prick

The devil has my ear today
I’ll never hear a word you say.
- “Weak and Powerless” (Keenan)


Women loved Brandon. They loved him a lot.


We met on some random indie set, two guys just looking for experience, resume-padding, but there’s literally thousands of people who can say the same. Brandon was also looking for ways to score, endlessly creative. We started a business, a way for hopefuls to push their professional agendas by providing digital evidence of their talents.


Talent, oh that’s a loaded word.


Mind you, I’m not ugly, I’m not even average-looking. I’ve always been told I was a good-looking guy, and in the right circumstances I can beat his score, but Brandon…Brandon had some kind of charisma to him women just couldn’t resist. That dark intensity. That damage they wanted to fix, to correct.


And by the time they realized it wasn’t going to happen, he was gone. In a few cases, I got to pick up the pieces and indulge in some pity sex. I’m a sensitive guy, I didn’t mind.


We weren’t prepared for Miranda, but who would be. . .she was a force of nature.


It all started with Brandon’s sketchy friend, whom everyone called Charlie, because he reminded them of that guy. Thousand-yard stare, planning apocalypse.


People paid us in everything but money, it seemed. Sex, drugs, groceries, favors. Brandon had a night job at a tape duplication house which took care of the rent; I was expected to run our enterprise, for the most part. Brandon considered his main responsibility to reside in the realm of public relations. We never wanted for subjects.


I wake up to the specific reek of skunk weed; Brandon and Charlie are passing the bong in the living room. Wake and bake, though I doubt Brandon’s been to bed. I rinse out various mugs and the carafe and make coffee, trying to avoid a contact high. I never get anything done if I get baked first thing in the morning.

“Dude, Charlie took me to that house on La Rondo – remember the one they talk about at Canter’s?”

“The wild party house, you mean?”

“Dude, wild doesn’t even describe the scene. It was like Fellini’s fucking Satryicon in there.”

“One of the longest-running pockets of kink in El Lay, brother,” Charlie says. He’s pretty lucid, drugs have that effect on him. It’s when he’s sober that he’s scary.

“Yeah, so. . .a lot of potential clientele. You should be getting a few calls today.”

We rent an office suite above a tailor in Boyle Heights. Some days I just sit out on the balcony and watch the parade of Latinas getting fitted for weddings, quinceaneras…and when prom season comes along, watch out! The Mexicans like to party in a big way, I tell you what.

“But this one girl. . .oh man, she was incredible.”

Charlie laughed through a cloud of smoke. “Son, there’s no way Mistress Miranda is going to call you. You’re a worm boy, in fact you’re less than a worm. And you’re too chickenshit to play with her.”

“Play?” I ask, even though I fear where this is going.

“She’s a – whaddya call it?” Brandon inquired of Charlie.

“A paraphiliac, deviant. Hardcore.”

“From what I’ve heard, that’s a requirement for entry,” I quip.

“No this is algolagnia. Pain. Not pretend, not soft.”

“And?”

“Oh, she’s. . .beautiful.”

“She’s without limits.” Charlie nodded like he was Yoda, or something, dispensing the wisdom of the ages. I poured us all some coffee and went to take a shower. A few minutes of daydreaming under a stream of hot water, then I heard Brandon come in.

“You got that shit with the pesticide again, didn’t you?” I tease. “Goes through you like a freight train.”

“Or the chili at Tommy Burger. Naw dude it’s your coffee, it’s like drinking paint thinner.”

“Just shut up and take a dump already, please!”

He laughs, I hear the sound of pages turning.

“So did you get sprung?” I ask him.

“Yeah, well, you know. . .few things goin’ on. I let some chick flog my dick with one of those velvet things, you know, like what Terri had.”

“Dude, that thing hurts, velvet or not.”

“Pussy, it does not! It stings a little, but I like it.”

He followed that pronouncement with a lewd chuckle. More pages turned.

“And?”

“Oh, and a couple girls that suck like an Electrolux. That annoying condom rule.”

“Brandon, you know a place like that won’t let you get away with going commando.”

“Yeah, whatever. Oh, and I met this hot piece of ass that likes to be caned.”

“Caned?”

“You know, caned. Corporal punishment in Singapore. I watched a guy beat her for ten minutes and man, the welts she had on her ass afterwards. . .she actually told me, ‘Look, I bruise beautifully.’”

“And what, you’re ready to get in line for that?”

“Why not? She wants it.”

“Hasn’t a lifetime of watching movies taught you that getting what you want isn’t the answer to anything?”

He snorts at me, and I can tell I’ve been dismissed. I make sure to use conditioner, if Brandon is right, there should be plenty of sloppy seconds for me to sniff at.


I must have forgotten to lock the inner door; I fell asleep at the desk and the next thing I know I’m awakened by a voice that sounds like a cross between a phone-sex operator and a documentary narrator: throaty and suggestive, painfully articulate.

“You’re not Brandon,” she informs me.

“No, I’m Ron,” I say, uselessly smoothing my hair down and rubbing my eyes. “I’m that other guy on our business card.”

She smiles, and I can tell she’s a woman who’s used to being stared at. Unshakable poise.

“My name is Miranda. Perhaps Brandon mentioned me to you?”

My first impulse is to blurt out oh just a tad, but this is business, so I try my best to look nonplussed and say, “Maybe, I’m not sure. Where did you meet?”

“At Perversion, last night.”

“What is that, a club?”

“We prefer the term ‘consensual cabal.’”

“He did mention going there, yes.”

“Well, I was hoping to speak with him about being filmed. Are you an equal partner?”

Again, I’m ready to say Brandon likes to call me his little bitch, so you tell me but I blink a few times instead.

“I’m equally in charge of things, I guess you could say.”

She smiles again, crimson lipstick and eyebrows meticulously groomed. She’s perfect, and like most dominas she’s dark: deep auburn hair, milky skin, kohl-rimmed eyes, black suit that hugs in all the right places, Business Goth. The only hint to her vocation is the BDSM symbol hanging from her velvet choker, it reminds me of the HazMat symbol in that it’s three identical shapes intersecting.

“I have a proposal,” she began, then opened a black leather portfolio and extracted a document printed on heavy-weight bond the color of old ivory. “I am looking for a production house to assist me, provide full technical support and expertise. But I will retain primary creative control.”

“Uh. . .I’m not sure what Brandon told you about us, but we make audition reels for people, not pornos.”

“Yes, I’m aware of what you do.” She continued to hold out the piece of paper. I took it out of her hand and ran my thumb across the bottom. The printing was nicely done, it almost looked engraved. At that moment I heard someone clear their throat and I looked up, behind her. One of the scariest-looking guys I’d ever seen was standing there, equally clothed in black and looking as though he’d just as soon jack me for the total haul of our equipment as talk to me. For a second I thought one of the spics had gotten lost looking for the tailor.

“Yes, Carlos?” she asked him.

“May I wait in the car, Mistress?” He had that ubiquitous singsong accent, sure, but he did his best to sound like a servant from the moneyed class. I could sense that even his polite inquiry peeved Miranda because her taunt yet voluptuous body grew rigid, perfect posture notwithstanding. She snapped her fingers and pointed at the floor and I could feel my mouth begin to gape to watch this chingon get down on his knees and put his forehead on our dirty carpet in an attitude of total submission.

“You were saying?” she continued.

“It’s just that. . .I don’t know if we have the resources to produce something of this –“ I waved the paper in front of me for emphasis, “ – magnitude.”

“When I spoke with Brandon last night he seemed very eager to, shall we say, branch out.”

“No offense, uh, Mistress, but Brandon is. . .eager, period.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off that guy. It didn’t even look like he was breathing he was so still.

“I understand your viewpoint, but I request that you talk it over with Brandon before dismissing me outright.”

“Uh. . .sure.”

She zipped up the case and put it under her arm. She turned to look at her slave: his hair was longer than hers, spread out across his back, blacker than his suit; he looked like a lump of coal on the floor.

“Carlos, heal!” she barked, and he rose immediately and went to open the door for her.

She handed me a card, then departed, her carriage less suggestive than I would have assumed. I looked Carlos in the eye and he winked at me before closing the door.

I dialed Brandon’s cell from our office phone, stabbing at the buttons in a kind of rage which might have been the result of sexual frustration, it was hard to tell. I figured he wouldn’t answer, but I was stunned, yet again (this had to be a record) by a sleepy-voiced “Dude, did she call?”

“If you’re referring to the good Mistress, she granted me the privilege of an interview.”

“No shit?!” he crowed, and I could hear him struggling to sit up.

“What exactly did you tell her we’d do?”

“Uh. . .dude, I can’t talk about this over the phone. I’ll be there, give me twenty minutes.”

“Bring some lunch, please. If this is any indication of the class of trim you chatted up last night, I am not leaving this office today.”


I kept thinking back to Carlos, crouched on the floor. He even has his hands behind his back. There were a couple calls, giggly girls, and I managed a certain blend of flirty friendliness to sell the service, but my mind was stuck in fifteen minutes ago. I guess you never really understand the whole submissive thing until you see it.

Or you do it, whichever comes first.

Brandon brings tacos from down the street and reads over her proposal, grinning like an idiot.

“Dude, wasn’t she gorgeous? I mean, her eyes, they’re so green.”

“All the better to get you to lick her boot, my dear. She smelled like a head shop and frankly, she was a little scary. Did you see her slave, the Mexican guy?”

“Oh yeah. Well, he was trussed with a ball gag when I saw him, but –“

“Man, that guy was scary too, but in a more is he going to shoot me, or stab me instead kind of way. And she commanded him like a fucking dog.”

“Well sure,” he countered, chewing on carnitas as he spoke, “that’s the point of being a submissive.”

“Why the hell do you wanna mess with someone like that for?”

“Because she’s beautiful, and, I dunno, she just gets me. It’s like we can skip all the bullshit and get right to the good stuff.”

“Did you read the proposal? I mean, actually read it, not just let your dick convince you it knows how to read too.”

Brandon gave me The Look. The one I learned means Ron, if you were a woman I might possibly marry you but don’t try my patience. I figure all we really want from life is one person with whom the experience of relating is like looking into a mirror, a glimpse of what we must look like to others, and yet, the overwhelming familiarity embodied in another.

We look alike, sorta. We both have dark hair and full lips, for example.

And we even think alike, most of the time. But Brandon is the type of guy who doesn’t turn on the light when he walks into a dark room.

So when I get The Look, I back down. He plays his displeasure better than a woman, actually, in that I really do feel guilty when he indicates I’ve pushed him too far.

“We just film the shit, what’s the objection to that?”

“No man, did you read this? She wants you in her scenario.”

“Oh that. Uh. . .yeah. I was gonna get to that.”

“You were, huh?”

“Look Ron, it’s a game, okay? It’s a big game of make-believe. So it’s kinda like making a movie, rather than passively filming someone, but what’s the big deal, seriously?”

“A woman who enjoys inflicting pain, and you want to play her game, how did you get to that, exactly? I’m just curious.”

The Look, again, and my avenue of inquiry is closed. It’s like he thinks I should know the reason, and maybe I do, but I never want to assume the worst - or the weird - of anyone. Especially the one person I believe I know as well as myself.


Another visit, that evening. I can’t believe Brandon’s invited her to our shithole, like anyone would be impressed with that, but he does make a half-hearted attempt to tidy the living room, and I assign myself the task of actually cleaning the kitchen. Hell, it needed it anyway before one of us started a grease fire, or something.

But she strides into our sloppy lair like a queen, and I imagine that must be her answer to everything: if one must dominate, then one must act like a dominatrix. All the time.

I watch them talk as I wash dishes; I can’t really hear what they’re saying, but I can tell she’s attracted to Brandon, for whatever reason. Maybe he makes a nicer lapdog than Carlos. Miranda allowed him to remain at ease, and he accepts my offer of a beer, leaning up against the wall between the stove and the refrigerator in our narrow corridor of a kitchen.

“So you do the housework?” he asks, and his tone is conversationally casual, but I can tell he’s mocking me just the same.

“No, I don’t do the housework. I clean up because I live here.”

“Sure you do.”

“Look man, I know you’re supposed to make people think you’re a thug, or something, but after seeing you with your mistress you’re about as scary as a fuckin’ Chihuahua; so why are you trying to fuck with me?”

“Just curious. There’s always a dom and a sub in any relationship, you know?”

“I don’t buy that bullshit.”

“I’m sure you don’t.” He paused to drink from the bottle of Miller High Life I’d given him. “But you’re missing out.”

“Yeah I bet. So what, are you the butler, and the poolboy, in addition to being the fucktoy?”

“We don’t have sex.”

“Excuse me?”

“We don’t have sex. I’m a slave, I’m not fit to lick the soles of my Mistress’ boots, let alone put my filthy cock in her perfect cunt.”

As he says this, his voice becomes hushed and reverent. It’s like he gets off on the notion of being denied something that most people consider a pretty basic need, and I’m equally repulsed and fascinated. This guy would make a helluva subject for a documentary.

“You’re lucky, you two,” he continues. “You’re going to be invited to the Tableau.”

“Is that the ‘scenario’ she came up with?”

“It’s the place and time in which the scenes are played out.”

“So if you don’t fuck her, who do you fuck?”

He is implacable against my non-sequitur, takes another drink before answering.

“Whomever my Mistress allows me to fuck.”

“What. . .boy, girl, farm animal?”

“You don’t think I’m frightening, but if you keep trying to fuck with me you’re about to get a nasty surprise.”

I stop talking to him, but he continues to look at me like he’s considering something. And whatever that something is, I don’t want to know.


The two of them would have likely talked all night, but Brandon had to go to work. As they were leaving, Miranda took my hand, turned her charisma on me full-force. She did have beautiful eyes - movie-star eyes I like to call them - that give you the feeling of being pinned to a wall and kissed until you’re breathless.

“It was lovely to see you again, Ron, I look forward to working with you.”

“Oh, uh, likewise, yeah.”

Jesus, speak English much, dork?

“I remarked to Brandon that there will be plenty of willing and able young ladies at the Tableau, so make sure to look your best.” She smiled in a way which indicated it was an order, not a suggestion, then she whistled and Carlos helped her into a full-length velvet coat and opened the door, an ersatz majordomo. She and Brandon kissed in the European fashion in departure, then they were gone and the place seemed small and squalid once again.

“So we’re doing this, then?”

Brandon had grabbed his backpack and was checking to make sure he had the stuff he wanted to bring to work with him.

“Yeah, she’s paying me to write a script. And to go to a class about pain play.”

I rolled my eyes but was silent. Finally I asked, “How much?”

He pulled the cashier’s check out of the pocket of his jeans and the amount was $5000.00. I think I gasped, I can’t remember.

“And that’s just for the script. She’s going to pay us twice that to shoot it. Plus expenses.”

Weird or not, how could I argue with five grand? We were lucky if we could manage to earn a thousand a month between the two of us. We subleased our office space from some guy who wanted to continue to write off his own non-existent business, so he charged us practically nothing. All of our equipment had been subsidized by my parents who were, incredibly enough, impressed that we were running our own business. Regardless of how half-assed it actually was, they still believed that showing some initiative was the truly important thing. But we both drove crappy cars and lived on Top Ramen for the most part, and it was starting to suck. Hard.

“You really want her to hurt you?”

“Yes.”

“It’s your ass, buddy, but if you end up in the hospital you’re going to have to tell your parents how it happened, not me.”

“If she hurts me,” he said, zipping then shouldering his pack, “it will be because I want it. But there’s no percentage for her in breaking the toys, know what I mean?”

He left, and I continued to talk to him beyond the closed door of our apartment.

“Yeah, it’s all fun and games until someone’s broken, alright.”


The subtle yet insidious insertion into our lives was something I thought about quite a bit. I listened to Brandon fuck random girls in the bedroom while lying on the couch, watching infomercials at 4AM, and occasionally there would be a protest, from either perspective. A I’m not into that! or a You want me to do what?


Women loved Brandon, but maybe now they didn’t love him as much.


We were invited to dinner at Casa de Pesada, which Carlos informed me is a variation on the phrase house of pain. Miranda’s got quite the little household: in addition to Carlos there is the self-proclaimed “kitchen bitch” Callie, and Jaden, a submissive-in-training.

“I receive so many requests,” Miranda relates over hors d’oeuvres and some kind of Italian aperitif, “but I really only have time to train one new sub a year.”

“How long does it take?” I ask, and Brandon gives me a look like I’m being gauche, but fuck, my parents are upper-class, not like his (who run a 99-cent store in West Covina, talk about embarrassing).

“There is never a set timetable to achieve the proper submissive attitude, but by the end of a year if I have not remade someone according to my standards then I sell them off to another stable. Of course, they’re extremely devalued at that point, but the market for female subs is always very active, especially those who have learned certain techniques.”

There’s a subtext of sanctioned slavery here, and Carlos is looking at me again, observing my reaction, but I’m determined to remain neutral. . .LA blasé. So I nod; she and Brandon lapse again into scene-speak, full of slang and snark. When Callie calls us for dinner it’s a relief.


After the meal, which was arguably one of the best I’ve ever eaten, Miranda asks me to accompany her to another room. It appears to be the master bedroom, there’s an attached bathroom, but the room is suspiciously blank: no discernable decorating scheme. There’s a bed – a California King – an entire suite of furniture, all crafted from dark oak. There’s a camera resting on a nearby bureau. One of our cameras.

“I thought it might be preferable if you filmed us privately at first, so you can become accustomed to the intensity of the scenario.”

Well that’s never gonna happen.

I pick up our Sony Digital8, checking the settings, running the playback in fast-forward for a minute to ensure the drive is clean.

“Is this where the final will be?”

“No. But it’s a room similar to this one, only larger.”

“You just want me to film it like this? No additional lighting?”

“Yes. Just focus on the bed, no need to follow anyone if they go out of frame.”

Miranda shuts the door and seats herself in a nearby chair, arms and legs crossed, watching the entrance to the bathroom.

“Let me know when you’re ready,” she says.

I position myself against the wall. There’s no real requirement for this, as the camera features a “Steadicam” setting, but I don’t know how long this will go on and if I have to focus on one spot I might as well be comfortable. I pull focus a few times and make sure the battery readout shows full power. After using the viewfinder to determine the best point of attention I brace the camera with both hands and gaze at the foldout screen.

“Ready.”

“Begin!” she calls out and Carlos appears from the bathroom. He is naked. I kind of expected this, but I have to stop myself from cringing.

I had asked Brandon if he had a chance to observe anything unusual about the guy, given that he had spent more time with the two of them – he was a regular at Perversion now, for example – and he just shrugged.

“Uh, well, he’s into being submissive, isn’t that unusual enough?”

“Not in the 21st Century. No, I mean I just get some kind of weird vibe from him like the submissive thing is a ruse.”

“If it is it’s pretty damn convincing.”

This guy is like a walking ad for alternative lifestyles. I’m not naïve, I live in LA fer chrissakes, but he’s more inked and pierced and scarred than anyone I’ve ever seen save those freaks in the Jim Rose Circus. Enough for about five people. And there is no hint of it when he’s fully clothed, I realized. His neck and his hands are completely free of any markings, and his face is scarred but it doesn’t look deliberate at all. Looking at his thighs and his ass, however, makes me think that it’s all purposeful. He even has a brand on his left buttock, a stylized letter M about three inches high. His hair has been braided and when he turns for the camera, letting my focus linger on his body, I see that there’s a tattoo on the back of his neck, but I can’t make out what it is.

He has a chest piece as well, and I realize it’s Miranda the longer I stare at it.

“It’s so gloriously ridiculous,” she says, coming into frame, “to stare at your own face embedded in someone’s flesh.”

He lies down on his back upon the bed and my electronic eye goes immediately to his genitalia; I see he’s got multiple piercings in his scrotum. A frenum and a Dolphin too, but I can’t stare too long at the jewelry because it reminds me that I’m looking at this man’s cock and I really don’t want to.

Ten grand, you pussy, ten grand.

Piercings. . .or so I thought, because just then Miranda reaches down and pulls what looks to be a shortened hatpin out of Carlos’ right nut.

Holy Christ.

“Thank you, Mistress,” he murmurs.

“Do they hurt?” she asks him.

“Yes,” he breathes, and there it is again: that nauseating sense of horror and interest, my stomach roiling, my heart pounding, my groin twitching.

But I can’t look away, if I blew the job now Brandon would kill me.

“And it hurts to remove them?”

“Yes Mistress,” he answers. It’s a strange thing, the absolute submission of someone who looks like he’d rather die that be ruled by anyone.

She reached down again to pull out another pin and I see that they’re woven through the skin. It only looks as if his balls are being used as a pincushion. She draws it out agonizingly slow and his expression as she drags the metal through his skin is grimacing pain. I begin to understand that pain is not pleasurable for these people at the moment of experience, but rather, that the palpable relief of its’ absence is what flips the switch. She takes the pin and runs it across his lips, he kisses it. Then she pricks him with it, as he purses his mouth.

They stare into one another’s eyes for a period of time, as she grabs the rings residing in his nipples and twists them, literally causing the nipple to rotate upon itself. His response is controlled, no doubt, as a result of his training. Carlos only gasps, but then he smiles.

His smile is perhaps the most frightening thing about him.

“Who are you?” she asks, and it’s not the tone I expected - hissing malice - but gentle inquiry.

“I am nothing,” he replies.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing without you.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing without the magnificence of your command.”

Now this is the ridiculous part.

She motions for him to stand and goes to retrieve something out of a nearby drawer. When she opens the drawer I see that it is full of implements – toys – and other objects of sexual significance. She takes out something circular, like a bracelet, except that it’s got chains and charms hanging from it. The camera does not look away from Carlos: nicely submissive, feet slightly spread, hands behind his back and head bowed. It’s almost like you can’t see his skin, covered as it is in ink and scars. His navel is pierced with jewelry like your average wannabe model/actress wears, a ring with a small heart hanging from it. I can’t decide if it’s goofy or endearing.

Miranda takes the device and clamps the circular part around the base of Carlos’ scrotum, lifting the sack to do so. As she does this, his head comes up and his mouth opens in slight agony. But he takes it well. . .I’m starting to get turned on by the whole dog-and-pony show, which I assume is being conducted for my benefit, to acclimate me to the climate of consensual suffering. Once the “collar” is secured, she lets go of the chains and they swing free, the weights at the ends clinking against one another.

And damned if he doesn’t get a boner from it, even as I can see his nuts are being stretched downward from the weight. And the remaining pins must hurt like a motherfucker.

His reaction must displease her, however, because she goes to the drawer once again to retrieve a flogger, one of those Cat o’Nine Tails types, but smaller. Brandon told me it’s sometimes referred to as “Peter’s Punishment.” He bows his head but she snaps, “Look at me!” and his eyes seek hers immediately.

I hope he at least gets a biscuit out of this. Woof woof.

“Attend to my lesson, slave.” And then she beats his dick with the flogger, and this thing is leather, plus God knows what else. It cracks in the air and hits the skin with a cringing thud. I’ve gone cold again, somewhere within the screaming PC center of me is a hysterical whisper of no, this isn’t cool, torture isn’t edgy or hip or ironic or any of that shit. Torture is torture and it’s wrong.

But what defines torture: the action or the intent?

They’re all getting what they want, right?

The skin of his penis goes from tan to purple to red. By the end of their session it looks like hamburger. And Carlos is crying. But now he finally appears to be the badass I originally identified him to be – how could he not, to withstand something that would reduce most men to a blubbering screaming mess within two minutes?

“What is pain, Carlos?” she asks him.

“Pain is meaningful, Mistress,” he answers, more breath than speech.

“What is pleasure, Carlos?”

“Pleasure is whatever you say it is, Mistress.”

Thus concludes the lesson.

Sure enough, he exits stage left. Miranda moves out of frame. As I watch Carlos walk back into the bathroom I notice his entire body is drenched in sweat.

When Jaden enters, I’m shocked by how young she looks without her clothes. She’s raven-haired and petite, not more than 5’3 or so, rather undeveloped. But she has been pierced in all the expected places, and a few that I wasn’t even aware you could pierce. Miranda delivers a brief lecture about the fourchette off-camera as Jaden lies down on the bed and positions herself so that her labia is all the camera sees.

There must be at least twenty pins inserted into the folds, all shining and bejeweled.

“There is a beauty in all ornamentation, especially that which bears a dear toll to achieve.”

I begin to speculate on other of Miranda’s interests. Body modification, no doubt, most of the “ornamentation” appears to have been accomplished at her direction. But perhaps also what is referred to as mortification of the flesh, pushing beyond the need to be defined by one’s body. Often requiring extreme feats of endurance, physical and emotional.


Brandon got his first tattoo. He tried to hide it from me, but we’ve lived together too long, there’s no way he can hide everything. I asked him it if was a rehearsal for getting branded and he couldn’t answer me. He just stared in the mirror, entranced with the potential self that he could see and I could not.


The Mistress engages in more needle play, and I watch Jaden’s clitoris become engorged with blood. She hasn’t learned to control all of her reactions, she trembles when Miranda removes each pin - moaning aloud at one point - which gets her the lash across her face.

Whoa, you’re not supposed to damage the merchandise there, Sparky.

This isn’t play, I realize, and I turn cold, my mouth goes dry with panic.

Jaden also recites The Doctrine of the Mistress and takes her leave.

I’m profoundly disturbed that the interlude aroused me not in the least, but watching Miranda work Carlos over gave me an erection nearly equal to his own.

My testes ache so badly, their throbbing pulsing in time with my heart.


I am professional: perfectly still, perfectly objective, perfectly silent.

As the Mistress beats my best friend, whips him till he bleeds.

Her implement is barbed and it cuts flesh as soon as it meets the smooth skin of his back. Carlos has bound him to the bed. Once he tied the last knot he was careful to move out of frame then he winked at me.

When she had completed this task she took a scalpel to the cuts, opening them wider.

Then he kissed the bloody blade and she was satisfied – I could tell by her beatific smile.


I’ve packed up the equipment, I’m determined not to leave anything behind. When I walk outside to put the cameras in the trunk of my car, I find Carlos sitting in a corner of the porch, smoking. He’s fully clothed again, nothing of his peculiar orientation is revealed. I notice his ears are pierced, but only once on each side, and I wonder why he feels that he needs to pass, what kind of ancillary demands are being placed upon him by his Mistress. He raises an eyebrow in greeting.

“Have fun?”

“No comment.”

He chides, a soft clucking sound. “If your ass were any tighter you’d never take a shit, I bet.”

“Why are you always fucking looking at me?” I demand, and the inquiry is not completely unrelated to the previous exchange.

Carlos smiles, that carrion grin. His voice drops down into pure homeboy inflection - wassup ese – and he kind of draws the words out like he’s stoned.

“You’re just so. . .Wonder bread and white sugar and mayonnaise. Safe. Bland.”

And here I always thought I was somewhat edgy because when I grew my beard Brandon said it made me look like a rogue of some kind. Obviously at the time he had no true understanding of what the word signified.

“I’m the freak, is what you’re saying.”

“I wouldn’t use that word, no. Maybe more like ‘alien.’”

“Or a tourist, right? You guys are always bagging on the tourists.”

“That’s not what I mean, it’s not like you’re trying to fit in. The total opposite, actually.”

“I think most people would be resistant to such a thing, wouldn’t they?”

He speaks through a veil of smoke. It would make a nice shot for this imaginary documentary I’ve composed. I can’t stop thinking about him.

“To what we do.”

Even though I’ve begun to contemplate that very notion, that what they do is not part and parcel of the Lifestyle – of any lifestyle, actually – but born out of that peculiar need to live according to one’s will, and understanding that it takes the attitude of courage if not the actual characteristic.

I walk away, linger at the car, tracking him in my peripheral vision. He does not move, maybe he can’t. I’m tempted to drive away, abandon Brandon, because he’s already a part of the family. But I can’t. I return to the house, twisting the knob on the front door.

“If you had to think for yourself, just for a minute, what would you do?”

Carlos looks at me with a familiar deep scrutiny. He does not speak, or at least does not verbalize what the answer is.


But I know it just the same.


Brandon sleeps during the drive home. Miranda gave me a towel to put on the seat, in case he started bleeding again, but I said I wasn’t worried about my upholstery.

“You should be, it’s awfully difficult to explain bloodstains in any context,” she informs me.

Oh I bet you’re wholly familiar with that problem.

He looks like he used to: pretty face, curly hair, no worries. But then I realize I’m fooling myself, because he’s always been possessed by something.

I don’t want to understand this, because the more I understand the more I understand what anyone is capable of.

And “anyone” really means me.


Am I going to be able to simply film his torture? His requested and wholly consensual torture?


He’s standing in the bathroom, wincingly peeling off his t-shirt, already crisscrossed with bloodstains. He calls my name and I rush in, panicked.

“Is it bad?”

“Not really. But can you put more of this stuff on my back?”

I smooth the anti-coagulant balm onto the welts, each oozing slightly. She spared no portion of his back, I wonder how he’s going to able to sleep. He lets out jets of breath from between clenched teeth. I could ask any number of questions, but none of them seem important now, save one.

“What does it feel like?”

His eyelids droop, like he’s recalling bliss.

“I can’t really describe it. It’s painful, but at the same time it’s like getting sucked off so hard that when you come your balls just shrivel up, you know? Sucked dry. Or when you fuck someone so tight it’s painful, like you can’t get your dick in right. Your brain tells you it hurts but the rest of you keeps going anyway. But remember that time we went to Charlie’s and passed around the K but you wouldn’t do any because someone told you some bullshit story about the K-hole?”

“Yeah. It’s not bullshit, though, people really can disassociate like that.”

“Whatever. Anyway, so it’s like that too, you’re there, but you’re also somewhere else. And you get this feeling like you’ve always been in that other place, but you’re just now remembering.”

“Do you want another shirt?”

“Nah, it’s just gonna stick to the gashes anyway. Hell, that would probably hurt worse than the beating.”

We laugh. . .well, he laughs and I try to.

“I can’t go back, you need to know that.”

I nod. My era of strained, cautious curiosity is at a close and what remains is a painful immediate fascination.


I suppose the Mistress has scarred me as well.