Goddess Monica's Beta Bitches h. 01

Meeting Gustavo

Monica Garza's austere, coprolite-like walls, covered with aquarelles of men in tutus and women's swimwear, are sound-proof, and Gustavo must intuit or presume this since, once inside, his voice climbs in pitch in a way it wouldn't in any other of her condo's rooms. In the little kitchen, for instance, he nearly whispered. The tutu- and women's-swimsuit-wearing men in the paintings look as powerless as hatchlings, just as powerless as they were (or are) and altogether dependent on Monica; whose presence Gustavo can feel in the watercolors (as their maker, yes, but also as a potent and unseen power in the scenes themselves) and, although these weedy men are only adumbrated impressionistically (in sensuous strokes of pale paint) their servility is immediately obvious; displayed in their salmon-pink faces no matter how bearded, no matter how blurry.

Goddess Monica (as intuitive or more as her new plaything and remorselessly mischievous) sees Gustavo gazing and says, in an acerose voice, "Don't worry: you'll join the gallery soon enough, Gus. I get around to painting ALL you little prissy misses sooner or later. All of them have been where you're at, too: looking at the maids that came before them and thirsting for the shame and embarrassment they see in the faces of these losers on this Hall of Shame."

Monica seizes and squeezes Gustavo's arm and, with her other hand, scratches slightly at the dermatoid face of a watercolor with a long and painted nail, asking, "Do you recognize this guy, for instance? Just asking gives the answer away I bet!" and the identity of the painted man is indeed obvious... as soon as Gustavo looks... and in spite of the vagueness of the face and the less-than-anatomically-accurate rendering of the body. The hair, achieved with two touches of the brush's bristles, in slightly unalike shakes of mud, could only be the algae-like mane of the only other maid in the condo at the time. The man in the tutu in the watercolor is me.

In the painting, my head is not unlike a clump of oily waste that my hair (some ruderal blemish) arises revoltingly out of, and, as I enter the room, minding Monica's instructions, I can tell Gustavo is wincing, remembering me as the maid who answered the door earlier and let him into Monica's home.

Day surrenders to night quite quickly and, in the "Maids Quarters," Gustavo tells me that he thinks his oddest inclination was to kiss and lick the popliteal fossa (or knee-pit) of any and every woman he was enamored of, "Especially," he adds, "when the woman's legs are nylon-clad and just a little clammy." This body-based and simplistic fetish so totally eclipsed all other penchants, apparently, and rendered all other sexual impulses, healthier or not, moot, "distressing me so much," he says, "that I thought something like this would be my only recourse: an attempt to intentionally develop an even mightier, but less limiting, fetish or 'erotic mode' or whatever."

So, he explained, he chose this world. The world of maids unpaid. A world, in fact, where maids paid for the "privilege" of serving.

All of it is much more than an inclination, fetish, penchant, impulse, or "erotic mode" for me, and, I suspect, will become more than any of those for my new sister-in-heels as well.

"Did you ever get rid of the knee thing?" I ask.

"Not at all. Just learned that things don't work that way. Have you seen Monica's by the way? They're unbelievably sexy!"

I remember going to NBA games with my dad as a teen and admiring the dancers' legs and say, maybe to encourage Gustavo, like we're in AA together, "I get it. Knee-pits. Yeah. I get it. No reason to abandon that entirely, I don't think, as long as it's not the only thing you ever think about. And trust me; there's no chance of that here."

Uniforms

French maid attire fabric kind of cascades on Gustavo's body in an angelic way. It only ever kind of sags on mine, hinting at my cozy, suburban past. I am both jealous and aroused. Gustavo's uniform (unlike mine) has no real "neck" but instead a kind of wide, lacy opening around the skin some inches beneath his bare, beautiful, swan-like shoulders. His "cleavage" is also on display, as is the majority of his feminine back.

My maid's dress, on the other hand (although it's a pretty shade of pink whereas his is a more traditional little number in black and white) has a tight, sometimes-strangling turtleneck and exposes very little of my very pale skin; which is, I admit, much less attractive than Gustavo's. I remember a girl in school with a large knobby bulb of a nose who always wore long-sleeved clothes (even in summer) to hide her really rather bad and suspicious-looking-mole-speckled skin (which was pale and pimply and always glossed in this thin sweat that looked more like oil, making her seem less hygienic than she was) who I had had an odd erotic obsession with. I masturbated to her pictures in the previous years' yearbooks almost everyday, wanting to eat out her pussy (which I imagined as a feral and unkempt mess) more than anything else in the world.

Gustavo and I

Gustavo's shame is constant and severe, and no desire remains in him for anything else. Least of all would he want his life to become, quote, "Normal." Rather, he wants the near-total abjection he feels to be total, and publicly broadcasted, so that there'd be no way to run from Goddess Monica (ever) even if part of him wanted there to be. Gustavo wants his name, his face, his personhood, to be a kind of cultural shorthand for what he thinks of as his "emasculated, servile sissy slavery." His hunger for fame of this kind is now as great as his original hunger for humiliation: an insatiable appetite that increases with each feeding like a heroin addict's.

Amanda Pasture began to exert her authority over me when we were twenty-two and twenty (respectively) and attending a small community college's only creative writing class. Amanda started with her feet, which she'd remove from her slip-into-and-out-of shoes and (under our desks) press them against my soon-throbbing cock, taking notes or writing creatively; looking altogether innocent of anything and unengaged in anything other than schoolwork.

Evenings, we'd go out together and Amanda would order me to buy her new shoes; literal stand there and demand that I act like her human ATM machine. Then, back at her place, she'd force me to suck on the cum-full condoms of other men she dated. This was my introduction to the wonderful world of S&M. Gustavo had no such living, breathing erotic messiah until he met Goddess Monica. You should have seen him when he was a new recruit! Lost in her perfume's universe and (of course) the fact that she allowed him (not only allowed it but demanded him) to masturbate right there, in front of her, to climax? It had to have been the best thing that had ever happened to the wimp.

When the semester was complete, Amanda followed me and stood outside the men's room, where I'd gone to privately weep about the fact I'd likely never see her again. She had, after all, made it evident that she didn't want to look at, talk to, or work with me. When I came out of men's room, though (red-eyed and pathetic) there she was, in rare form, her wide eyes staring sharply into mine.

"You will reimburse me at six o'clock, sharp, tonight, for my masturbatory ministrations. I don't give a good goddamn that I was force-feeding you Real Man cum when I jerked you off. I jerked you off and that's what matters, bitch. Now.... Pick me up at this address," she said, handing me a crumpled post-it note, "and take me to dinner at my favorite restaurant. I know you don't have a car. Order a cab, ass-wipe. You'll come to my apartment once we're done eating. Got it? There I'll tell you what else I want. Does all of this sound bossy, maybe? Harsh? Fuck you! How many orgasms have I given you, bitch? You will do this for me. Understand?"

Amanda Pasture died in a car crash that night while I was hailing a taxi to meet her for Sushi.

Goddess Monica's Self-Help Book

Goddess Monica is, without a doubt, one of the most psychologically savvy of all humiliatrixes. She's even authored an authoritative guide for goddesses called "Making A Beta Bitch Behave," giving other goddesses advice on keeping their submissives in line at all times. Here are some passages from it:

Passage 1: From "Ever Goddess Needs A Game Plan"

A goddess with a few rambunctious sissy slaves boarded an L.A. bus and sat in the seat behind me. Her hair was a mess, and her skeletal face revealed a state of desperation, of despondency. As she stumbled past me with her sniveling clan of man-boys, I asked her, pretending not to already know the answer, "Are all these sissy bitches yours? Or is this some sort of picnic?"

She looked at me bitterly and answered, "If you think this is a picnic, get your eyes and ears checked. These little shits were subservient once. I have no clue what's gotten into them, but they'll be punished for it later, that's for sure!"

I smiled to myself, understanding fully what she meant. Beta bitches who don't know their place (whether male or female) have an uncanny ability to unravel almost any dominatrix's or humiliatrix's nervous system. They can be babyish and make incredible messes in their diapers, panties, etcetera, and when they bicker amongst themselves (usually for attention, but whatever reason) they seem to have more energy in their overused little masturbation hands than most goddesses have in their whole exhausted bodies.

Passage 2: From "Sexual Divinity: Don't Let Naughtiness Be Knottiness"

So yes. Sexual and domestic ownership of submissive beta bitches is complex. Am I suggesting, then, that a new-to-this goddess ought to abandon the idea of owning one or many beta bitches, then? Not. At. All. All goddesses deserve to experience the joys and perks of their self-demarcated divinity. There is simply no doubt about it: beta bitches men are problematic creatures. To employ and (most importantly) enjoy them, a goddess must make the most of the time and authority she wields, and which is rightfully hers.

Gustavo's Dinner (or The Best Friend's Cum)

Gustavo looks through the yawning slats of the door to Goddess Monica's packed little closet, but still sees very little of the fun she's having with Derik, his ex-best friend. He can, however, smell his old buddy's cum from all the way across Goddess Monica's massive, sound-proof sex-room, and imagines his goddess teasing him, giggling, "See? That's how a real man's semen should smell! Potent. As. Fuck," and thin tears roll down his red cheeks as he realizes how desperate he really is to be more than Monica's maid. He wants to be her lover.

Tonight, in this closet, that fact is as blatant as embarrassment. How could he have convinced himself this long that he was happy or even content to be her little beta bitch of a maid. He's loved (and still does love) to be laughed at and debased. But by some cackling crowd of shallow, teenagers or twenty-somethings: not by the lady of his dreams! (Even if laughing at and debasing others happens to be his dream-lady's forte.)

In any case, the consequences of this sudden and striking realization will have to wait. It is not Goddess Monica's voice but Derik's that ultimately calls him from the closet, though Goddess Monica is, for her part, heartily laughing at Gustavo, and reveling in the total emasculation he must be feeling. Derik's call comes in the form of a terse, "Get your skinny little ass in here, you pathetic wimp."

Before he or even Derik have time to get a handle on what's happening, though, Gustavo's tongue, like a spongy arrowhead, is exploring the pungent sulcus of the goddess's immaculate cardioid of an ass. Latticed in less-than-symmetrical lines of male ejaculate, her barely-hairy back is the next to-do on Gustavo's mental check-list as, with a tongue now smelling of shit and somewhat numb, he laps his ex-best-buddy's copious load up. The humiliatrix giggles and calls Gustavo "the most pathetic, servile skid-mark I have ever had the privilege of employing as a 'personal assistant.'"

Goddess Monica, facing away, her ass in her sissy beta bitch's face, can't see its deeper-than-ever redness, but Gustavo's oldest chum in the world can and (now that his libido's primal cry for female attention has been temporarily hushed) he feels extremely empathetic for Gustavo, though he knows this empathy will do nothing to salvage their once-incredible friendship. Now the so-called stud is the one to weep. (Goddess Monica can't see his face either.) He asks himself (aloud but all-but-silently) "What kind of monster ARE you?" looking at Monica, then leaves Ms. S and Mr. M to their S&M, stumbling out the front door and driving away into the night.

Crystal Scabbard

Down one shiny side of a public toilet is a sap-like line: a measly little historical record. Whoever pissed this piss is long gone, but here his mark was made, and is, still; a line about 98% straight: a vertical streak of pee from the lid (under the seat) to the dirty ground of tiny manila tiles and grout. The pee streak is almost manila too, though a little less bland in its translucence and somewhat the hue of processed honey.

Monica's "Sissy Sitter," Miss Crystal Scabbard, looks a bit like Katie Aselton, though her eyebrows are more severe. Scabbard's fashion sense is all her own. Quite totally. She designs and "hand-manufactures" her clothes.

Miss Crystal has been ordered to order Monica's sissies around as she desires, and it turns out her desires are much more mainstream BDSM than Monica's. She commands Gustavo to lick away the line of stranger's-piss, and to be quick. She doesn't want to be seen in the men's restroom of the steakhouse they're in:

"Drink it up like the spayed little Chihuahua you are, bitch," she shouts. Monica would never be so crass, Gustavo thinks, no matter how harsh the task-at-hand. Monica would say something like, "Remove the urine from the porcelain, Gus. Use your built-in sponge," and "Gus" would've relished her command of the language almost as much as her power over him and his submission. This woman, though, this Crystal Scabbard, is nothing if not pushy.

Miss Crystal sees to it that Gustavo's misery is constant and complete, seeming even to ignore her own free access to enjoyment. She was given a free pass to treat him however she wanted, and this is what she chooses to do? She could've had a foot massage, a back rub, any pesky chore done, but instead he's scrubbing a coagulated line of piss away with his tongue! Absurd, he thinks and (completing the task) oozes some semen in his panties.

He met Miss Crystal when I did, about a year ago, when Goddess Monica got a cold. She ran the condo with a no-nonsense attitude that too the fun out of almost everything. I myself am fortunate enough not to ever have been sissy-sat by Crystal; though I doubt I'll dodge my time with her forever. Someday, if I say (and I plan to) it'll be my time to endure the dominatrix's far less playful reign.

She is even more imperious in Gustavo's nightmares, in which her breasts, large and semen-secreting, nurse him (a disturbed and thirsty servant) as a team of steakhouse waitresses claps and chants and laughs at him.

His tongue touches the cold toilet's lowermost portion. He hopes to lap up the piss in one lick; his wet tongue ascending the toilet from base to bowl to lid. This is, however, impossible. The pee is too old, or young, or too syrupy-to-start with (a man-hydrant's molasses-thick deposit) for this. He has eliminated exactly none of the "yellow stripe" it is his place to eliminate. When a mistress gives her wimp a mission, the wimp sure as hell better do it. And correctly.

"I don't have all day, loser. Hurry up," she says, lighting a long, thin, self-rolled cigarette. She is the picture of independent self-reliance. Gustavo is the picture of masochistic co-dependence. He looks for and at last discovers a way to do what he's told.

Erotic Humiliation (a little essay)

Embarrassment is never a completely comfy position; even when it's powerfully pleasurable. Humiliation is a viciously variable area of uncertainty and certain tension. In the throes of degradation, there is one's exploration of the boundary between self and sex as well as the struggle to be reborn in another's eyes (an abuser's eyes are filled with ice, and only by becoming one who's thirsty for the delicious frostbite they provide can a submissive survive). There is one's concern with what is real and what is unreal, and there is one's intuition of the process by which perception invents reality: one's self-consciousness called into a lion's den of eyes and ears and conclusions-come-to. Humiliated selves are nestled between two images: the vision the abuser(s) has/have of them, and the selves' vision. Erotic Humiliation demonstrates a violent meeting of self and world, indicating a location (shame) where they can meet with visceral authenticity. Humiliation is a sticky and tricky boundary between The Self and oneself (alternately rigid and wraith-like) and between oneself and sex: power found in powerlessness; orgasm achieved (in some cases) via stressed sexlessness; identity realized by way of an assault on identity. None of this is especially insightful, either, I know: least of all to those familiar with masochism, who know that it is, in the end, a phenomenological inversion of psychic and sensory responses to stimuli. This kind of degradation also, though, suggests (at least implicitly) the death (and an unsettling death it is) of all of our ideas about what identity consists of.

The End?

Dozens of dozens if not thousands of us are all around you, Whoever-You-Are, keeping secret what we keep secret because it's as easy for us to assume what you'll assume about us as it is for you to assume it. You'll assume, in many cases, that we're gay; even though we venerate (sometimes to an unhealthy degree) a woman or women, and (with many of us) Femininity in general; which is, when you think about it, heterosexual to a fault, not homosexual. If we're gay, it's because we're lesbians of a non-biological type: a phenomenon that hasn't received the attention it deserves.

Most of you, though, will simply assume we're perverts, or insane, or insane perverts. This may well be the case (and is certainly the case in many cases) but what are you going to do about it? I did say "to a fault." Remember? If you want to emphasize the Fault, go ahead! Do! I don't deny we're an odd and even off-putting breed or "species." What are you going to do about it, though? Not a goddamn thing: that's the answer! There's not a thing you can do to stop us, bitch; no matter how uneasy or queasy we make you vanilla wafers feel. Only Y-O-U can prevent your feelings of uneasiness; which are (of course) in the end, rooted in confusion, ignorance, fear or (more than likely) all fucking three.

THE END