BDSM INITIATION | Captivity | Descent into true submission and surrender

Initiation of slave [¥] into the mysteries of Goddess.

Imagine being taken like my slave [¥] to a solitary XVIII century country house nested amongst the rolling hills of the South West of France. The "ermitage' is the set for a new cycle of the "Invitation au voyage".  During a week, [¥] will train to become an Acolyte of the Goddess. For now, he is seating at the back of a car driven by my multi talented and very kinky chauffeur [sergueï]...  

The car seems to have left the motorway for a sinuous country road. Ensconced on the back seat, blindfolded, you lean on the motion, becoming it. The sounds distilled through the noise cancelling headphones facilitating the mellow movement and assimilation of your body and mind to the trajectory of the vehicle. 

Your senses are both receptive and constricted, highlighting a feeling of anticipation at the thought of this week dedicated to your training as an acolyte. As the car races towards the hermitage, you ponder on the first part of your initiation, the images and sensations unfolding randomly in snippets interspaced with your recent arrival in my territory; Time becomes non linear.

I am seated on the throne you recognise instantly. I observe this new supplicant from across the room. You kneel with your knees apart, your feet together, your forehead and your arms outstretched on the floor with the palms up.

You were picked up at the airport by my young chauffeur sergueï who helped you with your  luggage and lead to a cerulean blue sedan from the early 90’s - sergeï, you discover, is man of many talents, driving being one of them, a precious and trusted devotee. 

Once installed on the back seat, sergueï fixed the blindfold and adjusted the headset without a word. 

The first needle pricks twice the flesh of your arse, blood rushes just under the surface of your skin which blushes….

You felt the engine vibrate and the fluid manoeuvre to back away from the parking slot. Soon after, the smooth flow indicated that the car was speeding on the highway.

My cock triggers a flash of raw desire, you are spiralling in a maelstrom of passion. 

Gravel signals you are reaching your destination. The darkness of the blindfold amplifies your trepidation. 

You feel your head held in the vice of my boots: I am towering above you.

Sergueï opens the door of the vehicle and you step out, vacillating slightly on the uneven ground.

A few stairs, a landing and in the cooler air of a vast hall, a new actor to this invisible scene you are both spectator and elected subject greets you with a collar and leash. 

It seems that the hands of your new warden are female, softer yet determined. You follow the nearly imperceptible sounds of her steps to a flight of stairs spiralling downwards and a narrow corridor. A door opens, you are ushered in your cell. 

Your custodian silently removes the blindfold and the thin collar. She disappears after shutting the door soundlessly. Surprisingly, she has left you free to move about the chamber and explore your new abode.

The room is perfectly square, its tall blond stone walls and vaulted ceiling are illuminated by a small window cut high into the opposing wall to the door, and barred with cast iron. It is monastic: a cot under the window, a small walnut desk and a chair with a disproportionately high back.

An arched niche has been carved in the thick wall to the left of the bed above the long ledge which serves as its foundation. 

On the wall of the recess hangs an alabaster carving of the Goddess and her retenue: acolytes, galli, hetairas and servants of her cult. She is standing in a chariot led by two lions. 

A five branch silver chandelier supporting black tappers, a crystal carafe filled with water, two glasses: a tumbler and a chalice, a posy of violets are displayed on the deep shelve,

Tall cast iron candelabra supporting each three pilar candles stand on the four corners of the room.

Steel rings are sealed in a triangular formation on the opposite wall to the ledge. more rings are sealed to the stone floor a well as on the bed.

Circumscribing the space at shoulder height, sigils have been carved. some are barely distinguishable, others seem very recent. 

You recognise some symbols: a moon inscribed in a circle, the three spirals of Hecate, a stylised rose in a star, the distinctive Camargue cross formed by a cross atop a heart balanced on an anchor… 

Others like the triangles barred or the vertical pointed barred arrow, the two circles linked by a vertical line, the circle cut by a vertical line, the circle supporting a small cross remain mysterious.

Cool air seeps through the latched window letting green scents of freshly cut dewed saturated grass merge with the room’s odor; a redolence of beeswax, dry stone and a hint of resin.

The atmosphere of the place is at once tranquil and ominous, vast.

A drumming of stiletto heels bouncing along the corridor walls approaches. You kneel with your forehead touching the smooth sand stone and your palms up, your heart  thumping with anticipation… The door opens.

“bonjour [¥] I am glad to see you are ready to commence this new phase of your initiation”

Maîtresse Nuit

PAINTING : Study in May , painting by Yannis Tsarouchis  https://tsarouchis.gr/en/works-by-yannis-tsarouchis/paintings/

You might enjoy listening  to the entire series of The Return of Ishtar I have created for my podcast on Patreon. Join me at In Praise of Shadows  ||  The BDSM Chronicles at: https://www.patreon.com/BDSM_Chronicles 

THE CHASTITY CAGE | acknowledging male chastity as a sacred offering | key holding beyond the device

Content

There are many ways we can play BDSM games. I favour playing deeply, with complete attention, with a deference to the Sacred that we create when we are absorbed and we go beyond ourselves. For a moment, we are suspended, at one.

In this article, I've attempted to transform a "chastity device" into a sacred implement, and a "ruined orgasm" into a sacred act.

Define, control, install : transformation into an acolyte of the Goddess

“Sacrifice is nothing other than the production of sacred things”. Georges Bataille

Naked as you are, in this position of humble offering, in the tranquility of this ancient house, in the presence of your Mistress and teacher, a sense of peace floods over you, benign like the morning Spring sun which envelops you. 

You follow the sound of the door quietly closing and my footsteps on the blond sandstone, the scrapping of the chair which I pull away from the little desk. The heels are not stilettos. 

You feel my hand on your upper back, briefly intimating some muscles to relax before i sit. You feel the proximity of one of my foot as I cross my legs. Then, when the ball of my foot finally reposes on your right shoulder, the image of a 3 inches square heeled boots that you’ve seen before forms in your head. 

You have polished these boots in the past and you know that I favour them for long walks in town. They are differently dangerous than stilettos or my bespoke thigh high heels boots, they speak of having to crawl fast on your four as you try to keep up with my pace. They speak of balance and the effortless possibility for me  and of being easily trampled for you. 

For now, nothing of the sort happens, you just feel the weight of the ball of my foot on your right shoulder as I extend my other leg which length rests on your back, and you recognise the rounded square heel which edge dents the top of your left buttock. You take pleasure in the closeness you feel at this objectification: you are supporting my stance, maybe you are providing comfort to my legs? There is relief in this simple moment: you are of use, your will blissfully erased, your ego evaporating in the knowledge of service to come, and with this, an exhilarating sense of freedom washes over you.

During this retreat, you will  deepen your service and worship of the Feminine Principle, the Goddess in all her forms and attributes and you will participate in a ceremony inspired by the ancient cult of Kybele and Attis.The purpose of which is to balance light and shadow, Feminine and Masculine.

The transformation of a devotee such as you are into an acolyte of the Goddess is fourfold:

  •  Service:                    helping in the kitchen and serving meals

                  cleaning feet

                  attendance to procession

                  carrying the implements of sacrifice: athame, torches and candle, bells, whip.

                      pouring libations

                    light bearing

• Pain training :         flagellation

                      suturing 

                      isolation - burying 

• Hetaira training: dress 

                posture and deportment

                objectification

                worshipping and being a vessel 

• Reflecting:       You will keep a journal of your day and reflect on your experience, 

For the duration of the training, you will remain in chastity until the last ceremony which will end in you making a vow of a year long chastity. 

You will wear this long shirt and sarouel pants when working in the kitchen and serving at my table.You will eat your meals in your room. And you will be  naked but for your chastity cage for the rest of the time. You will only talk when spoken to. You know your safe words and will use them intelligently. 

In this place, everything we think, feel and do is an act of devotion. We transform the humblest of our tasks to the most transgressive and indecent into a sacred offering to the Goddess. 

We turn upon its head the madness of our times. We push the boundaries of our rational wills, our urges, our desires and fantasies by an immersion into sensation, into the superlative of excess. We transform our relationship to the world, its creatures and artefacts by communing with them. Intimacy, awe and sometimes ecstasy are the rewards of Sacrifice.

« Le sacrifice restitue au monde sacré ce que l’usage servile a dégradé, rendu profane” Georges Bataille

You listen attentively. My words merge with your longings. The sense of freedom, like a gentle warm wave of blood which source seems to be springing in your heart, soaks the inside of your chest, your abdomen, your genitals, flows along your arms and legs to the tip of your fingers and toes, and finally spills up your throat to fill your head. 

Formless, liquid, languid, you exist for a moment in this arcadian state.

I observe your transformation, and feel your plasticity under my boot as the wave of calm engulfs you. 

From the walnut writing desk I take your collar, a little softer now after a year of rituals.

Kneel in Nadu.

It takes a little while for my voice to reassemble your molecules and for you to reintegrate your body and your mind enough to assume the requested shape. The collar has a mysterious effect: it holds you in form: corporal, mental, emotional and erotic. 

My hands are cold against your skin, this enhances the goosebumps of the ritual and hardens the erection that commenced the second you kneeled in “humble offering”. The wave of warm blood seems to have concentrated in your cock… 

You think you know what comes next…

I watch perplexity redefine your features, the blue of your eyes suddenly overcast, deepens, your brow tenses for a bit.

I pick up the surgical steel chastity cage and smile.

Since it looks like you will not be able to fit into your little cage, we will have to make you shrink. You will masturbate and release on the count of ten. 

I count backwards.

You take your balls into your left hand- its been a Week since you last relased - They are tight, heavy. Your cock throbs, so sensitive.

7 and half….Stop

You pant and squeeze your perineal muscles, restricting the flow of sperm, hot and spurious.

Tension… between your urge to come, your fascination with your own seed, your will and compliance with my order. Then comes the second layer of erotic delight in the form of being the voluntary subject and slave to my will, whims and decisions. Your cock is harder still.

I resume counting. 

6, 5, 4, 

You let yourself surf on my voice, confident that climax is near when I stop you again. So near … yet… so far. 

A doubt creeps in your mind…. 

Wood pigeons coo somewhere under the roof. The stridulations of crickets has intensified. From deep inside the house you hear hushed footsteps, doors quietly opened and closed.

Hands behind your neck.

The wax of a thin church candle drips on your balls, then on the length of your still throbbing cock… and on the gland.

Swiftly, I pass your soften member and balls through the ring and your cock slips into the cage which I lock.

Maîtresse NUIT

This article is a transcript of episode #4 of “The Return of Ishtar” podcast series which you can hear on Patreon. You might enjoy listening  to the entire series of The Return of Ishtar I have created for my podcast on Patreon. Join me at In Praise of Shadows  ||  The BDSM Chronicles at: https://www.patreon.com/BDSM_Chronicles 

FLAGELLATION | Canes & single tail whip, the final ordeal.

Slave [¥], my consenting captive is led to the last trial of a two days metaphorical descent in the Underworld: The flagellation. This episode concludes the transcendental experience of “Submission in times of confinement”, a podcast series in 7 episodes created during the Covid 19 lockdowns.

You can listen to the podcast series on my Youtube channel or on Patreon.

Blindfolded, our consenting captive, flanked by Mistress Aquilina and Mistress Euphrasia, journeys through the long hall of shame in a procession. Our cortege advances slowly towards the seventh gate. Slave [¥] discovers a new universe of sensations created by the “penitent” sandals equipped with spike soles he is wearing.

The corridor is barely lit with thick pillar candles planted in tall prickets made of rough cast iron spaced every two meters on each side of its walls.

The flames seem to lick the black walls with quiet undulating amber tongues;  the only movement in the ominous stillness.

You stand at attention: the steel points of the penitent sandals dig into the soles of your feet delineating a new internal geography of discomfort as you assess the distance you will have to walk to the oak door of the initiation chamber.

I have hooked the long chain leash to two points. One to the ring of your Prince Albert which comes out of the chastity device through a special slot. The second through a D ring sealed in the posture collar holding your neck and chin high. 

I wait in the middle of the burnished hall: a hieratic silhouette of leather: catsuit, thigh high boots, gloves, mask, my hair framing my face like a helmet. A magnet, an incarnation of the Great Goddess.

A light thug of the leash prompts you to start your march.

The long black hair of your wig softly caresses your bare shoulders, tickle your ams until it touches the biceps and extremity of the black latex gloves . It reveals the space between the back of the laced boned collar and the trim of the waspie strangling your waist. It teases your sewn nipples when a strand catches the red thread loosely linking them.

If wearing six inches heels has been at times a challenge, the pronged surface of the soles proves to be a real torture! A fit prologue to the ceremony.

Slowly, our procession advances to the quiet rhythm of my heels hitting the hard floor. 

You try to remember the lessons of deportment and hold the muscles of your abdomen and back tight and up in an attempt to be as light on your feet as possible. 

There is no escaping the blunt spikes which burrow under the tender skin at the root of your toes, hit the metatarsal bones, mark the plantar region, dig in your heels. 

You discover a treasure of uncharted sensations as you learn new declinations of suffering. 

The minute pins tear your stockings and trace new ladders with each step, sending pale ribbons shooting along your legs, keeping a record of the trial. 

When you finally arrive at the door, they have designed an original map of our caravan whilst your face wears the serpentine traces of eyeliner dissolved by tears.

You kneel in Nadu at the door. I drape your leash, then the rope of supplicants around your neck and shoulders and disappear in the Inner Sanctum.

A soft padding down the hall ….  candles are snuffed. 

Darkness.

The two sentinels hooded and entirely clad in black latex silently mount guard at your side. They each hold a five branches silver candelabrum.

Time is suspended 

The ceremony begins with the ritual of the cross of acceptance which affirms the consenting captive vows of devotion towards the Feminine principle and his Mistress. This is a necessary preparation to the caning. Intimacy and connection between slave and Mistress transform the increasing intensity of the pain. 

The door opens from the inside and the vast crimson room materialises amongst the wisps of incense. 

Mistress Aquilina opens the march, you follow on your fours and Mistress Euphrasia closes the door. Your small procession advances to the sofa where I am seated.

You recognise the thigh high boots, the dagger heels. My gloved hands rest on my knees. 

In the position of a cross, you lie on the carpet, your forehead three inches away from the point of my toes.

My acolytes trace around you a circle of smoke with sage and sprinkle rose water on your body. The droplets, when they reach your bottom, prickle your skin.

A bell tears the silence. You kneel in front of me and my gaze, once again dive deep in your oceanic eyes, dissolving thoughts, petrifying time.

I pull slightly the thread linking your nipples and you stand at attention, feeling every prong supporting your weight.

From the corner of your eyes you register the four canes displayed on the mantel of the fireplace between the sack cloth laid on the spanking bench to your left, the two bullwhips on the rack to your right. 

A lovely tableau is revealed in the psyche mirror flanked by the candelabrum: Firmly held by a series of belts, you lie on the bench, the hemp cloth tightly enveloping your waist and hips. Anchored 

Behind you, I stand hieratic: the Triple Goddess, the Eternal Feminine, Creatrix, Matrix, Destructix.

Drifting on the waves of the Prelude to Parsifal, you begin a new descent in the darkness as I wake up your hind. The volley of leather thuds are quickly absorbed as you slowly blush. The air around us changes texture, it seems to thin with every blow.

One after the other, the canes whistle and cut a lattice pattern of swollen white ridges across your buttocks which first turn to red, then purple. Each new cane slotting its strikes in the imprints of the previous ones, deepening the dents until the tender skin gives and blood rises to the surface.

The space of the Crimson room changes with the intense focus of our work for this is what is happening: we are very tangibly one now: I, you, the canes, the air, the music, the room.

Our atoms are twined in this experience where the boundaries of perception have disappeared, and we both feel the strikes as the blows hurled and the impact of them, acidic, burning, breathtaking, intolerable and reaching an absurd, ecstatic pleasure.

From red to white hot and then black.

You rest, spent, taken by a formidable rush of endorphins.

I watch reclining on the sofa whilst I catch my breath.

After the caning, slave [¥] is taken to the flagellation post where he will receive the last sacrament and his liberation with the single tail whip which concludes his descent into the Underworld: an Ego death journey of transformation.

From the bench, you have been dragged to the flagellation post by Ms  Aquillina and Ms Euphrasia. They have cuffed  your wrists to a long metallic bar attached to cables held overhead. 

I have tied your legs together from toes to hips with hemp rope and have removed the spiked sandals.

Your arms are lifted above your head by the mechanical suspension.

You breathe deeply, slowly, floating yet conscious that this last trial will demand all your strength, devotion and concentration. It will demand of me the utmost focus, precision and feeling.

I bring the braided handle to your lips to kiss as I watch you eyes turn a darker shade of steel.

With tongues of fire, the lashes drum and wrap your thighs, your arse and penetrate to the deepest of your core as the fortress of your self disintegrates, liberating the gold particules of your devotion.

Prostrate at my feet you fly on the wings of the Goddess and kiss the points of my boots.

The space slowly opens and the Crimson room glows.

Maîtresse Nuit

Thank you to

slave [¥] and my wonderful devotees for all the inspiration and 

joy in the practice of this unlikely art. 

The amazing women, Mistresses, Dominatrixes who have and 

continue to inspire me. 

 my mentor Mistress Fiore

Anne O Nomis, Natasha Gornik,

Mistress Aquilina, Mistress Euphrasia, True Severity, Miss Meyers, 

Lady Lola, Morrigan Hel, Herrin Ariadne, Cassandra van Cane, 

Domina Sylvia, Lady Nastasia, Lady Marlon, Lady Mephista, Lady Skotia, 

Lady Roxane, Princess Zuleika, Mistress Aranea

&

Catherine Robbe-Grillet & Beverly Charpentier

More on BDSM Rituals:

If you have enjoyed this post and are intrigued by the history of the archetype of the Dominatrix, I recommend reading the wonderful book written by art historian and archeologist Anne O Nomis “The history and arts of the Dominatrix” https://www.goodreads.com/en/book/show/19101104-the-history-arts-of-the-dominatrix

“Women’s Rites” by Jeanne de Berg (which was the Dominatrix name of Catherine Robbe-Grillet for a long time) is an account of some poignant and beautiful ceremonies created by this talented French artist and writer. 

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/6611256-women-s-rites

“The Ceremony” is a wonderful film part documentary by Lina Mannheimer which is inspired by “Women’s Rites”. Catherine Robbe-Grillet and her Partner and slave Beverly Charpentier (who is herself a Dominatrix) recreate a SM ceremony. This documentary sheds light into the beauty of our art, the numerous dimensions that BDSM opens. and the strength of the bonds between a Mistress and her slaves. There are some poignant interviews of her devotees.

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt3589290/

I recommend the book by Dossie Easton and Janet W. Hardy “Radical Ecstasy” if you are interested in the transcendental potential of SM play.

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/503940.Radical_Ecstasy