I imagined my lovely rubber doll [constance], discovering “Der Femdom” in Zürich and getting ready for a Bacchanalia.
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“La vraie poésie est en dehors des lois.” Georges Bataille
![Rubber doll [constance], slave of London Dominatrix Maîtresse Nuit](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/524c0931e4b0dfdf24ad1751/244d457e-a4b7-4dad-b05f-71af9f1a2cc5/constance_predicament.jpg)
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Hamon organ, thin crepitating cymbals, the double thud of a bass drum, rhythm your heartbeat, and when guitars with heavy reverb start singing, you breathe with a half-smile.
The small readjustment of your features, the nascent sensation of new yet vaguely familiar recognition has allowed you a pause. Your anticipation has acquired another layer, playful and sexy.
You hold the musical thread I’ve sent you. A keepsake of the Seraglio.
The blindfold helps your vision of the pulsating cord and orientates your steps in this unknown geography of corridors and vast rooms.
You feel the new spaces around you, your senses electrified by the novelty, the journey, the uncharted territory that lays before your obscured vision.
Your skin awakes with each step, sending invisible tendrils mapping a blueprint of your avatar.
We pause in what feels like an outstretched landing in front of the heavy metallic door which I open, as the music morphs into an electronic undertow strewn with anodic bubbles.
On the threshold of the unlit room, I instruct you to kneel. You shiver at the unmistakable smell of rubber; alluring and slightly nauseating, cloying yet sharp, insistent, sexual and penetrating.
I close the door and prompt you to follow me on your four, guided by the sharp stabs of my stilettos on the hard floor.
Feminisation in the boudoir: A duet suffused with the cloying scent of latex and the rising of lust.
As “S”’s male characteristics gradually dissolve in the layers of latex attire and body modifying accoutrement, [constance] my adorable wanton rubber doll materialises.
When I remove the blindfold, your vision is narrowed, as if focused by the assault of scents intermingled with the pine resin of my perfume.
The only thing you can take in at present is your costume neatly laid on the immense brushed steel four-poster bed.
Open crotch flesh-coloured tights, and all the various pieces that will constitute your attire in a symphony of latex glossy blacks accented by vibrant reds:
a bra, leotard, gloves, stockings, bicoloured suspenders, a black rubber high training corset which will encase you, impossibly bitting your waist, restricting your respiration, a two tones hood which will soon be enhancing your khôl lined innocent eyes and your swollen lips.
On the dark floor, a pair of high heels patent court shoes await.
I watch you from the caramel velvet upholstered armchair at the left-hand side of the bed as you discover your surroundings bathed in muted warm amber light.
A bondage bed, a low mummification bench, a psyche mirror, brightly lit cupboards lining the walls to your left and filled with latex accoutrement, corsets, boots, and full-face hoods awaiting life. A gynaecological chair, a 1950’s long dressing chest of draws set against black taffeta drapes.
The transmutation of man to Creature can commence: I direct you to dress.
I am often struck and sometimes intrigued by how men manipulate elements of clothing that are considered “feminine”.
I have watched you over the years we have been playing together and I like stuart/[constance] easy fastidiousness in the same manner I enjoy your blend of self-conscious yet decisive and graceful rakishness...
High pitched chiming bells dance in the Hamon ebb and flow;
I tighten your corset as you hold on to one of the bed’s post.
The copper tinted mirror which forms the canopy of the vast bed reflects a curiously sensual tableau before your uplifted eyes: a couple of creatures in contrasting black and nude latex performing a strange choreography:
You lean with outstretched gloved arms and hands gripping the pole offering your gleaming rubber encased body to me, whilst I manipulate the long laces, strange creature sheathed in lustrous nude yellowish leggings, top with imposing high collar, armlets and hood, a white bob replacing my black hair.
You can’t quite see my black lips, my eyes glittering in a pool of silver black particles.
You kneel at my feet me in Nadu to receive your collar.
My right foot presses against your hardness that I will soon reveal with a flick of the zip and tie-up with a stocking.
I lift your chin.
[constance] emerges from the sapphire twin lakes of your eyes, demure yet indecent, submissive, so eager to please me, to be my perfect wanton, lovely subject, ready to assume with grace any position I will manipulate and bondage her in. Agreeable to entertain me with lascivious dances, to show me the extent of her enthusiasm for pleasure and pleasuring, her ravenous hunger.
Your song whispers how you know “100 ways to be a good slave”
In the psyche mirror in front of which you stand, you gaze at the creature whose adamantine face seems to absorb the luminescence of soft pink, apricot light emanating from the perimeter of the false ceiling and the skirting board.
An ethereal song seeps into the room, abolishing density as I close the door of the boudoir and slightly tug on the leash hooked to your collar.
The last notes of a saccharine melody vaporise in the matt darkness of the corridor.
You totter behind me blindfolded. The double staccato of our heels echoes along the walls as we walk.
Aroused, ready for service, [constance] is led to the theatre of the orgy where she is suspended to await for my guests to appear.
A new door opens and closes…
I lead you to the centre of a large room where I instruct you to stand at attention whilst I retrieve a pair of wrist cuffs.
The chinking noises of buckles fastening and hooks thread through D rings bring shivers of anticipation.
A clang and an electric purring:
The suspension guides your cuffed wrists in an upward motion until your arms are held extended. This slow-motion renders your position as the object of my will so completely tangible: your outstretched body, heavy with abandon, malleable begs to be used.
I snatch the blindfold whispering the words that make you weak, compliant, eager, like so many spells.
One of the walls of the chamber- is clad by a full-length mirror as in a dance studio.
It throws back at you the tall creature in 6 inches stilettos held like a twisting arrow by a taut cable in a vast space furnished with black lacquered metal suspension equipment, cages and bondage gear, big spotlights, and hanging chains, belts and cuffs.
Aroused by the lascivious movements of this solipsistic twin, you are reminded of what is expected of you.
My voice echoes today’s assignment:
You will wait on me and my guests, offering refreshments whilst impaired.
You will oblige us by taking the shapes I will tie you in.
You will dance for us.
And you will demonstrate your talent at pleasuring either bizarre Ladies or naughty girls.
A crescendo electronic drumming fills the space, its pulsations reverberating through your body, spurring your muscles to twitch in rhythm goaded by the relentlessness of the binary thrusting tunes.
Your mounting lust swells and your engorged cock throbs radiating shoots of delights circling your hips and loins, tracing the inside of your thighs, scratching your buttocks, titillating your nether mouth. Leaving you helpless with debauched possibilities, wanton, offered.
You bow your head.
I watch with a predatory smile, my adorable depraved doll, haloed in blue, abandoning herself to the relentless rhythms, prologue Bacchanalia to her presentation to my acolytes and slaves.
“True poetry lies outside the law.”
![Rubber doll [constance], slave of London Dominatrix Maîtresse Nuit in a layered bondage made of nude latex sheet twinned around her body and tight shibary with red rope.](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/524c0931e4b0dfdf24ad1751/1385476645634-1JVZ4ZLZL86H1N251V0D/constance2_web.jpg)
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
You will find more on Flagellation Rituals on these pages:
A BITTERSWEET KISS : PORTRAIT OF SLAVE CONTEMPLATING HIS FORTHCOMING ORDEAL
DO YOU WHIP MY DEAR? EXTRACT FROM "JULIETTE" BY THE MARQUIS DE SADE
And on Foot predicament:
CILICES, ROSES AND SPIKED INNER SOLES.... THORNY DELIGHTS OF A MASOCHIST FOOT FETISHIST
Finally, you can consult the pages on:
Discipline : https://www.maitressenuit.com/corporalpunishment
&
Edge Play & Radical Ecstasy: https://www.maitressenuit.com/edge-play