Hooded in Grace

I Miss her, but I was a toxic influence on her.

A Medusa

 

OK, not really a Gorgon,  but still a captivating sight.

Athletica

 

Annie Hall in college.

Two Version of a NightMare

Two Version of a NightMare - sometimes I compulsively re-draw old pictures. It is not always an imnprovement.
 

False Colours

 

For a real Woman - a quasi-portrait.

Upside Down

 

Damn Trucks

 

Sometimes, life respects neither SSC nor RACK ...

Greetings

and
 

To you all
 

 

A Dream

The dude is me, the place is my dining room.

The woman is the [now unattainable?] dream.

 

(To be honest, a couple of women did want her place in the past, it's just that drawing is easier than living and has less constraints. ie I AM lazy.)

African Women

I know, she is a black lady - from actual Africa, if I remember well. 

Is it in bad taste, drawing her in bondage regalia? Maybe. 

Then again, I am not American. A lot of what would be uncomfortable sub-text for a U.S. citizen is a lot toned down when seen from my Italian Hikkikomori vantage point.

What I know of African women is from the ones that I met. On average, they are nice people that treated me fairly - which may not actually apply to my mother, I can say after enough therapy - and whose only grating characteristic was, usually, an excessive desire to save my soul from hell - when they discover that I am agnostic.

So, to my eyes they are simply women whose physicality I really like and, me being me - ie screwier than a corkscrew, this is my way of showing it. 

It is not like white women are treated any better, in my drawings. 

Ite, Missa Est

Aerostatic bondage close up - Sketch

Marker sketch.
 

A Van Full of...

 

This is - gasp - a pencil sketch.I did it for someone, as a preview for a possible "commission".

The ladies should be... the female cast of Farscape, but I do not think that they would all be into this kind of role-play. 

I think that the van is, really, a 3rd series Ford Transit, while it should have been the armoured car of Section 9, from Ghost in The Shell.

 I should do more stuff with traditional media...

Torture Galaxy

A Girl Gotta Have Some Fun!

"Torture Galaxy", "Video Bizarre", "TG2Club" are some of the names that, along the years, have taken the websites distributing the work of  - mainly - a gentlesadist [sic] known as  Master Serpent.

The scene you see above - slightly exaggerate by yours truly, but only slightly - is pretty typical of his work: a very young looking woman strapped in a gynaecological chair, with her vulva sutured with surgical thread.

I will be honest - when I first encountered him - and his models - I stopped drawing my stuff for a while.

Because, well, he does in real life what I would only dare to draw!

At the same time, theirs [serpent & models] is not the most brutal S&M videography out there - for all his passion for piercing through a woman's skin and flesh with wildly inappropriate instruments, "Serpent" feels no compulsion to brutalize his models.

He may subject them to what amounts to sexualized elective surgeries, but that is all it does.

He uses no ill language, no open disrespect for the model but, rather, a matter-of-facts collaboration between equal dignity partners. The two of them - rarely more - are there to do what needs to be done - he to torture her, her to feel the pain and get an orgasm - and that's it.

I like it.

If the process was a bit more ritualized and they managed to convey the suggestion that they are operating for a higher purpose, it would be the perfect embodiment of the childhood fantasies that  boredom brought, on in me, when I was a kid and forced to go to Sunday mass (to date, my parents do not accept that I am agnostic or, even, that I have a sexuality of any kind - ).

It is, thus, easy to see why, from time to time, I like to pay homage to Serpent, and to the most fascinating - for me - of his models, Anita.

Arguably, the Queen of over the top breast-torture.  
 

Happy XMas

A Tarot Card

It's hard to stand tall, with so many out to rape you.

It is not without misgivings that I used The Donald face - I usually stay away from politicians and other similar figures, in that they are temporary fixtures of our culture, destined to fade away.

Raise his hand who could recognize a cartoon of Henry Kissinger, nowadays...


But the Donald?

Even if he would manage to be impeached, he is the man that single-handedly terminated seventy years of "Pax Americana", and the tradition of U.S. " 'benevolent' rule" in the international arena (predicated and practiced on the base of US' own enlightened self-interest, of course, and only as benevolent as long as nobody was so daft as to pick a bunch of commies for government).

I think that there are quite some chances for him to become an iconic allegorical figure.

The very image of the angry, little, privileged white man, deaf to history and reality, more than willing to break the very social order that allowed it to keep afloat - just for the sake of shoring up the perception of his own "virility".

Story repeats itself - first as tragedy, then as farce, and finally then as burlesque.

No, not finally, because history never ends - sorry, F.F., you were wrong.

Miracle Worker

I am no going to admit nor deny that this is me, teaching stuff to a female friend that could or not be someone else's wife.
OK, her wife was very interesting too, but I am a bit allergic to lesbian dommes - and them, to me.

A couple of days ago I was asked by some guy to "convert" his wife to BDSM.

Usually, I come across such a request once every four months or so...

On one side, I could smile and chalk it up to some guy that confuses some plots that appear in porn [mostly, of the "BDSM for vanillas" kind, where these and other "conversions from prude to lewd" are established clichés] with real life.

On the other side, there is really little to smile about - this kind of mismatched marriages is quite common in my generation, and usually does not bode well for either member of the couple.

One one side, most often than not, the one that has no interest for BDSM tends to dismiss entirely the requests of the counterpart, labelling these as expressions of "perversions", "crazy ideas" and other similar terms.

On the other side, depending on how deep and firm is the BDSM streak, the "kinky" part of the couple grows increasingly frustrated with a relationship that is ever so slightly unsatisfying, which is often felt by the other - and some, positively, take offense to it.

"Am I not Enough?" - They seem to ask themselves... and the answer to that question is often "Yes"!, which prompts an angry thought: "[S]he should have told me this before marrying, I'd have gone with someone else".

Which conveniently ignore the detail that a lot of BDSMer tried to ignore their nature, for survival necessities, up to the bitter end - it's kind of hard, to tell your significant one something you do not dare to admit to yourself.

As one may imagine, this situation can easily end in a positively disgraceful feed-back, in which one part chafe under the yoke of the marriage, and the other grows positively adamant in his/her refusal.

Here, I must add that there is not much difference to what happens to men and women looking for a role as  doms, or to women aspiring to explore their submissive side - alas, I have no contacts with heterosexual submissive men, so I cannot say anything about them.

If the spouse is resistant to the proposed "experimentation", the kinkster is usually screwed.

However, leaving these details aside - as too depressing to contemplate - there are other reasons why someone should think well and hard before asking something like that to anybody else.

Let's imagine that the "dom" whose collaboration has been asked is, in fact, a miracle worker.

A fine, brilliant handler of the human nature that is able to achieve such a result, overcoming not only the resistance of the woman against general BDSM, but also her likely feeling when it comes to threesomes and other non-conventional situations.   

If it sounds hard to achieve... it is because it is. 

"Ceding" one's Significant One[s] to a "training dom[me]", even in the course of a shared session, is usually considered a feat for well established BDSM menages - not at all the province of neophytes on shaky grounds.
  
Imagine that he, or she, achieves the result, and turns the skeptic spouse into a submissive - with regards to the aforementioned dom.

This does not really guarantee that the "newly minted" sub will consider her husband [or wife!] much more than a pitiful "wannabe".

Worse, if one considers the difficulties in the starting situation and factors-in the likely human stature of a dom capable of overcoming them, then adds to the calculation the not uncommon "BDSM imprinting" phenomenon - if a sub plays for a while with a very efficacious dom[me], he or she will often elect said dominant as the paragon upon which all the others will be evaluated - it is all too probable that this will be the exact result.

Yet, this would still not be the worst case scenario.

I am still postulating that the "trainer" is a paragon of ethical rectitude, and will refrain the temptation of actively "stealing" the sub.

Which can't really be ensured - a truly capable dom -  the kind that could have a chance at realizing such a harebrained project - always develops some deep emotional exchange with his or her subjects.

So deep that deciding to "free" the submissive from the influence of the [clearly unreliable] spouse could be felt as an imperative - maybe, even, an ethical one. 


Resuming all of the above...

If you are a person of dominant persuasion and you want your espouse to know the joys of sexual submission, you can ask for counsel to other that have gone down that road, but you can't really ask anybody else to do it for you.

That really is courting disaster...

WTF?

"If she says that doing this gives her an orgasm, I would be inclined to believe it, for once."

---

Today was the day of my monthly visit with my psychological support provider.

"Why monthly", you say, "when my shrink wants to see my sorry ass every damn week?"

Well, when it started, it was once every two weeks, then every three, now it is once a month, hopefully it will become once every two months.

It is Public Health Service, babe - they allot time on how dangerous one is, to himself or others, not on how much money they can squeeze out of his pocket.

So my mild depression clearly takes a back-seat on the goat-shepherd that dreams to shag his own daughter(s), and the guys that attempted suicide.

So, I was there, commenting "nothing new, really", and the discourse went back to my SM allegiance.

Because the lady - she is a she of about my age, which is better, because my issues mainly stem from my less than spectacular relationship with womankind and a he younger than me, like my previous therapist, worked nothing on that respect - has always been puzzled by it.

After all, I am really a god-damn anarchist at heart, so I kind of laugh my ass off at many of the classic D/s tropes, and I do not really like the ideas of inflicting pain on anyone just for the sake of it, which isn't exactly Sadistic. My "the important is that she gets off from it" is quite uncharacteristic of the category, to say.

What it boils really down to is that I can't really, really, really trust women with normal sex.

You know the drill... everyone has met - or is, or has been - a woman who could not get there with her companion, yet faked orgasms for his sake.

Maybe it was done to not disparage his efforts, out of politeness, sympathy, desire to maintain an otherwise satisfying relationship, pity etc.

Maybe it was for pure and simply evil manipulation purposes, boredom, control mania.

The reasons why a woman may decide to pretend that she enjoys intercourse with someone, while she really just tolerates it, are as numerous as are the reasons to do any other little thing in life.

Like many of those, also, not all of them are nefarious - "He is a sweet man and I do not want to make him feel bad" doesn't exactly sound much evil-mastermind-y.

Unfortunately, both my parents spent my childhood teaching me that women were manipulative whores.

Yes, both dad - whose entire life philosophy was  "women are whores, and friends enter your house, shag your wife and then bled you dry, cheating you out of money and job opportunities before disappearing" - and mommy - who went along with a more sober "all [other] women are whores that you have to stay away from, as much as possible" .

Needless to say (really?), it is not exactly so.

Rationally, I know it - as well as I know that, when it comes at manipulative bitches, my mother is second to none, stealthy as she is with her whole "victim-hood" act.

But when it comes to guts feelings?

When it comes to that, I can't really help but think that every woman that has an orgasm through "normal" sex - more important, normal sex... with me! - is really just faking it. Worse, that she is faking it for some nefarious - logically impossible to ascertain, but try to prove a privative like, say, the non-existence of the invisible pink unicorn  - hidden purpose.

It does not really help the fact that some women do so - the 20-something model marrying the 60-something millionaire is an usual suspect of this - or that virtually every woman has faked the damn thing, some time.

It doesn't help at all that the perspective of ending up with yet another manipulative bitch - my mother put to shame even the most money-obsessed professional prostitute that I met in my life  - as a significant one scares the pants out of me. 

So, women and normal sex... I can't trust them, not even the proverbial "as much as I throw them".


When I look at the kind of masochism that I usually draw, I see a pay-off and risks matrix that is quite different - faking orgasm is still possible, but no gain available at my level would justify the risks involved.

More so, not when there are tons of much more interesting men available, waiting and eager to be duped in the far less risky, "vanilla" game.

So, I read the whole SM game as truer than the "vanilla" ass-pull. 


I know, I know... I am fragged.

Sins of the past

[Note: this is not a piece of fiction]

One of the ugliest characteristics of past sins is that they often come back, to bite one's ass.

Of course, "come back" may already be a question of luck: some of us can hardly leave the bastards alone, and spend far too many idly moments revisiting past mistakes, with the depressing belief that even if we manage to learn a lesson from any of them, we will just make new, worse  errors going forward.

They do not always come back directly, sometimes they arrive in a very tangential way.

The last "sin" to bite my ass is my tendency to consider that, in a BDSM interaction, all the responsibility for preventable mishaps that still happen goes to the top/dom/master.

Due to an unfortunate choice of examples in a munch, the question poisoned the last peer rope I was in and, because of said sin of mines, I did not contribute much - at all, really - in quashing the turmoil.

I didn't add gasoline to the fire either, but that is not much of a consolation.

I had a couple of days to sleep on the issue, and came to the conclusion that that day's reunion organizer - a woman with a metric ton of character, that also happen to be a rope model - opinion, on it, was ultimately correct.

And her opinion was, in one word: "Poppycock".

The bottom/sub/masochists share some responsibilities with their partners (and vice-versa), though the law of the land may differ quite vigorously on it (but after all, laws, justice and ethics are often only vaguely related to each other).

Even in a Total Power Exchange play, not only the limits of the game must be agreed before, but the play will always relay on an honest communication between the players.

This can break down either because the "top" fails to care for the clues given by the "bottom", either because this latter is so engulfed in the sub-space that it can hardly report what is happening to its body.

When this happen, though, I think that it is only natural for the "dom" to feel completely responsible of the shit that happens, because when the "bottom" flies away, it should be brought back to Earth, if there is any possible danger.

On the other hand, if the millisecond the "dom" distracts to get the next strand of rope, the "hogtied" model unexpectedly  - they had never discussed the possibility - starts jumping around because it likes to play the escapist... it is a bit hard to assign to the top more than a token of responsibility.

The turmoil in my much beloved backyard started after a guy used the "If you go dressed as a whore in the Bronx, you may well expect that they rape you", used as a  set-up to justify for an equally maddening "If a slave choose an inexpert master, it is also hir fault when shit happens".

Both assertions  manages to irritate me on a strictly utilitarian level (no need to invoke my progressive, libertarian nature, here - if women won't feel safe going around scantily dressed, they won't do it - clue a certain frustration on my part; similarly, if submissive women feel that scarcely experienced doms cannot be trusted, they won't give them any chance, and I happen to be one of them). 

Personally, I'd like to live in a world where a woman could fell asleep in a subway station, dressed only with leather collar and cuffs, and the only thing that could happen would be her catching a bit of a cold.

In fact , I like to think that I try to bring on such a world with my art... even though, I fear, no amount of my art will ever be enough to change the idiotic mores of our societies.

So, yes, sub/bottom/slaves may be responsible of mishaps - when they do violate the"contract" at the base of the session.

But, no, they are not responsible just for choosing an inexperienced companion, that tries too fancy a move and fucks-up (among the other things, because there are very few top

In the end, it is like for everything else - there is no such things as fixed or reliable rule, not even a rule-of-thumb, and the devil (or god) is in the details.

In the name of Noxon (Part 9)

[Extreme S&M Ahead - do not read if you do not like very bad things done, on very nice women, for the sake of the voyeuristic pleasure of a petty and utterly idiotic divinity]

By the way, chance is that, if you know me from other venues and you have followed "Noxon" till now, this is just what you were waiting for, my dear bad boy/girl/divinity.

---

Sarah Westerhoos was on the superior deck of one of the new Officiants' boats - her Granny Padma hadn't exaggerated. The electric engine hardly made any noise or vibration. The boat was travelling, leisurely, inside the old channel that went from the ancient waterway of the Sassa river to the SassaFrakka Ziggurat.

It had been two years, since her sister Emily had been abducted by the entity known as Noxon - Sarah had lost any hope of ever seen her twin again, unless she could get inside the house of Noxon in some way, and the only one she knew of was joining the Officiant and endure all that she could, on top of a Ziggurat.

This was going to be her first ascension as a full Officiant - she had already survived things that, only a year before, would have seemed impossible to her, and soon she was going to face more.

In her hand was a leash, going to the collar of one Called, a little daughter of Sassa's middle-low bourgeoisie that looked every bit as young as her 19 years, and maybe even a bit more.

Sarah considered the fact that her follow-up was just one solitary, so-so girl, but she realized that she could not really complain about the prudence of the local Church's chapter.

After all, she was an oddball, to say so - someone that had a very personal and outside-box reason to enlist.

No matter how consistently she would pursue her Officiant career, the old women that organized the rites were bound to be suspicious of her, for a long time. Persons with her kind of stake in the faith, in fact, were known to be prone to suddenly lost interest and decide to leave the service, be damned its carefully designed social whiplash; and, even if it was seldom acknowledged, this tended to have an effect on the girls that had been introduced to The Service by them.

Sarah sighed - she felt that she had gone a long way, but a lot more was still in front of her.

Her sigh inspired another one, at her back - she darted a glance above her shoulder, to see the young girl - Meri? - reflecting her own unsteadiness, multiplied by a younger age and an even shakier vocation.

The young Sassian was not an incredible beauty, either... why exactly had the Old Bastard - this was the name that Sarah had chosen for Noxon - decided to summon this slightly chubby kid, among the millions of women in the Great Sassa Area?

They arrived at the Ziggurat landing pier, way before she had started to fathom that mystery.

Sassa's Ziggurat had a staircase of the full, traditional length - 1024 steps, each 17 cm and some mm tall, a whole 175 metres of climb.

At least it was a modern ziggurat, its stair twisting up its front side - a long, slow climb and not the muscle-breaking, steep vertigo of more ancient designs.

Sarah was not sure whether this was really better - "The Walk" takes a lot more, on these low-slung slopes, and she fully felt the gaze of half the city on her, as she couldn't use the bulk of the stone pyramid as a shield. On the other hand, the cramps the old ones can induce in even the most physically fit - and better trained - women were the stuff of legends.

Yet, "The Walk" was only one hour or so of a very long day.

She started, nudging a light strap to the leash going to the little Sassan's box-tie central knot.

They started at the slow cadence of the tambourines, drummed by their companions along the stair.

Soon, she was only vaguely aware of the city, or even of the small girl in her tow - she became lost in the almost-trance she had long studied for, in the months after her induction.

Near the end she realized only vaguely giving the leash to a priestess, on the half-last plan of the ziggurat where the inductions take place.

She went on to the last stretch of steps, her mind almost a blank slate with no human concerns.

On the plan, the first women on the sides were recently inducted novices, preparing themselves for their first climb.

Inside the inner square, older women looked with mild interest - these were active duty officiants, who had already done the walk - and who would still do it in the future, plenty of times. Finally, inside "The Cube", there were only four priestesses - officiants that had decided to remain in the Church when their twenty years of service were over.

They were her torture team, and she had met with each of them many times, during her training.

The older ones were Gea and Gaia, married officiants from Fillandia, with that region classic feature of Ancient Africa and the pale skin that came with generations of the little sun available in high Antarctic areas.

As many married couples since the dawn of the species, they had grown to resemble each other, in some uneasily describable way. The younger ones were Nichelle, a tanned girl with epicanthic folds from Fraglbar, and Jenna, a tall RedHead from Grassyrainland.

Sarah was already down, in the vast realms of sub-space, in the trance that would allow her recently revealed masochist nature - she was, indeed, one of the few, lucky "naturals" - to transform the storm of pain ahead into a strange, calm and pleasant serenity.

That had been a great surprise, in her post-induction training - she liked the right pain, at the right moments, produced by the right persons, in the right way. A lot of "in the right", but she liked it - when it was well administered, and the priestesses of Noxon accumulated years of experience, from her side of the altar, before moving to their current one.

The ritualized pain didn't give her the cataclysmic climaxes of some of her companions, but it was already much better than for others. She had a chance, although slimmer than the one she'd fancied entering the service, of reaching up to the 'god' great white house, and be able to ask to the old bastard - "where the hell is my sister?"

When the youngest priestesses greeted and undressed her, it felt just - natural. Nichelle, Jenna and her had rehearsed these moments plenty of times, in the weeks leading to this moment.

The knot of tension that had managed to maintain itself, deep, deep inside her eased and dissolved when the two older priestesses extended their hands, so that she could be guided to the altar.

As the ones in most Ziggurats, it was a mobile structure, at present looking just like a one step tall platform at the centre of The Cube - she raised herself on it, sat in its centre by cross-folding her legs in a lotus position and then distended, till she remained lying, her arms and legs well spread, her eyes looking the deep blue-green of the morning sky.

The altar was raised, till it was at the correct height for the work of the priestesses. A scream came, from the platform below the great square - the little Sassan hasty training hadn't been thorough enough, and she could not manage to attain the state of mind necessary to withstand her induction with some pleasure.

Gea held Sarah's hands, while they waited - together - for the other priestesses to come back with the tools to be used on the nearly new officiant - and for what was going on, some five meters below them, to end.

Soon, the screams turned to almost inaudible sobs then, after some long minutes, a new sound reached their ears - the Sassan was a screamer, and announced to the whole universe that she had finally come.

By then Gaia had come back, and now the two older clergywomen stood at her sides, each one holding one of her hands and slowly caressing her body, while Jenna and Nichelle placed the trays and prepared for their role as assistants.

The beholders along the causeway had already started to disband - what was now to happen was not, supposedly, for human eyes.

However, the Church never bothered to press any city council into changing its zoning laws, so even this Ziggurat was now surrounded by stupidly high towers, whose last floors offered a view of the events as good as the one that The God had.

Her eyes to the sky, framed by the thin stainless steel beams of "The Cube" (even Fraglbar Ziggurat had finally moved away from the ancient reinforced concrete Cube structure), she couldn't care less about the little women that had taken a day break to watch her, from their offices and flats in the towers.

A priest surged from the lower platform, to signal that the Sassan had been finally inducted in the service and, thus, it was finally time to give the 'god' its main course.

The four priestess stepped near Sarah, and each of them placed a leather cuff to one of her aft articulations - wrists and ankles - then locked it to the Yttrium frame. When all these were firmly in place, they trapped her to the frame with leather bands at knees and elbows and, finally, the assured her hips and her chest.

When they were sure that she was fully confined on the small frame, she felt the the large stone plan of the altar disappear from below her back, while the uncomfortable, small beams of the double-y shaped "Yttrium" support maintained their position.

The altar continued to go down, its hydraulics hardly emitting any sound, till it became just another stone in the pavement, barely distinguished by its enormous shape and the design of the "under-Yttrium" - a large, double-y shaped slab of the same rock as the altar, that levels to the ground when the altar is closed to the ground - in its middle.

The priestesses donned their gloves, then the younger ones made a step back and assumed a waiting position, similar to the box-tie start.

Each of the older priestesses went down, with a hand, inside her legs - one of them started teasing her anus, while the other inserted two fingers inside the vagina.

They continued to warm her up for a while, as they had done plenty of times during the rehearsals, them signalled Nichelle to take place between her legs and replace them, while Jenna took a specular position, in front of Sarah, and lowered the support of the Officiant's head protruding from the Yttrium frame, opened the front of her priestly robe, and placed her vagina in a position where Sarah's tongue could gratify her.

Or, at least, try to - Jenna hadn't assumed that position for her own pleasure.

The older women took a medium length leather flogger and, each on her side, moved two step away, to have Sarah's body at the right striking distance.

They started slowly, and increased the intensity of their strokes for the successive twenty minutes, before changing to a heavier cat of nine tails, with whom they continued for other twenty minutes, before switching to a final 5 feet bull-whip.

Every few minutes, Gea and Gaia took a pause, so that Jenna could offer some water to their patient, and switched arm.

At the end of that first hour, the body of Sarah was covered with whip marks, and blood dripped from some small cuts.

Jenna, whose body had acted not only as a further humiliation for the much younger colleague but, also, as a shield, didn't fare too much better - many of the strokes given with the non-dominant hands by her seniors had gone astray, and impacted on the arms womb and legs of the younger priestess.

Similarly, the forearms of Nichelle were now full of whip marks.

Now that the whips had stopped, Sarah could appreciate that the hands of this latter had fully entered inside her... a sensation that she had discovered to be quite satisfying, during the preparation weeks before the rite.

The priestess then extracted both hands, first the one inside Sarah's rectum, then, partially, the one in her vagina. When the thumb came out of the young woman, the priestess started using it to rub, suavely, against Sarah's clitoris.

Nichelle continued her stimulation, till Gaia took her place, in hand a powerful, spherical head vibrator.

The old woman continued to stimulate the young Officiant, with the machine and her own hand, till Sarah came. Then, the altar platform was raised again, and Sarah was - temporarily - freed from her numerous shackles.

A new girl arrived - not a priestess, another officiant not much older than Sarah - to take care of her during the half. hour rest period, helping cleaning up the body of the former Windy Valley inhabitant, and keeping her well hydrated.

As she sat in her lotus position, feeling her colleague fingers running all the length of her body, Sarah couldn't help but imagining Noxon - the 15000 years old bastard - looking at the spectacle, with a glass of wine and a Mortadella sandwich in hand, or something the like.


When the four priestess returned, Sarah promptly lied down again, this time facing the stone.

A heavy leather hood was placed on her face, though it let her mouth open, for her to scream - or to safe-wording out of the ceremony.

A heavy, rugged corset was put on her, covering the whole of her belly and back - a necessary shield, to safeguard the kidneys and the surrounding tissues from the stroke of the whips.

In the following hour, the four women pretty much repeated what they had done to the front of Sarah's body, reiterating many hits on her exposed ass to compensate for the dangerous areas they had to avoid.

They left Sarah, barely conscious, to the cares of the small Officiant.

For more than an hour, the exhausted girl was allowed to rest, in the shade of the Cube automatic cover, then the last leg of her ordeal commenced.

They freed Sarah, and helped her to seat, on the raised altar's border.

Then, the altar closed down completely, and they helped her to stand when her feet touched the ground. Soon, the square inside the Cube was fully flat, the altar and the frame just pavement irregularities at its centre. Lifting hooks descended from the winches on the cube's top beam, and Jenna and Nichelle locked Sarah's cuffs in them.

The beaten girl's legs were completely unsteady, and she would have likely fell down if left alone. The last rite that the dices had declared for the young Officiant was an "optional" one, that Sarah was authorized to refuse but decided to take it anyway.

The electric winches lifted Sarah's body till she remained just on the tip of her toes, and she begun to cry. Jenna reached for her and, with her tallness, managed to kiss the tortured girl on her mouth and whispered her "Be strong, it will end soon".

For this breach of protocol, the redhead would be whipped harshly, once back to the Officiants House.

 The unnamed Officiant brought, from the recesses of the ziggurat, a final set of contraptions, and disposed it on the top shelf of one of the trays.

The first tool appeared to be a small, inflatable cylinder with two conic terminals,  a bit like a big silicone suppository with a thick tube protruding from one tip.

Next to it, a stainless steel, well sized speculum, and than an oddly shaped dildo, with a sizeable hole traversing its whole length, then a stainless terminal with a one-way valve and a lock-plug, and one battery operated terminal-clamping machine.

Gaia inserted the speculum in Sarah, then arranged its screws so that it fully opened and exposed the young woman's uterus cervix.

She then took the inflatable gizmo, showered it with lubricant and proceeded to force it through the cervix's neck. Soon, only the black silicone tube remained in sight, protruding from the body of Sarah.

Gea kept caressing and soothing Sarah from behind, as she had started to do the very moment that the little Officiant had brought the new tools from the service rooms inside the ziggurat.

Gaia then slid the tube inside the oddly shaped dildo/holder, and proceeded to move this up along it, till she placed the misshaped clump of silicone inside the stretched body cavity.

She then removed the speculum, all the while keeping the newly placed holder in its position. She knew that its top was modelled on the young woman's cervix mouth, as well that its silicone gel would morph itself over the next few days, as daily injection of more compound would enlarge the holder toward the inside.

Nichelle took a set of leather strands from the tray - her and Jenna managed to assemble it, connecting its pin joints, around the hips and waist of Sarah, revealing its nature as a tight-fitting harness. With a bit of awkwardness, them and Gaia finally managed to complete the set-up, fully locking the various silicone contraptions inside the womb of the officiant.

Lastly, Gaia glued shut all the joints using a self-hardening resin, on each joint applying the Seal of Service.

The strands of the harness really were just nice covers for carbon fibre tapes, able to withstands thousand of kilograms of tensile strength. Once fully hardened, the resin was, likewise, among the most resistant plastics known to woman.

By the end of the day, Sarah would have needed specific tools to remove the harness, and the uncomfortable pieces of synthetic biocompatible materials that this kept firmly inside her body.

Gaia then took, from the tray, the last final pieces of the puzzle - the battery operated clamping machine, who could also cut the nano-carbon woven silicone tube, and the special one-way valve and socket plug assembly. She cut the tube - which could also act as a one-ton life-line - and proceeded to clamp the one-way valve-plug on it, again using the multi-ton strength of the battery tool.

In the meanwhile, Nichelle inserted a more normal butt-plug inside Sarah's ass, and then attached one tensor of a Y-shaped leather frame to one hook in the back of Sara's leather corset, the centre of the frame to the screw protruding from the butt-plug, with a small butterfly bolt and, finally, when Gaia moved away, she passed the two final strands of the frame on the sides of the Venus mount, to two rings in the leather corset,

While this anal plug would be retired, at the end of the day, the material in her womb would be left in placer, as every of her days hereafter would start with a generous quantity of saline solution, forcedly inserted inside the inner inflatable, to expand her womb.

The physicians who would supervise the expansion process, as well as her menstruations' suspension, would be the only ones authorised to remove her harness and proceeded with the necessary hygiene and health maintenance activities. 

The purpose of this all was to use the, by then enormous, balloon inside Sarah's belly to suspend her upside down, in her third full officiation, six local months after.

Gaia then attached a small saline pump yo the inflate plug, and proceeded to place the first half of many a liter inside Sarah. The saline was at body temperature and, among the sensorial assault that the session had brought on the young woman, it went nearly unnoticed.

The winches hooks were lowered, and finally Nichelle and Jenna helped the nearly destroyed Sarah walking out of the Cube squares, down the first ramp of steps, and inside the hidden rooms of the Ziggurat, where the paramedics of the Service were waiting for her.

On a veranda of a very nice villa, in one of the few tropical islands still untouched by mass tourism, a seven feet tall Obsidian man and a chubby, five feet girl looked at the scene, as reproduced by a way beyond the state of the art 3D vision system.

Both were avatars of the 'god', however, this usually didn't override their original consciousnesses when it observed the rites, one of the few times in which each was sure to be itself - and one of the few occasions in which they had to talk, to communicate.

Around them, about a dozen of naked women, almost all with marks on their bodies, some wearing the same kind of harness enclosing Sarah, or even more outlandish implements - one of them a Protasian with no arms.

The Abducted Officiants were discussing the spectacle from their perspective, though some were simply crazily masturbating.

- "So, that is Emily's little sister?"

- "Twin - the four of them were born in a couple of hours. She is ten minutes younger than her older sister."

- "Oh, girls, won't our spy on the alien ship make a fuss, over this?"

- "Why? Her sister has the same right that she had, to consecrate herself to us. Emily has nothing to say about this, really."

- "More on the point, if this sister grows enough, should we ever get her here?"

The tall man stopped, while the armless woman stepped in front of them and, gracefully,  sat with a perfect rendition of the Officiants' Lotus cross-fold - a movement that the Protasianne, Diem van Tinh, had invented forty centuries before, when she still hadn't been abducted by the god.

- "That is not your choice" 

- "No need to use that tone, we are just... us - what we think  does not really matter."

- "Maybe... it is customary that we are the ones that decide to ascend an officiant. Us, the council of the Forever Servants."

- "Noxon has no reason to allow to his presence someone who is bound to be so critical as that lass."

- "Unless everybody is mistaken, that is precisely the reason why she has entered the service. Am I wrong?"

- "Uh, no - No, you are not Mistaken."

 The change in the big man voice pitch signalled that Noxon main consciousness had taken control - the gold-tanned woman ignored it, as it was inconsequential. Her artificial arms arrived, navigating the room like some weird animal or the semi-autonomous small robot that they really were, reached their owner and dressed on her. Diem preferred to have her arms attached, when she talked with the Old Bastard, as she knew that the ancient A.I. had never really overcome its original human upload preference for Italian-style mimicry

- "So, when she will have earned it - soon, if this fist performance is a clue of her level of commitment - we will invite her here, and you will take her dress-down like a man, and not like a stupid divinity."

The last word was almost spat. Not for the first time in 5000 years, Noxon wondered how could it have been so dumb as to reprint its ancient collection of comics - Oink and its "Confront your Gods" message had made lasting damages to its godhood pretences.

Yet, erasing the abductees and their culture would have been... wrong like the plans of JVH for the inhabitants of Madian, Noxon's measure for unacceptable levels of divine ass-holeness.

- "Of Course - when she will have earned it."

Diem stood up, proud as ever, her nipples even more arrogant than ever

- "Vâng!"

Noxon looked at the 4000 year young arse as she went away, and felt that she was every bit as lovely as the first time that she climbed Nijistrim's Ziggurat, one of the few with developmental malformations in a society completely based upon the use of genetic engineering.

The substance that had produced that generation of teratogenic damages was long forgotten, and Noxon knew that it was right, but at times it wondered if the spunky 'Namese would have been so outspoken, hadn't she had to fight the unwanted pity of the "normals" in her youth.

Noxon considered the Westerhoos sisters conundrum....

Finally, some fun.

In The Name of Noxon (part 7)

<<

Once upon a time, when pirates still littered the seas, after the officiants' ship used to come a fifth ship, but this tradition was lost in recent eras.

Ours was the last ship in the convoy,  the one most attention was directed to - when I saw a flash, from one of the city's windows, I felt the gaze of the woman behind those lenses, as I knew those were glares from telescopes and cameras.

The officiant veil had always been conceived more to show and highlight its wearer shapes, than to hide anything.

While I was there, on the open deck, the light fabric waving under the slow breeze, I felt more naked than I ever was, or would I ever feel again.

I didn't feel so exposed when I was in the middle of our town square, or while waiting in line, completely naked in SassaFrakka's medical complex, when we were thoroughly examined at the beginning of our preliminary training.

I won't feel so exposed ever again, not even at the beginning of my first rites, when I was finally stripped naked, at the top of the pyramid.

Was not for the ropes binding me, for the leash from Cezanne to me and the one that I had to keep in my hands, did not I know that my collapse would have ruined the experience for everybody, I would have run to hide in the lower deck.

But life, in the Service of Noxon, runs on camaraderie more than on anything else.

Noxon is too much of a reasonable entity, to really excite mystical deliriums, so expecting things like auto-flagellation - that the Xhristians  are so fond of - from its followers is asking a bit much.

Yet Officiants do what they have to do, every day of their life, and have to find their strength somewhere - outside mysticism.
The service runs on everybody doing her parts, because the alternative is one of her friends having to take her place, in a moment in which this friend may not be in a good enough shape to withstand the rites - it is then that, often, deaths occur.

The service run on on that, and on the fact that - more or less deeply inside us - we Officiants like it.

Even those for whom the ritualized pain didn't translate into pleasure, and there are some, love being able to do what we do.

It sets us apart from the mass of women that only have a 9 to 5 work, and maybe a couple of daughters, to justify their existences.

Because that is the real horror - not climbing the one thousand steps of a ziggurat, to then be stripped naked on its top and be tortured under the eyes of a whole city.

Not spending an afternoon in the most terrible pain known to woman, once every three months, to keep the world turning at the speed needed to support life.

Nor is it to be asked to breed the most beautiful women in the world, maybe with some of  the strongest ones, five or six times.

It is to be a push-paper, in some bureaucratic middle kingdom, scraping by to pay the rent, with a likewise second-rate wifesband that has to do the same, with lukewarm safe-sex and a mortgage to pay the para-sperm factory, when one wants to reproduce.

Day after day spent aimlessly, with the nagging sensation that one's life is useless, knowing all too well that their daughters' lives will be the same, and their daughters' daughters, and so on, till Noxon will really get bored with us,  stop correcting our planet's orbit to go back to the stars from where we came, and everything in our will finally burn a mere two thousand years after.

>>

The young girls gasped - absolute nihilism, the greatest sin in Noxon's theology.

They did not expect Granny A., the famous Officiant, to entertain such thoughts, and shuddered, thinking about the length of the meditations that would require purging her mind from it.

Of course, Noxon does not promise any after-life, nor does it really cares about any sin one may commit in this life, apart cautioning that that's a nice way to live long and unhappy.

Whatever one does, Noxon says, just fucks up her own life - so, there is no need for any warden deity, paradises or hells.

Bad karma - the manifestation of entropy in social life - is enough  of a punishment, for the Church of Noxon.

<<

But, when you are atop the pyramid and a city is watching you, it is a powerful feeling

And You are - I was - what stands between the world and oblivion, for that day.

Yes, if the Officiants stopped their service, the world would still go on well for a thousand years, maybe.

During the 30 years of the Agnostics rule, about two thousand years ago, the duration of days went up to 24 hours ten minutes, it was enough that the climate started to change.

For those ten minutes more, deserts swollen and then 150 years were needed to get things back in order, 150 years of double rites.

Maybe life is really meaningless but, if it is not, if in some hidden corner of the world, in some mysterious shard of the great torture machine that we call society there is something that justifies its enormous pain in the ass, then - when you climb the steps - you are not meaningless either.

You are the one that keeps the world turning that day.

And there is not much more a person can ask.

>>

The girls relaxed - this was the Granny that they loved: more than a bit fanatical about her job, whichever may it be, was it being a not-too-much glorified sexual doll of an alien 'god', a behind-the-curtains political chess-master, or the pillar of their extended family.

<<

Of course, when you are virtually naked, in an organza dress in the middle of a morning breeze, on a wooden of a ship that is going to a place almost as old as the history of humanity on our world, this kind of thoughts are the very last thing in your mind.

In reality, I didn't see things this way till I turned 40, and my twenty years were nearing their end.

It is the human nature, to really comprehend what one has only when she is forced to let it go.


But, if any of you try to enter the service, if she manages to get up there, she will be one who keeps the world turning, that day.

One day, our species may find a way to compensate the huge tidal effects of a planet so deep inside its tiny star's gravity well like ours, all by itself.

Caving in to Noxon's moronic whims won't be necessary, and the Officiants' long service will may finally end.
Maybe.

But, until that day, when one climbs those stupidly tall, steep steps, she is doing it to  keep the world turning.

>>

- "Granny, please, skip this sentimental junk. You were reaching the great Ziggurat of Fraglbar, over a ceremonial boat, Remember?"-- Emily interrupted, as blunt as ever.

Granny A. slid over the implicit accusation of senility - though it was far from a novelty, she still darted a cold stare at her great-great-granddaughter - before going back to the tale.

However, if Emily continued like this, Granny A. would really pull some strings to get her into the Officiants and then up to Snowhole, the northernmost Ziggurat, the last created, the only one that has no great city nearby... a place not so affectionately known as "Boredom Hell". 

<<

Yes - in those days, diesel engines had already replaced rowers as the ships' means of locomotion - cheaper to maintain, and quieter, though still noisier than the electric motors that replaced them about ten years ago.

The engines purred just above their idle speed,  fairly over-sized if compared with the ship effective needs. .

It is strange, the rhythm of the waves, the gentle hum of the engines, the little words exchanged on the deck, at a given point I stopped caring for the peeping inhabitants of the towers.

 I slid inside a place in my mind, that I did not know was there, where all the small and great nuisances that I was withstanding disappeared, fading in the background.

 I focused only on the leash from Cezanne's hands to me, on following her, through the disembarkation procedures. Then we reached the base of the pyramid, and I dared not looking up.

I  Knew that, if I saw it and its 160 meters tall bulk, I could hardly start the climb.

I just followed Cezanne - or, rather, her slightly swinging ass - up the stairs. .

Fraglbar's path is not 1000 steps - the collapse of the shoreline it was built upon took away about 18 meters of the original base, or about one hundred steps., leaving, in all, 888 steps to climb (I think that the architects of the post-Earthquake restoration fiddled with the height of the Ritual Pier and with some of the steps, to get it to another, though not round, significant number).

It is odd, how much harder it becomes to climb a staircase when your hands are tied behind your back, which I thought was the reason why we climbed slower than I would have liked - in reality, the walk speed is drilled in each Officiant, like a musician learning to keep her tempo, and for very similar reasons.

The rites are a spectacle, after all, done for a God that do actually review it, every now and then!

>>

The girls in the great hall gasped, and Emily took it as an invitation to make one of her impertinent questions - spoken with an irreverent tone, too:

- "Review?"

Granny A darted the little punk, while the vision of a Ziggurat in the middle of Antarctica's Greater Plain pleasantly replaced that of the tyke's smirk - "Of course... they draw the dices, afterward, and the Rites session get a punctuation, 2 to 12  - or, to get rid of that offset, 0 - 10" - Granny made a Pause, thinking whether adding yet another Service "secret" - "Every three years, we are re-presented to the God, and dices are then drawn, to see what it thinks of each of us, whether on our body, our commitment to the rites, our sex-appeal... a whole set of categories. Very rarely, after these evaluations come in, an Officiant is forced to leave the service prematurely."

- "It seems to me that Xhristian's master, that never make his will known, is a far better deity than Noxon" - Emily, smirking again... Boredom Hell will be her destiny

- "Maybe. The few times I saw it happens, it was for women  who had developed resistance to the Black Oleum, so that they could not climb The Walk without accumulating definitive damages any more, and yet refused to leave the service. The 'god' asked that they were relieved and dismissed from the service, with full honors. The Xhristian's God never stopped any of them from killing herself in one of their publicity stunts, did it?"

- "No, but..."

Granny A lose her patience, and waved the young girl to silence, getting back to her tale

<<

We started climbing the pyramid - the first time, it is the hardest, mostly because you do not expect it and, also, because the training is never really enough, if you do not spend time actually climbing and downing THOSE stairs. Also, the rhythm of The Walk is thought more as a way to induce the Officiant into an altered state of mind, together with the drum beats from the colleagues on the side of the pathway, than as an efficient rhythm to climb a very long staircase

When we finally reached the square right below the top one, my legs were full of lactic acid, and cramps were imminent - and I was not the only one.

Each of us novices was in that condition, apart the little Black Guard who, probably, could have gone down running, and come back a couple of times - I kind of hated her, seeing how relaxed she was. 

Cezanne left the leash in the hands of one of the priestesses, and went over, climbing the last set of steps, going up to the smaller terrace where the proper rites are conducted.

The priestess took us in hand, and driven us so that we were aligned in front of the smaller terrace wall, and thee other priestesses joined her, to free us of our bindings.

We turned facing toward the Equator, where them 'god' is said to be, and undressed ourselves, looking to the gulf and the great ocean beyond it.

I suppose that, behind our back, the flashes were more than ever, but I could not see them, and I didn't really care.

The top of the Fraglbar pyramid has one of the most beautiful sights in the world, with the gulf a small inner sea and yet, at the horizon, the mountain of the Corinthian Ism break the continuity of the skyline, and the Kirimanjo's glacier is a white spot in the middle of brown, green and blue.

I think that the same sensation of peace came over all of  us, as we recited the Pledge Of Service,

Then the two younger priestesses started applying the piercing clamps - one to each nipple, and one t the clitoris' hood.

They hurt but, soon, the clamped parts went numb.

We  heard some whirring rumors, behind us, as electric winches raised four stones from the floor, to become the beds on which we would be consecrated.

The priestesses accompanied us, as we walked backward - without turning our faces away from the 'god' - till the stone slabs.

These were raised only about a foot and a half, so  that we could lower ourselves on them and sit on their edges, with the minimum of movements.

Then, the winches came back to life again, and raised the stones up, leaving our feet dangling in the void.
 
At the first stop, the senior priestesses arrived with the piercing needles, and proceeded to apply the Symbols of the Officiant, three solid gold rings.

Nothing in my life prepared me for the sensation of the gauge 10 needle that went through my nipples,  thought the clamps had really numbed the area. It wasn't the as much the pain, which was really quite moderate, it was the sensation of the sound that it made, sliding inside my skin and through my flesh.   

I I hadn't already been sitting on the stone, my legs would likely have ceded at that.

A few moments later, when the old woman - a lot younger than me now, of course - used a gauge 8, horizontally under my clitorides, it was worse but not unexpected any more.

These were not the "real" rings - those would arrive only after the wounds would have cicatrized properly.

These rings didn't have, for example, the engraving "Noxon owns me" on their side, and they had a simple friction hold, so that they could be opened regularly, to clean them and take care of the healing process.

The gold was only a thick plating over a lighter, brass metal.
The real ones would be heavier, real gold, and have a one-time-only internal spring lock - once in place. the only ways to take them out would be using a saw, or a scalpel on the flesh.

Or, just, yanking them out with brute force.

>>

A frisson of horror ran across Granny A's public, at the thought of such a barbaric act - Granny A, that had been a recipient of this four times, knew better: in its grandguignolesque way, it was fun.

<<

The temporary ring in place, the priestesses make us distend , and raise our feet on the stones , leaving our intimate parts well exposed, near the edge.

An assistant made a round, passing a tube of lubricant to each of them, who used it profusely on the glove of her non-dominant hand.

They started fingering us, one finger, two fingers at a time - slowly, calmly, while they used their other hand to caress and relax us.

I came, then the priestess that was serving me stuck a third finger inside, and continued to manipulate my body till I came again, and again, and then she added the little finger, and continued.

Once every few minutes, she used the dominant hand to reach the lubricant can, and renew its layer on the hand that was violating me.

They continued it for one hour, then four other priestesses took their place.
After another hour, the new priestess could slid her hand palm inside me, to the point that she could use the middle of her thumb to rub on my clitoris, when she was well in.

Then, the fist priestesses re-took place, and continued for some minutes, till they decided to add the thumb inside our cunts... and I passed out, which meant the end of my first consecration.

I was not the first, to fall unconscious, nor the last - the little black guard continued to hold her ground, to the point where the full hand of her priestess could easily slid in and was replaced by a first ritual dildo and then by a second, bigger one - at which point she was allowed to rest, the second dildo firmly assured to her hips by a strap-in harness, for the rest of the day, 

When we were finally awoke, after sundown, the priestesses helped us to the elevators inside the pyramid.

None of us was really able to walk on her own - the black guard, also because the priestesses had left  her in the strap-in, with the second, enormous dildo well stuck in its rightful place... maybe to drive home the point that it doesn't matter which are the limits of an Officiant, only that she is willing and eager to reach them for the sake of Noxon's pleasure. 

From that point on, we truly became Officiants and, as such, our training would go beyond sheer physical conditioning like running and yoga, to include pre-torture specific exercises.

In some moments, I would feel that I was going to die but, in reality, it was the best period of my life. 

>>

- "Being tortured daily? Really, Granny? The best period of your life?" - Sarah, Emily's sister, was skeptical.

- "I was a masochist, dear - that's what made me thrive... and so will you."