Postmodern Peonage

Number 11 would be Claudia's finest work. She had slaved on it, working for days at a time; the dedication she put into this would surely attract SOMEONE's attention, she thought. However, she was ready for whatever press or onlookers there might be. Some carefully-worded answers would redirect any attention from the authorities – and she was ready for some harsh criticism, too. Clauda Blacke had made sure to bone up and reinforce herself and her premises against any naysayers or, who knows, even protestors.

In Blacke's mind, her work wasn't so much a 'revolution' as it was an 'exposition' – an exploration of the truth.

She rehearsed some lines in front of a mirror; her home, a townhouse in the French Quarter. (A very artsy place, she thought – she could probably get away with a little controversy here or there.)

"I, Claudia Blacke, am very, very proud of my latest piece. Look at the title, and the content, and do not think of it as a controversial or inflammatory work of art. I don't seek to incite riots or protest, and I don't seek to send out a big political message. In fact," she said, trying to regain her breath – she was far more nervous than she realized- "This is not a message. This is naturality."

"This is, after all, how it should be –a realization of the things that people so often deny, or even worse, admit to, contemplate, desire mentally, but never, ever act on. A realignment of ideals and values that men and women have held since the first proto-indo-europeans banged sticks together until they made a chariot."

This would be tough – that is, if the press, the media, and the attention came. She kind of hoped they would. She wiggled her toes and smiled reflexively at the idea.

"Look not at the art's context or the artist. No, look at the art – the subject matter at hand – and only THEN make your judgment."

She sighed, turned away from the mirror, and walked out of the room.

"Ugh," she said aloud. Claudia was just deathly afraid of crowds, she was now realizing. She needed a captive audience or she'd feel completely uncomfortable. Standing in front of people was a nightmare for her, really... and it had cost her at least one job.

She had to get this speech right. She had to really nail it – make a good first impression for when the public would inevitable see her 'big reveal'.

She turned to her artwork and caressed it.

"You think maybe I should talk more about me and less about you?"

The artwork moaned.

- - -

Claudia Blacke, professor of psychology, was standing in her room in the French Quarter. Its floors were half-bare wood, the walls a deep shade of chestnut brown and adorned with various 'fine art' she had created in her spare time or purchased.

And there, in the center of it all, was her best piece of art of all. It was a man – a former young student – dressed from head to toe in a jet-black latex, oiled and shined until it reflected her milk-white skin and black lipstick. He was encased from his torso down in a tube of her own design, a gigantic metal contraption that was perfectly circular.

At around 4 feet, it made her rubber slave into a living bust. His shoulders, the top of his chest, his lovely neck (in a small and snug posture collar that limited movement, of course) and his smoothly latex-coated head were the extent of his visible body. The rest of the tube was a polished gray metal. It was like a bust of Beethoven or Hippocrates, but, well... different.

Claudia rubbed her hand over his lips. He moaned again, obviously struggling and squirming with all his might. It didn't do much; he only moved back and forth a wee bit in his personal prison. The hood went directly over his head, sealed flush against his skin with a bonding agent.

Perforations around the eyelets let him see out (at a reduced ability – and he could really only look at his mistress and captor) but wouldn't let anyone see in. He was an anonymous little piece of artwork, and Claudia liked it that way. It added to the submission, took away from his personality, and, in her mind, felt more 'natural' for him – after all, he had WANTED to be an anonymous little slave. Something like that, at least.

Claudia sipped coffee and smiled. He was splendid. His mouth was filled with a great big pump gag, which she had filed to the brim with some heavy, viscus liquid – it kept his mouth shut quite nicely. The plump gag covered his lips, enlarged his cheeks, and was so fantastically flush against his skin you could practically see his lips behind it all, and see his wrinkles and dimples in the latex "art-hood."

She contemplated painting him all in white to make him look like a Greek classic. That was for another project.

Claudia then rubbed her hands against the "display tube." He squirmed again, and she could hear him trying to kick against the sides. He wobbled back and forth.

"Mmmmppppppphphhhh!" he moaned into the gag.

Claudia took a look at her sketches as he wriggled. The tube itself was pressure-sensitive on the outside – touching it would activate vibrators and oh-so-evil stimulation pads on the inside, keeping him aroused and teased without any recompense. It was superb.

She spanked where his 'butt' would be, and she knew that he would be instantly 'spanked' on the inside, too. Her Artwork was held in place by big, inflatable rubber pads which kept him so pressurized he had no hope of escaping. Coolant and sanitary tubes also kept him sustained, as well as hobbled in place.

Claudia took another sip. Mmph. She burned herself on the hot coffee. Something arbitrary inside her decided it was time to make her boy pay for distracting her. She began caressing his chest, lovingly taunting him with release. He was sure she was looking at him through his mask, and thought back to just the day before.

- - -

Vincent happily cooed. This was way too much fun! He squeaked his legs left and right, eagerly and gingerly stepping through the apartment of the dreaded "Mistress Blacke." He had eagerly signed on when she had hinted to him that she was looking for someone to play 'slave with her'.

"Oh, Mistress," he said, daintily prodding through her bedroom on his high heels, "I've finished cleaning the bedroom!" He raised his feather-duster and sanitary wipes to show off his success.

"Is there anything else that I can do for you, mistress?"

Vince was having the time of his life! His little 'submissive streak' was satisfied and this woman was simply amazing.

He squeaked left and right; Blacke's first order was getting him 'dressed for success.'

"The uniform makes the boi, I always say." Claudia had just entered the room from outside, and she was carrying a few bags. Claudia kept the tension in her mind to herself. Also, she thought to herself, she had never, ever, ever said that phrase before.

She smiled as she entered her brown room again. Vince tiptoed towards her. The first thing Claudia had insisted on during their 'play session' would be a pair of white thigh-high leggings, garters, and high heels... and the second thing that she had absolutely INSISTED on was the black-and-white latex maid costume. It hugged Vince in all the right places, tightening up his waist and giving him a nice, broad-looking chest. His cock bulged in a nice ball-sheath.

"Mistress, can I-"

Claudia dropped her bags and dashed over to him. She shut his mouth with one finger. "Good. You've learned to call me mistress, Slave. That's a good first step."

Vince smiled. She was silly.

"Are you enjoying your work, Slave?" she said, her hands on her hips.

He nodded, trying to act cute. "You bet!" His eyes darted. "I was a little naughty earlier." Vince laughed again, more of a chuckle – these words were so corny, so cheesy and clichéd. It was like something out of a bad pornographic film.

"Well, I guess we'll have to do something about those hands. You're a tool to me, slave, an object, a maid – a servant, if you will."

Blacke pushed Vince into the bedroom. "And I simply can't have my tools and objects wearing themselves out!" Claudia pulled out an armbinder out of a drawer.

Vince grinned, but it was less hearty than before. Claudia had gagged him and bundled him into an armbinder. The armbinder was tight - seriously, his body was really not made to have his hands in this position – and the gag was just as bad.

She had stuffed his mouth with a handkerchief, taped over that, and tied over that with another handkerchief.

And now, he sat on her lap as she stroked his hair. Life was still pretty good, Vince thought.

"Oh, Slave... my little favorite object... my most prized possession." Clauda stroked his hair.

"Wouldn't you do anything for me?"

Vince thought to himself – pretty much. He nodded and made a muffled moan. "Mmmhnggh...."

"Would you die for me?"

Vince was a little taken aback. He thought this had been a pretty casual relationship. He didn't moan, and tried to sound confused.

"Well, that's okay. I don't want you doing anything crazy," said Claudia. "Would you live for me?"

"Mmgrr hgghr..." Vince tried to vocalize 'I guess so.' He didn't understand what she meant.

"Would you live for me... AS something?"

- - -

Her reminiscing done, Claudia realized that Vince had been the architect of his own demise; in his spare time, he had built half the machinery and mechanics for his own "bust stand."

Mistress Claudia Blacke stared at the nameplate she had etched herself at the bottom of the 'bust stand.'

11- By Claudia Blacke

No name, no identification – it seemed appropriate.

Claudia finished spanking, groping, and prodding him. He was ravenously horny, trapped, and unless Claudia's heart grew two sizes, she had no intent on letting him have that sensual release he so craved. Not without a little more prodding and a few more promises.

Claudia spoke to him now, speaking to him as the person – well, the slave and associate, at least – that she had once known him as.

"You're going to be the talk of the town when I get the exhibition lined up. You won't blow the whistle on me, will you?"

"This is better! And you know it! Submitted entirely to your 'creator,' the way you should be."

She smooched his forehead. He moaned slightly. She couldn't tell what he meant by that, but she liked to think he was agreeing with her.

She checked her phone – a text message from a friend in the gallery.

'Your art looks good, give me a call, we'll work out a prelim showing....'

Claudia left her living room / studio and walked through the bedroom and to the attic. With all the funds and grants she'd nab, she might go back to school... hell, maybe open her own.

She popped open the door to the attic.

"We're going to be famous!" she shouted.

Numbers 1 through 10 moaned. She sat down and began sketching plans for Number 12.

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09.10.13