The meaning of white: a ritual

This is Saturday evening. I am being prepared for midnight. The same two women take care of this each time, but always supervised by Him. Sometimes my mother attends the preparations. The audience for these preparations would then be two: Him and her. The place is a hall in an immeasurable Shanghai house that is dedicated for the purpose. It has galleries and a seating arrangement in the form of a small amphitheatre. Or operating theatre. The decorations are like that of an opera house, actually in a mix of Chinese and European styles, albeit that all figures are females, clearly submissives as judging from their postures and predicaments. Perhaps opera house is not the best way to characterise the atmosphere. The galleries and vaulted ceiling give the hall aspects of a church. It accommodates 200, at least. Empty now, the hall will house the full compliment at midnight. Always.

The preparations begin with a bath, naturally. I have been nude, of course, and with the hall still cold the exceedingly hot water makes me start. Strong grips prevent me from any hesitation. Rationally I know they are right. They know exactly how hot the water is and how hot it should be. But there we are: the man and his people that keep me are so very much in control of me and of all they do to me… Yet I, feeble as I am, am not capable of trusting them. I have come some way towards it... a long way, but the aim is daunting still. That is my plight: to have to learn to trust. Unconditionally. Right now, I feel anxiety of what is to come, even if these proceedings take place every week at this time. The experiences that would have been so extreme in my eyes just over a year ago... I feel anxiety, mixed with a strong desire. Desire, for what is to follow, that ritual, a celebration of the essence of me. The bath is fragrant with the spices and oils they have added. Whatever products we are used to in the West, they represent a substitute to the real thing here. We Westerners are boars compared to the health aristocrats here. That does not mean soft - far from it, but it does mean a superior result. Indeed, my life here requires continuous healing, physically and mentally, as I endure a lot, but that healing is being delivered plentifully. My skin is kept strong, resilient, yet soft.

After the bath, they scrub my skin. They are not gentle, but as with all these things they are focussed on achieving the best result. This is not the time to hurt me, but whether or not I am comfortable is immaterial. My skin becomes clean and rosy, throbbing with life.

Then they meticulously survey my body for stray hairs, and every inch of it, using handheld lights and magnifying glasses. When they find such hairs, they employ tweezers to root them out. Little flashes of pain each time. And they always find hairs. It never ceases to amaze that individual hairs always manage to crop up, even in this regular, methodical and relentless regime of terror against them. (Is it for the same reason that my mind never gets to trust my captors, even if I want to be held captive. Is it that a few molecules of my mind still search for escape, against the probable, like the stray hairs?)

Next is the application of an ointment. Again an ointment to kill for. The base oil is so smooth. The fragrances and herbs that have been added... There may be thousands. The smell is so complex, yet so natural... Perhaps like how the earth smelled early on, when wind, water and plants dominated the world. Again, healing... The healing that indeed I need, like anyone, but more intensely, as I live an intense life. Again every inch of my body is treated. I am certain that not the minutest spot is forgotten. Every nook and cranny, every fold and curve is treated. I am passive as a baby, when they roll me over and turn and bend me to reach those every spot. This I have learnt at least, to give control of my body for a period, utterly and completely.

The final stage. They paint my body white. Snow-white, like a true innocent. The procedure is the same as that of the oiling, except that the paint is like paste, and cool, and I submit myself totally. Indeed, like a newborn. The final touches are bright red lipstick in the Japanese manner of a tiny little kissing mouth and black eyeshade. Of course, lest I forget, there is the wig: a jet-black bob that slopes down forward.

I am ready.

The master now regards me well as I stand before Him. He walks around me, stops to look better at times, eyes me at very close range... He looks to see whether perfection has been reached, whether the folds between my legs are hairless and well painted - he knows they are, I am sure. At his nod, the final preparatory actions are taken. The old head servant comes up with a wooden trolley with a range of implements. Firstly a ring gag is installed in my mouth, with a soft white velvet-covered elastic band, for the moment filled with a white rubber ball. Next, he asks me to bend over deeply and spread my buttocks with my hands - the paint is quite durable, but I am careful- and, though I flinch and breathe sharply through my teeth, readily accept the cold steel prongs that enter my anus. They are lubricated, I know, and slide in readily. The discomfort comes - I know, I know, but it always surprises me - it comes when the old man ratchets the dilator open to capacity - my capacity and then a little, until the pain starts - oh, they are expert; they do not overstretch me, or they do, just, just... I know I am wide open down there, and will not be allowed to forget it. I then straighten and stand feet wide apart. The old man kneels down in front of me - face in front of my sex, which embarrasses me, still!, and delights me - and pushes the lubricated cold steel prongs inside my primary opening. This and the anal dilator are a matching set, made according to my sizes, and are connected via an interference fit. The old man - horror - also activates this dilator until my vagina strains near-dangerously. Then I am ready: all my three openings helplessly available for inspection. Stainless steel bands fitted around ankles and wrists complete the ensemble.

I can barely stand and walk even less so, because of all the metal in my groin area. Therefore I am lifted and placed centre stage, where my ankles are connected to the floor and my wrists to straps that hang from the high ceiling - again, they know what they are doing as I am stretched tightly with just minimal play. I will now be left alone for a considerable period - as long as an hour, as far as I can tell. Alone? Yes, but in intimate encounters with myself. Between my legs a stand has been placed with small cameras pointed at my dilated orifices, along with appropriate lighting. Likewise such a camera is present in front of my mouth. The resulting images are project on six large screens spread around the room. They measure 10 by 10 ft. On the curved wall in front of me I see my vagina, anus and mouth projected live, blown up to monstrous proportions. I know that the three screens behind me show the same. It is alone with these images that they leave me.

I have nothing but these images and my thoughts. Even after all the previous weekly sessions like this I do not fail to be hypnotised by the images of my openings. The slight movement I make are translated in these images. I see the dripping saliva in my mouth - my mouth is the worst; I am afraid of cramps; I build up great thirst, even after I have been well watered. I see the enormous open vaginal orifice - beyond the technological steel prongs, I see the opposite, the human essence, the uterus, wet, and because well lit, it looks like a wet cave. The anus is similar, but narrower, also wet, but less fresh - no wonder, because it has to do with refuse, anti-human elements, death... I am staggered by my obscene openness. During this hour I am obsessed with the images and do rotate between arousal, yes, boredom and fear of what is to come. Fear and desire...

After a brief eternity, I stop being along when groups of people start entering, men, women, mixed, mostly but not exclusively Chinese. They talk loudly. About what? Business, the weather, the troubles and joys of their friends and relations, me? It is not that I am the focus of their gazes or that they appear to be in awe of me. Mind that many of them will have been here before. Within ten minutes the theatre is filled to capacity and the chattering is deafening. I face the audience and am as ever in awe of them, as I am shot many gazes now, if not outright stares, and my monstrously enlarged projected get their share.

Then... the gong silences them, resonating deeply. The crowd is silent immediately. But the peace is short-lived. When the song of the gong has faded finally, the ritual opening piece of music that I know so well commences. It is a Chinese piece of music, played by a handful of extremely loud and high-pitched wind instruments that cut our ears like knives and threaten to crack the walls.

Here comes the Master from behind me. He stands before me, faces me and bows. He wears what looks like ceremonial garb, not with sleeves, but extending as one piece from the shoulders to the hands. It is jade green, with red symbols. The sides are open, I know, but the folds cover what he wears underneath, a white cotton tunic. His four acolytes now stand next to him, two on either side, a man and a woman. They wear a similar robe, but narrow at the shoulders, so that their naked sides are visible, covered in their miraculous full-body tattoos. They also bow to me. I am not to respond, as I am not their equal.

The gong once again... The Master stands before me. All is still. He stares me straight in the eyes, as if to hypnotise me. Or be hypnotised, as I am never sure at these moments whether he commands me or I him. We both stare at each other interminably. Is it his design to challenge himself like this? There is never any question of who overcomes at the end of the day. Because he always manages to break the spell. He grabs my wig and forcefully casts it to the side. He then walks away and gets seated, leaving me to his acolytes and the start of the rituals. I am naked.

The two women go to cabinets placed behind me. What they return with is a pair of clover clamps connected by a fine chain of some 6 ft length. Before they apply a clamp to each nipple, they pull hard and unceremoniously on the nipple in hand, simultaneously twisting it to extremes. They then relax it and turn it the other way. And again and again... oh, two dozen times! A throaty cry I cannot help. I, and all, see convulsing movements in my mouth. Immediately they apply the clamps. The pain - the pain that I need - is fierce! Then dies quickly to a numb feeling, spiced with sharp flashes - I cannot explain. The chain dangles down to below my crotch. The next so many minutes - 15, 20? - the four acolytes execute an intricate choreography. The accompanying music is percussion only, subtle, controlled, by a few small instruments only. At any time one of them is holding my chain, or rather pulling at it harder or less hard, but never letting it be without tension. At the maximum tension, the pain is extreme and my breasts are distended horribly, like concave cones. The flexing of my breasts is relentless and endless. My mind is not on the beauty of the dance patterns they execute, but through all these many times my mind has come to appreciate the grace and invention of the movements, despite the pain the dancers cause. Part of my mind is dissociated from my body and registers coolly. It is that part also that sees the effect my ordeal has on my internal spaces, as projected monstrously on the large screens. I am aroused.

As soon as they let go, the music starts again. With blistering intensity. Slow. The same wind instruments again, perhaps playing the same melody - I am not sure, but this time they are joined by a full complement of percussion instruments and several cymbals. If the previous music was intense, this surely is. It is mind numbing. It cancels all other thought. I cease to exist.

The music stops. I know what is coming. The whip. One of the men fetches it from one of the cupboards along the walls. There is the slow, so slow beat of a large drum. To this rhythm, the four acolytes whip me and my body. Again, they all keep moving around me, slowly this time, appearing at the right time to be handed over the whip for their turn. Their precision is impressive - as I were in any position to admire this - as they do not hit any place twice. In this way, my hurt is superficial, that is: no raised welts and certainly no blood drawn, and the white body paint preserved. This is of little solace to me. I am whipped, well distributed over my body, lashed every so many seconds, all over my legs and torso, and the pain is overpowering and all over. I would succumb and faint, if, again, they did not know me so well; they keep me just below that limit. Time has come to stand still, my mind registering each lash as it were the previous. Yet suddenly there is no more.

Immediately music is heard once again. The same full ensemble as before, the wind instruments and the percussion and drums, less loud I feel, but now voices form part, human voices that blend in, or sometimes interfere with the music and at yet other times sing a capella. I know what they express - my suffering and pain, but highly stylised. I hear wailing, crying and sobbing, but also orgasmic sounds and joy and fulfilment. It touches my soul. I have not asked but this music could have been written about me specifically or indeed could be centuries old. It could express the collective journey that lines and lines of women like me have travelled, or women - full stop. I cry tears.

Now the section of the ritual has arrived where all attendees participate. This is the part where I still get nervous. The audience are not expert like the acolytes and some would not care if they hurt me or even intend to do so. All two hundred attendees file past me with the sharp wooden pins they have been offered. All of them get to deal me one brief jab anywhere on my skin. They are forbidden to draw blood or be near the eyes or inside the ears. There are no more rules. Inevitably I do receive a handful of bloody droplets that stand out so hellishly on my skin. I am not aware of the offenders being singled out and talked to. They may still - I cannot believe anything would escape the master or acolytes. I do not particularly notice these offenders. I imagine the most painful jabs may not correspond one to one with the bloody ones. I said I get nervous in anticipation of this section of the event. I do suffer in all of the rituals during these nights - let there be no doubt. I may be trained, but it is unnatural not to fret at all. In the other cases I will not have shown it, I think, except to the initiated. Now here my nervosity will be glaringly obvious. My brow will be knit and I cannot stand still. I cannot effectively sweat, so am very hot and breathe heavily with open mouth. Pain, pain, endless pain! My skin is already raw from the whipping and now again there is not a single area of skin that escapes the jabs. No, they do not concentrate purely on my breasts and groin. Are they being considerate or have they received instructions? The organisation... Nothing will amaze me. I make noises like an idiot in response to the jabs and cry rivers of tears. I am a wreck hanging in my restraints when this phase also turns out to pass.

Music. Just voices and percussion now, alternating between slowly and seductively charming and loudly and aggressively scary in discrete bouts. Is this music designed to reflect or in fact call forward my relief that the jabbing phase is over? More often than not, this is the moment that I climb out of the mental depression, that I feel positively satisfied, that I am happy to have been subjected to the discomfort and pain. I look at the big screens with my slithery orifices obscenely large and feel whole and fulfilled.

Then finally I am released from my ties. The cameras are removed and the screens go black. I can barely stand, as usual, but am ably supported by the four acolytes. They lay me out on cushions on the floor. On my back first. An acolyte removes the ball gag. The regained freedom does not feel like freedom at all! Like a plaster cast removed from a broken leg. I move my jaw and lips and get used to the movement again, after having been locked for so long. Then a male member of the audience comes forward, stripped below the waist. He straddles my face and proceeds to fuck my mouth. Very deeply. This is what I can ably facilitate without gagging. It generally takes little time for such man to come and shed his load. This time is no exception. I swallow and he briefly collapses on me, before he removes his shrinking and limp sex from me and makes way.

Music. Just the voices, seductively and scary.

I am turned around and the anal dilator is removed. The woman who is to fuck my anus is fat and middle-aged. She almost pushes the acolyte away and wastes no time in brutally thrusting her dildo inside. Well lubricated as it will be, the pain splits me. To be anally fucked by a woman is the worst of the two possibilities. A woman set to perform the act is generally not about to spare her fellow-woman and, what is worse, does not share the very feeling, is insensitive. Finally, she has not reason to stop, unless she is tired or has fulfilled her desire to inflict the pain. This woman certainly does torture me before she moves away.

Music. Just light percussion, but alternating between seductive and scary all the same.

The vaginal dilator is removed after I have been turned on my back again. Again a woman with dildo, positively old, with white hair but with a sweet and kind face. She is subtle and sensitive and does not stop until I have reached two orgasms in quick succession. Bless her. Would she be capable of orgasms herself? She will at least remember the times...

Music. Just the wind instruments with their blistering intensity. We are approaching the end of the ceremony.

All audience member file past me now and urinate on my body, all standing astride of me at waist level and just letting go, not deliberately aiming. Therefore my eyes are to a large degree spared the acidic bite. My perfectly white body is defiled. The white bodypaint on my torso slowly dissolves from the volumes of warm urine that lands on me. This session is always closed by a person defecating on my belly. The person concerned will have been specially selected and primed, perhaps, as the faeces is always rather dry, thankfully, and odourless. The person this time is a woman once again, but this time a young woman of thirty at best. She is naked from the waist down, steps across me and squats over my belly with her back towards me. A minute goes without motion. Then I see her anus distend and a stool emerge. The second it drops away from her, she get up and disappear. It only takes another second before an acolyte comes up and scoops the stool away with a plastic bag. It has hardly left a trace. The point has been made, however. I don't care. I am longing for the end.

Music. Full range of percussion joins the wind instruments again, at full tilt.

I am uprighted and stand again, now a sorry sight. I have been rendered from pampered, white and ultra-clean to hurt, dirty and soiled. I am let standing there free and unsupported. The entire audience is nude now and apparently exhausted or satisfied. We gaze at each other for minutes on end, they and I, with just a small drum providing a simple suspenseful punctuation. Then I am attached by the wrists to the overhead shackles. My feet are kept free. The four acolytes appear - also nude, showing their beautiful, obscene full body tattoos - each holding a water hose. Once turned on, the jets are hot and hard. The four jets from different directions help be keep upright, but far from steady. It is a spectacle, me fighting the jets, an energetic final act. As it is, the water may include a chemical as with time the white body paint disappears completely, along with the dirt. I am rendered as bare as I began - six hours ago, of which the public ordeal took half.

I am empty.

I am satisfied.

The meaning of white: a ritual

by Vanna Vechian