There are things that I miss in my sessions that seem tricky to attain: true Goddess worship. We live in atheistic and nihilistic times. I believe in a man's inbuilt need to worship, to yield to something higher than what they are. To see their existence like the spec of dust in the universe that it is. In search of the holy, this is what BDSM is for me. And this is what I wish to attain at the House of Vespucci.
Holy is the whore. Holy her cunt, that is as mysterious and unattainable as the Goddess that she radiates into the world. Holy her limbs, silken, long, holy her feet that stalk in this chamber of night. Holy her long nails. Holy her lips, painted crimson red. She laughs, her mouth all bloody and sharp teeth flashing like a row of pearls, and her laughter cuts you or delights you, all in accordance to her mood that is as ever changing and capricious as the moon. She lights up the space, her perfume so strange and undulating, incomprehensible, just like she herself is. Burnt leaves, graveyard dirt, cold stones, blackest musk, tobacco and then, suddenly, orange blossoms swelling in the black hours of midnight.
She draws the circle around you with her thoughts and whispers for protection, and her eyes are those of angels or demons - and you know angels and demons are angels here in her house. Idly, almost lazily, painted fingernails caress the nape of your neck. She towers over you, a dark madonna come to life. Sacred, holy, otherwordly. How you yearn to press your head against her feet. You need her, need to yield. A pilgrimage of lips on her feet, a forbidden prayer. Her gaze is difficult to read, inhumane, hypnotic and predatory. She sees you, for what you truly are. The mocking smile on her lips humiliates and degrades you. She sees right through you. Yourr body betrays you with its arousal. You are a servant. A slave. A spec of dust. An object. You are property. You are hers, to do with as she pleases.
-Madame Simonetta V
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