A Ritual and Musical Divertissement

A ritual and musical divertissement

by

Vitavie

This text is a mood piece. It does not have a plot as such, or just a simple one. There is public exhibition, whipping and caning, there are great projections of a woman's three orifices. There is audience participation - the full complement and a trio of soloists. And there is music.

It may be read in conjunction with my 'Filling the Void - From High to Sub.'

NOTE: The mother is mentioned once below. She will be properly introduced in the forthcoming Filling the Void - From High to Sub.', Part 2.

I have been here for many months, over a year.

I was a representative, retired professional woman. Wealthy, well- coiffured, well-dressed, not to be taken for a fool, single, but in control of my sex life in the form of hired services or non-professional one-or-two-night-stands.

I am now free of all desires and expectations that are considered proper and normal and what not. No clothes, no hair, no privacy, used at will.

Saturday evening has arrived, as it would. I am being prepared for the midnight performance. I am not the performer. Instead, I will be performed.

The same two women handle the preparations each time, always under His supervision.

Occasionally, my mother is present as well. Late seventies, bless her. When she is present, the audience for these preparatory rites becomes two: Him and her. She has come a long way in accepting me for what I became. With hindsight, she says, she always saw this coming - what I became.

The setting is a hall within a vast, immeasurable house in Shanghai--built specifically for this purpose. It has galleries and tiered seating arranged like a modest amphitheatre. Or perhaps, more fittingly, like an operating theatre, seating about two hundred. The décor is ornate in some antique style, European but with subtle Chinese ornaments and paintings blending in. Yet the figures depicted throughout--murals, carvings, statues--are all female, clearly submissive in posture and predicament. But wait... "Theatre" might be misleading. The vaulted ceilings and elevated galleries lend the space an ecclesiastical aura--like a church. A church-like theatre then.

The hall is empty still.

But at midnight, it will be full. It's always filled to capacity, with regulars and those aspiring to join their ranks.

The rites of preparation begin with a bath, naturally.

I have been nude, of course. I am always nude. The hall is still cold, and the shock of the exceedingly hot water makes me flinch. But strong hands hold me firmly--there is no room for hesitation.

Rationally, I know they have it all in hand. They know precisely how hot the water is, and how hot it needs to be. There is method in every detail.

But there we are: He and His people are entirely in control--of me, and of everything they do to me. Yet I, feeble as I am, still struggle to trust them. I've come a long way--further than I thought possible--but the final leap remains daunting. That is my plight: to learn to trust, unconditionally.

Unconditionally.

Even now, as this ritual unfolds just as it does every Saturday evening, I feel a ripple of anxiety. The known unknown no longer terrifies me, not like it once did, but it stirs something--something uneasy, even as I crave what comes next. A year ago, these experiences would have overwhelmed me. Now, I feel not only apprehension, deep apprehension, but also a underlying, but undeniable desire. Desire for what follows. The ritual. The celebration of what I am--perhaps of who I am.

The bath is fragrant with spices and oils, rich and heady. Whatever we use in the West seems like a crude imitation by comparison. We Westerners are boars beside the health aristocrats here. That isn't to say they are soft--far from it. But they yield superior results.

This life demands constant healing--body and mind. I endure much. Yet the healing is always given, and given abundantly. My skin is kept strong and resilient, yet soft. It must be. So is my mind.

After the bath, they scrub my skin. They are not gentle--but, as always, they are precise, purposeful. Comfort is not their concern; results are. This is not a moment meant to hurt me, but neither is my ease or unease of any consequence. Their focus is on what must be achieved.

My skin is left raw and glowing, flushed with heat, throbbing with life. Clean. Awakened.

Then they inspect me--meticulously. Every inch of my body is examined under handheld lights and magnifying glasses. They are hunting. Stray hairs, invisible to the casual glance, are plucked out with tweezers the moment they're found. Each removal brings a tiny flash of pain. And they always find strays.

It never fails to astonish me: that despite this ruthless, regular regime--so thorough, so merciless--some hairs persist. They survive. So do 'hairs' in my mind, for now.

(And is that why I still can't fully trust them, even though I long to surrender? Is it that somewhere, deep within the tissue of my mind, a few rebellious molecules still seek escape? Just like the hairs--resilient, improbable, always returning. Not under control.)

Next comes the ointment.

An ointment to kill for. The base oil alone is impossibly smooth--liquid silk--but it carries with it a chorus of fragrances and herbs, layered so densely that I imagine there may be thousands. The scent is impossibly complex, yet natural--as though it belongs not to a bottle, but to the earth itself, from a time when wind, water, and plant life ruled the world.

And again, it heals.

Healing I crave--perhaps like anyone else--but more intensely, because I live intensely. Because I endure more than most. And so, once more, they tend to every inch of me. Not a speck is missed. Every fold, every hollow, every secret crease is treated. They roll me, bend me, adjust me as needed. And I let them.

This, at least, I have learned: to give up control of my body, fully and without condition. To be as passive as a newborn, surrendered to their hands. The mind...? I am trying.

The final stage.

They paint my body white--snow-white, like that of a true innocent. The process mirrors the oiling: methodical, thorough, and inescapable. But this time, the substance is cool, dense, a paste that clings to skin and silence alike. I offer no resistance. I submit utterly. Indeed, like a newborn--still, breathing slow, thought dissolved.

Then come the final touches. A mouth of bright red--small, pursed, painted in the Japanese manner: a whisper of lips, a promise, or perhaps a warning. My eyes are shaded black, stark against the porcelain of my skin. And, of course, the wig: a sleek, jet-black bob, angled forward, framing the mask they have made of me.

I am nearing readiness.

I stand before Him--still, prepared, expectant. He circles me slowly, a deliberate orbit. At intervals, He pauses to inspect me more closely, eyes narrowing with clinical intensity. He leans in, sometimes so near that I can feel His breath graze the paint upon my skin. His gaze lingers where it matters most--on the folds between my legs, ensuring they are hairless, smooth, and flawlessly painted. He knows they are. Of course He does. But still, He looks. Perfection is not assumed. It is verified.

At His silent nod, the final preparations begin.

The old head servant approaches, pushing a wooden trolley. Upon it lies a neat array of implements, gleaming softly under the lights. Without a word, she lifts the first item: a ring gag. It is secured with a band wrapped in soft, white velvet--an unsettling paradox of gentleness and control. For now, until I go live, the ring is filled with a white rubber ball, sealing my mouth in silence, while promising what is yet to come.

Next, the servant gently pushes on my shoulder until I am bent over deeply. She then whispers for me to spread my buttocks with my hands. I know what's coming - I flinch and inhale sharply through my teeth, when she inserts the cold steel prongs that enter my anus. They are prepared with precision, the tools of the old ritual, and well lubed. When they touch me, I feel the chill of metal and the slick assurance of grease.

The insertion is careful, practiced -- an intrusion not just of the body, but of the mind. As the old woman ratchets the mechanism open, it reaches the threshold of pain, then goes just beyond it -- calibrated, deliberate. They are expert. They do not overstretch me, or they do, only just, only just... To me, it is never quite routine, no matter how often endured. I am opened down there, opened widely, physically and symbolically, made vulnerable in ways I cannot escape or deny. This is the purpose. This is the point. I will not be allowed to forget it.

I rise and assume the prescribed stance -- feet planted wide, body aligned, exposed not only in form but in purpose. The old woman kneels down in front of me - her face in front of my sex, which embarrasses me - still! - yet delights me. She pushes the slick cold prongs inside my primary orifice. This dilator and the anal one are a matching set, made to measure for my body, and connect via an interference fit - click! The head servant also ratchets the vaginal dilator as open as it goes - my vagina strains near-dangerously. To capacity and then a little, just a little...

Then I am ready -- fully presented, every boundary dissolved beneath the gaze that now defines me. There is no concealment, no ambiguity. Stainless steel bands encircle my wrists and ankles, the final marks of stillness, of submission. The ensemble is complete.

I can scarcely stand, and walking is all but impossible -- the weight and structure of the metal at my core renders mobility futile. So they lift me, unhurried and assured, and place me at the centre of the stage. My ankles are secured to the floor, my wrists drawn upward into straps descending from the vaulted ceiling. They stretch me with precision, taut but not trembling, restrained with exacting care.

Then they leave. Or apparently so. For although I am now alone, I am not abandoned. In this suspended stillness, I meet myself -- not passively, but with a sharpened intimacy. Time slows. An hour may pass, or more. In this solitude, I do not wait. I listen -- to the tension in my limbs, the echo of breath, the thrum of thought unmoored.

A stand has been placed between my legs, outfitted with small, focused cameras trained upon my exposed, dilated openings. Each orifice down there is illuminated with clinical precision. Another lens gazes directly into my mouth, after the ball has been removed. The images captured are projected onto two trios of towering screens arranged around the chamber, each a ten-foot square, vast and unignorable. Three on the curved wall in front of me, three behind me.

Directly ahead, I witness my own vagina, anus and mouth, each on their own screen -- grotesquely magnified, alive in real time, a portrait both intimate and alien. I know that the screens behind me display the same views: silent, involuntary, unwavering. It is in the company of these looming, disembodied versions of myself that I am left -- still, suspended, and acutely visible and seen.

I am now left with nothing but the obscene images and my thoughts. After the endless series of weekly rituals that have preceded this edition, I am still captivated--hypnotised--by the grotesque exhibition of my own anatomy. Every minor motion I make echoes on those vast screens, rendered monumental.

I watch the slow descent of saliva from my parted lips--my mouth, always the worst. I fear the cramps, the dryness that builds even after they've ensured I've been well-watered. Thirst becomes insatiable, spiritual.

The enormous vaginal image looms with impossible intimacy: the inside revealed and accentuated by the clinical steel, revealing not just flesh, but the place beyond--the uterine dark, gleaming like a sacred grotto. It is cavernous, wet, alive beneath the lights.

The anus, too, is revealed --a smaller, tighter aperture, also glistening, but touched by a different aura: not the source of life, but of waste, the shadow side of being. It speaks of mortality, decay, refusal--where the other speaks of genesis.

I am staggered by my obscene openness. No secrets. No privacy. This hour becomes a meditation on that exposure, and I circle obsessively through its emotional permutations. Arousal, at times--yes. Then a drifting boredom. Then dread. Always the dread. What will follow I equally fear and desire. Perhaps there is no longer a distinction between the fear and the desire.

After what feels like a suspended eternity, I cease to be alone. The quiet is broken by the gradual influx of people--groups arriving in waves: men, women, in pairs and in clusters. They are predominantly Oriental, though not exclusively. Their voices swell to fill the vast space, animated and unreserved. They may speak of ordinary things-- the weather, business, family gossip. Or perhaps they speak of me. But if they do, it is in passing, casual. There is no awe. Many have been here before. Familiarity dulls the shock.

Within ten minutes, the theatre is as full as it will be, with bodies and deafening chattering. I face the audience and remain in awe of them, the body of the audience, no matter how many times I have been here with them.

Now, glances fall upon me with more regularity--fleeting, indifferent, probing, some curious, others cold. And yet, my image, my images --my multiplied, monstrous images--command a different attention. On the towering screens, my body looms: fragmented, magnified, laid bare. The audience may not look at me, the figure bound on stage, but they do look at her--the mouth, the womb, the aperture--isolated, amplified, transformed into spectacle.

Then... the gong sounds, deep and commanding. It cuts through the noise, and the crowd falls silent at once.

But the stillness doesn't last. As the final vibrations of the gong fade into the high ceiling, the ritual opening music begins--so intensely familiar to me.

It's a traditional Chinese piece, performed by a consort of piercing wind instruments. Their sharp, shrill notes slice through the air like blades, seeming almost to strain the walls themselves.

Now the Master enters the hall from behind me. He steps forward, stands before me, and bows. He is dressed in ceremonial robes-- a flowing robe with sleeves formed from the same unbroken piece of fabric as the torso, without seams at the shoulder. The fabric is jade green silk, adorned with red symbols. The sides of the robe are open, though the overlapping folds conceal the white cotton tunic He wears underneath.

Flanking Him are His four acolytes--two on each side, one man and one woman per pair. They wear similar robes, though cut more narrowly at the shoulders, revealing their bare sides. Bare, as in naked, but they are covered in extraordinary full-body tattoos. They bow to me as well.

I am not to respond. I am not their equal.

The gong sounds again. The Master stands motionless before me. Silence blankets the room. He fixes His gaze on mine, as if trying to hypnotise me--or perhaps to be hypnotised Himself. In these moments, I'm never certain who holds the power, whether He commands me or I command Him. We stare at each other endlessly, locked in a silent trial of will.

Is this His ritual--to test His own resolve? Yet there's never any doubt about who prevails. It is always He who breaks the spell.

With warning, He seizes my wig and casts it aside. Then, without a word, He turns and walks away, taking His seat. I am left to His acolytes... and to the beginning of the principal rites.

I stand utterly naked. Bald and naked.

The two women go to a cabinet placed behind me. They return with a fine chain of some six ft length with clover clamps at each end. Before they apply their clamp to the respective nipple, they each pull hard and unceremoniously on the one they have in hand, simultaneously twisting it to the extreme. They then release their nipple and turn it the other way. And again and again... Oh, two dozen times!

My throaty cry shreds the silence. We, the audience and myself, see convulsing motions in my moist mouth. Immediately they apply the clamps my nipples. The pain - the pain that I crave - is fierce! Then mutates slowly to a numb feeling, spiced with sharp flashes - indescribable! The chain dangles down to below my crotch.

For the next fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes, the four acolytes perform an intricate choreography.

The only accompaniment is a subtle, restrained percussion score, played delicately on a few small instruments.

At all times, one of them holds the chain--tugging it with varying degrees of force, but never letting it fall slack. At the maximum extension, the pain is blinding and my breasts are grotesquely distended, pulled into sharp, unnatural cones--hollowed and strained by the relentless tension. The alternations of flexing and release and flexing of my breasts are endless.

The pain is unrelenting, and my mind cannot freely admire the beauty of their dance. Yet, through countless repetitions, I have come to appreciate the grace and ingenuity of their movements--even as they are the source of my suffering. Part of my mind dissociates from my body, observing everything with a detached, clinical calm. It is that same part that registers the impact of my ordeal on my three innermost spaces, magnified grotesquely on the towering screens.

I am aroused.

As soon as they let go, the music begins anew--blistering in its intensity.

Slowly at first. The same shrill wind instruments pierce the air, perhaps repeating the earlier melody--I cannot be sure. This time, they are joined by a full array of percussion and crashing cymbals. If the earlier music was intense, this is overwhelming. It drowns out all thought.

I cease to exist.

The music stops. I exist and know what is coming.

The whipping.

One of the men retrieves the whip.

A slow, deliberate beat begins to pulse from a large drum--deep and measured.

To this rhythm, the four acolytes whip me and my body. Once again, they move around me--slowly this time--each appearing at precisely the right moment to take the whip for their turn. Their coordination is remarkable, though I am in no condition to fully appreciate it. Not a single strike lands where an earlier one landed before. In this way, my hurt is superficial, that is: no raised welts and certainly no blood drawn, and the white body paint preserved.

This is of little solace to me. The blows are delivered with deliberate rhythm, spaced seconds apart, distributed evenly across my legs and torso. The pain is overwhelming--unyielding and all-encompassing. I would succumb, would faint--if they didn't know me so precisely. They keep me just below the threshold. Time has collapsed; each lash echoes as if it were the same as the last. And then--suddenly--the whipping stops.

Immediately, the ensemble begins again--the same full ensemble as before: wind instruments, percussion, and drums. It feels less loud now, and human voices have joined in. At times, they blend seamlessly with the music; at others, they disrupt it. Occasionally, the voices rise alone, singing a cappella.

I know what they express--my suffering and pain, but stylised, elevated. I hear wailing, crying, and sobbing--but also orgasmic sounds, joy and fulfilment. The singing pierces my soul. I have never asked, but this music might have been composed for me alone, or instead it could be centuries old, just like there have always been women like me. It could echo the collective journey of the countless women who came before me--or simply, of women, full stop.

I weep.

Now comes the part of the ritual where all the attendees participate. Even after all this time, it still makes me nervous. Unlike the acolytes, the audience are not experts. Some may not care if they hurt me indiscriminately --some may even intend to. One by one, all two hundred participants file past me, each holding a pointy wooden pin they've been given.

Each of them is allowed a single, brief jab anywhere on my skin. The only rules: no drawing of blood, no striking near the eyes, and no entering the ears. Beyond that, anything goes. And yet, inevitably, a few sharp points break the surface, leaving tiny droplets of blood that stand out hellishly against my white painted skin. I never see the offenders reprimanded, but I cannot believe such violations escape the Master or His acolytes.

Pain, pain, there is no end to it! My skin is already raw from the whipping, which makes each jab land like fire. The nerves beneath feel exposed, flinching at the slightest touch. I don't particularly notice who the worst offenders are--perhaps because the most painful jabs don't always leave blood. I said I get nervous before this part of the ritual--and I do. I suffer throughout these nights, let there be no doubt. I may have been trained, yes, but it is not natural to face pain without fear. Earlier in the evening I may have managed to conceal it--only the acolytes might have noticed--but now, it's undeniable. My brow is drawn tight. I cannot stand still and gyrate every which way. I cannot sweat properly, so I burn from the inside, my body heat oppresses me. My mouth is open, by the gag and by the muscles, and gulps air.

There is not a single area of skin that escapes the jabs. No, my tormentors do not concentrate purely on my breasts and groin. (Are they being considerate or have they received instructions? The organisation that manages this and all the other events... Nothing amazes me anymore.) I become a mad idiot, make noises like one, in response to the relentless jabbing, and cry rivers of tears. I am a wreck hanging in my restraints when this phase too comes to an end.

My waters break and, accompanied by enthusiastic murmuring, my bladder empties.

-----------------------

Music now--just voices and percussion--alternating between slow, seductively soothing singing and loud, aggressively frightening screams.

Is this soothing music meant to mirror my relief that the jabbing phase has ended; the jabbing represented by the aggressive sounds? Or does this soothing music in fact summon that relief into being? More often than not, this is the moment I begin to rise from my mental exhaustion, when a sense of satisfaction returns. I feel oddly grateful for the discomfort and pain I've endured. I glance at the towering screens, where my slick, exaggerated orifices are projected in grotesque scale--and, strangely, I feel whole.

Fulfilled.

Finally, I am released from my restraints. The cameras are removed, and the screens fade to black. As always, I can barely stand, but the four acolytes support me with practiced ease. They gently lower me onto a bed of cushions. First on my back. One of them removes the ring gag and the pair of dilators. Yet the return of freedom doesn't feel like liberation--more like the removal of a plaster cast from a long-healed fracture. I work my jaw, flex my lips, relearning the movement after having been locked in for so long.

Then a male member of the audience comes forward and strips off below the waist. He straddles my face and proceeds to fuck my mouth. His taste is acrid, from sweat, urine and sperm. He penetrates me very deeply. I can manage very ably without gagging. And it generally takes little time for such a man to come and shed his load. This time is no exception. I swallow and he briefly collapses on me, before he removes his shrinking and limp sex from me and makes way, taking away his taste.

Music. Just the voices, seductively and scary.

-----------------------

The acolytes turn me over and make me present my rear. The woman who is to fuck my anus is fat and middle-aged. She almost pushes the acolytes away and wastes no time in brutally thrusting her dildo inside. Well lubricated as it will be, the pain still splits me. To be anally fucked by a woman is the worst of the two possibilities. A woman who chooses to perform the act is rarely inclined to show mercy to a fellow woman. Worse still, she often lacks empathy altogether. And unless fatigue sets in, she has no reason to stop. Or unless she has fulfilled her desire to inflict the pain. A dildo has no sense. This woman certainly does not please me before she moves off.

Music. Just light percussion, but alternating between seductive and scary all the same.

-----------------------

I am turned on my back again. Again, an older woman with white hair, well, positively old, yet with a sweet and kind face. She penetrates my vaginal opening, the third and last in the series. This old woman, bless her, is supremely subtle and sensitive, and she does not stop until I have reached two orgasms in quick succession. Bless her. Would she be capable of orgasms herself? She seems the kind who will at least remember those she once had...

We are approaching the end of the ceremony.

-----------------------

Music. Just the wind instruments with their blistering intensity.

All the audience members now file past me, standing astride my waist and urinating on my body--letting go without deliberate aim. My eyes are not spared the acidic bite. My pristine white body is defiled. The white paint on my torso slowly dissolves under the many warm torrents of urine pouring over me.

The closing act of the session is performed by a carefully chosen man or woman - one who is primed, who knows? - whose solemn role is to lay upon my belly a dry, almost reverent stool--with intensely fragrant odour, and heavy with meaning, marking the final, haunting punctuation of the ritual.

The person this time is yet another woman, but this time young, thirty at best. She is naked from the waist down and wears a diaphanous babydoll. Her hair and face are exquisitely done up, suitable for an aristocratic ball. She steps across me with her back towards my face and squats over my stomach.

A minute goes by without motion. Then I see her anus dilate and the stool slowly emerge with a faint, viscous noise. The second it drops away from her, she gets up and disappears. It only takes a minute or two before the audience has seen it and an acolyte comes up and scoops the stool away with a plastic bag.

It has hardly left a trace. The point has been made, however. I don't care. I am longing for the end.

Music. Full range of percussion joins the wind instruments again, at full tilt.

-----------------------

They raise me to my feet and I stand once more. I am now a sorry exhausted sight. I have been transformed from a pampered, pristine, and snow-white vision to a wounded, filthy, and defiled sight. I am left standing there, free and unsupported.

The entire audience is nude now and apparently satisfied.

We gaze at each other for long, silent minutes -- they and I -- while a single small drum offers sparse, suspenseful punctuation.

Then I am reattached by the wrists to the overhead shackles and stretched, my feet just resting on the ground.

The four acolytes reappear, this time also nude, thereby showing their beautiful, erotic and full body tattoos. Each of them holds a water hose. When turned on, the jets blast hot and forceful from four directions. My restraints keep me upright-- barely, unsteadily.

It's a spectacle: I, who struggle against the flows of water, this final act charged with energy. The water may be laced with some chemical, for slowly, the white body paint fully dissolves and disappears, along with the grime and the residue of the sexual juices.

I am left as bare as when I began--six hours ago, when they started to prepare me.

-----------------------

I am empty.

I am satisfied.

Keywords: BDSM, anal, deep throat, exhibition, music, art, submission, piss, faeces, whipping, jabbing