Stud's Jouissance

"The first thing you have to understand is that this is a fucking professional environment. "It's like any other job. "But its also a lot tougher, you can't blink for a minute, there is always an opportunity to boost your value, make connections, develop your brand. "But we're also not looking for any grandstanding, you aint shit at the moment, and if you peacock yourself around like an asshole, no one is going to want to give your tragic ass a break - no one wants some over inflated ego or some old meat.

"You gotta keep yourself fresh, modest, show 'em a good time, use you natural born muthafuckin' charm. "You got me?" Mr Deitchstein asks, his eyes maddening and his face creasing up as if Stud had insulted him by his mere presence. "Yes" Stud offers, as convincingly as possible, having heard these rants before, rants that only occur when they are alone together and the interns are running errands. He can no longer take them as advice but sees them for what they are, which is a constant reiteration of Stud’s inferiority to his boss.

Mr. Deitchstein raises his fist, a vein popping out on his forehead, his face reddening. Stud experiences a flash of fear, he cowers slightly but secretly enjoys the tension and keeps his deep blue eyes fixed on his aggressor's. Deitchstein leans forward so Stud feels his anger emanate from his now pulsating face. He is a small man, smaller than Stud, slightly out of shape but built up, a combination of endless fancy dinners and an exclusive gym membership.

"What?" he spits...

"Yes. Sir" Stud replies using some of the natural charm. Stud is handsome and tall, fresh out of college, has a strong jaw, broad shoulders and is naturally toned from the physical labor it takes to build his sculptures. His gallerist retreats slightly, perhaps as out of the corner of his piggy eyes he sees someone enter the booth, but seems to be still seething over Stud's cockiness and his passive enjoyment of fear. The atmosphere in the art fair is sterile, people walk around like zombies between never-ending receptions, parties, dinners with bottle service as standard and expensive cocaine. The white marks at the end of their nostrils with no mucas membranes match their muted brains and their pockets full of painkillers (mostly prescription - 'shop bought' is not a phrase these people relate to!).

Stud knows that the selling has all been done on the first night and there is very little he can do now which would make any difference to his career. Deitchstein is just finding any excuse to vent his pent up anger. The past few days have left him like a coiled spring, perhaps with no time to pay some slut to suck it out of him like usual. Or maybe its just the stench of money that has sent him into some kind of rutting frenzy.

The booth visitor approaches the pair. He is a man in his early 30s, cheap suit, note pad and scruffy hair still smelling vaguely of the plebby, non-exclusive art opening of some group show his friend was in last night. As he gets closer, he focusses his puffy hungover eyes through his horn-rimmed glasses, his pointy nose dirty from brown-nosin and looks first at Stud's youthful beauty. He quickly dismisses it, finally fixing on Deitchstein's ruddy old gargoyle. He licks his lips into a sycophantic, ingenuous smile and asks for a statement. As Deitchstein impatiently reels off some meaningless blog fodder, Stud sees his opportunity and disappears out the back. He knows there is an important dinner tonight that Deitchstein will try and collar him to come to but Stud is sick of it all. He is sick of the dinners, sick of the puffed up old furballs of glorified housewives in hideous designer fluff that feign an interest in Stud's sculptures so that they can lasciviously eye up his young physique, the contrast between his soft, creamy skin and rough masculine hands and his impressive bulge that pushes at the crotch of his worn 501s enticingly. They cackle and fight to sit next to him at the post-exhibition dinners and sit like brooding hens with territorial prowess when granted this small excitement.

Deitchstein has them submit to him, stabbing messages into their Blackberry's to absent armies of assistants, signing away hundreds of thousands of pounds for the imagined experience of Stud licking and rubbing and exploring their moist old cunts with those big, strong fingers and thick cock, his beautiful muscles flexing as he probes and invades making their screw-balled eyes role back under Gucci shades into their creased foreheads - twitching like decorated corpses. He is sick of the men with fake polished tans and overpriced gaudy watches strung about their weak wrists writing cheques for obscene amounts of money as their dried up old pricks momentarily engorge with the feeling of power as they demonstrate like festering peacocks their self-importance.

As he reaches the fire escape the crisp Autumn air hits his porcelain face and expels these visions conjured by the stuffy unreality of the fair.

He takes a deep breath and a sudden movement to his left startles him. He is not alone.

"You gotta light?"

The voice is American, deep, as though booming from a cavernous chest. Stud looks over, momentarily taking in this towering figure,

“Do you have a spare cigarette?” Stud asks, taking a lighter out of his pocket. Stud watches transfixed by the hands of the colossus of a man as, with the delicacy of a magician, he wields his oversized paws into his jacket, pulls out a silver cigarette holder, flips one out and before Stud knows it, it is lit and resides elegantly wedged between his soft lips and they take a drag simultaneously. In the evening twilight Stud cannot make out the entirety of his new friend, dressed entirely in black, but he is transfixed, held still by some unimaginable force. He pulls his gaze away from the chest of his companion for a second to scope his surroundings. They are in some drop-off area which must be located on a side street, there is an enormous black Mercedes in front the back door, slightly ajar and the engine still running. Still no words are exchanged, the silence is eery and stud turns to look in the face of the smoker to begin small talk.

SMACK!

Through sheer surprise Stud staggers back startled, his cigarette dislodged and flying from his mouth as if in slow motion; the golden embers standing out in the twilight until they are extinguished by gutter water. The stranger raises his hand again and plants another slap across Stud's violated face and throws him to the floor. Stud feels hands grab at him, taking his wrists and binding them together. His captor makes fast work, completing his rudimentary bondage before Stud even starts trying to fight back. Gaffa tape is placed over his eyes... He hears the car door shut and is aware that he is no longer on the street, that the engine noise increases and he is going somewhere. His heart throbs in his ears and his cheeks burn from the slaps but he stays silent. He experiences a devastating sinking feeling, full body, as if he has been instantly drained of all his insides and lies trembling with fear as he realizes his powerlessness. Yet some primeval drive is awoken within him. It confuses him, is this powerlessness before his gargantuan captor... thrilling? Does it even excite him? As he explores the sensation of captivity did the bulge in his 501s twitch ever so slightly?

*

Mr Deitchstein stabs at his calculator indifferently until he slams his gold plated pen down and jumps to his feet. An intern approaches hesitantly as a student would approach a headmaster for punishment and whispers a reminder about a dinner appointment hosted by the Rothfeller family. She balances on her petite frame her strawberry blond curls making her figure resemble a seeding dandelion, so fragile, as if just one gust of wind would render her bald.

"Order us a car" he spits, showering the interns freckled face with spray, causing her to inadvertently turn her head. Kate is disgusted by her superior but dares not wipe his filth off her skin for fear of looking ungrateful. Every time she has to look him in the eye she regrets the decision to take the job. It is against all her principles, at least it was, her tiny frame has undoubtedly got tinier since those principles were abandoned. Her weak dandelion pose is a product of her 'employment'. She was an active member of the debating team during her university years, she worshipped the left-wing anarchists of the 70s and considered iconic the political artists of the conceptual era but art school changed all that, and now these fiercely held convictions remained only as flashbacks in her excruciating reality.

Often when waking up in the morning to attend her unpaid job under a man she considered a worthless cretin, she was amused that on opening her eyes, she was not seeing a reality. The ideology for which she would once have died for was now so internalised that the life she led could no longer be seen as an existence but merely an endless process of metaphorical self-flagellation, where pain was needed only to numb the stabbing sensation of inequality that was the foundation stone of a world which she once considered worthwhile.

"Your car is waiting at the entrance sir" she says. "So what are you waiting for you clueless bitch - get a fucking a move on." Kate considers this invite, never usually extended to interns but regadless of that, one she could not care less about. In fact, a meal hosted by the Rothfellers aroused a nausea so extreme that she had to hold her belly to avoid heaving. He grabs her from her flashback and pulls her towards the entrance like a rag-doll. She half closes her eyes and sinks into another dream as he drags her complying flesh towards the dinner.

*

Stud is methodically undressed, his clothes tugged and cut off with a touch so swift and elegant it had to be the same hands that handed him the cigarette. His flesh made hyper sensitive as he lay naked on the floor of the Mercedes, the sudden temperature change and the exposure meaning that electricity pulsed through his body at each touch of his captors oversized digits.

"Lets getcha inna comfortable position boy" he hears in cavernous American drawl. Strong hands lift him by the hips as he lays like someone about to be spanked over the knee of this colossus of a man.

He whimpers as he feels a hand caress his globe of a buttock, his fingers clenching as they are held firmly behind his back. He buries his face in the car seat burning in shame as he humps his now throbbing meat on his captors leg. He could fight, he is sure that there is only himself, his captor and a driver and the muffled sound of the cabin suggest to him that the two men are alone in a sealed compartment. He could try and overpower this man, he is after all not weak and he has been in fights before and won. But he doesn't fight, he doesn't even struggle, he entertains the thought only for a split second as the flashes of electricity that pulse through his body and make his heavy cock solid as the steel he sculpts with, expels any notion of escape.

His perfect musculature tenses up as he feels a cold wet finger rub at his exposed pink puckered asshole and slide into him until he groans at the sensations which he now feels inside his tight hole forced to relax. The finger is removed and stud feels each knuckle as it slides out and then back in again. He has forgotten his situation now, the stranger has released a powerful drive within Stud, one that he didn't know existed within himself. Blindfolded and tied up, with his most private place exposed and plundered he only feels the sensations in his sweet hole as if this is now the limit of his new world. Almost as if he were under the influence, Stud provides no resistance at all. He accepts the violation. More fingers are added which stretch Stud's hole open and move in and out in a slow torturous rhythm, relentlessly, powerfully, insistently.

*

Deitchstein throws a wad of cash in the face of their driver, who pulls away sharply cursing them under his breath, and yanks Kate towards the resplendent front door of the Rothfeller's mansion. The door is opened and an invitation is indignantly thrust into a servants face, as, puffed up and dragging his rag doll, Deitchstein's piggy eyes are crazed for the next 'connection'. Kate is in trouble, she has refused the line Deitchstein cut in the back of the car, Deitchstein has taken too much and is repulsed at his intern’s lack of attention to him. He is indignant with rage, his bull eyes rolling into his head, his face and nose redder than ever. He does not wait to be seated and rather throws Kate beneath the table where she crouches by his feet as he collapses into his chair. The others at the dinner don’t even seem to notice as their paralyzed faces can only comprehend the presentation of their own self-image, all of their mental abilities focussed on when to start eating, when to make conversation and whether their jewellery is in the right position. Deitchstein is shouting, making nonsense small talk and unfunny jokes at the top of his voice.

For Deitchstein the room is blurry, the highly patterned ceiling, the frescos, the mountain of artfully arranged food merge into one whirling image that would be too much for some. Deitchstein consciously adjusts his trembling fat face and slug like lips as they creep into something that resembles a smile as he reassures himself that he made it into the room with the most important cattle in the world. He yanks at his fly and his putrid penis flops out as he grops under the table for Kate. He wrenches clumps of hair from her dandelion head as he pulls her face towards it. Kate has tears rolling down her cheeks. Undeneath the table, the floor is littered with filth knocked or disregarded from above. She is surrounded by seemingly hundreds of over priced gaudy shoes which conceal or frame twisted and deformed toes that sprout at gross angles from feet never used for walking.

*

Four fingers now, and Stud's hole has been turned from an irresistible pucker into a smooth, round orifice, which sucks at his captors fingers as they go deep in and out, with a slight rotation, in and out.

"Let me see you play with it boy " the voice asks calmly. Stud's hands are untied and, with every intention of escape dispelled, he gropes and plays with his hole feeling it loose and open, reveling in the sensation. "Yeah, push it out and get your fingers in there. "Show me your hole boy, stick it up in the air with your fingers inside" "Yes sir" Stud murmers as he arches his back, sticking his bubble butt in the air, and naturally parts his ass cheeks showing his own violation of his hole. "Look at you sticking your fingers up your gaping hole, that means you're a dirty boy doesn't it? " Stud mumbles and groans with his face pressed into the car seat, his humiliation pushing him deeper into his new mindset. The four extra large fingers enter Stud's hole again causing him to groan loudly and they twist in and out sending waves of ecstacy through Stud's quivering and sweaty body. "This holes been around huh? "I bet I can do this." And with that the four fingers rotating and stretching get rolled into a full fist and plunged inside Stud's eager hole, he lets off a high whimper with surprise as this enormous invader plunges home deep into his bowels. "Is that a whole hand up your ass?" The voice enquires. "OH GOD" Stud replies unable to answer coherently as he experiences a full body sensation like no other, dizzy with a mixture of both ecstasy and pain and drunk on his own complete submission.

*

Unable to get hard Deitchstein can only impotently pull Kate face towards his crotch and rub his useless member against her mouth. Kate struggles but is so weak as most of her energy goes to closing her eyes. As if forced under water, her limbs seem to float around her as she continues her futile struggle to gasp for air. As her arms flail around her, a flash of pain at her finger suddenly snaps her into life.

Out of her daydream, she goes into survival mode, tapping into an inner force one which she dreamed to use in a revolutionary capacity. Kate's eyes snap open with a fire behind them. Her bleeding hand grabs until she feels the serrated blade of the steak knife, knocked to the floor, which has perforated her skin. Pulling her arms forward and her face away from Deitchstein's crotch, she grabs his shriveled penis and old wrinkled balls. Deitchstein attempts only to stay seated as his head thumps and nods heavily, incongruously at this orgiastic dinner thinking that his intern was finally doing what he didn't have to pay her for.

Those sitting around him have still feigned to notice that something even slightly unusual is happening. Perhaps because this isn’t so extraordinary, or perhaps because the sheer pornographic levels of excess that surrounds them drowns out the violation. Kate jerks her other hand forward the one (?) that wielded the knife and starts sawing. The thin dried up flesh that connects Deitchstein's sex to his body severs and disconnects easily, blood oozing and flowing onto his chest, thighs and dripping onto the floor.

As easy as gutting a fish, Kate works quickly, her hands covered in blood, fluid and torn flesh. Deitchstein, suddenly aware of what is an almost intolerable burning, looks down and starts patting his belly and crotch in order to locate the centre of a burning which now courses through every nerve of his body. He starts to pant, to panic. He is writhing grabbing at the table. Kate, nearly through, keeps sawing, the knife getting momentarily caught on tough connecting tissues but sliding through the rest like butter until with one final yank, the force of which knocks Kate back under the table, hands still clenched around the knife and her employers manhood, which appeares only as two stumps covered in the products of her work. She sits and looks for a moment, completely unaware of the world above the table. She trembles slightly, as she realizes the importance of what she has just done.

A smile creeps across her face, now splattered with blood, her maniacal appearance exacerbated by the bald patches on her head, a product of Deitchstein's assault. In this unreal suspension of time under the dining table, her brain flashes back to her avid reading of Lacan, her passion for Marx, the work of the conceptual artist's she worshipped and can’t help musing on Deitchstein's 'lack of object'. Then she lets out a momentary splutter of a laugh.

Richard John Jones 2010