By heart, pen and blood

Flonflons has been my submissive for some time now. We share an imagination that blends photos, sculptures, writing, music, dance and funny torments. This text is a "spontaneous literary fantasy", a fantastical fictionalization of absolute surrender. Octave Mirbeau and his famous garden probably have something to do with it...

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She has you on your knees in front of her, arms at your sides, legs slightly apart, undressed, offered. As usual, she contemplates her future victim. On her ruby-colored lips is that doubtful pout she always wears when she's planning what she's going to do to you. Lightly, she dances a few steps to the shelves of the boudoir she's been redecorating for the past few weeks, occasionally with your help. You'll need to remember to collect the tools you've lent her when you leave. Many of the shelves remain unoccupied, some lined with empty jars. The walls are still bare. She'd like to furnish this room like an old cabinet of curiosities.

Your heart rate quickens as you watch her grasp a pack of sterile needles lined up in their paper and plastic ribbons like the cartridges on a machine-gun feed belt. You had once anxiously asked her to show you these games, but when the time came, a wave of fear swept over you.
She passes behind you, her warm chest pressed against your trembling back, her reassuring hand holding your forehead. The intoxicating scent of her hair invades you, her breath on the nape of your neck soothes you.
A needle sinks deep into the base of your neck. It's not what you imagined. You understand too late, the anesthetic has already taken its toll. You sink.

You emerge slowly, the fog gradually lifting from your mind. She's installed you on the St. Andrew's cross that, in your unconsciousness, you helped to build. "Disposed" would be a more appropriate term. Two long nails pass between your radii and ulnas, two more between your tibias and fibulas, spreading you apart on the thick wooden beams. You remember, in a panic, one of his audio messages: "We could crucify you, that would be fun".
You also notice that she's made considerable progress in using the hooks you've spent hours screwing all along the cross. The ropes around your torso and limbs are rigorously tightened and don't move a muscle when you try to move, embedding the hemp in your skin.

Sententiously, she reminds you of the rules and limits she has established when she receives a client. "Red", the magic formula that puts an end to the practice in progress; no indelible marks; no blood.
In a whisper, leaning into your ear, she repeats the seemingly innocuous phrase she uttered when you returned from the show last February, then her crystalline laughter bursts out. Her words, which had touched you so deeply at the time, swirl around in your fevered head. "I no longer consider you a customer.

She laughingly told you one day that she wanted to "break the flonflons code". You thought: let her try, your beautiful inquisitor, let her discover for herself what amuses you, what anguishes you, what gives you a hard-on. The time for cryptanalysis has come and you bitterly regret your tacit bravado.

The pear of anguish you picked up at a dismal flea market stretches your jaws, its rusty taste mingling with the equally metallic taste of the hemoglobin you spit out as you hiccup. Scarlet drops glaze the plastic tarpaulin protecting the manicured herringbone parquet floor.

You can't close your wide eyes. She's finally acquired the medical stapler she's been coveting and inaugurated it by staring at your wide-open eyelids. Thanks to the large oval mirror on the other side of the boudoir, you won't miss a moment of the play you're starring in. No, not the actor, rather the prop. She, on the other hand, is the perverse actress, demonic director and sadistic stage manager of this nightmarish theater.
Inspired, she gets under the skin of her characters and steps into the light of the stage to cut into yours.

The doctoress of the Enlightenment, the first scientist to dissect a submissive, flays every inch of your skin with bloody stripping. Methodical, she cuts each nerve and carefully notes its function: cold, burning, pain, pleasure... She arranges the organs extracted from your disembowelled torso in glass jars, meticulously labels them, caresses the still palpitating heart behind the split sternum with your very own hacksaw.
One by one, she scalpels off the masks you've been hiding behind and pins them to the walls of her boudoir like so many grinning, screaming or giggling butterflies.
She's Alda Paré, your enlightened surgeon.

Your severed limbs litter the floor. Spurred on by your epistolary exchanges about Hans Bellmer's sulphurous dolls, she sews them back together into a monstrous decapitated puppet, which she plugs into one of her electrical machines, whose darkest secrets she has come to understand. A deluge falls on the high, wolf-mouthed windows.
Lightning sporadically highlights her slim figure and casts a shadow on her tousled blond hair. She orders her ridiculous creature, flinching under the electric shocks, to stand up.
She's Alda Frankenstein, your blasphemous demiurge.

The hallucinated explorer in search of a chimera maps every inch of your anatomy that now belongs to her without question, ineluctably colonizing every acre of this territory of bone and muscle.
Stopover after stopover on her murderous odyssey, your haggard blue-eyed conqueror collects her infernal tribute, irrefutable proof of her victory over your ravaged being. In her wake of scorched flesh and madness, only suffering and terror remain.
She's Alda, the Wrath of God, your demented conquistadora.

The macabre trophies of her conquest pile up on the shelves of her hideous, finally populated cabinet of curiosities. In the center, floating in formalin, sit your eyeballs, condemned in perpetuity to watch her laugh and dance, bacchante sovereign of her garden of torment.

Photo by ArthK.