Eye of the Beholder (MF, rom, bdsm, semiotics)(4/10) VI. I spent the rest of the weekend digesting the things I had seen and talked about that night. For all of Danielle's dismissals of the complications, I could see that Professor Larson was right. I did have a challenging task ahead of me. What I had to do was more than simply understand what BDSM was about. I had to take it apart. The bane of many a graduate student in the humanities these days is the analytical process that has come to be known as semiotics. Traditional Western literary analysis has tended to focus on the facial characteristics of a particular work, what the author was trying to say and what symbolism he was employing. In the 1960's and 1970's, coinciding with the political revolutions that were occurring at the time, literature analysis underwent a similar upheaval. Gone were the days when anything could be taken at face value. The semiologists' most important insight was the power of language--that words carried meaning and message beyond the dictionary definition, and that the choice of words often reflected the author's cultural preconceptions and biases. Since (among many other trends) this allowed radical critics to do things like take apart the writings of the Founding Fathers to show that they were actually defending Western patriarchy-- and not "freedom"--semiotics became very popular in leftist academia. This is a gross simplification, but it gets the idea across. I, as a graduate student pursuing a Master's in English Lit, was becoming thoroughly immersed in these concepts. One of the books I had studied the previous quarter ("S/Z" by Roland Barthes) is a dismantling of a short story by French author Honore de Balzac. The story is called "Sarrasine," and is about a Frenchman who goes to Rome and falls in love with what he thinks is a beautiful opera singer. He does not discover, until he has thoroughly embarrassed and humiliated himself, that he has actually fallen in love with a castrato. One of the signifiers (a semiotic term, best understood as a word that helps define other words) that Barthes identifies in this story is castration. Through his deconstruction of Balzac's prose, he shows how the concept infects the entire work, emasculating most of the characters in the story. My stated objective to Phoebe Larson was to employ these semiotic tools to deconstruct BDSM erotica--to get at the heart of what it meant, and what it said about the BDSM subculture and its relationship with society. After spending the evening with Danielle at Club Fuck, I felt like I was pointed in the right direction, but I still had no clue about what my thesis was going to be. I had finished "The Story of 'O'" and "Justine" a few days before, so I spent most of Sunday reading the three "Sleeping Beauty" books. Some of it I found arousing, but other parts, like the endless flagellation and particularly the male-male stuff, didn't do much for me. It did seem as if Rice were running the gamut of kink, trying to hit just about every conceivable quirk her readers might be into. I kept picturing Danielle in the role of Beauty, partly because they seemed to look alike, but also because I could definitely imagine her getting off on being in Beauty's predicament--well, just as a fantasy, I reminded myself. Right? What was it that I was not getting? What I saw in the "Beauty" books seemed a mirror image of what I had experienced that night at Club Fuck. Consent and coercion, domination and submission. The treatment of those concepts in the books did not match their treatment in real life. It wasn't enough to just call the ideas fantasy; it went beyond that. It was a mirror image--a reflection, but a reversed one. Did that mean something? Was there some essential signifier, like castration, that I wasn't seeing here? I couldn't quite get a grip on it, but my creative juices had begun to stir. Analyzing this wasn't enough; I had to live it. But living it maybe included more than hanging out at "Club Fuck." So Danielle was into BDSM erotica. Her attraction to my first story had made that obvious enough. Why not, I thought, write her another one? So I did. * * * VII. MAIDEN VOYAGE By Danny Two months past her eighteenth birthday, Elizabeth Maria Katarina von Baden, eldest daughter of the seventh Margrave of Baden, was sent from her home to the Duchy of Wurttemburg, where she was to marry the newly crowned Duke, a man whom she had never met. She was accompanied by her two attendants, several other servants, and a squad of her father's guardsman, and rode in an ornate golden carriage drawn by four white stallions. It was a journey she did not complete. Elizabeth was a proud girl and felt she had every right to be. Her beauty was renowned (indeed, it had been what drew the Duke's interest) and she knew every man she met desired her. She stood perhaps five feet and seven inches in height, with long blonde hair and green eyes. Her figure was eye-catching and voluptuous without losing its proportion. She spent many hours admiring her firm breasts and smooth buttocks in her mirror, almost resentful at the idea that she would one day have to allow her husband to paw at and drool over them. Well, she might allow him, but never so often to let him take her for granted. If he wanted her, he would have to earn her. She would often stroke between her legs when she admired herself in this fashion, imagining the life of power and influence that awaited her. She left her father's castle with her entourage early that morning. They traveled most of the day without incident. Near three of the clock, as she rode in the carriage and tried to fight the boredom of the journey, she heard sudden shouts and cries of pain. The carriage lurched to a halt. Greta and Karin, her two attendants, glanced around in concern. Elizabeth looked out the window of the carriage to discover a fearful sight: their party was under attack. Arrows whistled out of the trees around them, striking down her father's guardsmen. They ran about seeking cover, but in moments, all seemed to have fallen. Elizabeth smacked on the roof of the carriage. "Why are we stopped? Get us moving at once!" No response came. As her attendants continued to whimper, Elizabeth stuck her head out of the window. She looked up at the driver's seat, where she saw the man with an arrow in his chest, dead. Men in black leather armor were emerging from the forest, carrying longbows. Elizabeth withdrew into the carriage, drawing the shades and trying hold the door shut. A moment later, the door handle was torn from her grasp. Two of the men glanced in. "They're here!" one of them cried. Elizabeth huddled in the back of the carriage with Greta and Karin. A tall masked man approached the carriage and leaned inside. He regarded the three women with cold blue eyes, but it was clear to Elizabeth who he was interested in. "Remove her. Do you what you will with the others but do not harm her." The two men reached into the carriage, grabbing Elizabeth's arms. Though she kicked and scratched at them, she could not stop them from dragging her out of the carriage. One holding each arm, they set her on her feet in front of the masked man. "Do you know who I am?" she screeched. "You will all hang for this!" Rather than responding, the man slapped her to the ground. Shocked to her core, she held her cheek and glared up at him. "You will learn the proper respect, girl." He looked up at his men. "Bind her and place her in my carriage." The two men produced a length of rope and swiftly tied Elizabeth hand and foot. Then they carried her back down the road where she saw a black carriage emerging from the trees. She kicked and squirmed against their grip but could not get free. Behind her, she heard the shrieks of Karin and Greta as they were pulled from the carriage. Elizabeth knew they would probably be raped but could not bring herself to care. Her own predicament was far worse. The two men set Elizabeth in the black carriage and tied her securely to her seat. The masked man climbed in a moment later, and the carriage began to move. She heard the hoofbeats of his retainers' horses as they fell in behind them. Elizabeth glared at the man, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of begging for her freedom. But she continued to struggle against her bonds, though to no avail. The man smiled. "You think me an evil person?" She spat at him. "You are a kidnapper and a rapist. Your acts speak for themselves." "It is but a matter of perspective. Your pride resists this now, but you will learn." "My father will not rest until he has found me. Nor will the Duke." He chuckled. "You will not be found." She spat at him again. The man calmly wiped the spittle from his mask, then leaned over toward her. He took the bodice of her gown in both hands and ripped it apart, suddenly exposing her full breasts. She screeched in outrage and tried once again to free herself. It was no good--she was bound too tightly. All she did was make her breasts shake and quiver for his amusement. Her face and chest began to burn in mortification. No man in the world had gazed upon her breasts until this moment. She had planned to make her husband pay for the privilege, yet here she was exposed to a perfect stranger with nothing to be done about it. He smiled. "Think upon your predicament during our journey." Though she continued to struggle, he said nothing more. * * * They rode long into the night. Though her breasts grew cold in the night air, she would not debase herself further by begging him to cover her. Near dawn, the carriage finally slowed, then stopped. The man opened the door to the carriage and stepped out. "Bring her inside." Elizabeth suddenly froze in horror. He was not going to cover her against the gaze of his men! "Sir!" she snarled. "If you have one ounce of decency, you will not allow me out of this carriage in this state." He leaned back inside, smiling. "I expose you to my men because it amuses me to do so. Your concerns are not relevant." She closed her eyes and tried to steel herself. She felt his men climbing into the carriage and heard their chuckles at her exposure. They carried her out and set her on her feet. She opened her eyes and saw a castle before her. The masked man's retainers were all around her, gazing at her naked breasts and snickering to each other. She straightened her back and stared forward, not meeting their lascivious glances. With the masked man leading, the two men at her sides carried her into the castle. They passed through the deserted main hall, weapons and trophies on display, and down a broad hallway. The man opened an ironbound wooden door and the retainers followed. The door led to a staircase, which led down into the dungeon. Elizabeth cried out again. "Sir! I entreat you! I will not be treated like a common criminal!" He ignored her cries. The men carried her past a long row of cells, then into a broad straw-covered area set out with torture implements. Elizabeth's resolve weakened as she regarded the rows of whips and clamps that hung on the walls. As the masked man watched, his retainers untied her, though they kept a firm grip. She struggled to get free as they did so, but they were far stronger than she. Finally, as one man held her hands above her head, the other locked her wrists into a set of manacles hanging from the ceiling. Then they turned and left the dungeon, shutting the door behind them. Elizabeth panted against her agitation, pulling on the manacles. "I have no intention of treating you like a common criminal," the man said. "I intend to treat you like my most precious possession." "Sir, I am the possession of no man." "You think not? And on what do you base this conclusion? You are here in my dungeon, held without the knowledge of anyone who might rescue you. My men are loyal, not in the least because they enjoy the fringe benefits of my work. As we speak, your attendants are entertaining the lot of them. I may do with you as I wish, and none will stop me. I think that defines the concept of a possession." "Sir, I beg of you, in the name of God and of common decency." "Neither of which hold sway in my domain. In here, I am your God. You will learn that soon enough." He approached her, and she backed up to the limit of the manacles, which was not nearly far enough. He took the remains of her gown in his hands and tore it from her body, leaving her naked. She whimpered, more in humiliation than anger, and tried to turn herself away from his gaze. He held her arm and regarded her calmly. "Why do you seek to hide yourself from me? Are you not proud of such endowments?" Holding one arm to keep her still, he fondled her breasts softly, tweaking and twisting the nipples until they stood out in arousal. She screwed her eyes shut, fighting tears of embarrassment. He reached between her legs now, and though she screeched again in outrage and tried to twist from his grasp, she could not escape him. He found the swollen bud at the crown of her sex and massaged it gently. She tried to fight the sensations, but his expert touch soon had the heat growing in her nether regions. Then, abruptly, he stopped and withdrew. He walked to a rack of implements behind him and selected a leather mask. He returned, settling it over her head and lacing it up, leaving her blind. Her breath came hot and quick now, the fear beginning to rise up against her outrage. A moment later, he was pressing some kind of gag into her mouth and strapping it into place. She whimpered and squirmed, feeling increasingly helpless. The first crack across her buttocks came as an enormous shock, more out of humiliation than pain. She was a noblewoman, by God, about to marry a Duke! She should not be treated like a common thief! But as the blows continued--he was using some kind of narrow wooden rod, she thought--the pain began to win out over everything else. Again and again and again he struck her across the buttocks and thighs, not stopping though she whimpered and cried out and sought to turn away from him. Her buttocks were soon a mass of swollen, bruised flesh. Her resolve finally broke, and she sobbed and gasped for breath. Eventually it was over. She hung against the manacles, no energy left to stand, feeling ragged sobs shaking her body. The welts across her backside throbbed in fiery agony. He touched her lightly, but her skin was so sensitive and swollen that she jumped from the pain. "You think of this as but raw abuse," he said, "but that is only because you are blinded by pride. It is that pride I must break, and as strong as it is, it will take extreme measures. But think not that pain is all that awaits you." He reached again between her legs, and this time she was too exhausted and battered to resist him. His fingers probed her sex, and she realized for the first time that she fairly dripped with wetness, with the hot fluids that often came when she pleasured herself before her mirror. His fingers were slick against her and moved adroitly through the sensitive folds. Her head fell backwards, unfamiliar sensations racing through her. All at once, the sensations exploded into a whirlwind inside her, causing her to lose control of her body and thrash against his grip. The pain he had inflicted now suddenly seemed a sort of pleasure, burning with the internal fire he was now summoning. It continued for long seconds before he withdrew. "Let that serve as your first lesson." * * * VIII. I got to that point by Wednesday night. It seemed a long way from being finished, but I wanted to let Danielle see what I had done so far, if for no other reason than to see if I was on the right track. I logged on to the BBS. No Danielle. I wrote a quick note telling her I had been working on something else and wanted to know if she would take a look at it. I waited for a while after sending the message, but she never appeared. When I got up the next morning, I immediately logged in and checked for a reply. Nothing. She hadn't been online since the previous night. Since it was Thursday, I had to get to class. Though I thought about Danielle for most of the day, I wasn't able to log back on until that afternoon. She was there when I did, and paged me immediately. "Bastard." For a moment, I was slightly worried. I paged her back. "What?" "How could you write a story like that and not finish it? What am I supposed to do now?" "Sorry. You liked it?" "I loved it. My God, you scored a direct hit. I guess you were listening to me after all." "I've been giving this a lot of thought." "I guess you have." "But I also realized you were right. There's something about BDSM I don't quite get." "I think you've got the right idea, at least. Are you doing anything tomorrow night?" "You tell me. =)" "We can't do what we did last week. Club Fuck is only open on Saturdays. It's one of those floating clubs." "How about a normal date? I don't think I can take Club Fuck twice in a row anyway. I'd really rather just discuss all this with you." "Fine. Come by my place around eight?" "Sure." "So what's going to happen to poor Elizabeth? You have to tell me." "I don't know yet. I have some more ideas." "Don't let him have sex with her right away. You have to work up to it." "I was going to. I was thinking that wouldn't come until the end, sort of as a reward for her adapting to her new role." "Yes, that's a good idea. He has to break her slowly. She seems too strong to give in right away." "Right." "And you made her look like me on purpose, didn't you?" "Grin. Well, I was writing it for you." We talked for another two hours or so before I had to log off to eat and do my reading for the next day. But I couldn't stop thinking about Elizabeth and what that essential BDSM signifier was. Eventually I gave up and went back to work on the story. * * * IX. Elizabeth awoke on the straw floor of the cell, where he had tossed her the night before. She wore a leather collar, chained to the wall behind her, and was otherwise naked. Her buttocks remained sore, though the swelling had abated somewhat. She sat up, trying not to dwell on her predicament. She saw a pair of buckets in the front of the cell, one filled with water, the other with kitchen slop. Her stomach growled at the smell of food, but she could not bring herself to eat from a bucket. She pulled herself up against the rear wall of the cell, wrapping her arms around her knees. Surely this could not last forever. Someone would come to rescue her and punish the masked man for his crimes. At least her virginity was still intact, though she felt sure it was in danger as long as she remained here. She tugged at the collar, trying to remove it. The buckle was locked, and she could do nothing with it. Bound like a common cur! This was too much! She heard the dungeon door creaking open, and the man approached. He still wore the same mask, and she could not see much of his face. He was tall and muscular, and had she not met him under such circumstances, she might have thought him handsome. But now all she felt was burning hatred. "You will pay for this," she said, "whether it takes a day or a decade, you will pay with your life for violating me in this manner." He chuckled. "The day will come when you will thank me for this." "You are mad." "We shall see. Stand up." She did not move. "Stand, or you will be stood. If you like, I can have my men assist me in this." Not desiring further humiliation before his retainers, she complied, though she covered her breasts and sex with her hands. "No, no, this will not do. You are still polluted with faulty notions of pride." He entered the cell and unlocked her from the wall. Taking the chain, he led her back to the torment area. She thought of trying to run, but she felt instinctively that such resistance was what he wanted, since it would give him an excuse to punish her further. This had become a test of wills, and she could at least not give him any pleasure in what he did to her. He chained her up to the ceiling as she had been the night before, and her new-found resolve began to weaken. "Sir, my father is very rich. He could pay a large ransom for me. As could the Duke." "I have all the money I could ever need. It is you I want." "Please, sir, I beg you. Do not beat me again." "You misunderstand your role here. This punishment is for your own good. As long as pride infects you, you cannot progress." This time he did not cover her eyes or her mouth, and she saw him select a leather-covered paddle from the wall. She whimpered and averted her gaze, trying not to think about what he was about to do. The first blow seared her already bruised flesh and made her cry out in pain. He struck her again and again, swiftly returning her buttocks to the inflamed state he had left them in the night before. Though she danced at the end of her chain and tried to avoid the paddle, his aim was true, and she could not escape him. It went on until she thought she must be bleeding. He stopped. She hung weakly against the chain, gasping for breath. He lifted her chin and stared into her eyes, damp with tears. What could she see in his gaze? It was not hatred or even lust. No, it was something else, something she could not quite fathom. He wiped the tears from her eyes tenderly. "Let yourself go, Elizabeth. Let go. This will continue until you can release yourself from your pride." She looked away from him, trying to ignore his words. He let her chin drop and turned toward the shelf of implements. He returned a moment later with several balls of lead. Each had some sort of clamp attached. As she watched in horror, he attached one to each of her nipples, causing them to stretch out against the weight. Then he reached between her legs and attached the last to her sex, to the hot bud at the top that was once again slick with her fluids. There was pain now, but pain of a different sort--pain that inflamed her innards. She felt more wetness squirt from her and cursed herself, swearing internally in a most unladylike manner at the weakness of her flesh. He walked behind her, reaching between her legs with his index finger. He slipped between the swollen lips of her sex, finding her virginity. For a horrified moment, she thought he meant to penetrate her, but instead he began to caress her, lightly stroking her supersensitized inner folds. As she had the night before, she soon lost control of her body, moving her hips slowly to meet his strokes. She gasped, panting through her open mouth. "Let go, Elizabeth," he said again. "Pleasure is within your grasp if you will only take it." She cried out, beyond the point of conscious thought, and thrashed against his fingers. The weights on her nipples and sex shook as she did, making the sensations explode. She cried out again, convulsing in his grasp. When it was over, she went limp, filled with self-loathing. He had done it again, pleasured her against her will. She hated him, and hated herself for enjoying this. He unlocked her manacles and returned her to her cell. She fell to the floor, sobbing quietly. "Eat. You will need your strength for later."