are red and swollen.

I put down the feather and crop and get my cat o'nine-tails. I swing it 
under her, stinging her buttocks with it.  She twitches, reacting as 
much as she can in her restraints, and I hit her again.  I'm careful to 
keep my distance, so only the ends hit her tender buttocks, stinging 
her painfully as I snap it against her.  I continue with this a little 
longer, watching the welts rise on her pale skin, until her buttocks 
are a mass of red flesh.

Finally, I move to her clit.  I use only the riding crop now, smacking 
her carefully, watching her start with the pain.  She's getting close 
now, the pain and arousal nearly peaking.  I unstrap the dildo in her 
sex, and begin working it in and out of her as I smack her clitoris.  I 
keep it up until she's nearly on the edge of orgasm, then stop 
abruptly.

She whimpers in frustration and bucks her hips at me.  I twist the 
dildo a bit, then stop, then twist it a bit more.  She writhes, trying 
to thrust against it, but she can barely move.  Finally, I pull the 
dildo out of her slowly.

I can see her tense up with anticipation, knowing that she knows what's 
next, but I wait, even though I'm painfully erect by this point.  I 
take the remainder of the solution and spread it over my penis.  It 
begins to burn immediately, and my erection leaps forward, swelling 
even further, but I force myself to wait.  When she starts to moan in 
frustration again, I step over to her.

I place the head of my penis into her.  She's as wet as a river, and so 
aroused the penetration is enough to set her off.  She convulses in the 
rack, the spasms rolling over her as I thrust savagely in and out of 
her. Another orgasm hits her, but I'm not even close to coming.  I hear 
her screaming around the pear gag, and her muscles clamp onto me.  I 
take her hips in my hands and pull her toward me, swinging her back and 
forth as I ram my cock into her. She's taken by yet a third climax, and 
her convulsions finally do it for me.  Groaning out loud, I spurt away 
helplessly inside her, filling her, squirting my come as deeply as I 
can get.  At last, I collapse on top of her, and we swing slowly 
together in aftermath.