Chapter 1: Whatever It Takes:Use Of Force.
This is gifted to oceansinmychest, my first reviewer. Your kind words gave me the courage to continue and I thank you with all of my heart.
'God help us - for art is long and life so short.'
Faust (Part One) Goethe
Chapter One: Whatever It Takes:Use Of Force
'Certain souls seem hard because they are capable of strong feelings, and they sometimes go to rather extreme lengths; their apparent unconcern and cruelty are but ways known only to themselves, of feeling more strongly than others.’
The 120 Days Of Sodom Marquis de Sade
The final, fatal minuolet gifts victory once more. Her foil victorious, she removes her fencing mask with a flourish to reveal another, the one to show she is good enough. Mefistofele gives a nod to the Almighty Ivan as Margherita’s melismatic lament leaves her languishing in her cell awaiting execution as the aria of sweet sorrow ends. Long, elegant strides remove her from the piste. Her black heart, blood pumping: blue blood, pulsing through her entire six foot of want. Every sense is heightened, her dark eyes black lit and onyx sparkle. Chest heaving, gasping for air. Her appetite sated but not quenched, her desire demands so much more than this arena can offer.
The Devil’s in the house.
To the victor, the spoils. It’s time for the little deputy to begin to fulfil her potential, what she might become, not yet actual.Let Gold Command make you realised, make her good enough.Talk of trust over an absence of mint leaves and stank by collusion.
“I trust you Vera.”
So here’s to trust.Her corn goddess blues read back the black reflected terms, sealed with a touch, the gentlest touch, of flesh.Consented, pledged a trust with betrayal of trust and an open rejection meant to impress, a verbal undress, a brief flash of flesh spoken, whispers of obeyance sound music. A validation confirmation of with whom now she stands. Where loyalties always lie.Vera, verus.
“Always with you.”
Words are but noise.The spoken word does not define, only actions do that. Should such action, within an act, become cementing? A lesson in trust. A life lesson to know how to live?
Time for Vera to learn the exactitude and it’s synonym, correctness, of from Russia with love. To become the victor worthy enough to wear Joan’s crown and it will always be Joan’s. An act of ascension.An act played out in ravenous Romanov desire. An act of undoing, beyond the words now, of ruination and annihilation. This is our Russian’s dynasty to bequeath and Wentworth her own Winter Palace. The Tzar is about to announce the Queen.
To become whole, Little Vjera must be broken by her mentor’s violence first. The violence of her hand and all that it demands is all that she commands.Made new by use of force.A force most necessary, an application of necessity and with no more force than necessary.And only Number One knows what is necessary and she will beat you black and blue, cut your heart out and run you through. And when you're broken, no longer sure, she will show you just what you're for.
This is not a punishment, this is a correction.To be made anew in her Governor’s image. This is an act of love. One heart to bend another to it’s own. The way is pain and the path is torture. Exquisite agony.
This is love so take the pain.
The beauty of the lesson lies in it’s application. Vera will experience a masterclass in the use of force by hands that make such, artistry.Techniques they both are professionally trained to administer, a set of techniques validated by the State and delivered only to those in service. A punishment and discipline control capable of colossal damage, so potentially lethal in it’s form only the title of each application is made public. The description of each application only for the eyes of those legally trained by the State in the use of force and it is an offence to divulge them, bound by The Official Secrets Act 1989.
Use Of Force.
It’s a State secret keeping no mind of it’s meaning.
To commence such an unparalleled unravelling, the only watcher viewing soul pay per view, our leader chooses midnight, the magical intersection in time.The Alpha and Omega point. The cardinal hour, a leader’s hour about to call time on the ordinal. The end and start of each day. A suspended moment, beyond time, no clock does it justice.Tick tock time’s up.Neither that which was nor that which will be.Forever and always, everywhere and nowhere.In the dark corridors, along the darker landings, it’s always midnight here.
From the death quiet, the solitary stink of a confinement cell. The cell gloomy. If these walls could talk they’d wail.Set furthest away, in a corner tucked behind an ethical glare, a humanity stare.Don’t look there. Where those who offend against good order and discipline are sent, always escorted, sometimes under physical and mechanical restraint, sometimes dragged,sometimes forced. It’s a prison within a prison. Here is real horror, here souls scream in broken black and are brutal beaten. No place for a bleeding heart, the perfect place to drain the last drop. A Governor scene obscene set in this classroom of unlearning.
Radio static crackle introduces the liquid obsidian velvet tone as it glides over airwaves. As it orders.
“Victor one to Juliet two, report immediately to solitary.”
In the darkness, the four walled darkness, solitary confinement darkness that can swallow you whole, The Real Governor stands ready.More Rasputin than Romanov.
The Devil is in the house.
Her pupil’s blown,beam back a black abyss.She breathes deeply with flared nostril.Every passion inflamed with love and lust.Hand in glove.A thick, black leather utility belt is decorated with appropriate instruments to control and restrain,a kubaton for striking,ratchet handcuffs to restrict arms and legs and a body belt to immobilise.This is her perfection and she exists to correct.This will be Vera’s deliverance.
Chapter 2: She Came On The Downbeat (She Came To Blows)
Set in season two, episode two, following that debrief! The tone is set by the aria Joan is fencing to: “L’altra notte in fondo al mare” (The other night at the bottom of the sea) from Mefistofele by Arrigo Boito.An opera based on Goethe’s play Faust. Joan decides the time for talk of trust is over, it’s action that’s required. Call it an exercise in trust, Ferguson style.
'Music heard so deeply that it is not heard at all but rather you are the music while the music lasts.’ T S Eliot
'Without music, life would be a mistake.' Friedrich Nietzsche
‘Is the deeper submission giving control or accepting it?’
1. Norma, Act 1: Casta Diva (Norma). Bellini
2. O Fortuna from Carmina Burana - Carl Orff
3. Dido’s Lament - Jessye Norman from Dido And Aeneas. Purcell
4. Lakmé Act 1 - Dame Joan Sutherland - Léo Delibes
5. La Traviata - Attendo, attendo....Addio del Passato (Act 3)
From Russia With Love
She Came On The Downbeat (She Came To Blows)
“Come. Here.” For there is music to be made. The gloved hand, an intrinsic piece of this Governor’s costume, thrice beckons the symbolic gestured instruction. Even an immortal dreams of dying, to rest when the music’s over. Death becomes a welcome guest upon invasion. Joan recognises the real Devil here and prays she’ll be the death of her. Recognition adds lust to desire, she’s a sadist’s sadist, (a masochistic one at that), after all and she can almost hear the earth falling over her head. The wrong lunatic needs to fuck the pain away, the animal within must gorge in order to soothe the savage beast. Appetite not suppressed but sated.
For one night only: the perversion of performance. It’s a crown of thorns our Governor wears as she takes to the stage. An atonement in atonality. Vera seals this prophet’s fate, played on plucked out heart strings as her saviour brings deliverance. Matricide begins with Rita, her patricide begins and ends with Joan. Both are doing it for Daddy. The thunder rumble in the distance sounds the beating of a drum. A beat to match a beating.
Blue and black bleed into the other in an oceanic abyss. In the pitch black pitch perfect, the silent libretto begins, limits of language need not leave lines unsung. Silence is not simply the omission of sound, this is their sound of silence and their discordance is written in syncopated time. There is rhythm in this perfected mathematical madness and it makes a point of counterpoint. Joan’s orchestration composes them both. That’s the art of a monster, control of and within the madness. She received her own instruction at the hands of a maestro, his influence now brings distortion. It’s the Governor’s key the little protege needs to learn to unlock her secret chord. This Russian Revolution draws a baton worthy to conduct Vera in gross symphonic need. The virtuoso playing innocence’s last swan song from the depths of a bleeding heart repertoire. The silence screams on the downbeat as the kubaton moves to strike it’s first note and the deputy’s sex squirms in arousal and fear. The Maestra finely attuned to her every vibration.
“I scare the shit out of you don’t I Vera?” Joan drips into her ear, hot breath brushing lip, the hushed bass notes vibrate slowly and deeply into her little, shuddering mouse. Joan infiltrates and infects irrevocably and Vera wanTs it.
Miss. Bennett shivers with the twitch in her core, her pupils blown vantablack disprove mere reflection. This is all hers. Theirs. Joan is offering her the world and everything in it for the price of a song.
“You want it don’t you little one?” In sotte voce. “All of it. You see my violence too and you want that most of all. To be played by my hand mm?” Vera's very own Kali.
Vera’s beginning will count in Joan’s finale. Transposed with a diminished fifth. This is just the opening movement. Vozlyublennaya nods imperceptibly and is circled by her maker, behind her, Joan draws the kubaton up and down her lower back in slow, sensual sweeps, tracing patterns in between the outline of her cheeks beneath the thin, cheap work skirt. Her other hand, splayed ivory fingers sheathed in soft, kid leather, as black as the tents of Kedar and Salma, encircle the back of Vera’s delicate neck, thumb and forefinger wide apart firmly massaging the knot they find there, in 3/3 time.
“The way is pain Vera. Your innocence keeps you flat and Rita’s major disappointment makes you the ape’s to maul.I can take that from you and make mine the only approval you crave, my touch the one you scream out for. Will you face the music and dance Vera?” This is her song for the asking. Her grip tightens around the little larks neck and she propels her, arse forward, with increased pressure from her kubaton, plunging it underneath the hiked skirt to swipe against Vera’s wetness, colliding against her swollen clit, dragging it back along her dripping folds again and again before pressing the tip as hard as she cares to into her sphincter. “Trust me Vera, it’s only pain.”
Vera puts everything on black and joins this Warsaw Pact. “I trust you Governor, always.” In breathless crescendo the volume of violence peaks in aural assault and both are ruinously fired by the melodious murder of delayed consent. It’s too far to go in hope of return, they’re over the bridge now.
“If you can’t, use the word ‘Morvena’ and this will end immediately but it will cost you everything.” A Deathless God’s words heard pianissimo.
Box cutters assist the strip, it’s not a search, it’s strip conditions. Clothing presents a hanging risk. The total occlusion of the airway does not make for good voice. The number one in the Prison death hit parade. Joan can’t risk another. She’ll wear the noose soon enough but for now she’ll make them both good enough.
She makes short work of Vera’s uniform, it falls in shreds at their feet. Even in the dark gloom of the cell Joan can see every contour, every curve and her breath quickens, “These hands you long for, you are what these hands were made for.”
The Governor presses herself into The Deputy’s back. Her hands deftly remove the remaining undergarments, swiftly shucked and tossed aside, fingertips sweep delicately over longing flesh.
From the corner of her baby blues, Vera can see the shadow forming as a long, muscular arm is raised behind her. The arm falls and the kubaton marks pale flesh, a mottled pink and purple stripe flares upon the exposed skin, another strike follows swiftly. Vera gasps an inward breath at the sting. Her nipples and clit harden with each blow, the pain exquisite. Her thighs and buttocks are swathed in a sea of lash lines, red and purple. She begins to tremble and bites down on her tongue to stop herself from crying out. Every contact unites them, unuttered cries bind them.
It’s enough and Joan knows it. Enough is not excess. Enough does not ignite. It continues. The beast is free, the feeding frenzied. As Vera collapses, Joan follows and looms over her. She strikes hard at the intersection between leg and buttock and the skin breaks, crimson billows, flows softly in rivulets like tiny rivers. A body lies wracked in sobs, a silent lament. The deputy is undone, a mind broken.
“ty bespolezen, ty bessmyslenna, ty nichto.“ Rasputin indulges herself further, teeth bared, lips drawn dry against death white and bloodless gums, snarling. Her hair has escaped in places from it’s pinned prison and wisps of it stick to her glowing forehead. She repeats the mantra learned as a child, “ ty bespolezen, ty bessmyslenna, ty nichto.” Weaponised words whisper and strike at the essence of self, scars that never fade, wounds that never heal.
Exhaustion sounds the coda. Joan slumps to her knees. Broad shoulders sag and her countenance softens.
The beast withdraws, breathing slows and The Governor grows aware of the figure, lying beside in the foetal position. It is her love whose tears run soundlessly, whose body shivers, whose spirit lies broken.
Joan snakes her arms gently between Vera’s from behind and pulls her towards her. She scoots them backwards and leans against the wall of the cell. She pulls Vera’s back close into her chest and stomach and wraps her legs around her. Envelopes and contains her. Her arms reposition, one hand holds Vera’s head tenderly against her chest and her other arm wraps itself around a waif of a waist. Joan litters her head with kisses and lips caress and soothe with words that comfort. She rocks her gently in a lullaby rhythm until Vera’s tears subside. The shaking ceases and Vera returns to herself anew. Reborn, in this timeless moment they are one, touch melds and they melt into the other. Beyond end, without beginning.
There is not a note left to play.
This is the end and the beginning.