Interlude II
Her hands are bound behind a post. Her naked body, surrounded by the half-dark of a barn, fills the frame. Her name, Moonshine, implies just such a look to her skin, an otherworldly glow. Her stance calls to mind Boticelli’s masterpiece, Venus on the Half Shell. The slope of her shoulders, her thighs, the salacious forward lean of her pelvis. As though the sum of her power rests in her cunt. Pigeons moan in the rafters. Moonshine’s flushed breast bears an irregular maroon smear, the result of a flogging she took in Interlude. Her eyelids droop, languid. She confesses a preference for hoods and a tendency toward BDSM in her personal life. “But toned down,” she says, referring to the extreme subject matter of her work with Insex. Of course. Would anyone ever imagine it could be toned up? A rectangular framework of metal stocks rests on the floor. She is locked into it, head, wrists, and ankles, so that she is on elbows and knees, the gleam of her Moonshine ass jutting into the air. And then the training begins. Her asshole. He marvels at her talent, her looseness. She is taught to keep it open. A butt plug is pushed inside. Through the instructional properties of a cane, she learns to hold onto the dildo, then pull it back inward. Out, in, out, in. Asshole calisthenics. But with each strike of the cane, she rocks, trying to absorb the waves that a cane sends through the skin, through that shimmery gleam of her body. Then her arms are tied in a Japanese cradle and she is laid on her back on a horizontal Y built of four-by-fours. Each leg is bound to an arm of the Y, and her body is laid out along the leg of the Y. Her head falls back, unsupported. Her breasts, made full by the constricting ropes, fill the eyes. Nipple clamps are attached and tied upward, distending her nipples. The rings on either side of her labia are tied out taut to her toes, so that she is held open, wet, pink, more heady than the moon. And the ring in her nose is tied above, so that she must keep her head lifted upward. Of all the torments, this proves the most difficult. Eventually, he relents and unties the nose ring. She is fucked, the black gleam of the dildo set off by the flower of her engorged labia and cunt. She sustains the sharp, agonizing blows of a cane upon the soles of her feet. Because of the spider gag, her protests resound unformed, garbled. She chokes and gasps as her own spit fills her throat. He raises her head so that she can take a breath, so that she’ll live for the next torment. Her head and hands are locked into heavy wooden stocks. She stands upright, the stocks horizontal. She is hoisted this way, by the stocks, then lowered into an opening in the floor that matches the shape of the stocks. Now all that can be seen are her hands and head protruding from the floor, as though she’s been decapitated. We can hear the swish and slap of a cane beneath. She cries out. Seen from below, her feet stand on boxes, but her body ends at the neck, as though guillotined. More caning, vicious, raising welts on her upper calves, thighs, and ass. He introduces her to the Woody. After the first strike, her reaction comes in delayed waves as the pain courses up and back through her body and mind. She begins to lose composure as her fear of the next strike overcomes her. Her fingers clutch, without effect. The boxes upon which she stands are kicked out from under her. She hangs in the stocks. The marks grow brighter. The Woody keeps up its work, beating her on thighs, back, and ass. She is struck again and again and again. . . (Live Feed From July 13, 2003)