I Masochist 01 - Performance Art

The show closed at 1:00 am. I helped Shelly and her assistant release the girls from the "stages" on which they had performed. Shelly introduced me to each of them and explained that I was the one who had rigged the equipment and designed the safety interrupt. The girl with the bright blue eyes said, "What I really needed was a control to run the shocks higher. The only time I was able to get off was when you overrode the system somehow."

I said, "I could reset the programming to allow audience members to take it up to 25 rather than 10."

Three of the girls said, "Please do it!" The other three said, "No! I couldn't stand that."

I compromised and said "Shelly knows who is in which cage. I will change three of them. But I am resetting the override on those to the number 5 rather than the number 2, so if you see me outside your cage, you might be in for 55 rather than 25."

"I'll risk it," answered the blue-eyed blond.

"Couldn't you make it the 3?" said one of the other two.

"Maybe I will just activate the remote on it so I can punch in any number I want from my phone. That way Shelly doesn't have to worry about somebody accidently overriding things."

All six girls smiled at me and said, "Thank you."

After they had left, I told Shelly that it would only take me a few moments to make the programming changes to the pads. She answered, "Then I want you to do something for me."

"Anything within reason," I said, and began programming the pads. By the time I had finished with the sixth pad, I could no longer hear Shelly doing whatever it was that she was finishing up at the other end of the studio. After the last pad, I walked toward the back of the gallery and stopped. An additional cage had been moved into the very back of the studio..., and there was someone in it.

I walked over to the cage and there was a note taped to the keypad. It read, "W, I have to experience what this is like. I can't be in here during the performances because I have to be available to meet the people. I want you to take me to my limits and beyond. And then I want you to fuck me while I am still in bondage. That is the performance I had truly imagined when I first conceived this idea, but there is no way that kind of art could ever be publicly displayed - at least not in this town."

I took my time to appreciate the way that Shelly had bound herself - or more likely had allowed someone to bind her in the booth. Her legs were encased in thigh-high boots that were laced up the sides and appeared to be solidly attached to the floor of the cage. Her arms, encased in tight-fitting leather gloves that reached almost to her shoulders, were stretched high above her head and held widely apart on a spreader bar that was mounted firmly on a diagonal across the top of the cage. The black on her arms and legs highlighted the paleness of the skin of her abdomen. She didn't have ureter or mouth electrodes, but there were wired ass and pussy dildos held in place with the thin black leather straps of the supposed G string. In addition, black square contact electrodes were clearly visible on either side of each nipple as well as a pair on each ass cheek. There was no way that she got herself into this, and there was no way that she could get herself out of it unless someone released her.

She was wearing a full coverage bondage hood. The flaps over the eyes and mouth were closed. From the bulge, it appeared that there was also a ball gag under the closed mouth opening. The ear flaps were not closed, but there was a bright red ear plug in each ear that seemed to be held in place with soft wax.

There was nothing in her hands, so I looked for the safety drop. She had insisted I supply a spare, and I now realized that it must have been for this stage. It was on the floor of the cage, securely wrapped in tape, obviously intentionally disabled. She was serious when she said that she wanted me to take her to her limits and beyond.

I spent the next hour and a half playing her body like a fine musical instrument. Since I had a remote that did more than just change the number of pulses - which was not limited on the remote, I varied the frequency and added ramp variation to both the amplitude and frequency of the shocks. I also adjusted the relative timing so that the pulse hit her pussy a fraction of a second - or even a full second - before or after it hit her breasts. I also tried the cascade effect that hit her ass cheeks, ass, pussy and then breasts in rapid sequence. And all the while, I kept her just short of orgasm. If it looked like she was going to cum, I backed off the intensity to minimum for a couple of rounds. She was pouring sweat and grunting and thrashing so violently that the cage was swaying slightly as she moved. Then she started yelling into her gag. It was impossible to tell for sure what she was saying, but it sounded an awfully lot like "Please! Please! Please! Please! Let me cum! Let me cum!"

Finally, I had pity on her - well not so much finally having pity on her as finally giving in to my own needs. I set the shock level to the lowest setting and the number on the remote to 999 and stepped into the cage with her. I removed the strap that held the front dildo in place and pulled it from her sopping cunt. Then pulling her toward me and crouching down slightly, I impaled her with my rock-hard member.

I could feel the slight tingling of the shocks as I stood there. Shelly immediately began pumping her hips and rocking against me. I ended up just reaching out with my hands and steading myself against the sides of the cage as she rode me violently standing up. She had asked me to fuck her while she was still in bondage, but the truth is that she was fucking me. I stood there and let her ride me as I went with her to a very strong orgasm.

When we finally finished, I stepped out of the cage and shut off the pulses. I let Shelly hang there, totally limp, for another five minutes or so before I re-entered the cage and began releasing her from the bondage. The last thing I did was to remove the hood and gag.

"The hell with meeting the public," she said emphatically after her mouth was clear. "Next week I am going to be in the seventh cage."

Her show ran for the rest of the summer, and yes, there were seven cages every Friday and Saturday night. They even added a Sunday matinee toward the end of the summer. Somehow the idea of BDSM performance art as a Sunday matinee seemed odd to me, but the gallery was filled to overflowing every Sunday afternoon.

In the fall, school resumed at the university and Shelly returned to teaching classes. The models must have told some of their fellow students about the cages, because I did have a flurry of orders for the safety switch. Either a significant number of the coeds were into self-bondage or they had boyfriends that they didn't totally trust with full control of electronic stimulation.

Then Shelly dropped by and invited me to her party, and I agreed. As I looked around the room full of people, I had a pretty good idea exactly who it was that Shelly wanted me to meet. There was one older gentleman who looked totally out of place.

It wasn't just that he was dressed differently from anyone else there. He had that forced casual kind of look that happens when a really up-tight suit dresses down to mingle with the masses. And it wasn't just that he had an overly well-groomed goatee that was so obviously dyed black. Primarily it was that he wasn't a part of the party. He was observing the party. He looked and acted exactly like a therapist waiting for a group session to finish its greeting time and get down to business.

After fortifying myself with a half-glass of dark ale, I walked over to him and said, "You must be Dr. Collins. I assume you are the person that Shelly said wants to meet me."

He looked startled, but answered, "Yes..., yes, that's why I'm here..., to meet you. You must be... ... 'W.'" He said my name like it was distasteful to him.

"You don't like the fact that I go by my initial, do you?" I asked him.

He answered, "No. I'm sorry. It just seems artificial and contrived."

"It's a long story," I answered. "I got stuck with it way back in grade school and there are some things that are with you forever."

He smiled back. Evidently we had gotten over whatever his hangup was with the alphabet.

"So, what do you need from me?" I asked.

"I understand that you write stories," he said. "I've read some of them... most of them - at least as many as I could find with an internet search." He paused as if thinking of how to phrase his next comments. "And I understand that you have met Shelly's models and they are impressed with you."

"I don't know if I impressed them, but yes, I have met them."

"I would like you to interview them and write their stories," he said. "Would you be willing to do that?"

"Why?" I replied. "They are a part of your research program. You already know their stories."

"But they lie to me," he answered with a touch of frustration and a slight whine in his voice. "I know they do. They withhold things and change things to what they think I want to hear. Or they just play with me out of spite. They think that I am judging them or something and so they aren't open with me."

"That's because you are judging them," I answered. "You are probably studying them because you think that they are sick or degenerate, and they can sense that."

"I can't change who I am," he responded rather defensively. "But I do care about them, and I think that we need to know more about what makes a masochist a masochist. If you can get them to open up and tell you their stories, I can use what they tell you in the stories to better understand them."

"Why do you want to do this?" I asked. He shifted his head back and forth for a moment before opening his mouth to answer me. I could tell I was going to get a rehearsed, canned answer, so I cut him off with, "Tell me the truth or I walk out of here and you never see me again."

He bristled, but answered rapidly, "Because I no longer think they are sick or degenerate."

"Wife or girlfriend?" I asked.

"Me," he answered, coloring a little and looking down at the floor. "With my wife - it only happened once. We were both more than a little tipsy and started making out in the living room like a couple of teenagers. After a short while, we were both naked. As we were starting to get into some deep kissing, she could taste cigarettes on my mouth. I had promised her I would quit smoking and had told her that I had. She suddenly said, 'If you are going to behave like a child, I am going to treat you like a child!' Then she pulled me across her lap and started spanking me with her slipper."

"It hurt like hell at first, but then suddenly it didn't hurt. It felt good. In fact, it was some of the most intense pleasure I had ever felt. My wife and I tried some spanking play a couple of times after that, but it just hurt. Neither of us really want to try it again, but after that I realized that it isn't that a masochist likes, or needs, to feel pain - at least not all of them. Something happens and for some reason a masochist's body interprets pain as pleasure. I want to learn how and why that happens."

He looked up at me as if he was expecting me to say something. I remained quiet and he whined, "But they won't tell me the truth! How can I get any insight into what might be going on in their bodies or minds if they won't tell me the truth?"

He stared at me with pleading eyes and asked, "Would you do this for me..., and for them? Will you talk to these six girls and write their stories? The stories would probably be worthy of posting or publishing, and I would have data that I otherwise couldn't get."

I took a deep breath and answered, "OK. Let me think about it. But you can't set up ANY of this. It all has to be set up through Shelly. And the girls need to know that I will be publishing the information so that the whole world - including you - would have access to it. If I do this, I will change their names and other pertinent information, and I don't tell you who is who unless they all agree to it after I have completed my stories."

He smiled at me and answered, "Agreed. Now, if you don't mind, I think I will leave. I really am not comfortable in situations like this."

As he got up and walked toward the door, I wondered to myself why it was that the therapists and shrinks always seemed to have more hangups and problems than any of their patients. I let that thought fade away as Shelly walked up to me. "Having fun?" she asked.

"Not yet," I answered. "But the party is still young."

"And there is time for more fun after the party is over," she stated with a smile. "I sort of wonder what it would be like to have normal sex with you?'

"All sex is normal," I replied. "Some of it just takes a little more work to pull off."

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END CHAPTER ONE OF EIGHT

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