CNL: Stories
reprinted from the Compost NewsLetter
Mistress Valerie's House of Pain
© 1991 by Valerie Walker
Recently our good friend Brigitte and her good friend Damian decided to open a bondage & domination business down on the Peninsula. Safe, discreet, no sex, no drugs, nothing the vice cops could bust or the neighbors complain about -- just a friendly little place to get your buns warmed by your choice of a blonde "seven-foot-tall transvestite Bitch Goddess" or a wraithlike brunette "Evil Lesbian Vampire" (their own self-descriptions, not mine).
Talking this concept over with another friend who has experience in the B&D biz, I asked, "just what do people do at these places?"
"Well, when I was a mistress, I had this big huge old bullwhip, and, since I'm Latina, I got to do the whole Conchita number -- flower behind the ear, leather teddy, high heels, flashing teeth, cracking the whip, and so on. Some of them I'd force to wash my dishes. And then there was one guy who I'd just chain to the wall and take his credit card and go and jam for a couple of hours. When I'd get back, he'd still be hanging on the wall, sighing, 'Oh, I missed you!' I never had to fuck any of them; it was fun, but boy, was it neurotic!"
This set my imagination going. You can make a very nice living (up to $500 per hour, I'm told) indulging people's little fantasies; but the fantasies I've heard about are all so...overdramatic. How about a Bondage House which truly reflects life as we live it today?
In Mistress Valerie's House of Pain, you would be able to get services such as:
• Telephone System: gives you pre-recorded messages which become reiterative loops, leaving you in limbo forever (this one borrowed directly from ASPEN).
• Office Receptionist (your choice of New Yorker, Snotty Britisher, Hostile Black Militant, or Non-English-Speaker): snaps gum in your face, refuses to respond to your questions because she is busy talking to her friends on the telephone, and forces you to undress, fill in a thirty-page form (in ink), and wait naked in a room alone with a copy of American Journal of Nursing for three hours (courtesy Kaiser Hospital).
• Mom: the middle-aged housewife (your choice of Jewish or Italian Catholic) in curlers, frowsy chenille bathrobe, and fuzzy slippers who nags you about where your life is going, how much of a disappointment you are to all your family, and why you are never going to be half as good as your brother/sister/neighborÆs kid/(insert name).
• Blind Date From Hell: you walk into a room, and there is this really ugly, smelly, sloppy, ill-dressed, bad-complexioned, unpleasant, whiny, arrogant, sexist, politically incorrect, rude, uncouth creature of indeterminate gender, seated next to this really gorgeous hunk of masculinity or femininity (depending on your preference); you have your choice of which one with whom to spend the evening. The catch is that the gorgeous one is in the active stages of a rather nasty (but non-fatal) infectious disease.
• Gridlock: for the next few hours, you are put behind the wheel of a car, stuck in the westbound approach to the tollbooths on the Oakland Bay Bridge (or bridge of your choice), just behind a bus which is belching out thick clouds of toxic gases. The temperature and humidity are both 98 degrees, there is no air conditioning, the seats are covered with vinyl, and you are wearing shorts. The radio brings in only foreign-language stations and Fundie preachers. You don't have any money for the tollbooth. And you need to go to the bathroom.
• San Francisco State University (or college of your choice): you try to register for five classes you need to take in order to graduate. They are in five different departments, and you need the signatures of each department head and each instructor in order to get permission to enter each class. The department heads are all on vacation, the instructors are not available by telephone or in person, and none of the department secretaries speak any English.
• Restaurant: the hostess has no record of your reservation, but after an argument you manage to get a dirty table right next to the kitchen so you can hear the cooks screaming at each other in foreign tongues. The busboy brushes crumbs of Mystery Grease onto your lap. The lighting is just a little too dim for you to be able to read the menu. After an hour or so the waiter deigns to come over and take your order. He never returns to your table, while people at other tables are served, eat, leave, and are replaced. Finally the busboy brings you some bread. You bite into it and break a tooth. Three hours later a different waiter brings your food. It is not what you ordered, it is cold and greasy, and it smells peculiar; but you eat it anyway. As you get up to leave, you realize that you have forgotten your wallet.
Other scenarios include: Unemployment Office; Final Examination; Getting Past the Doorman at the Trendy Club; Job Interview; Children's Birthday Party; Last-Minute Xmas Shopping; High School Prom; Dentist; Thanksgiving at the In-Laws'; Busted!; and many others too numerous to describe. But you get the idea.
These tortures are not for the weak. Only those truly dedicated to pain, humiliation, and suffering will voluntarily submit to this kind of treatment. But at Mistress Valerie's House of Pain, you can find all this...and more...
...I believe they call it Real Life.
Valerie Walker