Leather and Hyde: Tortured Dreams, Displayed

Leather and Hyde

Occasions
Tortured Dreams, Displayed
by Debra Hyde

When Sleep Escapes You

I swear, sometimes the Fates give you fair warning. For the better part of a week, I had suffered from insomnia, that restless twisting and turning in the night where dreams are rambling,

What I found at "Tortured Dreams" was an SM that had structure, style, and subject matter, a series of one-act dramas... all of it eye-opening; none of it faked or unconvincing.

racing thoughts, where wakefulness, so sudden and unwanted that it almost hurts, disturbs your peace. Where sleep, when it comes to you at last, is a void so empty that dreams don't intrude.

Yes, all week I was robbed of dreams, condemned to long for them even as they eluded me. And, when they came to me at last, they weren't the stuff of REM sleep. Instead, they returned to me in the form of "Tortured Dreams," an evening's worth of stage SM scenes. Presented by The Society, a Connecticut BDSM group, at La Chateau in Meridan, the event drew almost 200 people from New England and the mid-Atlantic states. And, although the evening included socializing and playing, I found myself focused on its tableaux of torture, performances which were anything but sweet dreams.

Though presentations have their history -- ranging from leather title competitions to being leather bar draws -- I hadn't had the privilege of witnessing the theatrical side of SM. My experience had, to date, been limited to demonstrations and party play. What I found at "Tortured Dreams" was an SM that had structure, style, and subject matter, a series of one-act dramas which ranged in tone from humorous to humiliating, from the seriously silent to rousing rants. All of it eye-opening; none of it faked or unconvincing.

Good for a Few Laughs

Perhaps what reached me best, at least initially, was the humor that some of the participants worked into their performances. The evening's first scene, The Purification of the Former Virgin was an immediate ice-breaker, drawing the audience into its scenario. In it, a naughty and very bratty girl was hauled before her Master, accused of that certain "presidential act" we're all too familiar with these days, complete with stained blue dress. But the audience's laughter which surrounded her transgression grew hushed and muted as the scene moved swiftly into genital torture. Society member Master Charles applied slapper, clips, clothes pins, Wurtenburg wheel, straight razor, and miniature cane to break the girl's boastful pride, a sound scolding accompanying his every action. Eventually, the bratty girl repented.

So much for comic relief coming after the drama.

A renaissance rope bondage scene also couched itself in introductory humor. Presented by Archangell and Lady Harlett, the curtain parted to find Lady Harlett hunkered down in her Master's favorite chair, stealing a peek at the sacred and secretive "Dom's Training Book." Archangell entered, stage right, caught her in the act, and presented her with the "How to Obey" handbook. Amid audience laughter, Archangell began working an intricate rope harness, and he provided funny snippets of advice to maintain jovial contact with his audience as he twisted and knotted his way through its making. When placing a crotch knot, Archangell recommended "always double-check your work" and demonstrated how by yanking on the rope dress. Lady Harlett lurched and yelped, a reaction which, according Archangell, confirmed work well done. Lady Harlett, likewise, wasn't above some occasional humor, once lapsing to reciting her multiplication tables when the bondage routine started to drag a bit.

Humor's Place

As I watched the humor in these scenes, the words of my good friend, Kerry, came to mind. Kerry had recently claimed the Ms. Southeastern Olympus Leather and, when she reported her win, I badgered her for the details of her fantasy performance. To my surprise, she chose a humorous route. "I felt that comedy was the way to go in these things," she said. "More serious fantasies can either have technical difficulties that could earn point deductions, or they simply might not hold the interest of all the judges."

And Kerry's approach was a well-planned, well-executed delight. "I'm 6'3" with five-inch heels on and I did the fantasy with a male friend of mine who's a foot shorter." she recalled. "It was a play on our heights, him trying to top me and the trouble he encountered."

As I laughed along with Master Charles and his brat, with Archangell and Lady Harlett, Kerry was foremost in my mind. Thinking about her recent win, this meaningful step as she comes into her leather own, I could only wish I had been there to see her in action, outmaneuvering her Napoleonic top.

Silence is Golden

In stark contrast to the humor in those two scenes, a number of scenes were profoundly quiet. Hellfirea, a renowned TV from Albany, New York, presented a fireplay scene in which her short, staccato commands to her female bottom combined with the wisps and flares of fire in a long, thorough Cleansing of the Submissive. Hellfirea created many dramatic touches: burning bound twine off bottom's breasts, producing a full flare over her entire back, vaporizing a prepared tissue paper as it waved to the audience from... well, the bottom's bottom.

In another noticeably quiet scene, Master Jerry, from Boston's gay Dreizehen group, silently and thoroughly put his stoic, hooded bottom through his paces in a Violet Wand scene.

Oddly enough, the combination of Buddhist bells and the Violet Wand's electrical sizzle created a rich meditative space.

As the soothing sounds of Tibetan bells played in the background, Master Jerry stressed various areas of his bottom's body, and, oddly enough, the combination of Buddhist bells and the wand's electrical sizzle created a rich meditative space. I didn't find myself moved towards lust and curiosity until Master Jerry enclosed one hand over the wand and, with the electricity coursing through him, raked his other hand over his anonymous bottom. His touch provoked strong reactions from his bottom, and I marveled at the display of raw energy and power in Master Jerry's seemingly gentle touch.

Special Connections

For me, events become personal celebrations when they connect to my own life experiences. And, just as the humor reminded me of Kerry, a dramatically difficult corset piercing performance reminded me of my own body piercings. Judith, submissive and Society member, offered herself up to this incredible corset, which didn't consist of metal stays and garment leather but of a series of 12-gauge, stainless steel rings in two columns down the back, drawn together with a length of ribbon.

Christopher, a northern Massachusetts piercer, his long hair cascading over his torso -- bare but for its many tattoos -- slowly and methodically pierced Judith's back. As he worked, I floated back a year in time to find myself upon his table, legs spread, outer labia clamped and awaiting its ring. With Master at my side -- but mostly watching the between-my-legs action -- I felt the needle sear through me. I remembered crying out, straining against the bondage, then relaxing as I felt the tugs and twists of the ring's insertion.

Judith was far more stoic than I as she received six piercings. And, true to good drama, the old appearances versus reality conundrum came into play. By the sixth piercing, Judith appeared to be nearing the end of her endurance, seemingly wrestling with the pain of each piercing. The reality, however, was far different. She wasn't truly grappling. Rather, surrounded by friends and her Master, she was letting go. "Master Charles could see that I was struggling with the pain," Judith told me later, "and he told me very quietly, 'Give me the pain, give it to me. I can handle it.' I just opened my hand and let it flow into his and at that point I started to cry."

Tears of anything but pain and sadness, it turns out. "It was intense, profound, beautiful and joyous," Judith said. "This man, who had never shrunk from giving me pain, was now taking it from me."

Christopher, who owns Bod-Mod USA in Gardner, MA, told me he had done the piercing as if it would remain permanent. Usually, eight to twelve rings are placed in the back and the piercings require a lot of commitment to the healing process. "It takes three to nine months to heal," Christopher said. "It's high maintenance. It takes a second person to do the cleanings and rotations." And that's three times a day until they're completely healed.

Which made my labia piercings a piece of cake by comparison. Which made me long for more.

Rough Women at Play

If the corset piercing scene kept me glued to my seat, The Fugitive scene just about knocked me out of it. I knew something was afoot when the soundtrack started, its fierce, hunt-like tempo clear warning that something intense was about to unfold. Then Mistress Mir and SirWolf snared my attention as they barreled into the room, looking for their run-away girl, complaining how she'd escaped them before, issuing threats about how they'd teach her once they caught her.

And caught her, they did, finding her crouched down, hiding between a row of seats. Mistress Mir and SirWolf lost no time in grabbing her and dragging her, kicking and screaming to the stage.

And the tops were doing most of the kicking and screaming.

From the first full-force smack of the SirWolf's slapper, I knew this scene was not for the faint of heart. Their girl had absolutely no prior warm-up and Mistress Mir and SirWolf mercilessly applied choke holds, heavy croppings to the thigh, flogging at knife point, genital whippings. You name it and these women applied it in swift, economical and uncompromising moves that left their girl bruised and spent -- and the audience slack-jawed and wanting more. And what a finish, too, with the girl suspended, Mistress Mir straddling her face, providing her the smothering warm of a woman, while SirWolf slowly waxed the girl's upended legs.

If "Tortured Dreams" repeats itself in the future, its spotlight should shine on more women tops.

Tandem Power

Beyond this incredible immersion in heavy play, I realized that Mir and Wolf had an incredibly remarkable dynamic -- a cadence, a flow. They would, without so much as a nod of the head, trade off their strokes, one applying the slapper while the other swung a flogger. And they each brought their own obvious style to the scene. Mistress Mir moved with cat-like eroticism while SirWolf provided a stern, almost militaristic persona.

These tops were totally attuned to their girl as well, knowing exactly what she was capable of -- and not just going into the scene, but during its every minute.

I was in such awe that I'm sure my own headspace was anything but discerning and savvy.

They knew exactly when to push her and when to back off. Indeed, this trio's expertise was so fluid and intuitive that I was hard pressed to even see what their girl was feeding back to her tops. After the fact, I learned that the climactic waxing was as dynamic as it was because the girl was terrified of fire and SirWolf and Mistress Mir knew how to push her just so, turning her edgiest fear into a grand, sizzling ending.

Then again, by that point, I was in such awe that I'm sure my own headspace was anything but discerning and savvy.

But that's the point of a well-planned scene: you should be blown away by what you've seen. And what's involved in producing a mind-blowing scene? First, basic organization and timing. "For an audience, you need to present a good beginning and ending," SirWolf said. "The middle can just flow and we improvise as we go." She added that sometimes their scenes get moving so well that she and Mistress Mir toss floggers back and forth, speechlessly reading each other as they work their bottom.

And that dynamic rapport I've mentioned repeatedly can't be downplayed either. Turns out, SirWolf and Mistress Mir have shared five years of playing together, often refining their shared skills via male clients of Mistress Mir who can really take the pain. Last -- but not least in this masochist's book -- you need an experienced, heavy bottom, someone who has the stamina and desire to immerse herself in such fierce play. Given that parameter, I must congratulate the girl on her ability to absorb every rough blow, from cold onset to fiery climax. If I could stage an awards night, she'd get my nomination for a Bob Flanagan Masochist's Award.

Even now I remain so impressed with Mistress Mir, SirWolf, and the girl that I can only say that if Mistress Mir and SirWolf ever open their own correctional facility, I might well give up my good girl image and become conduct disordered.

Heavenly Climax

The pace relented only slightly and changed only subtly as the final scene of the evening commenced. A distant commotion drew people's attention to La Chateau's foyer and revealed Master Harley driving his cross-carrying victim before him, extorting him into the room and onto the stage by the lash of the whip and the lash of the tongue. The processional had all the unforgiving hallmarks of a crucifixion about to happen and had enough drama to tempt even a wayward atheist back into the fold.

As his attendants bound the victim to the cross, Master Harley splattered red wax onto the man's body, laying on a barrage of verbal taunts with each pass of the candle.

"Feel the pain of your sins."

"The color of your blood."

The litany of wounding words stopped only when flogging started. Master Harley struck all the wax from the man's body and centered some extended attention to the victim's tits. "Tell me you like this," Master Harley ordered his slave, who struggled to answer. While words didn't escape the victim, assertiveness did and it took several meek attempts to work up to an appropriately sound response. Poor victim -- his only reward was Master Harley's retort, "Of course you do! Pig!"

Well, just about his only reward. Finally, he was raised up upon the cross. Hanging there, before all the audience, a sweet, blissful smile spread across his face.

The victim was radiant. Even beatific.

And his expression was, somehow, an appropriate conclusion to an evening of dreams, torturous. Of dreams, surrendered to. Even of dreams, fulfilled.

About the Author

Debra Hyde is a mostly submissive switch who lives in New England with her husband, two children, three cats, and a dog. She says she is "well-owned and well-loved" by a very special Master, and shares a unique triangle with him and her somewhat submissive husband.

"When England Calls," one of Debra's short stories, graces the pages of the recently published Mammoth Book of Historical Erotica. She is currently working on a number of others, as well as the Great American Leather Novel. Her BDSM work has been previously published on the Internet by Leather Online and Section 12, but Leather and Hyde was her first regular column, originally hosted by About.com's BDSM site and relocated here with her kind permission.

Debra also maintains a personal Weblog called Pursed Lips and can be reached at 75222.2150@compuserve.com... but no junk mail or "Wannas," please.