BUGGERED ANGEL (Power and Submission) One: Passion Play

I was stoned. I sat in the tiny lounge with the curtains closed so that the hidden eyes, that I felt were all around me; staring at me; devouring my every move, would not be able to see what I was about to do.

I had attended an early morning class at college. As usual I phoned my control freak mother from the land line before I left the house, and then from my Jurassic cell phone when I arrived at school, again when I left school and once more from the land line when I arrived back home. I could only make missed calls from my cell and receive calls, there was never enough air-time to allow me to do anything else.

I did my homework assignment and then cleaned the house. I took the lamb out from the deep freeze so that it would defrost before I had to begin cooking the curry that my mother had ordered me to make for dinner. If the meal wasn’t ready when my parent’s arrived home there would be all hell to pay. Often though, they didn’t eat straight away and if the food was spoilt by the time they did eat it would, of course, be my fault.

We ate at the dining room table and I wasn’t allowed to talk during the meal. I would serve the food and then sit in my chair at the far end of the table and listen to my mother complain. The food was never right. It was too hot or too cold, too soft or too hard, too spicy or not spicy enough, undercooked or overcooked; but never, ever right.

After preparing the meal and serving it I never felt like eating it. My mother’s constant criticism was so scathing that it took away whatever appetite I had so I would have to force myself to swallow each mouthful. “You are stupid, lazy, you have no initiative; you are just a mentally deficient drug addict.”

If I left any food on my plate there would be some punishment. My leftovers would be placed in a container in the fridge and I would have to eat it cold for dinner the next evening. Or I would be sent to bed early or denied access to the computer or made to read long chapters from the Bible out loud, standing in a corner of the dining room naked, while my parents watched television in the lounge.

I had paid for the marijuana by writing an assignment for one of the boys at school. For this service I received three slopes (enough for about five joints) and a pack of cheap cigarettes. I spread newspaper on the sofa and mulled the grass, making sure that all the pips and stalks were discarded. If I left any of these in the mixture, it would make my eyes red and itchy, a sure give away that I was using again.

Then I carefully emptied a cigarette, adding some of the tobacco to the mix; I knew that if I did not do this the joint would keep going out. I carefully filled the emptied cigarette shell with the dagga and made sure that it was tightly packed, twisting the end and cutting off the filter half way.

I remembered how Master Damien had smelled marijuana on my breath one day and punished me until I was screaming with pain, then sat next to me on the sofa and taught me how to make a joint. “If you are going to smoke grass Powder, then at least I want to know that it is good quality and that you do it properly. I would rather that you do it here with me, where it is safe, than behind my back where you are in danger of being poisoned or caught.”

I smoked the joint behind the garage, in the small, damp, dark space where nobody would be able to see me. I was not too concerned about the smell because most of the neighbourhood kids and some of their parents smoked and no one, except my parents, took any notice of the smell.

I crouched down so that I could pet Tripod while I was inhaling the drug that I knew would take me to another place; a place where I would be back in my Master’s strict embrace, totally controlled. I felt like a boat without a rudder, drifting aimlessly on a turbulent sea with storm clouds looming on the horizon that made me afraid of some terrible and unavoidable disaster threatening my very existence.

I took long drags of the acrid smoke, holding it inside my lungs until they began to burn, and then slowly exhaling. My three legged dog named Tripod sat between my legs and looked up at me with absolute adoration. I giggled and squeezed his ear gently, “I’m getting very fucking stoned baby, comfortably numb”, and tripod smiled and frowned up at me knowingly.

Back in the house I spread an old sheet over the couch. In my bedroom I knelt next to the heavy oak wardrobe and, with a duster handle, fished out a plastic Take ‘n Pay packet from the dark cobwebbed hollow underneath and took it back to the lounge. I cleared the small coffee table and spread the contents of the packet on the stained surface taking inventory as I did so. One butt plug, one dildo, a dozen plastic pegs, one candle, one DVD, one CD and a pack of razor blades. All of the paraphernalia of this ritual that I performed in observance of the memory of my Master had been given to me by Master Damien.

I performed this ritualistic communion once a week. Since Master Damien had left I had been unable to achieve an erection or an orgasm without pain. The drugs that I was being fed for my bipolar disorder also doused my libido. What I was about to do was the only way that I could achieve some relief; some semblance of the normal sexual functioning of a nineteen year old.

That first full weekend that I’d spent with Master Damien and Tripod were the most glorious few days of my life. When I think about it now it’s as though I am remembering a honeymoon; I had been rescued from the physical abuse of my father and the verbal abuse of my mother, if only for a little while. My Knight in Shining Armour had scooped me up and carried me off on his black panting horse, smoke pouring from its nostrils, and shown me pleasure and pain that I had never known before and would never know again.

I had been resurrected, resuscitated; my Master had breathed new life into me and I was a brand new being with a new name and new purpose in life; to be my Master’s slave and with every breath to serve my Master and pleasure and please him in any way that He desired.

Although the rules and the lessons began immediately and the indoctrination, the breaking down of my will and my spirit (which had already begun with the merciless, relentless punishment from my father) was continued during that weekend by Master Damien, I cannot look at it in this negative light; that would negate the love that I had always believed was the basis of my relationship with Master Damien and replace it with something else; something I did not want to see.

Intellectually I was aware that what had been done to me followed the principles of conditioning that were described in the literature of behavioural modification. When I read about Pavlov’s dogs I understood that I had been a dog; not only my saliva glands but my pleasure and pain centres were taught to respond to stimuli.

From my reading about the biology of pain and pleasure I understood that if my butt was smacked the pain was almost instantaneous but the pleasure centres of my brain were also activated, at a slower rate, by the same smack. The pain was like a sports car that was able to reach the finish line in milliseconds while the pleasure was a tricycle that took much longer to get there. The pain of the smack became a signal that the erotic pleasure was about to follow.

I understood that in my case the pleasure tricycle, because of the conditioning that I received through my father’s beatings, was set in motion earlier and supercharged merely by the anticipation of the pain; like the saliva of Pavlov’s dogs when a bell was rung to signal that food was to follow. When my father’s cane connected with my naked flesh the tricycle, or what became, for me, dozens of tricycles, had already been set in motion by the anticipation and were on a fast track to my brain; they began to arrive before the actual contact could start the sports car on its way. The fear and anticipation of pain had already been eroticized in my subconscious.

Even with this knowledge, I continued to believe that the pleasure I found in pain was a perversion that only I experienced and that, because of this, the pain that I had endured had been invited; that I was the cause of it; the initiator; that I was to blame and was the guilty party. I still could not bring myself to look at the obvious wound of my heart. If I acknowledged that I had merely been a victim then my life made no sense at all; it was totally meaningless.  

I put the CD into the player and the sounds of ‘The Principles of Lust’, by Enigma, punctured the anaesthetic power of the marijuana and my heart began to beat faster, my breath coming in quick gasps.

The DVD followed and the picture of a naked boy spread-eagled face down on a bed sprang at me from the past. His wrists were bound with leather straps and fastened to the posts at the top of the king size bed. His ankles were also tied to the posts at the base of the bed and he was gagged and blindfolded.

An older, handsome man, wearing tight leather trousers, was caressing the boy’s backside. He was talking with a soothing but commanding voice, “You know that I am doing this to make you a better slave, don’t you Powder? You know that it is what you have asked for and what you want boy? You know that this will help you to surrender to me without reservation, without thought for yourself, with only a desire to pleasure me by doing everything that I command you to do?” And then the man lifted his hand and brought it down firmly on the boy’s backside with a resounding smack. The boy squirmed and muffled words sounded through his gag, “Yes Master, please Master, thank you Master.” “Lie still boy, breathe, do not worry boy, I am going to take good care of you.”

The candle has been alight for some time so I know that there will be plenty of hot wax when I need it. I lie down on the couch and begin to perform my passion play.


(Drawing: Working Cover for Buggered Angel by Carlton)
© Carlton Carr 2013
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