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Lupus marks a week later
This will probably be the last home snap of the marks, because even a week after the shoot they were looking like not much at all. Right now they don’t look like anything, other than the ones in the unusual spots.
They still hurt when squeezed, though.
You’ll notice that the cane stripes in the picture look fresh; that’s because Mr Haze fancied giving me six of the best before we remembered to document the untainted marks.
Lupus marks in development
Here are some home snaps of what my marks looked like in the first few post-Lupus days.
If you don’t like black-and-blue bottoms, you may do well to scroll down to the next post, which is all words.
If you do like black-and-blue bottoms, or if you’re curious, or if you’re my friend and still want me to like you tomorrow, click to enlarge:
1. About half an hour after the thrashing – caught in the act of twittering:
2. About 3 hours later, collapsing into bed:
3. The following morning, about 16 hours after the shoot:
4: Twenty-four hours later:
I’m healing pretty quickly now, turning a non-photogenic greenish colour, but I may get Mr Haze to snap a “one week later” picture tomorrow. ‘Cause you have to, you know?
This is the third of a series of posts about my Lupus Pictures shoot of 2009.
Part 1: “The annotated Lupus tweets”.
Part 2: “Remembering the Pain”.
Remembering the Pain
This afternoon I texted my best friend to update her on the progress of my Lupus bruises. I described the lurid mass of purple covering my buttocks and the top of my thighs. And I added: “It didn’t hurt enough to cause that kind of damage!”
I sent the message, but then I remembered a single thought that had tolled in my head as first the cane, then the whip cut into my bottom: “I’m not made to stand this kind of pain; how can I take any more?”
Both feelings were genuine: at the time, I wondered if I could stand the agony; today, I remember mostly the joy at having pushed through. Human beings forget the pain; bodies and souls gloss over the hurt, until it’s only a breath of memory, of emotion. I know the pain was dreadful, but only because I remember thinking so. Three days later, my body is already forgetting.
What I remember is joy.
The joy first presented itself the night before the shoot, as periodic shallow cuts of fear. I packed up my stuff: a dress (I wouldn’t feel like wearing jeans), cheap disposable knickers (to soak up blood), tubes of arnica cream, moisturiser and disinfectant. These are not usually the things I bring along to shoots, other than moisturiser. Their presence signalled to me that, like an explorer packing up her compass and maps, I was officially off on an adventure.
There was the joy of acting, such as it was. The role wasn’t difficult: I was an ingenue in a white pinny, with just enough lines to pretend I spoke some Czech. I slid into character painlessly, and preserved enough of a grip on reality that following direction, hitting marks and staying aware of camera lines wasn’t as much of a wrench as it can be on more emotionally difficult films.
The fear returned in a numbing wave when I first saw the whip I would be asked to take. It was a tightly braided leather snake, all knots over its entire length. Producer Thomas told me later that it had been a gift from a fan, and was one of the most severe implements in the Lupus arsenal – a fact I’m glad I hadn’t been aware of before my scene. In the hands of Lars, who is an imposing man even when you’re aware of his sweet nature, it looked terrifying. But this fear, too, was joy.
And then, there was the Challenge
At some point before the shoot Mr Haze had asked me how many strokes I’d be getting this time, and I suddenly realised that neither was the number set in the script, nor had we discussed it in advance, like for “Red Reformatory”. I knew there’d be a caning first, followed by a whipping, and I suspected the number 50 would be involved, but other than that I wasn’t sure.
I waited to be told; there was a thrill in this.
The cameras were being set up in the barn, where the mistress would catch me naively helping the master rub in a special ointment. (Har-de-har.) Director Zbysek and Producer Thomas called me to one side.
They’d had an Awesome Idea. First I would get 25 with the cane – that was settled. 25 with the whip would follow. And then – well, then it was up to me when to call a stop to it. After the 50, I could collapse to the floor, signalling I’d had enough. Or I could keep going for as long as I wanted.
“What do you think?” asked Thomas enthusiastically.
I thought it was the craziest, most wonderful idea I’d ever heard. The question now wasn’t, “Can I take 50?” It was, “How long can I keep going?” Like a package tied with a gold ribbon, I was being handed control: instead of just enduring the pain, I could own it, fight it, wrestle it to the ground. Although I had every intention of stopping at the minimal 50 if I needed to, I loved that the end would come at my own word, not somebody else’s.
I had no illusions: my pain tolerance being moderate at best, I didn’t think I could keep going forever, nor did I feel like proving to the wide world that I could take more than the next girl. But oh, I loved the power. Fear and power mingled together, becoming joy.
The pain, though, was just pain. From the moment that pain stepped in, my memory is fractured.
I remember the first two cane strokes fall, in quick succession, and the sting taking a little while to build up. For a second I thought it might not be that bad, and then it was as though a hot knife was pressed to my skin. And it really was that bad.
I remember trying to count, and losing count about halfway through, and picking it up again just because it’s something to focus on. And pain flaired up, and I failed.
I don’t remember the caning finish, but I do remember trying to recall where the hell the cameras are, where I’m supposed to be, where I’m going next. There’s no command to cut, so I must be in the right place to be forcefully stripped; I try to help subtly enough that it doesn’t actually look like I’m helping.
Of the whipping, I remember the deep despair as my uncertain count reached twelve; I didn’t think I could hurt more than this, and yet there was just as many to go. That thought: I can’t possibly withstand this. Then, just as clearly, I remember being reluctant to finish when I thought the minimum 25 were done: the pain was appalling, and yet there was comfort in still standing, still holding on. I will stop now, I thought. No, now. Now?
I seem to remember – I’m pretty sure – that the entire scene was shot in one take, like a long gasp without breathing out: from the minute I kneel at the master’s feet, to being discovered by the mistress, to having my skirts yanked up and my pantalettes shoved down – to the caning, to having my clothes torn off, to the whipping, to throwing myself at Lars’s feet, begging, begging. “I think this is enough,” he says gruffly – they leave me alone, crouched on the floor. And it’s a cut. Everybody applauds. One long take.
At this point people started saying nice things to me. I’m far from the thought that a girl’s ego should be built on the compliments she hears after being beaten red and purple, but it certainly does no harm to hear them. The English-speaking folk said them, the Czech-speakers smiled them, my husband passed them on body to body in a long, warm hug.
We shot a quick repeat of the final few minutes for another camera angle – the begging, the last stroke, the disconsolate sobbing – and snapped some stills, and then it was really all finished.
The memory of pain was beginning to slide away. My mind, buzzing on the endophin high, was already spinning around the fantastic films I could go on to make next time.
This is the second of a series of posts about my Lupus Pictures shoot of 2009.
Part 1: “The annotated Lupus tweets”.
Part 3: “Lupus marks in development”.
The annotated Lupus tweets
Before I dive into the story of last weekend’s Lupus shoot, I thought I’d post the collection of messages I sent to Twitter while it was going on. With commentary, plus a couple of the stills I’ve been sent.
19 June 2009: The day before.
8:13am Woke up at stupid o’clock, freaking about the shoot. Do I still remember how to do it, it’s been several weeks! LOL Silly sleep brain. [I was oddly more worried about the acting than the pain. Which attitude last until, oh, about Saturday afternoon.]
11:25am Feeling alarmingly ladylike in a dress. Haven’t packed jeans at all – not wearable with the marks. [Unless, apparently, you're a super-human like Ester Slaba, who was pulling on her jeans half an hour after her thrashing.]
6:48pm Me: ‘My knickers are falling down.’ Husband: ‘This could turn into a theme for the weekend.’
8:05pm They are asking Ludwig to shave his beard. He’s had it for 10 years! I think he’ll cry. [He was, in fact, very brave about it when the time came the following morning. Aw. Even when they shaved off his real moustache, only to stick on the fake, historically appropriate specimen.]
9:40pm Everybody is very intent on making Art. Which clashes a bit with the goofy nature of the plot.
10:00pm Mr Haze (who isn’t acting) to Ludwig: “If the girls are shaving, why shouldn’t you?” Good point. [According to Producer Thomas, it's virtually impossible to convince his girl models not to shave before the historical dramas - hence the frequent need to insert excuses for scarcity of pubes.]
20 June 2009: The Shoot.
6:04am Alarm has gone off. Taxi in an hour. Time to get scared maybe. [More of a pleasant tingle of apprehension, this.]
7:03am Feeling a bit naked setting off without my wedding ring… or my bra. [In the taxi I noticed that I had a narrow pale tan line on my ring finger, which comforted and grounded me throughout the day.]
8:17am People are slowly getting into costume. Lights are being set up. I’m still in civvies though.
8:42am Costumed, with tons of underthings. My stockings are going to fall down all day. [And so they did, until I gave up on yanking them up. It's not like you could even see them underneath the multiple skirts. Garters would have, of course, left unnatractive lines.]
8:53am Ludwig and I are learning our Czech lines. [Of which, in fairness, we didn't have many.]
9:29am The first scene is being shot outside. Messed up by cars and helicopters – not very 1901. [I don't actually know what year it was supposed to be; I took a random guess. Throughout the day, planes seemed to fly past every time a take was going particularly well.]
9:52am Ludwig’s first scene! His Czech is very… German. [As is the rest of him. Naturally.]
10:52am Done my first talking scene. Only about 50 takes.
11:45am Resetting the scene. It’s a garden party now. I’m the maid and serve cakes. [They smelled so good. And guess who was the only person whose role didn't require eating.]
12:21am It’s raining all over the garden party! [The speed with which the crew cleared out the set and covered up the equipment made my head spin.]
12:41am I think we’re moving again. Wish I could get whipped already!
12:56am I didn’t drop the tray of cakes! [Nor did I let Producer Thomas filch any until the scene was done. Which, given that he finances the whole thing, including the cakes, was oddly hilarious.]
1:28pm Just had to run on cobbles about 7 times carrying a cane and a birch. [Me. Running. With no bra. I did say it was a comedy.]
2:01pm My maid’s outfit is so unflattering, it’ll be a relief to be naked. [Having seen the pictures, I think I deserve to be spanked for being a primadonna. The outfit is fine.]
2:32pm The first smacks have sounded. Gearing up to the canings of the other two girls. [And birchings, as it turned out. The girls were Ester Slaba and Vera Vranova, which I didn't mention at the time because I didn't know their screen names.]
4:33pm First birchings done. Now on to Ludwig an his cane for the same 2 girls. My turn isn’t for hours. [The birch was shredded! Ester and Vera got 25 each with it, plus the same again with the cane.]
5:11pm Ludwig is done for the day, and so are the Czech girls. Just me to go. [I'll let him tell the story, but note that he was a lot better at it than he'll ever admit.]
5:17pm Oh my dear fucking baby Jesus, I just saw the whip they’re using on me. [Lars Moebius showed up on set nonchalantly waving it around. Mr Haze could have acted less amused.]
6:02pm Oh good, Lars is left-handed. [Which turned out to be completely untrue. Thanks, Producer Thomas, for scaring the living daylights out of me.]
7:09pm 25 with cane and 37 with the monster whip. I should be in pieces, but I’m flying! [More on this later, naturally.]
9:50pm So, the monster whip turns out to have been a pizzle. Figures! Fighting endorphin low with chocolate. [They were vodka-filled bonbons.]
21 and 22 June: The Aftermath.
11:51am This morning I’m all kinds of interesting colours. Sitting down is undesirable, too.
3:44pm Bruises are more spectacular today than they were last night. Not pretty unless you like purple. [Seriously. I'll post the next-day pictures once I've downloaded them from the camera, but they're in no way erotic.]
10.09pm Subdrop has failed to come – probably because the film was a comedy. Bum is shredded though.
12:16pm Now to my least favourite part: healing. Judging by my state I’m in now, this is me done for the rest of the summer, shoot-wise.
This is the first of a series of posts about my Lupus Pictures shoot of 2009.
Part 2: “Remembering the Pain”.
Part 3: “Lupus marks in development”.
Prague is calling
I’m leaving for Prague in the morning, to shoot my second film for Lupus.
Where my first film was dark, the second will be goofy. Where the first one was complex, the second will be relatively straightforward: a one-day shoot instead of two. Where in the first one I was heading into the unknown, now I’m going back to see my (twisted, creative; twisted!) friends.
Last time, I had a Western friend with me. This time, I will also have a Western friend with me, but I suspect he’ll be very busy whipping the local actresses.
Where the first thrashing hurt like nothing else, the second one will… er, yes. Probably hurt like nothing else. I’ve spent the last three days telling anybody who’ll listen how not scared I am, but it’s a big, fat lie.
Also, this time I’m going to live-tweet the shoot, so follow me on Twitter for hot (literally) news of how we’re getting on.
Public service porn?
The web comic XKCD is always amusing, and sometimes on topic:
This comes the next day after I spent some time talking shop with a pair of other models. Among other things, we discussed this: to what extent do our films influence other people’s view of the spanking scene and spanking relationships?
If they do – at all – is it our responsibility to stay away from companies that promote what seems to us an unrealistic, somehow warped view of the kinky life? Or do we just merrily bend over, and let the surfers be responsible for their own psyche?
I’m attempting to draw up a set of Rulez for All Modelz, but I do have a simple set of guidelines to assess any offer of a job:
1. If it smells, don’t shoot for it.
2. If somebody else claims it smells, rely on your own nose.
3. People are responsible for sorting out stuff inside their own heads.
4. But if you can help with the spring brain-cleaning, by all means lend a hand.
David Tennant on ‘The Chatterly Affair’
To my delight, I’ve found this clip of David Tennant’s appearance on the BBC “The Chatterley Affair”. (I’ve blogged about this production before, and this debate in particular made me very, very happy.)
(No spanking there, before somebody complains. Just a discussion of D.H. Lawrence’s puritanical values, with quotes.)
*shallow* There’s something particularly thrilling about hearing Tennant say “fuck” in a Yorkshire accent. */shallow*
