They Say "Cleanliness is Next to Godliness." Some Gods, However, Prefer us Mortals to Get Dirty...
"Strike dear mistress, and cure his heart."
The phrase keeps repeating in my head. I'd say I don't know how I got here, but that would be a lie. It's that damn statue. It's always been the statue. It’s so hard not to love it though.
My life went from normal (well, what my normal was), to absolutely extraordinary, seemingly overnight.
Now here I sit, undeserving, on a phallic throne. Grim signs of perverse sexual conquests are strewn all about my "Palace of Pleasure". If I attempt to stand, my legion of obscenely dressed minions will rush to try and carry me wherever I'm trying to go.
It could be worse.
Despite their unwavering loyalty, it’s painfully obvious that they are not truly doing this of their own devotion. They are slaves, in the most base and carnal of ways.
What troubles me most, is that I’m not troubled by this. At first, I outright refused the 'assistance'. I protested at every opportunity. Now I can feel myself changing, embracing it all. Becoming what She wants.
Perfectly sculpted, exquisite detailing... inspiring of an obsequious lust. That's why I kept the damn statue in my dungeon in the first place. It seemed such a perfect fit. Something about it just makes people horny. Myself included.
It’s a small, smooth statuette of a woman on some kind of couch-bed thing. It looks ancient, with intricate detailing right down to the subtle, delicate torso folds of her bent form. Maybe Roman, but who knows when it was made.
The more I try to think about how I got the figurine, the less I seem to remember. Funny how that works. It used to stress me out, the things from my old life, the things I've forgotten... but alas, I am no longer that woman. Probably for the better.
I’ve evolved beyond such trifling concerns.
I do remember that I had the statue for quite some time before I had ever heard its voice.
I used to be a dominatrix. My clientele were typically middle aged men with latent mommy issues. No... no that's an unfair generalization. None the less, they would pay me to fetishize abuse. To treat them poorly and sometimes, sexually "torture" them. Nothing extreme. I would never have done anything that could cause real harm. In fact, I was somewhat proud of the work I did. It made them happy. That was what mattered.
Men who entered my life in any real romantic sense never lasted long though. Once they found out about my profession, they’d make wild and baseless accusations. They’d call me a "hooker", "harlot", "slut"... the list goes on. None of what I ever did with my clients was truly sexual, though. Not for me at least. While I found it frustrating, I suppose it’s hard for someone on the outside to understand. But I digress.
One of my first clients, Bill, started off very tame. He just wanted to be in my life. Well, that and be emotionally subservient to me. He was kind of how I got into the profession. He was bald, pudgy, and short. But not un-attractive. Just a different flavour than that of your typical “Sexiest Man Alive” magazine cover celebrity.
Anyhow, Bill’s tastes and desires quickly snowballed into him becoming my “freakiest” customer. He almost solely purchased all the equipment I had in my dungeon. Right down to my cat o’ nine tails. He liked being flogged, albeit delicately.
One night, he wanted things to go a little further than I was comfortable with, chaste as I was.
He showed up equipped with his iPod (he always liked to have music for his sessions), a huge battery, and metal gator clamps.
As a long time client and somewhat trusted friend, I was willing to make certain exceptions for him, but this was a bit much. After vehemently protesting, I got into 'dom mode' and gave him a “No!” that he couldn’t refuse.
We went through more of our normal routine, and near the end of our session, I went to change out of my latex. When I returned, it was a grizzly scene.
“Venus in Furs” by the velvet underground was playing, but it kept skipping and repeating the intro’s cacophonous electric viola ad nauseum.
Bill was spasmodically twitching, nipples connected to the battery via the clamps. There was smoke, and the stench of seared flesh. The battery appeared to be leaking fluid on the floor.
I quickly grabbed the plastic broom I kept in the closet, and whacked the car battery away, disconnecting one set of clamps entirely, and leaving the other one dangling from his right nipple unceremoniously. His thrashing movements had ceased. Bill was dead.
As I stood in abject horror, paralyzed equally by the shock of the situation, and the loss of my friend, the song stopped skipping and began to play through. Lou Reed’s voice began like a twisted eulogy.
“Shiny, shiny, shiny boots of leather…”
As I approached the shelf where the iPod dock sat, next to the statuette, I saw something that made my hair stand on end: The statuette of the woman was shedding tiny tears.
"...Whiplash, girl child, in the dark..."
The police investigation turned up no incriminating evidence against me. It seemed they actually believed my story. According to a detective, there’d been indications that he was spiraling into a deep depression. They ruled it a suicide, but even to this day I’m not convinced.
Shortly after, I met my first boyfriend. When I say first, I don’t mean I’d never had one before. It's that I now have too many to count. Men, and in many cases women, were literally lining up to spend time with me, to get to know me, and attempt to be intimate with me. It was intense, to say the least.
At first, I was very hesitant to partake in a loose, promiscuous lifestyle. What a child I was.
The more I think back on my old life, the more I realize how much I’ve always deserved. I'd just been too naïve to 'grab the bull by the horns'.
I began to hear a voice in my head, stronger and louder as my popularity grew. Powerful, independent, encouraging. “This is what it means to be a woman!” she would tell me. At first, I second guessed it, but I quickly learned that it’s a part of me, She's a part of me. The better part of me.
I once thought it was the statue’s voice, but I'm starting to realize that it’s been my truest self all along.
Everything began to tumble into more and more grandiose events. I started getting approached by agents who wanted me to star in movies, pornographic and otherwise. My face was everywhere. Magazine covers, billboards, posters. It was surreal.
I became a sexual icon.
It was strange though. Somehow, I didn’t feel objectified. I felt like I should, but honestly, I enjoyed it. I became powerful. Men and women alike, regardless of sexual orientation wanted me. Needed me. It started to become obsessive. No one could resist me.
The more overwhelming it all grew, the less I felt like my old self. I was once meek and shy. Only able to take any sense of command when donning my dominatrix persona. That was my only escape from being a weak and sheltered little girl.
I have since gone through a metamorphosis, and for some reason, I'm beginning to think it’s the statue I have to thank for it.
A temple was built for me. The iconic sports stadium, “The Skydome” was converted swiftly and efficiently into a palace of pleasure. Love was rampant, and desires were fulfilled, but I come with a cost. The devout became subservient to me.
An altar was erected in the center of what was once a huge field. It held my statuette on a pedestal. I mean... the Roman statuette... although, it’s becoming difficult to discern myself from it.
Thus we are led to the events of the present day, where I rule with a soft touch, and a tender kiss.
Every Friday, spectacular events are held in my temple; in my honour. People from around the world flock to pay homage to my beauty. Romantic scandals break out across the world daily, in lieu of war and conflict. Religious officials, and political tyrants all bend knee to my beauty.
I now live a life of pure satisfaction. No one troubles me, as my followers would never allow it. There’s no living human in existence that does not venerate me like a goddess. Like I deserve.
Sometimes, I still hear the voice. It’s difficult to decipher it from my own thoughts. But somehow I know, when I have a spurt of motivation, when brilliance strikes like lightning to the sea, I have the statue to thank.
Still, my thoughts always guide me back to the memories of that night with Bill. Sometimes, I swear I hear that song
"Strike dear mistress, and cure his heart."
I know that there’s more I must do. Still, even with all the pleasures, servants, even the world at my disposal, something is missing.
Images of Bill, streaked in sweat, corpse limp, with charred nipples stain the walls of my mind at all times.
Perhaps he was my first. My truest offering. Perhaps there’s more my followers can do. Truer ways to prove their devotion...
About the author
"Tewahway? How do you even say that?" Honestly, so long as you try, you're doin' it right!
I mainly write horror fiction, but I'm here to spread my wings and soar like a literary baby bird.
https://www.talesbytravel.com/short-stories for more