You: A bondage enthusiast and glutton for predicament play
Butler: A gruff Frenchman in his 70's
Parisian Guest Mistress: "The Wilde Card"
Paris, Left Bank.
SETTING: Oscar Wilde suite of L'Hotel, the smallest five star hotel in Paris, a secret hideaway over the past two centuries. Adorned with quintessential French charm and glamorous mystique, steeped in the cultural riches and bohemian soul of St Germain-des-Prés.
THE SCENE: You are full body bound, bandaged in tight, taught stretched Ace-rolls wrapping your limbs into torso, your legs into each other. They bind the surface of your skin like an elastic tomb, your body hairs pulling and reminding you of the constriction. Your breath shallow and wanting. Your rib cage trying for more air but the bandages giving little hope of more inhale. I take the blindfold off and you catch a glimpse of my figure, fixed into place by sleek black latex.
I’m standing over you, in my hands two small wooden boxes. “Pick one,” I command. My voice is syrupy and low, with just a small smattering of cool grit to it. It's intoxicating and lulls you into a sedate surrender.
You’re light sensitive pupils dart back and forth, your brain gnawing for some mechanism of choice. Given the arbitrary nature of the task, you're fraught in the frailty of trying. Choose your own destiny, with no basis of choice. You’re fucked and you know it.
“Too late.” I sing-song the words like a grade school bully, with lilting cruelty and teasing enjoyment.
There's some part of you, the small and nuanced part of your consciousness that gives you respite, relief. Relief from having to choose. Some part of you thanks me but another part is rising in fright and that fright gives me a rise. I’m getting a rise seeing the micro flickers spread across your pupils as they grow and contract in rhythm to each micro emotion. Relief, contract, fright, contract. Fear, the whites widen. I laugh.
"Silly rabbit, did you think you had any choice?" I ditch the two boxes and pull from my case a third box with perforated holes. My fingers dance across the lid to pull it open but before I can get to it...
Three hefty knocks at the door. He walks in, his black and white uniform perfectly pressed. The carved lines in his face make him look like he’s been alive for 107 years. Retirement has passed him by and it shows in his disinterested eyes. He looks in your direction without pause, you're drivel human furniture to him. He’s seen more man than you in more compromised situations than yours. He's scanning for something more useful, a settled home for the room service he's carting on wheels.
"Over there would be lovely, Monsier." I point to the corner where the upholstered chaise sits.
He follows my cue and plucks the silver dome off the plate. “Voila,” he gruffs unimpassioned.
"Merci, Monsieur. We'll only be needing one set of silverware, as you can see, my friend is...mmmm...ill-equipped at the moment." I chuckle coquettishly. I enjoy pointing at your predicament and humiliating you in front of a stranger.
I pull a crisp Euro out of your bifold and juice him generously. The service was uninspired. It's hush money, really. He leaves unceremoniously.
You crick your neck.
I see your trying efforts in mobility and respond, "You're curious I see."
You nod you're head in compliance. "Yes, Mistress." You finally use your words. You're surprised at how obedient your tone sounds and how eager the words bounce from you lips...'yes, Mistress.'
I pull the plate up from it’s bottom and angle it in front of you. You point your head upward and see a clockwork of a dozen circular divets round the plate, each housing in it’s cavern, cooked escargot.
"This isn't for you. It's for me." I pause and tick my head up, searching with my eyes, a thought. A mischievous and knowing smile spreads. "Do you want to see what's for you?"
"Gooooood," I coo.
I prop open the lid to the perforated box and in it you see a matching dozen. A matching dozen live ones. There's no question these aren't cooked. They're fully awake, crawling on top of each other, searching every wall and corner of the box for freedom. Like you, they've been confined and searching for release.
"Free, finally!" I say looking at the crawlers. "You're jealous, no?" I say, now looking at you. My left eye brow raised in mock questioning, my seductive smile taunting.
"Wha, what, umm, what are, ummm those...for uh...Mistress," you choke through your words.
I reach into my small leather bag and find the pair of stainless steel scissors I had packed in pre-meditation of this moment.
"I want to accessorize you. I like decorating my play things." I lift the bindings around your groin and cut into them, exposing your cock and balls. I use thin strapped shoelace and tie them into restriction.
You're sweating now and the perspiration makes the bandages feel even more cloying and claustrophobic.
"I didn't think it'd be very polite of me to enjoy Michelin room service and leave you wanting. That's just uncivilized, now isn't it?" I pluck one from the box, holding it by the shell between my thumb and index finger. "Don't worry, they don't bite. They're just grazers." I place one on your balls. Another, and then another.
You're writhing, they're tickly and slow. You muffle gritted noise through clenched jaw bones.
"Oh, you'll love this one. She's my show pony." I pull out a large one, with dark striations on it's shell and a light colored body. "She's the pièce de résistance, if you will. Oh, and she does bite."
"Mistress, please, no. Please..."
I ignore you.
"She's a cone snail. She's a lovely. She's got a harpoon-like barb on her tongue that delivers neurotoxins to her prey. The sting is extremely painful and causes muscle and respiratory paralysis, so I've read." I'm talking in a steadied nonchalant manner.
"Please, please Mistress, no, no, please!"
I continue ignoring you.
"Might I suggest not moving and angering her. You wouldn't want her to consider you her prey, now would you love?"
No, Mistress, no, please..."
"No what? 'No' you don't want the cone snail on your cock or 'No,' you won't move?"
"I don't want the cone snail on my cock, please, I..."
"Well, it's not really up to you to decide. Now is it?"
"No, I...it's not...I..." you choke through your words.
I air kiss my favorite pet and place her right in the middle of the half dozen others as if she were holding court. "Bon Appetit," I say to the insect, not you.
Your pupils dilate and the whites widen. Fear. You're motionless and tense. Every muscle strand tightens into fibrous spindles of fright. You're clenching teeth, toes and hair follicles. Sweat.
"I wonder what it'd feel like to have your body contract into paralysis, beginning from the balls," I pontificate with a wry smile. "Must be excruciating."
You wince when I over enunciate 'excruciating.'
"I'd highly recommend not moving. Not that you really could anyways, all tied up and all." I relish your predicament.
Then a knock. This time, a lighter knock, less dense against the frame. A more feminine knock.
"Ooooh, another surprise." I jump for the door and she appears. You've never met her in person and you're surprised at how you recognize her immediately from her photos. Her beauty and presence takes you away from your predicament, if only for a moment. She enters. Mistress ...
Now, write to me the second Act. Use the photos and my words for inspiration and in turn, inspire me to play.