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At The Labyrinth
Begin, then, with unmitigated rage---
the will's unmitigated rage
to be the center of all things, to bend
all things upon the curve that turns about
that point; and to despise all that is not
bent in submission to that center point.
From there, resentment seethes and multiplies
because that which still lies beyond its reach
cannot be brought into submission---not
by force, or wish, or words than can persuade.
Some things are, by their nature, well beyond
the reach; and this incites frustrated rage
to seek further submission (by degree
or number) from that which is within reach;
and wreak, upon that which is within reach,
the awful penalty and suffering
which, for a moment (only a brief time)
assuages the frustration just a bit.
I am the ultimate bullheaded man.
Enamored of My own thought, I despise
all others'. And this cunning labyrinth
is My domain: here, I am dominant.
Here I am not a freak of nature, born
of lust expressed in bestiality.
Here, I am Lord and Master, and My stride
is greater than the meek and mincing steps
of common men who throng the marketplace,
searching for bargains and for port-side whores.
I vaunt my ugliness, exult in it,
and boast about its prowess. Here, to Me,
is made a lovely, living sacrifice
each year: new slaves, male and female, who are
the choicest adolescent beauties that
Greece can provide---their forms exquisitely
perfected. They are brought into the maze
to be Mine---to be nurtured or destroyed
as I deem proper, by desire or whim.
But in each case, each renders unto Me
rightful submission that, assiduously,
I teach them. Yes, I must teach them . . . for this
lifestyle is like an art, not nature, and
must be transmitted and acquired by means
of discipline. Here, being Dominant,
Master and Lord of this amazing place,
I have a noble obligation to
provide their education in the craft
of pleasing Me as I require. I like
to be served, and if they desire to live
(at least a little while) they better like
to serve Me. They accept, and then believe,
My Prime Premise: that nature has bestowed
on some a Dominance to reign and rule;
on some submission---to be ruled, to serve,
regardless what the terms of service are
(a night of love in My bed; or to stand
upon the head and palms, while candles drip
hot wax upon bare feet, all at My whim).
Like precious metals melted in a flame,
they must be purged of all their dross so that
they may reflect My will and only Mine,
with none of theirs left. And they must be brought
to such faith in Me (like to faith in gods),
that they believe themselves perfected when
they thus reflect Me, all of Me, just Me,
and utterly so---such that knowledge of
My will reflected in them brings them to
pleasures of ecstasy. And therein lies
the great accomplishment and paradox---
that they believe reflection of My will
is both My gift to them and theirs to Me;
and that the full expression of this gift
(even if I should deem it "unto death")
is pleasure of the ultimate degree,
beyond the peak of any ecstasy;
and only I can bring them to that place
that I have named, herein, Submissives' Space.
Dare you to turn that beaked nose up at Me,
and curse Me for My cruel perversity?
Is it perverse to them who strive to be
selected for the annual sacrifice?
Is is perverse to them who, when I stride
among them with My finest riding crop,
fall (sometimes almost swooning) to their knees
and beg to be the next one caned or flogged
("Again, oh god, again!"), a scene replayed
until the very welts upon their backs
become a secret language all their own?
And what of those who grovel at My feet,
and wet My boots with their hot, grateful tears
because, having brought them to Hades' edge
(between their shrieks---of pleasure and of pain),
I bring them over it and up into
that most intense and satisfying place,
that holy site I call Submissives' Space.
Of my My own effort, I cannot go there:
so I send them, on My behalf---and when
they come back to this shrouded labyrinth,
they want to go back to Submissive Space
as quickly as I might permit. To this
end, they accept their ritual servitude,
the collars with My mark that they must wear
around their necks (leather for those who have
most recently arrived; bronze for those who
have reached a certain knowledge of My needs;
silver for those who fully satisfy
My cravings; and for those who soon must die,
gold). These remind them visibly of their
sworn obligations as My chattel slaves:
how to address Me ("Master, Lord, or Sir");
the varied postures that they must assume
according to My moods or My past-times;
the tasks they must perform around My home
(even a labyrinth must be kept clean);
and for their failures, ghastly punishments
(oh, yes, most horrifying punishments).
But in the nurture of their discipline
(or, if I may say, My accomplishment),
they come to love the pain that I inflict
as much as ordinary pleasure; and
to fear My disappointment more than pain,
more (even) than their deaths. To disappoint
Me is to bring a shame so utterly
unspeakable, contemptible, and sad
that, for its brief duration, they prefer
death to the dire dishonor they have brought
upon their Master . . . Me. But I am just
and for those who have pleased me as they must,
I have whips, floggers, canes, hot wax, and clamps;
a whipping post, a rack shaped like a Chi,
and ropes to bind them there (knots intricate
and fascinating). All this I devised
within the labyrinth that Daedylus
built to contain me. Here, they live or die
to serve on purpose: their submission brings
surcease, a little while, unto the rage
that seethes within the darkness of My Soul.
