Opening. I will perform during an opening of an artist's exhibition at a gallery. I will be accessible to the public at this event, open as open can be. Physically. Mentally, that is another matter. We will perform, M and his slave.

I am well used to participate in M's performances (used, used to, yes, but I love to hate it). Indeed, he says, submission is best demonstrated in a public setting, when shame and judgement enter into the equation. This is the first time, however, that the 'public' implies Vanilla people from outside our enchanted circle of Subs and Doms.

M whispers elements of stories into my ear, which he thinks I'm ready to act out (not act out: to be) and which would suit the occasion. By watching my reactions closely he builds a loose outline. For this first truly public performance, he wants the public to reveal me. My vulnerability he wishes to emphasise by giving the public the opportunity to harm me, lightly. I hasten to say: he does not wish to see me harmed and he will make very sure I will not be.

I will be placed in the centre of the room, dressed in a loose fitting short black dress and nothing else. I will wear my dog collar, my ankles will be tied together with ankle straps and likewise my hands will be tied behind my back. To neutralise my last line of defence, I will be gagged. Last line of defence? My eyes, yes, my eyes will remain active, open to signal with. But also open to show my fear.

At my feet, he will place a pair of sharp old bonsai scissors and a bunch of clothespins. He will invite the public to use them to reveal me and to submit me through the power of pain.

The two weeks between him telling me and the day of the opening I spend fretting increasingly. As I indicated, I have been in performances before, but this time I could be sure that there would be people who do not know about BDSM and would be shocked and revolted and full of contempt. I really would have no control over who would see me. I am a slave, yes. Women are traditionally the slaves of this world, aren't they? Like most other women I am in many ways familiar with being "outside" and the object of scrutiny. Still, slaves are like most people in most respects. I want people to like me. I am afraid of their reaction; strangers seeing me naked and humiliated. Humiliated by M, by the people cutting and pinching. (Why, the strangers, they would humiliate me more than M!) It is humiliating and alienating to be the object of ridicule or disgust. But I have to keep in mind that this will further endear me to my Master, that I will break another barrier and further approach the status of the perfect slave. This makes it exciting to break barriers: the approval of my Master.

And M? I am always amazed at how much energy it takes from him. It is not a matter for him to have a sadist pleasure and nothing more. It is hard for him as well, on several levels. He is concerned with what's going on inside himself, what's going on inside of me, and what's going on with the audience. He has to be aware of safety and emotional issues. He will not have me harmed mentally or physically. What he has in mind for me to experience, he has to monitor every step of the way, in order to take me there. And it is physically demanding for him as well.

I must also keep in mind that I am proud of my body and of my status of a slave. In some ways I feel very powerful and free. A naked woman is a source of power. I like the contrast I make: the power and the vulnerability, the submissiveness and the freedom. I like forcing the viewer to see a woman in a different forbidden way.

And I like that the performance will be interactive, that people will be threatened by me. I will confront them with their fears and I will mirror some of them.

Finally, I will be supported by the knowledge that there will be several friends in the audience.

Mixed feelings, all in all. I am sure, though, that my own fears will dominate during the performance. The other thoughts would help me recover afterwards.

Above all, M will be there with me.

The gallery is housed in an old warehouse. We are early when we arrive. The owner and the artist are the only people present at this time. We greet them as we enter the main gallery. That is, M does. I am not allowed to speak. I am already an object, the material for M's (not my) performance.

Another half an hour and the opening will take place. Two girls for the buffet and drinks arrive. I am still dressed in my daily wear. I look at M. He understands. "It is time, my dear, you are right. You may change in that corner", and he points to one of the far corners opposite the buffet. I leave him and go to my corner. There I take the black dress out of my bag and start undressing.

I hear M's conversation with the artist and the owner, how he explains what we are about to do. How do these strangers regard me as I strip in front of them? Respectfully? I am sure they survey me, my ass, my legs, what they see of my breasts and they may well judge me; I am sure they judge me. Out of love for M, I think, as long as he is pleased...

The catering girls, fellow women - their opinions I am more afraid of. They will certainly judge, my body and behaviour alike. They may condemn me for degrading myself. If they knew that love and self-fulfilment are the stuff my behaviour is made of, rather than money or a foolish thrill, they may condemn me even more. My body, they may think, is quite beautiful enough to command men, rather than be commanded by them. I should wear myself proudly. (But I do, I would tell them, I do!)

My first performance for the general public (though 'art minded'). This makes me nervous. So here I scuttle around - I am naked now, ready to put on my black dress - and I am nervous. I throw the dress over my head, put on my high heels and I am ready. That is, almost, inasmuch as I cannot apply the ankle straps and tie my hands behind my back. These are M's tasks. He also puts on my collar. Finally, he gags me by taping my mouth shut. We look each other in the eye. He has faith in me. I rely on him. He ushers me back into the corner, has me face the corner and gently pushes me against the walls, with my shoulders, my breasts, my forehead. "I will come to collect you."

I am proud of my body, it is a source of power. I am a free person, because submitted. Proud, free, proud, free...!

It is time and the door is opened. In the course of the next ten, fifteen minutes, I hear fifty, sixty people entering, alone, in pairs. I hear them collecting drinks, snacks. I hear them going round the works of art, making sensible, enthused, superficial, bored comments. They pass my corner. Some stand still and wonder if I am a real person, whispering. One or two arrogantly dismiss me an easy SM gimmick, laughing.

I am lost within myself. Then I feel two arms embracing me and clasping my breasts, squeezing them. M -it is him- puts his head over my shoulder and whispers in my ear: "It is our time, dear." He then lifts me over his shoulder and carries me through the crowd to the centre of the room. He puts me down, at the centre of all attention. They see me; I see them. I can hardly stand, quivering on my legs, frozen by a nervous cold sweat.

Big fans are started. Hot air softly blows past me, rippling the black dress on my bare body, softly touching my sex like the gentlest of lovers... M's voice introduces me and what is going to happen. "What you see here before you is my possession, who submitted her mind and body to me of her own accord. I have accepted her offering and agreed to be her master. This is no trivial matter, because it is neither easy to submit nor to dominate. It is a lesson to both of us, for me to be a strict taskmaster, for her to learn that my will replaces hers completely. If I do not teach well, all I will own is her body, not her mind. The mind is superior. Yet it is through her body that I must enter her mind and remove her will, replacing it by mine.

"What is your role in this process? I will lend her to you. Her body will be yours for a while, for you to see, survey and touch. The pair of scissors at her feet is yours. What is more, as pain is a channel for concentration on one's dependency, I will allow you to place these clothespins on her skin.

"Come forward and treat her to your survey and touch. Be my instruments."

Fear invades me, like the first sip of strong coffee. Yet excitement is quick to follow. I am proud and I will be at the centre of attention. Trust, because M is there, master of the situation, and he will not let me down.

The crowd does not react instantly. Dead silence reigns. I cautiously look around without turning my head. All the faces I see are directed towards me. Their expressions are different. I see the faces of my friends, curious of what will happen, who will act first -a friend, a stranger? I see vanilla people, eyeing me distrustfully, ready to condemn, or with slightly bewildered expressions. The silence is gradually replaced by whispers. A long time seems to pass. My nervousness dominates.

M picks up the scissors and hands it to the first person willing to take it from him. She looks at me and at the scissors, hesitates but then passes them through crowd. The third or fourth person who receives it comes forward and approaches me. His eyes are cast down. His hands shake almost imperceptibly as he raises the side of my skirt and makes two parallel cuts to about half a foot up, half a foot apart. Removing the square reveals the flesh of my hip. I feel nervous but relieved that things have started happening. The man looks me furtively into the eyes when done. Then, to my own astonishment, I blush... I cannot believe how shy I am! I freeze and look at the floor as he walks away.

The ice has been broken. Men and women walk up to me in quick succession. Among them a pair of shy women, who dare not look me in the eye and cut away small pieces of the fabric. Thus far no particularly private parts are exposed. A hip, my navel, a sleeve, a piece at my lower back.

My most naked moment comes when a good-looking man-of-the-world with a straight, confident face has cut away at my chest: here I stand with one breast exposed. He looks at me with a faint smile on his face and goes. Seeing my breast inspires a man, whom I recognise as a friend of my master, a man well versed in the techniques of BDSM. He comes over, picks up a clothespin and waves it in front of my face... taunting me. I think I will faint. I look at M, helplessly, but he does not move. His friend places the clothespin at the top of my breast. Pain! The pain! It hits like a shot and then fades away, down to a dull, sick feeling.

Some of the visitors seem put off by the performance, but no one appears to leave; they just move to another end of the gallery, half turned away, but watching all the same.

Another man appears in front of me and says in my ear: "What's the matter little girl?" He cuts a piece of fabric away from my belly and ties it around my eyes. I leave the gallery and enter the interior world. At first it is easier not to see the faces of the crowd. But they have not gone away. My eyes were my last line of defence, so frustration at not being able to flash signals with my eyes replaces the relief.

And fear... My beacon, M! I have lost sight of him. Where is M?

Someone cruel makes cuts to expose my ass and places pins there. He? She? He! He strokes my ass, strokes the crack, down towards my cunt. Yes, go on, go on, for god's sake... He places a pin inside my thigh and deserts me.

I am docile, passive, verging on the virginal. Fear has numbed me, I am stressed out to the point of not wishing to react. I have ceased to care. Someone exposes my cunt. I don't care. I don't care what they think about me. Someone clamps a clothespin on my labia. Pain! I don't care.

The gallery has gone quiet. I hear little except for my own agitated hot breath. Does my being exposed more and more impress people so much? Are they simply bored? Have they quietly left? Yet I am still being exposed and pinched and soiled by a steady procession of people. I am thinking that it will go on forever, which fills me with fear. Yet I am afraid it will stop. I am over the hill. I want to be humiliated. My naked form, cut out, pierced by St.Sebastian's arrows, love arrows… I belongs to the crowd, am no longer myself. My master's piece.

Another… is that a knife? Daddy, where are you? Someone cuts away the rest of my dress with a steel object, a hook, a knife. The object moves against my skin, might cut it. I rise out of my apathy and become very frightened. I take short little breaths and he (M! it is M!) cautions me, "You better not move." Then I am naked, bound and blind. What else will happen to me?

M takes off my blindfold and releases the straps that tie my ankles and wrists. But I am not free. He makes me get down on the floor at his feet and whips me hard on my back and ass with a dog whip, ten times, counting aloud. I do not utter a cry. He says he is satisfied and allows me to lick his boots. Then he makes me sit on one of them and masturbate, like a dog against his master's leg. I am very humiliated (like a dog, in front of all these people!) but also hot, ready to come. I come! and am suddenly very tired and resigned. Time stops. I whimper a little now and he lifts me and holds me in his lap.

People continue to look on as he stands up, leaves me without a word and talks to some people I don't know. He turns and beckons me to clean up our stuff. Still naked, I oblige and dry the floor with a cloth, pack the whip and the remnants of my dress in my bag. I then shakily stumble to my corner and get dressed. It is very strange to get dressed while people watch after all that has happened. To return to civilised normality feels absurd.

It is very hot and I drink some water. People try to talk to me afterwards but I do not feel like talking. I only want to leave this place, these people. I give short but polite answers. Most people say, "Thank You" and ask if the whip and the clothespins hurt and things like that. The only condemnation is visible in the faces of people who do not talk to me.

I feel very vulnerable. I look for and find M, who gives me a pat on the head and thereby acknowledges that he still loves me... that I didn't let him down... etc. M!

Absentmindedly I walk past the exhibited works of art. Other performances are staged and I watch them. One submissive is flogged very severely and it turns me on to watch it. I wish I were she. But most of all I am tired and cannot wait to go home and be alone with M. We do go eventually.

Home. With my Master, with whom I am safe. Has the experience brought us what we expected? It must have. I feel his more than ever. For his part, he is very sweet to me as he watches me take a bath and goes to bed with me.

The above piece is inspired by the performance by Danni and Stephen, the photographic record of which can be see on Stephen's BDSM site, Pictures section, Commerce Street link. The above two photographs are courtesy of Stephen's.

Although I communicated with Danni during the writing, largely during the initial phases, the above represents what I think I would have felt, had it been me instead of her performing, imagining I was attached to her Master as she is. In short: my story is unauthorised but has been written with Danni's cooperation and she does not object to this publication.

Note that their performance was inspired by my story 'Social Interaction (Cut Piece)', which was in turn inspired by Yoko Ono's classic 'Cut Piece' performance during the early 60s and which also took elements from a performance by Martina Abramovitz during the 1970s. A case of fiction following truth, following fiction following truth (or art, if you will.) I am happy to see that my humble writing inspires people, as long it is to good, as in this instance.

BACK TO VANNA's HOMEPAGE