Monday, January 11, 2010

Return to the Poetry Sweatshop

The Owner of The Poetry Sweatshop™ is on a rampage. Production is down. Quality is down. Profits are down. And nothing he has tried to improve the situation has worked.

Oh, there are still plenty of poets chained by one leg to their little desks, slaving away to churn out verse of all forms to massage the ego of the patrons who brought them here to earn their keep. At night they are taken back to the lavish dwellings of the plainly pseudo art aficionados. There they perform their work for family and guests. Sometimes the writer will be required to perform privately for the patron, the performance usually extending far beyond a simple recitation. An indescribable level of meaning is added to a work when the words surround a rich man's cock or are slid down a lapping tongue into a reddened, flowing cunt.

So yes, the poets are still chained to their desks by day. And to be honest, while their patrons have been noticing a decrease in quantity, they are mainly too boorish to appreciate true quality when it take a nibble out of their testicles.

The Owner, however, is another matter. He takes pride in his work. He wants to take pride in the work of his charges. He wanders the aisles between the desks, flogger gripped in his fist, a sadistic teacher in a one room school house. He calls working lunches, at which he lectures the hapless writers on organization, outlines, and research. He requires them to spend an hour a day executing little exercises in rhythm and rhyme.

He notes some improvement.
On general principle, he is pleased.
But these poets, property of others, are not his real concern.

There is the one.
The one that belongs to him.
The one who sits naked at a desk apart from the others.
The one with a choke chain around her neck.
The one from whom he expects true art.

The one who makes him crazy.

This one, he knows, has talent.
This one, he knows, has skill.
This one, he knows, has no self-discipline.

He has been trying his best for a year. Kindness, cruelty, instruction, guidance, letting slip ever so slightly the mask that hides whatever feelings lie deep inside.

OK. He admits that he didn't let the mask slip deliberately. It was a mistake, a big mistake, and he doesn't allow himself mistakes. But he'll make up for it. He'll make up for that moment of weakness, those seconds of softness, and he'll get what he wants from her - what he knows is there - if he has to give her up to do it.

So he goes on a rampage. But this time, it is addressed only at her. His pet poet. His private property. His potential pride, if only she didn't let her creativity wash away with her focus.

He storms up to her desk, grabs her by the choke chain, and drags her off to the room her almost never uses. Not the usual punishment room, from which all the poets can hear every scream, every moan, every crack of the whip. This one is worse.

It is completely soundproof.

As he pushes her inside, he pronounces his sentence.
4 days.
4 days alone.
4 days in silence.
4 days deprived of the sound of his voice.

He pushes her inside, and locks the door. A minute later he is back with her laptop and her assignment. And then he is gone.

And that's it. For 4 days. She sees no one. Food and water are slipped in through a cat door by disembodied hands. Not a sound penetrates from the rest of the factory, nor from the world outside.

She cries a bit, and then sets to work.

The Owner, however, is struggling with feelings he refuses to admit. He misses her, damn it! She infuriates him, she complicates his life, and he misses her. He brushes it off, comparing the exercise to having your car in the shop. For repairs. For a tune-up. It's aggravating, it's a disruption of ritual, but it's not that big a deal.

He dreams about her.

At 7 o'clock on the fourth morning, he unlocks the soundproof room and storms inside. She is awake and calm. Waiting for him.

Calmly she hands him the completed assignment.
Calmly she watches his face as he reads.
Calmly, gratefully, she accepts his praise,
as a puddle of pussy juice
on the hard wooden chair beneath her.

Calmly, happily, she takes her place on her knees.
Calmly, passionately,
she sucks his cock the way only she can.
Calmly, worshipfully,
she accepts the sacrament of his cum.

And then, shining with joy, she returns to her desk and produces a book of love sonnets.



I think that it is interesting to see your particular perspective on things. I enjoyed this post exceptionally and it makes me wonder if you have any books published because I would like to read them.
Everything in this post reminds me of something I feel quite often and it is a pleasure to see that you thought of it. Whereas I may have dreamt of it I never would have combined and formulated the proper words to describe it. I love it so much. -lea

Anonymous said...

This is the first post I have felt that I must reply to. For this is how I feel; this is what I wish for. I know that my relationship with my Master is completely different from yours, but sometimes I wish He was as harsh where my work was concerned - I need to write but am so unfocused and it is so hard to do without Him telling me i must. However, I know that if i didn't see Him for 4 days W/we would both die from the pain so I guess i should be careful what i wish for.

Paul said...

OG, if only you had a book of love sonnets ready to publish.
You are flying very high with this beautiful post, thank you.
Love and warm hugs,

Anonymous said...

your lovely colors are showing again, my dear. This is ... this evoked such a visceral reaction in me. It went straight to the heart. Love it.


nancy said...

What a wonderful fantasy the sweatshop is! I hadn't read the original til this post and it feeds into several fantasy ideas that float around in my head.
But this idea of you chained to write.. delicious and perfect.

Years ago in NYC, there was an ad on a lamp post for a "floor girl".
Somehow the way your post read, that flashed into mind again.. a very hot picture!
Thanks.. again!

oatmeal girl said...

Oh my. I was incredibly moved by this collection of comments, from both old and new readers. The piece was inspired by my own situation this weekend: an assignment to construct a schedule for my current writing project, with the accompanying punishment and focus mechanism of no contact (not even a reply to the message) from Friday afternoon, when the edict was delivered, to this (Tuesday) morning, when the schedule was to be e-mailed.

And yes, I did see him at lunch today.

And yes, all is well and beautiful.

lea - thank you ever so much for the compliment. To I admit, when I re-read your words just before replying, I thought you wrote of my "peculiar perspective", as opposed to particular :-) As for books... no. But watch this space for news of a story sometime in the next few months, and I am working towards writing other stories, longer than the ones I post here. I am doing a final edit on a non-kinky story, but even if I found someone to take it, I would publish under my own name.

It's interesting how people formulate similar fantasies on their own... like similar creation myths developing around the world.

I hope that all of you followed the link to read (or re-read) the original story. I always meant to write other episodes. This was the right time.

Anonymous (can you pick a name to distinguish you from the others?) - we all have such different relationships, but there are many things that are the same beneath it all. I was very worried about what my reaction would be, as I don't do well with silence. I think it was easier because I had an assignment, so did feel I was serving him while proving myself worthy.

While giving him what he wanted from me when he decided to acquire me.

But I felt different, part of me went cold inside, and I was very worried it wouldn't heat up again.

I needn't have worried. The reunion was beautiful. And I learned a lot.

Paul - damn, those sonnets. I've tried, I really have, and was in fact just thinking I should try again. They defeat me.

gd - your own words here are very lovely, and touched me as well. Thank you.

nancy - a floor girl? What's that?

I love the idea of being chained, of being on a chain, of the chain being pulled, hard, so that I truly feel its restraint...

The chain was used today...