Janus61
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Joined: 9/7/2005
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Frankfurt Am Main is a huge airport. Actually it is more like a city unto itself, a city whose only industry is the movement of cargo, both material and people. I was one of them, unfortunately.
At that moment I was warehoused, more or less comfortably, in a lounge just inside the Kontrolstelle for Terminal B, just slightly jet-lagged and waiting for Flight PK766 to Karachi. Since the lounge had wireless Internet service, I was checking My e-mail and found, from “persephonie69a”, a message:
“my life is over. Come ASAP. Please.”
Now for as long as I had known Stephania Esterhazy, she had never talked like this. She was a true sensualist, and near ferocious in her pursuit of both pleasure and pain. It also helped that she was tall and willowy, and took great pride in her appearance. That was to be expected, as she had luxurious shoulder-length brown hair, alabaster skin and possibly the deepest, softest, brownest eyes that I had ever seen. A man could lose himself in those eyes, I thought. I should know; I damned near had.
So I quickly booked a seat on the next available flight to Australia, then composed a message for Perez Khan, explaining the situation and that I’d be delayed indefinitely. I knew that He’d understand. He’d enjoyed Stephania too, more than once.
The club was crowded that night, and there was a tall, willowy blonde in Stephania’s usual seat at the bar. To call her blonde wasn’t quite accurate; her hair was of a silvery colour so cold and bright that it reminded Me of moonlight. She sat alone, staring glumly into her Perrier, chewing thoughtfully on a TimTam, and no one disturbed her. Indeed, it was more as if everyone was taking great pains to avoid her.
“Hi, Stephania, what’s with the wig?”
As she turned to face Me, I found Myself looking into what should have been those deep brown eyes, only this time they were a shade of pink so pale as to be transparent. Now I knew that things were serious, whatever the problem was. But I knew the solution to her problem, or so I thought.
I told her. “you look like you could use some good serious play.”
“That is the last thing that I need” she replied. “and you don’t need it either. Trust me on that.”
The bartender pitched in: “S’truth, Mate. You don’t know what you’re getting into with this one.”
Stephania gave him a look that should have dropped an elephant at 50 paces but I ignored him, and gave Stephania My best wicked evil grin. “I’ll decide that. Come on.”
Leading her to the stage, I stripped her naked, and tied her to the cross. Our scene was drawing a crowd, many of whom shook their heads in obvious disapproval, while the majority just watched, bemused. Normally Stephania had no trouble attracting spectators, but now they seemed more interested in Me. I started with a peacock feather, full of luxurious plumage. I caressed her lush and inviting body, drawing the feather slowly across her hips and abdomen. Stephania remained motionless, which puzzled Me. Suddenly it got warm in the room, and I felt a slightly itchy feeling all over. So, for a change of pace I picked out a fine flogger, wound up and swung it at her magnificent ass, swung it hard. No sooner had the leather touched her than I felt the sting of a stroke on My own buttocks. I whirled around in surprise and fury, intending to confront My attacker. I knew Aussies. But instead of a laughing practical joker, I faced a crowd of solemn faces, all intently watching Me. No one had moved, it seemed. I glared at them, turned and hit her again, on the spine just below her shoulder blades. Immediately I felt another stinging blow, on My own back!
This was too much! “Alright, which one of you is the bastard who thinks he has a sense of humour!” I demanded.
None of them spoke, no one moved. I seized a set of electrical leads from a nearby shelf, turned Stephania around and applied them to her left breast, then turned on the juice. She remained immobile and calm. Which is far more than could be said for Me, as a tingling sensation quickly built into the agony of a thousand tiny burning needles shooting through My left nipple! Gasping in pain, I yanked the clips from her breast, and was rewarded by a tearing spasm of agony before My own pain faded. Stephania raised her head, looked Me in the eye and said: “ We need to talk.”
Later, after the crowd had dispersed, Stephania was dressed and we sat together at a small table on the club patio, overlooking Sydney’s inner harbour. “It started when I was on a walkabout in the Northern Territory, about a month ago.” she said. “There I was, walking by the light of a full moon to avoid the heat, when I came upon an old aborigine shaman practicing some sort of ritual. He asked for water, but I was on strict water rations. You know how it is in the Outback. Anyway, I told him no, and he just smiled, then said: "Since you will not share what you have with those who need, your own needs will go unfulfilled. I curse you, to share that which you desire above all else.”
She was a picture of misery, sitting there. “When I came out of the wilderness, all of my hair was this god-awful white colour. Since then, anyone who touches Me receives the sensation that I should have instead. I can be whipped until I am a bloody mess, yet never feel a thing. Whoever is whipping me, on the other hand, feels every stroke, just like you did. Since I am a pain-slut, you can imagine how popular that makes me.”
Her sniffles became sobs. “I can’t feel anything! No one will touch me! My life is over!”; she wailed.
I took her by the hand, saying: ”Come on, Stephania. We’ve got work to do.”
“Where are we going?”
“The Outback. We’ve got a shaman to find. We're going to get this curse lifted.”
It should have been a pleasant morning walk. The air was cool in the canyon, with barely a hint of the heat that was soon to bake us as the sun rose higher in the azure sky. Stephania was in the lead, retracing her steps of that fateful night. "And why are we doing this, again?" she grumbled.
"We are looking for the aborigine shaman who placed this curse on you."; I explained patiently.
"So why can't you do it?"; she whined. "You have always seem to be able to handle such stuff."
"BECAUSE, My dear sweet, selfish and stupid Stephania, Generosity is one of the most powerful of all aborigine curses. Think about it, what worse punishment could you expect, in a society that is perpetually on the verge of starvation! It is so powerful that only the greatest of shamans can use it, and then only in extreme cases. The only one who can lift it is the shaman who placed it on you in the first place. You must have really pissed him off!"
"And that she did, mate. Right royal-like, too." came a voice. We both looked around, to see a young aborigine not five feet from us. I'd been looking at that exact spot not five seconds earlier, and I know that he hadn't been there. Stephania whirled around to face him. "And just how do you know that?"; she demanded.
"Cause he was me Governor, an' a right gun shaman too!” he answered her, then turned towards Me: ""G'Day Janus. It's been a while. What brings you out to the never-never this time of year? You come for the Dreamtime?"
“Not this time, Roger. Nice work on your blending though; you've improved. Actually, we’ve come looking for your Guv, to try and persuade Him to lift the Generosity curse.”
“Good luck with that, mate” Roger chuckled. “That won’t happen until you’re on the Other Side.”
Now I feared the worst, but said it anyway: “I don’t understand.”
“He’s carked it, y’know. He went off in search of dreams, but never came back. And in his last dream he told me about this greedy sheila bitch, when I went on my own dreamquest to find him.”
Roger turned to Stephania: “You’re the cactus now, Stephania; stuck with it for the rest of your life. You're famous throughout the mulga now, from the back of Bourke all the way to the big smoke.”
One of Stephania's less endearing qualities was her inability to take bad news well. And, true to form, she responded by slapping Roger hard across his face. But he showed no sign of pain, which is more than can be said for Stephania. She was wide-eyed in shock as the pain coursed through her hand and arm, then she stopped abruptly, and smiled. Quick as lightning, she whacked me across my shins with her walking stick. I stumbled at the impact, but there was no pain. Instead a dreamike, serene expression came on her face, much like the rush a junkie gets from his fix. "Mmmmmm"; she murmured, "now that is what I need."
My right arm jerked as the blow struck home, and the truck skidded along the dirt track as I fought to retain control. "Goddammit, Stephania! You smack me one more time and I'll hogtie you and leave you on the back seat floor!"
"I'm sorry Janus, but it feels so good!"
"Not when we're doing 80 kilometers an hour on a dirt road in the middle of the night! So knock it off!"
She caught a fly, and amused herself by pulling its wings off. "Nope, not the same at all." she said, shrugging. "Damn!"
I felt her eyes on me. "Oh, Janus. Pleeaaase?"
"No, damnit!"
Stephania turned and looked out the window, sulking.
It was a very long trip back to Sydney.
It was Fet Night at Club Whatever, and the place was hopping; dim figures on the dance floor gyrating to the repetitive, primeval beat of the music. I was standing by the bar, watching an interesting scene involving a half-naked sub being spanked simultaneously by several tops, presumably for the pleasure of her Master standing in front of her. Seeing the cruel leers on their faces, the gleam of animal ferocity lighting up their eyes and hearing the dull thuds of their strokes on her skin as they slapped and pinched her ass. Watching the sub jerk in spasms of pain as each stroke hit her, barely hearing her cries above the crowd. I watched, amused at her pain, and so did not see Stephania enter the playroom.
Not until I heard the first shriek from the stage at the far end of the playroom did I notice her. The cry was odd, first a short, sharp exclamation of pain followed by the sharp hiss of her gathering her breath, for the long drawn-out scream of agony that followed. Like everyone else in the room, I looked over to the cross at the far end, seeing Stephania for the first time. She'd laid low after we returned from the outback and I hadn't seen her for several days. Now there she was, dressed in a black spandex jumpsuit, a metal whip in her hand. With great enthusiasm she was applying the whip to the back of her sub, who was tied to the cross and should have been writhing in agony at every lash, yet wasn't . A wired metal prod was in the sub’s pussy, and already her back bore a number of welts, many oozing blood from where the metal tips had scored the flesh. The crowd was watching the scene, hypnotised by the spectacle of true pain and blood, some wishing they could be part of it in one way or another, others staring in mute fascination and repulsion at the sight of so much blood.
But I watched Stephania, swaying, dreamlike, in time to each stroke, watched her spasms of ecstasy as they landed home. Her eyes were half-closed in an expression of rapture, the fluid motion of her strokes belying the ferocity with which they ravaged the flesh of the girl lashed to the cross. I counted twenty strokes, and Stephania showed no sign of slowing down. Forty strokes, and she was just getting her second wind. Eighty strokes and the girl's back was like so much hamburger, blood running freely down her whipped legs to the floor at her feet. Not until the girl lost consciousness, at ninety-seven strokes, did Stephania stop the flogging, falling exhausted herself and collapsing into the pool of blood at her feet. And then there was only the constant thumping of the music, before the club’s security staff rushed in.
Later they were tending to the sub in one of the back rooms, while I was with Stephania in another.
"A fair dog’s breakfast this is! Goddammit Steph, you just can't do that all the time!"
"Why not? I'm the one who feels the pain."
"That is just My point. Pain is not just a sensation, its also part of our survival mechanism. And being a Domme is more than just inflicting pain at will. It’s as much about controlling yourself as controlling your sub. You just don’t have that kind of self-control yet. Going ga-ga in a scene is dangerous!"
"But I've seen you do it before. You’re the dom here, remember?"
"Yes, and I also take care of them afterwards. As odd as this may sound, being a dom requires you to be more sensitive, more aware of yourself and your sub, to keep things like this from happening." I jerked my thumb in the direction of the room where the girl lay recovering.
Stephania was stubbornly unrepentant. "Well, I'll do that too."
I wasn’t convinced. “Stephania, after playing with you there isn't much left to take care of.”
“Easy on, Janus, there’s no need to chuck a spaz! I don’t need an earbashing. Aren't you being a little over-cautious about this?"
“Not if you want to be able to do this on a regular basis. I am genuinely concerned that you will go too far with this. You could have killed that girl, and damned near did anyway!"
“No worries, Janus. I'll be careful in future. I promise."
I was not convinced of that.
Time moves on, as do I. My skill in ayurveda helped treat the girl’s injuries, then three days later I flew out to Karachi, and my long-overdue rendezvous with Perez Khan’s little problem. Though I kept an ear out for news of Stephania, I lost track of her soon thereafter. Until one day, when I was sitting in another damned airport, O'Hare International this time, in Chicago. I was on the Internet again, reading the news, when I saw:
"PRINCESS OF PAIN SENTENCED TO DEATH – Stephania Esterhazy has been sentenced to death. Esterhazy gained notoriety as a dominatrix, the so-called “Princess of Pain”, and was found guilty of First Degree Murder in the brutal slaying of a Houston prostitute last October. In a bizarre twist, the 28-year old Esterhazy requested death by electrocution, instead of the customary and more humane method of lethal injection customarily used in Texas...."
I finished reading the article and then checked My e-mail. I saw a message from persephonie69a, entitled: “The end”. It read like this:
“Dear Janus, this is the last time that you’ll hear from me, and you are the last person that I’ll ever communicate with in this life. As you are no doubt aware by this time, I am to be executed for murder in a few hours. For what it is worth, I hold you entirely blameless in the situation in which I now find myself. You tried to help, and when that failed you did warn me about the dangers of being Domme. I should have listened. Take care, and beware of shamans. With Love, Stephania.”
Epilogue:
He was a large, heavy-set man, on the far side of middle-age. He had a thing for fried chicken, and he smoked and drank more than was good for him. He didn't even care anymore, and if you had asked him, he would have shrugged and said: "Its only fair. I kill them for the great State of Texas. I might as well do the same for myself."
This last one though; she had been different from the usual, a really wierd one for sure. For one thing, she was gorgeous, tall, but with a great body, and a face most women would kill for. And fearless, as if she was welcoming what was a truly awful way to die. She'd actually smiled at him as he'd prepared her for death, a genuine smile, and thanked him, as if he was personally doing her the greatest favour in the world. The Princess of Pain was what the newspapers had called her. Well, it takes all kinds, he mused on the way home, and now I've seen another one.
He trudged up the path to his humble home, to Her. Even before the door had closed behind him, She was in his face:" I suppose that you forgot to get some milk on the way home. You are such an idiot! Can't you do anything right?"
Thinking that there had beens lots of milk that morning before her bastard kids got up and drank it all, he barely had time to finish mumbling something about that, when her hand whipped across his face. He closed his eyes and flinched in anticipation, then opened them wide in surprise. Though he had felt the impact, there was none of the customary sting that accompanied this most normal of greetings in the household. Instead he looked at his wife, seeing the shock on her face as she worked and flexed her hand, to ease the pain of the blow she'd just given.
For the first time in many years, the executioner smiled. "Fuck you, bitch"; he said calmly.
< Message edited by Janus61 -- 10/4/2005 9:05:01 PM >
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From The Janus Journals: The Boomerang Effect - 
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