#To be murdered in prostitution is to go from being made sub-human in life to nothing in death

[coochiequeens]

Old article but worth sharing today for International Day of No Prostitution

October 5th is International Day of No Prostitution. In 2019 we are marking it by remembering the women who didn’t survive prostitution – including all the women whose disappearances and deaths were unmarked and unnoticed – as we resolve to not rest until the vicious system of prostitution is brought to an end.

Remembering the Void by Rebecca Mott

This is written to all the lost prostituted women, whether gone through death or disappearance. I write as one who was lucky enough to exit alive and relatively unscarred.

To write as an exited woman, is to be surrounded by ghosts and the knowledge of death being a norm. So if you choose to say “prostitution is just sex work,” never express that to exited women, most of whom have seen death in the raw, and know of many of our prostituted sisters who have been erased from existence.

To understand prostitution, we must look directly into this abyss and stop turning away from this genocide. Look with courage and fury into the void and show respect to our forgotten sisters by learning from their disappearances or deaths.

To start this journey, we must know and understand that the sex trade has had centuries to become experts at making the prostituted vanish.

The sex trade usually picks females they can easily isolate from family and friends. This may be because of previous abuse, because of being inside a natural or man-made disaster, or the isolation of poverty or racism. These are just the tips of the iceberg that isolates females.

An isolated female is easy to manipulate and gradually make into sexual goods. The main advantage of this isolation is that she becomes a non-human and from there it’s easy to turn her into sexual goods. Sexual goods that will be consumed and then thrown away.

This must be understood: that to be prostituted is to be made subhuman and throwaway. This cannot be stated enough, if we are to get hold of the scale of the deaths and disappearances of the prostituted.

It is claimed that at the minimum, prostituted women and girls are about 12 times more likely to die from male violence than other groups of females of a similar age and background. This will always be an estimate, for most disappearances or deaths of the prostituted are unrecorded.

When I was prostituted, it was common for punters to play at killing me – often saying:

“No-one will look for a dead whore.”

What other job is this normal in?

We get this message in all parts of the culture, such as the trope of murdering whores for crime novels, TV and film scripts. It is ingrained that the deaths or murders of the prostituted are so unimportant, that any serial killer will aim at the prostituted, knowing few will care.

The sex trade is expert at vanishing acts. Most of the disappeared prostituted females have been moved into other areas and more than likely more dangerous aspects of the sex trade. Internal or external trafficking are the main routes to control and silence the prostituted. Every prostitute lives with the threat of more sadism or death as their norm.

The sex trade has learnt over many centuries to clean up after punters kill the prostituted. These deaths are made invisible, for all that matters is more profit and making punters happy. The murdered prostituted are thrown away with no name, no past and no recognition that they were human.

So as we remember the deaths of murdered prostituted females, we will be surrounded by nameless and faceless ghosts crying out to be seen and known.

All the time there is moving remembrance of women murdered by male violence, especially domestic violence. But rarely does this include or even mention the silent genocide of the prostituted.

We let the sex trade win when we ignore these deaths and disappearances. We need to have memorials, marches, and constant reminders for those who lost their names and routes back to a non-prostituted life.

To end, something I wrote long ago:

To be murdered in prostitution is to go from being made sub-human in life to nothing in death.

Crossbones Graveyard

All of the images in this article are photos of Crossbones Graveyard, an un-consecrated plot of ground a short walk from the Globe Theatre in Southwark, where ‘outcasts’ were buried from the 12th century until its closure in 1853. The graveyard’s other name, the ‘single woman’s graveyard,’ hints at who these outcasts were – women not under the patronage of a named man.

The centuries following the late medieval period were a time of brutal disruption for ordinary people as the communal subsistence economy was transformed into a wage-based monetary one. The disruption affected women quite differently from men. The work that women had traditionally done in having and raising children, maintaining (and often also making) the family’s clothing and home environment, growing, gathering or purchasing the family’s food and preparing it, etc. was now defined as non-work and was not remunerated. Men’s work on the other hand was defined as work and was remunerated. As a result, women as a group were systematically deprived of independent means of supporting themselves. This drove women into deeper economic dependence on men.

If they didn’t have a father or husband who could or would support them, many women had little choice but to turn to prostitution. This made them outcasts from mainstream society and defined them as unfit to be buried in consecrated land – while the men who bought them for sexual use were deemed upstanding citizens fit to be buried in the churchyard.

But the hypocrisy didn’t stop there. The brothels in Southwark were licensed for centuries by the Bishops of Winchester who grew rich on the proceeds – which means that the wealth of the Church of England is based in part at least on pimping women.

The development of capitalism was predicated on stripping women of their previous relative economic independence and forcing their dependence on men – either individual men in the family or the free-for-all of prostitution, while the men were given (almost absolute) power over women in return for compliance with their wage masters. This is what Carole Pateman calls the sexual contract and it is the bedrock of the capitalist system

Neither women’s poverty nor prostitution are inevitable. They are a direct result of the deliberate disenfranchisement of women in the system of patriarchy, which slowly morphed into capitalism and now the terrifying no-holds-barred neoliberal capitalism, which threatens to destroy the entire ecosystem on which we all depend.

Crossbones Graveyard is now run by volunteers as a garden of remembrance. Women tie ribbons and mementos to the fence in remembrance of all the outcaste women who are buried there.

If you visit the garden and raise your eyes, you can see the Shard, that modern phallic monument to neoliberal folly and the brutal exploitation of women and colonised peoples everywhere.

Meme for International Day of No Prostitution 2019

[degenerate-perturbation]

Chapters: 24/38 Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening, Dragon Age II Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Amell/Female Surana Characters: Female Amell, Female Surana, Anders, Velanna, Nathaniel Howe, Oghren (Dragon Age), Justice (Dragon Age), Sigrun (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras, Isabela (Dragon Age), Male Hawke (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Harm, Blood Magic, Prostitution, Drowning, Wilderness Survival, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better Series: Part 2 of void and light, blood and spirit Summary: Amell and Surana are out of the Circle, and are now free to build a life together. But when the prison doors fly open, what do you have in common with the one shackled next to you, save for the chains that bound you both?

Loriel had not expected to miss Avernus quite so much.

Months went by without word from him. First few enough for her not to notice, and then too many for her to ignore. A dozen times over the past months she had thought to write him, and then decided that no, she didn’t need to after all, but she couldn’t pretend that forever.

It was her own petty, childish pride, then and now. She had fought him just to prove that she’d win, and writing him now would be admitting that she needed his counsel. Which she did

She still wasn’t going to do it.

More than the man himself she missed his knowledge and experience. And if not that, then at least someone to report her findings to. Someone who would care if she didn’t get anything done, and who would care about what she had to say about it. And yes, perhaps that amounted to missing the man himself, too.

The worst of it was that her work had stalled without him. Her rigor and meticulous care wasn’t enough anymore, and she was no closer to cracking open the crystal and finding the Architect than she’d been any time before. She began to lose whole days to restless pacing, to picking up books and putting them down again, to feeling her eyes move across pages and absorbing absolutely nothing. She had not thought that the loss of a sporadic correspondence partner would undo her so badly.

The work had to continue. 

Had she been a spirit mage, she would have had options—spirits of knowledge weren’t that uncommon. The Chantry did not teach its prisoners to speak to them, but a powerful spirit mage could have managed it. The Dalish did so, and so did the Alemarri. Spirit lore was something that might have been available to her, when she was eighteen or twenty and still fresh.

But she had bathed too long in her own blood, and her connection to the Fade had rotted. So it would have to be a demon, and she would have to bind it.

For all her transgressions, Loriel did not make binding demons a habit. Less out of any unwillingness to transgress—what sacred rule had she not already broken?—than a sense of calculated risk. Any imperfection in the binding, and the demon was out, ready to turn its wroth on the first target it could get its hands on—generally, the mage who had bound it.

It was a bad idea, she knew that going in. She would do it anyway.

That did not mean she would be stupid. She did her due diligence. She read up, poring over every scrap of demon lore in her library. Abelard’s Index of Foulest Daymons was particularly helpful. She had borrowed the tome from Avernus and only vaguely intended to return it, and now it seemed like she wouldn’t have to. It was a murderously heavy text, listing every type and subtype and sub-sub-and-so-on-type of demon known to exist, their names and habits, their foibles and tricks, how best to bind one, and what one might ply it with. Better yet, Abelard had lived in Tevinter during the Steel age, and his text was unsullied with Chantry prejudices.

She practiced first. When finally it came time to summon something, she spent hours carefully inscribing the binding circle—with far more care than what she intended to summon really warranted. She started with wisps and wraiths, half-formed blobs of Fade-stuff still waiting to become, lashing them to her will and releasing them again. When she could do this as easy as breathing, she moved on to demons of hunger. Hunger was something she no longer felt, and could not be tempted by, though hunger demons were more likely to try and eat her than to tempt her. 

Next she tried Rage and Desire, creatures of things she had felt once, but hadn’t for months and years. If Rage might still bring heat to her blood, if only in the form of intense irritation, Desire offered nothing she’d ever take. Loriel had no fear of Desire. She’d already had the thing she most greatly desired, had it, and thrown it away—on purpose. Nothing else in this world existed that Loriel could be said to desire.

Sloth she avoided. Sloth—Torpor—was the only one demon who had ever gotten the better of her, who she hadn’t defeated herself. It was too great a risk, that she’d lie down and sleep until the end of the world, given half a demon-shaped excuse.

These lesser demons, though, would be of no use to her. What she needed was knowledge, and what that meant something like Pride.

Abelard’s Index was not very reliable for lesser demons who had since returned to the Fade-sea and reformed. It listed appearances they no longer wore, personalities they had long shed, even if their basic natures would reform. But for powerful demons who had amassed centuries of memory—just the one she would need—Abelard was perfect. She read and reread the relevant heading, squinting at the antiquated Tevene. Vainglory, Audacity, Superbia, Narcissus—no, not quite, no, and no. Demons that dealt with forbidden things—Censorus, Proscripta, Obscurus, Taboo—no, not that one, not this one neither. Then she saw the subheading—Daymons of Knoweledge.

Demons of knowledge came in all manner of forms—she paused for a time on Secerne, who collected secrets. It dealt only with knowledge that no-one else knew. Tempting—but such a creature would hardly be likely to give its secrets up and render them useless to itself. A blood mage could bind a demon and constraint it, but to compel it was pointless—you’d probably just end up destroying it, and if you were after knowledge, what good was that? No, once bound, the demon would have to be dealt with the old fashioned way.

Revelatus traded desired knowledge for undesired knowledge. It would tell you anything you wanted to know, and then something you didn’t want to know—the worst thing your lover had ever thought of you, how happy you might have been if you had just chosen differently, what was really in your sausage. Countless men had been driven mad by this one, Abelard warned. Loriel decided not to test her luck.

Finally she settled on a demon called Veritas, who spoke only truths. It was an ancient creature of malice and cunning, but it would tell her the truth, and for that Loriel would give anything.

tck

There came a point where even she could not justify dithering any longer. Weeks had passed since she had decided she would bind a demon. On the chosen day, she made all her preparations, triple-checked her summoning circle, cast spell after protective spell. Finally she could find no more excuses to delay—she spilled her blood and spoke the words.

The air itself seemed to part, and a greenish miasma spilled forth from the crack. A shape was being pulled through, too big for such a modest aperture, yet somehow, terribly, emerging. Reality bulged and bent, and finally, a demon climbed out.

It was smaller than other Pride demons, shaped something like a bear and something like a lion, though in place of claws or talons, it had clever human fingers. Its face was covered with a golden mask, shaped into the form of a human face. Its hide was pitch black, and every inch of it covered with blinking, roving eyes.  It raised its head, as though to sniff the air, and bent to examine its new situation, noting the summoning circle, the runes of binding and restraint. 

“Hello,” said Loriel. “Might you confirm your name?”

The thousand eyes blinked all at once. “I am Veritas, he who knows ten thousand truths.” Its voice came through as though from far away, echoing around the chamber.

“Ten thousand only?”

“No, far more! Many, many more! I know more truths than there are stars in your sky, more truths than there are grains of sand in your deserts, more truths than the number of breaths you will take—”

“That is more than ten thousand.”

“That I know ten thousand truths was not a lie.”

“Oh, I see. You’re one of those demons of knowledge.”

She had succeeded in offending it. “What do you mean by that?”

“You speak only in riddles and technical truths. You say things that are true by letter only, and lies by implication. Disappointing,” said Loriel, pouring unimpressed into her voice.

It scowled around the room—or seemed to. She could not see its face behind the golden mask. “Why can I not see you, little mageling? Where are you?”

Invisibly, Loriel produced a faint crescent of a smile. “I am here in this room with you, Veritas.” Her voice echoed through the chamber as she spoke, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The demon’s ears twitched, and only then did Loriel realize that even telling it that she was there in the room with it was more than she meant to say.

“So you are, mageling, so you are. Why have you summoned me?”

“Why do mages ever summon you? I seek knowledge you might have.”

“Why should I tell you anything I know, when you have dragged me so rudely from my home?”

“I will make it worth your while, Veritas. I offer knowledge in exchange for knowledge.”

Veritas laughed. It was a horrible sound, like broken glass. Loriel didn’t dare speak. “Little mageling, you know nothing I do not. I have sought out truths for centuries, bent only upon knowing, and you, little girl, whose lifetime is as a mayfly’s breath to a being like myself—you presume to offer me knowledge? You presume to know something I do not?”

Loriel let the echo of the last word fade, then said calmly, “What is my name?”

No answer.

“So you do not know it,” Loriel said. “And I am forced to conclude, Veritas, that I do know some things that you do not.”

The demon paced inside its narrow circle on all fours. “Aren’t you a darling little pedant! Very well, I’ll take your deal, but I will take it on my terms. You may ask me one question, but first, you must tell me something I do not know. Do not lie! If you answer falsely, I shall know, and I shall devour your heart.”

An empty threat. Veritas was bound. It was subject to her will. It couldn’t get out if it wanted to—or else what was the point of blood magic binding? She was perfectly safe. It was bluffing—

...No, it wasn’t. Of course not. The demon of truth could not bluff. If Veritas bluffed it would no longer be Veritas. I shall devour your heart. Not a promise or a threat, but a statement of fact.

“Very well,” Loriel said steadily. “I shall speak truly.”

“What,” grinned the demon, “is the full, entire, and complete name by which you are called?”

She should have seen that coming. “My name is Loriel Surana.” 

Loriel was common enough for elves. And Surana was not even her family name; it was just what all elves were called in the Circle. Elves had no family names.

“Loriel Surana,” said Veritas, tasting it, savoring it. “Loriel Surana, Loriel Surana...yes, I know of you.”

She was so startled that the question came out unbidden: “What do you mean?”

“Your name floats upon the Fade like a dying leaf upon the breeze! One who often walks free along its emerald waters has called and called it, lacquered it with misery and love, twisted it with hatred and longing. Your name forms an island of despair and desire; tempests that will not calm; storms that will not pass. Yes, what a name!”

“I see,” Loriel said neutrally. Whatever bloomed in her to hear that, she stoppered it at once. “I answered your question, demon, so here is mine—”

“Ah, ah, ah!” The demon waggled a finger not-quite-at her. “You already asked your question. You asked me what I meant. Now it is my turn again. Where in this room are you right now?”

“I am standing in the northeastern corner of this chamber,” Loriel answered, and slowly, on magically silenced feet, moved to the southeastern corner instead.

“No fair,” the demon complained. “I did not know which way was northeast.”

“Oh? Then my mistake. But I answered your question, so here is mine. Where is the ancient darkspawn being known to many as the Architect?”

“The Architect is underground,” the demon said sulkily.

Loriel felt a vein throb in her forehead. “I could have told you that.” 

“Then you should have asked a better question,” sniffed the demon. “Now it is my turn—”

“No,” Loriel interrupted. “No, it isn’t. I didn’t say I would answer any question you asked. I agreed that I would tell you something you did not know. You have just told me you do not know which way is northeast, so I will tell you—it is the direction of the corner where the empty pouch of lyrium powder lies. Here is my second question: what is the cure for the Blight?”

“Why—blood, of course.” The demon smiled with hidden teeth. “It is always in the blood. That was a dirty trick you played, Loriel Surana, but no dirtier than mine, so I will forgive you, this time. Here is the next thing that I do not know and that I would have you tell me.” The demon smiled wider, showing teeth. “What do you love most in all the world?”

“Well?” said the demon, when she had been silent too long. “Will you answer, Loriel Surana? Or will you let me go?”

“I will answer.” And she answered, truly: “Nothing. What I love most in all the world is nothing.”

“How interesting. Yes, very interesting...you are a pleasing little mageling. I think I like you after all. Well, Loriel Surana? It is your turn. Speak!”

“I’m thinking,” said Loriel, and finally settled on: “What concrete set of actions should I take next—immediately after ending this conversation—that, of all possible actions, would take me the further along my goal of discovering the cure for the Calling?”

Veritas grinned wider still, its face little more than teeth. “Take a man infected with the Blight, and find a way to take it out of him. A man, and not a rat. But why waste your time with me asking me that which you already know?”

Loriel exhaled through her nose. “Thank you, Veritas. You may go now.” 

The demon’s grin was all that remained of it as it disappeared back into the Fade, making no attempt at all to remain within the waking world. Loriel was alone, the floor littered with truths both new and old.

“Shit,” she muttered finally.

tck

It had been a mistake to summon the demon. She was no good at dealing with creatures of the Fade. When Loriel had been small and scared and helpless she’d had a silver tongue, been so adept and turning minds to her advantage using nothing but her words. Not it seemed she had forgotten entirely how to deal with a mind she could not break and twist and bend. 

All she had succeeded in doing was in giving an ancient, powerful demon tools to hurt her with, and what had she learned? Nothing she didn’t already know. Stupid. Careless. Idiot.

“Warden Pollard has begun to hear the Call.”

Loriel had been half-listening to Brigit’s report; now she startled to full attention, rattling her morning tea in its cup. “What?” Brigit repeated herself. “Warden Pollard...who is he?”

Warden Pollard was Orlesian. He had transferred from under Warden-Commander Clarel some years ago. He had served well, saved three of his comrades in a raid, and fought with a pike. He had been a Warden for only thirteen years. This was early, but not unheard-of.

“Where is he?”

“The chapel. He prays for his soul. He intends to visit his mother in Velun before heading to the Deep Roads.”

“I would like to speak with him in private.” She said it so quickly as to be unseemly. But Brigit only nodded and moved to acquiesce.

When her office door opened and Brigit admitted him, Loriel couldn’t help but think he didn’t look much like a dying man. Perhaps he was pale, perhaps a sheen of sweat stood out on his skin, but she didn’t know him. For all she knew, he always looked like that. 

Only when traces of discomfort began to appear on his face did Loriel realize she had been staring at him silently for far too long.

“Commander,” he said awkwardly, still with the traces of an Orlesian accent. He’d never met her before. Was he one of the ones not quite aware that she still lived, and still ruled? “I’m honored.”

“Do not be,” she said flatly. “How is it?”

How are you feeling might have been more appropriate. But it would have rung false. 

“Not so bad, yet. I knew it was coming. I accept it.” He paused. “Is there some manner of ceremony?”

Loriel had no idea. There probably was. She had never cared to find out, never cared to make sure that her wardens had a good sendoff. “If you wish it. But that is not why I wanted to speak with you. Can you get more specific?”

A flash of confusion.

“About how it is.”

Pollard looked even less comfortable. “I’ve had nightmares, ser.”

“Different from the usual?”

“Yes.” 

“Can you tell me more?”

“With respect, ser, I’d rather not.”

Her mouth set. “Please,” she said, and there was the power of blood in her voice, and not a trace of a request. “Tell me more.”

Pollard’s eyes went foggy and distant. When he spoke, he sounded oddly flat. “The nightmares were only the beginning. Now when I sleep, I hear the most beautiful voice. Like my mother calling me home. And when I awake, I want nothing more than to hear that voice again. I can hear it now, just barely. And a strange music in my ears.”

“What kind of music?”

“Bells. Like chantry bells, calling me to prayer. Ugly and beautiful at once.”

“Is it anything like lyrium song?”

His brow knit. “Yes. Not unlike lyrium song. But different. Richer and darker. I can almost pick out voices in it, but never what they say.”

She took out a notebook, her shorthand flying across the page. “What do you see? In the dreams?”

“Darkspawn. All gathered together in the biggest chamber I have ever seen. It’s dark, but I can see perfectly. They’re darkspawn, but they do not seem ugly. At the center sits a beautiful figure, bathed in gold, smiling. They welcome me home. I’m glad to be there.”

“When did this start?”

“Three weeks ago I first heard the voice in my dreams. 

“Any physical effects?”

“My skin is hot. The sun hurts my eyes, even on cloudy days.  I feel stronger now than I have ever been, even stronger than I was as a young man.”

“Anything else?”

“I hope not to be alive by the time there is anything else.”

Loriel finished transcribing. “One last thing. Come here. Roll up your sleeve; give me your arm.”

Pollard obeyed. He did not protest, did not react at all, when she took some of his blood. It glinted darkly in the glass vials she had fetched for this purpose, easily a few shades too dark. She stared at it for a few seconds. There was the Blight itself.

She took a few vials. Enough so he wouldn’t notice, later, and closed the wound she’d made with a clumsy burst of creation magic. The vials went into a wooden box inscribed with a rune of entropic suspension—blood spoiled so soon after it left the body.

Frustration overwhelmed her, that all she had was a few vials of blood and a brief coercive interview. Imagine all she might have learned if she could watch as he succumbed to the Taint, hear in his own words what was happening to him. He was going to die anyway—this way he might help save the lives of countless other Wardens, who could object to that? She could just—

No. Velanna had been wrong. She cared about the Wardens, of course she did, why else do all this? She would not subject an innocent man to such a fate. She was better than Avernus.

Pollard blinked as she released his mind, but if he was aware of the lost time he did not show it. She thanked him for his service and assured him that his family would be taken care of. He thanked her in turn, and departed as quickly as was seemly. She watched him go with only the smallest burst of dark regret.

[orderofindomitus]

Bonding on Netflix

Bonding is a show on Netflix which tells the tale of a young dominatrix in NYC and her gay best friend Pete from high school who she hires as her bodyguard and assistant. It’s a quirky story and full of nicely done humor and visually appealing scenery. I was late to watch it and review it, but I saw an enormously negative reaction to it from my dominatrix peers. 

With an evening free, and the episodes being under 16 minutes, I decided to binge watch this and see what I thought. Who better to watch and review a show based on a New York City dominatrix/college student, than a Mistress who recently was a full-time New York City dominatrix/college student (and still visits and works there)? I definitely kept it in mind that it was a show and most likely not going to be extremely accurate. After watching it, I came to the conclusion that they did have a right to be a little upset over a few moments, but I noticed that much of their criticism came from aspects of the show that they completely misunderstood. Spoilers ahead!

Tiff is a young college student, (probably in the 20-23yr old range) just like I was in 2007 when I was working at a commercial dungeon in midtown Manhattan, going to college only two blocks away. She moonlights as Mistress May and she (like myself in 2007) works at what we call a “commercial dungeon” which is a dungeon that has a staff of women that a manager or dungeon owner hires and book sessions for. At least, that is what it seems like. The show makes that unclear. I’ll explain later. 

In the first few sentences that she ever utters, she says “No, I am a Domme, not a prostitute. NOT that there’s anything wrong with that” in response to her best friend Pete asking her if she has sex with her clients. This was very touching to hear for myself and I hope for other people, for two reasons. The first reason is that almost all of us (save for a few) in the United States do not have sex with our clients or do anything directly intimately sexual in nature with them (things you would hire an escort for). Unfortunately, we are often misunderstood and always lumped in the same categories as escorts when it comes to how society and law enforcement sometimes sees us. We often face the same social stigmas, and same injustices that escorts operating illegally (even sadly, legally) face. So her saying this, shows that our job is a bit different, to millions of viewers who watch the show. She also says “I’m a sex worker.” This is also important because we ARE sex workers of some form.

Asking us if we have sex with our clients is the first thing that every single one of our friends and family members ask us, because that is how little of this industry people know of. I cannot tell you how many men out there are caught seeing a pro Mistress by their wives and their wives truly believe he’s having sex with this Mistress and will not believe otherwise because she has no idea what we really do. We do not see anything wrong with women who have sex for money, it just does make things difficult for us when we are associated as operating as such, in terms of keeping ourselves legally safe, and like I said before, it would be nice for the world to be more informed on what it is that we actually do. 

The second reason why I loved this line is because of the part where she says “NOT that there’s anything wrong with that.” We all truly feel that prostitution needs to be decriminalized nation-wide. Too many people associate escorts with being dirty drugged up people who who disgusting and immoral acts and are less than human and do not deserve fair treatment or protection from harm, rather that we should do away with it all entirely. This is a completely false stereotype and one which causes harm and abuse. Escorts are targets of rape, harassment, assault, even murder. They are also of course, targets of underground sex trafficking. We need to change how society views these women in order to change the wrongful stigmas attached to them and keep them from being harmed. I don’t want to turn this blog post into a different topic entirely, which I easily can right now but I will stop here and get back to the show. So thank you Netflix for this line, as short as it was. It made my heart happy. 

 Moving on... 

This is where the show differs between real professional BDSM in NYC and fiction. At the end of the show, she goes on an outcall with someone who said that they called her dungeon to book her and the dungeon phone operator assisted him in this booking. This is how a commercial dungeon operates, a client calls and speaks to someone who books appointments, the phone person sets up the appointment. This alludes to the fact that she works at a commercial dungeon space. Many years ago, I was working at one of the only dungeons at the time that did outcalls, so I have a good understanding of this. However, they would have never done that with a client that they didn’t already know extremely well or had perfect references, and not for any promised amount of money from the client. This situation would have never happened. Only a young Mistress who was trying to work for herself and not for a dungeon, and was very naive would have done something so dangerous and stupid. The only thing right about this situation was that she had security with her, (her friend). I went on outcalls ONLY with a security person who had access to where I was, and again, only clients who were extremely well-vetted. 

Her hiring her friend in the first place was a complete mystery too. A commercial dungeon also provides a body guard, or simply the safety of a group of staff watching over you, as seen in episode 1, where her dungeon did have an actual body guard throwing out a client who did something inappropriate and put his hands on a Mistress. So if the dungeon had a body-guard, and a staff, why did she need to hire one? Giving her body guard bestie 20% of her earnings after a commercial dungeon takes 60-70% on average of your earnings already, would have been crushing to her income to say the least. She didn’t work at my dungeon because no one ever had a gay best friend body guard, so that meant she worked at one where she made $70 per hour a session. Why would she hire a body guard and give him 20% of that?

She could have been an independent dominatrix, who worked for herself and simply rented space at the dungeon, and she liked having an assistant to help her clean up and so on. However, based on her very young age, basic BDSM knowledge, her saying to a client that he could leave the money with the front desk, and the man in the final episode hiring her through the dungeon for an outcall, this doesn’t seem likely. Independent dominatrices tend to be much more experienced, knowledgable, and definitely have more than 1 or 2 outfits, which is all we see her in, in the whole show. Speaking of those 1 or 2 outfits, she also seems to only own 1 pair of boots which she also wears through the entire show for every single appointment. This screams “brand new Mistress” to everyone in my industry, because most brand new women just do not have much for wardrobe yet. They don’t have the funds yet to buy a bigger variety of outfits which they slowly obtain as the months go on. 

Moving along. 

Tiff has her assistant best friend who is now going by his alternate name “Carter” inside the actual room in all of her sessions. While this would have been ok every once in a blue moon for a submissive who enjoyed being humiliated like her client Fred, as Fred did not mind if it was done by a male friend (and it if anything, enhanced the humiliation which Fred craved), this wouldn’t fly for most other appointments. People are shy, nervous and the last thing they want is another male in the room in 95% of cases. 

I have had a male sub of mine piss on another sub of mine, and it was the very first time that he was doing it, so I really identified with the scene where Carter pissed on Fred for the first time. The funny clear raincoats for this scene were definitely the idea of NETFLIX to bring visual humor to the show, and not something we would actually put on. I thought it was cute and I appreciated the humor in it.  

Tiff says in the show that she has had a sad past where men had looked to use her for sex. She was not physically or psychologically abused, she simply was stating that she went through something that most young women go through in high school, young horny men dating you to just to experience having sex with you. I don’t know a woman who hasn’t had this happen, and sometimes it can be quite upsetting, however that is when, as a young woman, you learn from this, and put up boundaries moving forwards in your life. Due to her past, she has her guard up and is more aware of how men talk to her as seen with the boy in her college class who is pursuing her (JUST LIKE EVERY SINGLE WOMAN TO SOME DEGREE?). I see this as a representation of her growing from her past and being wiser about other people. The BDSM community and some of my peers felt that it showed a damaged and abused woman who became a dominatrix, and publicly stated such, (which is often a wrong stigma and stereotype associated with our industry) but they truly didn’t get this right. Where was she abused? In your early 20′s, you are still haunted by the things that happened to you over the past several years, and sometimes still depressed over them as you are trying to grow up and figure yourself out and figure out how to move past what are probably the first several horrible things that happen to you in your life up until that point. I saw in Tiff, a woman who was very young and still a bit sad over those negative events, but who was getting over that and becoming wiser for it as she took charge of her life and was developing into a mature young adult. She was WAY wiser than the other young woman in her class who was basically just accepting the sexual coming-on from the college professor, and Tiff used her intelligence and strength to stick up for her. 

Tiff also mentions in her class to her psychology professor, that role-play can be healthy and therapeutic. You could see her struggling on the inside with how awful he ran the class and how little he understood compared to how much she did in her young age. This is common among people in the BDSM lifestyle. We rarely have therapists who can assist us with life’s troubles when it comes to discussing kink aspects, because there is no education out there that they are taught about alternative lifestyles. BDSM and fetish has for years, been misdiagnosed in text books as a sickness, and sadly, was only recently changed. We all felt her pain, I am sure, as she struggled through being in this class. 

Her client Fred, tells Pete who is now going by “Carter” that he tells his friends about what he does at dungeons with Mistresses. Pete seemed shocked by this, but Fred says “Why not? There’s nothing wrong with what I do” or something along those lines. This is not only something that people really do (telling their friends about this secret), but something that is becoming more popular and accepted. A couple I see told all of their friends that they have their Dominatrix (me) in their phone along with all of the other important things they need in their life such as their lawyer, their doctor and their gardener. A sub of mine and his partner both go and see Mistresses and talk about it, they’ve even gone together. Fred, despite being portrayed as somewhat goofy and weird, is giving the viewers a line that I feel is very important and that is for people to just have more acceptance, despite what they feel is weird or do not quite understand.

Tiff is a total bitch to Carter a lot of the time and really pressured him to do crazy things in the show, which he was initially very uncomfortable with such as making fun of Fred’s small penis. The BDSM community felt this was an awful representation of a Mistress. However, we are telling the story off Tiff and Pete. Tiff and Pete have history and Tiff and Pete know one another very well. We are not showing every dominatrix in the show treating people like garbage. Pete does stick up for himself eventually and says “you can’t treat me like you did in high school.” I also think that Pete needed to be pushed to do these things. He gets so happy when he rips Fred apart and sees how fun it could be to make fun of his penis, and he was on a roll with it grinning, and when he finally was able to pee on him he was thrilled as well and yelled happily “I’m peeing!” Tiff smiles as if she knew all along that he would enjoy this. This is actually, what professional Mistresses often do, when they know people really well, push them to trying something they are afraid of but that we know they would truly enjoy. At the end of the show, he wants to be her 50/50 partner, and do sessions with her as an equal. So her pushing him, was definitely something I saw that she knew he needed and that he would enjoy this. It also got him out of his rut with stand-up comedy and made him more fearless and happy, while also greatly inspiring his actual stand-up material. He was able to be brave with Tiff while dominating men along side of her and trying things he was afraid of, which helped him in other aspects of his life. THIS IS WHAT BDSM OFTEN DOES FOR PEOPLE. 

What I didn’t like and do agree with everyone on, is that every client of hers was shown mostly negatively. Fred, while nice, is shown as goofy and weird. The first episode shows this giant groaning animalistic-man with no explanation of what is going on. The slave who comes by and cleans for her is in love with her and very rudely invades her date, not respecting her boundaries. A man who wrestles Pete in a session while dressed as a Penguin is a total jerk. The last client is a psychopath who tries to hurt her. The husband of the couple she sees gets punched in the face by his wife in order for him to be tickled, and both of them don’t seem to be very happy or healthy in their relationship with one another in that sense. While it was a very short show and you cannot show everything, I felt it still would have been better to mix in more positivity and people who don’t seem so flawed and messed up. It paints the picture that all of our clients are going to be totally nuts. This is not the case. Yes, we do get some crazy people but so does every job. That is not what goes down all of the time. 

Tiff presents to the college psych class, her dominatrix self and explains what she does for a living and while we do not see it, we are assuming that she gets a chance to tell them how healthy engaging in role-play and BDSM is, something her jerk professor told her the opposite of several episodes ago. I also did this exact same presentation in my human sexuality class, and like her, I had every person in the class interested, delighted, and wanting to know more. I enjoyed this because it showed that people are more interested than we realize, more kinky than we realize and we should not have as much wrongful stigmas and shame associated with something that is actually very healthy and healing. 

Other inaccurate things to add while they just came to me: No one wears dominatrix attire walking outside to the door of the person you are seeing at their home or hotel. You always change when you get there. This would bring unwanted attention and mortify your client. They would probably send you away and never see you again. She has a talk with Carter at her home where she ties up his hands. She doesn’t actually do a bondage tie. She could have learned an easy bondage wrist to wrist tie (a column tie) in about 5 minutes and easily done that on camera while acting as there’s just not much thinking to it once you know what to do. There are a few other instances, that I am sure that I am not thinking of off of the top of my head. No one working at a commercial dungeon would have been in their own pretty big apartment in New York City as that would have been extremely difficult to afford on a young dominatrix salary. Everyone of us had at least one room mate. If she did manage to afford it, she likely had financial assistance from her parents while going to school. 

Accurate things about the show. She is a young lady trying to figure herself out, as are most women are at her age, and are most young commercial dungeon Mistresses. A staff of people at a dungeon would love to be an audience to a friend’s practice stand-up routine. We often hung out with friends of staff and happily assisted them with projects if we had the time. We are all, after all, human beings and nice people. Commercial dungeons often have clients who do not respect boundaries and will wrongfully put their hands on Mistresses where they do not belong. We were often kicking out said rude men, just like in the first 30 seconds of the show. Commercial dungeons also do often entertain a vast range of fetishes and role-plays. Penguin suit wrestling isn’t far-fetched or hard to believe. 

The inaccuracies make me wonder if this entire story on Netflix was just made up and only influenced by the creator having a dominatrix best friend who he sometimes hung around, or if it was mostly real somehow. Regardless, these aspects irked my colleagues due to the fact that we are just always misrepresented in everything we do that has ever appeared on television and in movies. Only the show BILLIONS which actually hired my incredible colleague Mistress Troy Orleans to teach the actor and actress how a real BDSM relationship would go (GREAT JOB TROY, IF YOU ARE READING THIS). Troy had gotten me hired as a consultant and performer for a very large Miami based event for famous photographer Steven Klein for his FETISH exhibit, so that way the photographer didn’t have to be humiliated over having a completely wrong representation of what fetish and domination is and give an authentic show. We all feel that Netflix still could have kept the humor, storyline and quirks that made the show pretty great, but could have been way more accurate by consulting an experienced New York city dominatrix or former experienced New York City dominatrix. There are so many of us, and we would have happily given advice and bondage lessons. I personally have been asked to speak at book signings, given speeches and so on. Many of us have done this. Many people were very upset because Mistress May, the fictional character was given a twitter handle to promote the show, whereas real-life dominatrices are fighting every single day to not get our accounts shut down, shadow-banned because of bad social stigma about what we do. It’s not Mistress May’s fault of course, and I do sympathize with my fellow sex workers on this. In one sense, I am glad that the show came out, because it gave us a chance to voice our opinions over our struggles and hopefully lead to some future changes taking place, as many news articles were using the angry tweets and blog posts of my friends and peers to show the world that we are treated unfairly. 

A wrongful fact that I keep seeing all over the internet is people freaking out because apparently she is supposed to be the best dominatrix in NYC but she can’t tie a wrist tie and has 1 pair of boots and 2 outfits. They are taking this out of context. The dungeon manager tells the client booking the outcall that she is “the best in the city.” She’s a commercial dungeon Mistress and probably a fairly good one that they have, being she lives in her own NYC apartment by herself. She might be their top earner. Are there independent Mistresses with 20 years experience who would blow her out of the water? Of course, but he is calling a commercial dungeon and they are selling her for the session, she is THEIR staff. She might be THEIR top Mistress. So you have to realize that this is where the line of reference is coming from. 

At the end of the day, I genuinely liked the show. I feel that many aspects about the show were done purposely for storyline and humor. Mistress May not having much of a wardrobe, and her corset not fitting quite right, I believe were to purposely show how young she was, same with her doing something stupid such as being tempted with money to go to the residence of someone for a session who is out to harm her. At least that is how I took it. She’s young and while she is intelligent in some ways, her youth is against her and flaws her/gets her into trouble. 

I thought the show was comical, despite not being so accurate, and it definitely nostalgically brought me back to my 20′s and being a NYC dominatrix just a bit. If there is a season 2, I only hope that for the small details, they keep a professional Mistress on hand, as they would earn so much more respect from the (literal) millions of us kinky people out there. I personally could give them a million accurate easy ideas to add based on their storyline which would have been very effective. Other than that, I am happy to see a Season 2 and I believe that people who it angered should re-watch Season 1 later and look at it through fresh eyes. 

It definitely makes me wonder if the book I am writing would be worth a show one day?

[sarkargoharshahi-blog]

About Syedna Riaz Ahmed Gohar Shahi r.a.

His Holiness was born in the Indian Sub-continent on the 25th of November 1941 in the small village of Gohar Shah in the district of Rawalpindi. His mother is “Fatimi” a descendant of the Prophet Mohammed’s daughter Fatima. She is of Sa’daat lineage (descendant of the Prophet Mohammed) as she was the daughter of one of the (paternal) grandsons of Syed Gohar Ali Shah. The father of His Holiness is the descendant of one of the (maternal) grandsons of Syed Gohar Ali Shah and his grandfather was linked to the Mughal family. From an early age His Holiness was attracted towards tombs of Saints. The father of His Holiness states that from the age of five or six years His Holiness used to disappear and after searching for him, he used to be found sitting at the tomb of the Saint Nizam-Uddin Auliya (in Delhi). His father further states that he felt as though His Holiness (at that age) was talking to the Saint Nizam-Uddin Auliya. This was at a time when the father of His Holiness was settled in Delhi due to his work. In March of 1997 Gohar Shahi visited India and (during his visit) he went to the tomb of the Saint Nizam-Uddin Auliya. On the direction (spiritual) of the Saint Nizam-Uddin Auliya the attendant of the tomb, Islam-Uddin Nizami (a descendant of the Saint Nizam-Uddin Auliya) honoured His Holiness by placing a “turban of honour” on his head, close to the head side of the (tomb of the) resting Saint. From a very early age whatever His Holiness uttered would happen and for this reason his father would fulfil every request and demand of His Holiness. His father says “Gohar Shahi, as is the custom, comes into the lawn every morning and upon his arrival I stand up, out of respect for him.” He states that Gohar Shahi gets upset at this and says that as he is my son, he is embarrassed by this and that I should not stand up in this way. I say to him on every occasion that “it is not due to you, but because of God who lives inside you that I stand up out of respect.”

The headmaster of the primary school in the village of Nuri says “I was known in the area as being a strict teacher and I used to chastise unruly children.” He (Gohar Shahi) would arrive at school late and whenever I was angry and wanted to punish him, I felt as though someone had taken hold of my stick and in this way I would start smiling. Comments made by the family and friends of Gohar Shahi

“We have never seen him fighting, arguing with any person or beating any person and if ever a friend would be angry with him and come to attack him he would just laugh.”

The wife of His Holiness states

“In the first instance he is never angry and if he is angry it is very extreme and this is usually in relation to some obscene matter.” In relation to the generosity of His Holiness she says, “In the morning when he goes to the lawn his pockets are full (with money) and when he returns his pockets are empty.” He gives all the money to the needy and when I need some money he makes a face and this upsets me. Then she looks at his innocent face and reads the poem:

“He is very generous of heart, he sits having given away everything.”

The sons of His Holiness Gohar Shahi and their views about him

“Our father loves us dearly and takes good care of us but whenever we ask for money he gives us a very small amount and says that we will waste it. It is then that we ask him to make sages (ascetics) of us too, or to give us some money.”

The mother of His Holiness Gohar Shahi and her views

As a child if he did not go to school or (later in life) if he suffered a loss in his business I would criticize him but he would never raise his head in reply. A Saint, Kakka Mian from the village of Shams would say, “Don’t curse Riaz, whatever I see inside him you are unaware of it.” His love for humanity is such that when he used to hear that a bus had broken down eight or ten miles away he would have food prepared for those people and take it to them on his bicycle.

A close friend of His Holiness Gohar Shahi, Mohammed Iqbal of Fazoliyanh

Mohammed Iqbal states that in the rainy season they (His Holiness and Iqbal) would sometimes walk across the farmland and notice that a vast number of ants would be passing on the path. He would walk on the path ignoring the ants when (His Holiness) would walk in the mud to ensure that the ants came to no harm. When His Holiness was accused of murder, Qudoos Sheikh of the crime branch came to investigate. The locals told him that in their view Gohar Shahi would never have killed a mosquito let alone the murder of a human being.

An Aunt of His Holiness Gohar Shahi

At the time I was a pupil in the 8th class. One day my Aunt who was religious and a keen worshipper (who possessed envy and desire which is commonly found amongst the religious and the worshipers) said that everything else was right about me except that I did not say my prayers. I said to my Aunt that prayer was a gift sent to God and I did not want to adulterate my prayer with stinginess, arrogance, envy and grudge and send it to God. I told her that I would pray when my prayer was proper and right (unadulterated) unlike people like her who say their prayers and at the same time commit grave sins like back-biting, slander and falsely accuse others.

His Holiness Gohar Shahi talks about his childhood

From the age of ten and twelve I used to talk to God whilst in the dream state and I was able to see the realm of communication and commandments but I was unaware of its reality. After the completion of my spiritual seclusion when the same communication, visions and sights came again, their reality became clear. I had an Uncle in the army who used to visit brothels. As his family would object to this, on one occasion he took me with him so as his family would not suspect (his intentions). I had no understanding of brothels and prostitutes, he would give me some tea and biscuits (leave me waiting) and would go inside the brothel himself. He would tell me, “this is an office for women.” A few days later my heart was upset due to this place, when my Uncle said to me, “these are women and God made them for this purpose,” in other words he tried to involve me also. I was disturbed by my Uncle’s words and by my “self” (ego) in such a way that I was unable to sleep, then suddenly I fell asleep.

I then saw a large round elevated stage and I was standing under it. From above it I heard a rough voice saying, bring him forth and I noticed that two men who had hold of my Uncle brought him forward. They pointed towards him and indicated that he was the one. The voice was heard again and said beat him with the metal bars, upon which the men started beating him. He then screamed and wailed and continued to scream when eventually his face turned into that of a swine. The voice then said, “if you became involved with him then you would be treated in the same way.” I then repent, seek forgiveness after which I awake with these words on my tongue, “my lord I repent, my Lord I repent” and the effects of this dream remained with me for many years.

The next day I was travelling towards my village on a bus when I noticed that some thieves were attempting to take a cassette player from a taxi. The driver shouted at them as a result of which they took out their knives attacked and killed him. Our bus witnessed this scene and stopped. The thieves then saw us and escaped. The driver died in agony before our eyes. I thought in my mind that life cannot be trusted (is very short.) I slept that night and heard this poem echoing inside me: “Forgive all my errors, I have come and fallen at your (Holy) Court.” The whole night passed in weeping. Some time after this event I renounced the material world and went to the tomb of the Saint Jaam Dataar. I did not find any station (my goal) there and my brother-in-law brought me back to the material world (home.)

At the age of thirty four the Saint Bari Imam appeared in front me and said, now was the time for my return to the jungle. After three years of spiritual seclusion (austerities) when I achieved something I returned to the tomb of the Saint Jaam Dataar. The Saint (came out of his tomb) and appeared in front of me. I said to him that if he had accepted me (initiated me) when I first came to him I would have been spared the material life (that I had lived before I went to the jungle.) The Saint replied, “it was not your time then.” Sheikh Nizam-Uddin, Maryland, U.S.A “By God! I too am from amongst those people on whose hearts the Name Allah is beautifully written and shining.”

A few facts about the spiritual personality of His Holiness Gohar Shahi

At the age of 19 the spiritual entity of God-head Jussa-e-Tofiq-e-Ilahi was attached (to His Holiness.) It remained for a year and due to its effect (His Holiness) tore away his clothes wrapped a piece of cloth around his waist and went to the jungle of Jaam Dataar. The spiritual entity of God-head was given for a temporary period of time. It (spiritual entity of God-head) disappeared for fourteen years and then it was this spiritual entity that was responsible for the return (His Holiness) to the jungle, of Laal Bagh in 1975.

At the age of 25 the “spiritual entity of Gohar shahi” was exalted and made the Commander-in-Chief of the spiritual forces as a result of which His Holiness was protected from the mischief of the forces of Satan and worldly Satans. The spiritual entity of God-head and the spiritual entity Tifl-e-Nuri are spiritual entities which are very special and far superior to the souls, angels and (ordinary) spiritual entities. The former like the angels have a direct connection with God and their station is the realm of the Essence of God.

At the age of 35 on the fifteenth night of the month of fasting in 1976 a spiritual seed (entity) of light, was placed in the Qalb of His Holiness. Sometime later for education and training (His Holiness) was called to many different realms and spheres. On the fifteenth night of the month of fasting in 1985, that spiritual seed of light transformed into the spiritual entity Tifl-e-Nuri and it was completely handed over (to His Holiness) as a result of which His Holiness was honoured in the highest and most superior “gathering of the Prophets” and the crown of glory was placed on his head.

Reasons for celebrating the days of “Appointment and Ordination” of His Holiness Gohar Shahi

On the 15th of the fasting month in 1977 the process of special inspiration (communication) from God started. The promise of Razia-Marzia was made by God (acceptance of each others will) and His Holiness was exalted.

In 1978 His Holiness came to Hyderabad and the process of guidance and teaching started and before our eyes this message spread all over the world. The hearts of thousands of individuals are meditating with the Name of God Allah and thousands of individuals had the Name Allah inscribed on their hearts and they were able to see the Name written on their hearts. Thousands of individuals achieved (illumination) “vision of the graves” (whereby they were able to see into graves) and “vision of the Prophets gatherings” (whereby they were able to attend the most superior Prophetic gathering.) Thousands of people with terminal diseases have been cured (by His Holiness). People from all religions every nationality and race after receiving teachings and guidance from His Holiness Gohar Shahi started to find the Love of God and started to reach the Essence of God.

Syedna Gohar Shahi  also authored valuable books on spiritualism including the book on Sufi poetry known as Turyaaq-e-Qulb means Cure for hearts. The other books written by Gohar Shahi are as under

Rohani Safar (Spiritual Journey) Minara-E-Noor (Source Of Divine) Roshnash (acquaintance) (Introduction) Tuhfa-Tul-Majalis ( Gift of Sittings) Deen-e-Illahi (The Religion Of God)

[icyhobi]

Angel in the Darkness (M) pt.6

Summary: After a patient urgently pleads you to go and help a friend of his, you naively agree to it. Little did you know, that you would get more than what you agreed to, when he leads you to a brothel, to help a dangerous prostitute named Jeon Jungkook.

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader (ft. Jin, but not romantically)

Genre: Smut (M), angst, mafia!au, prostitution!au

A/N:This is a dark and filthy story! Graphic descriptions of sex (masturbating, cum play, oral, etc), heavy dom/sub undertones, drug use, vulgar language use……(alot of smut comes in later) This is a mature read! You have been warned!

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 (final chapter)

~~~~~

“Ughh” Jin grunts, as he dumps the heavy bagged object on the ground. He turned around, when he heard another thud, from where his youngest brother dropped another bag.

“Does it not bother you?” the 16yr old Jungkook, choked out. His doe eyes were shot wide open, as he stared with immense guilt at the large objects on the ground. He was clenching his fists, afraid that he may break if he looked at his eldest brother.

Jin, honestly didn’t know how to deal with Jungkook. It was always normal to feel bad after completing their father’s tasks, but eventually you’d have to get used to it. But for some reason, Jungkook was never able to become immune to his emotions.

He let out a frustrated sigh, as he looks at his little brother, “Of course it does. You just have to get used to it.”

“Used to this? H-how can anyone live like this?” the boy shakes, trying to control his anger.

“Jungkook, it’s out of our hands. We must always follow father’s orders.”

“How could you even refer to him as a father?! You know what kind of man he is! You know what he did to all of our mothers…” he sobs.

Jin was losing his composure as the boy continued. He knew their father was a vile human being, who was most likely the human form of the devil himself, but he just had to accept it. Every one of his six brothers came to terms with that, except Jungkook. He was different from the rest.

“That doesn’t matter. When will you grow up and stop behaving like an emotional brat?” Jin yells, trying to make the younger calm down.

“Doesn’t matter?!?” Jungkook screeches. He then points to the many bags littered on the ground. “How can anyone be okay with that! How can you feel no guilt over this! Over what we’ve done!”

Jin stays silent, not knowing how else to make his brother relax. This just irritates the younger though, so he tearfully bends down to one of the bags on the ground. He unzips it, to reveal a lifeless body inside.

“This doesn’t matter to you?!?!”

“Jungkook…”

“No! Look around Jin! There’s hundreds of bodies here in these bags. How can you keep living like this?”

“There’s no point in grieving, we can’t change the past. They’re already dead.”

“Because father ordered us to kill them! Their blood is on our hands! Can’t you see?! We’re murderers!” Jungkook cries out. “And then he makes us smoke that shit to cover up the smell! I don’t think I can ever get rid of the stench of the rotting flesh.”

He couldn’t do this anymore. No matter how fucked up his life was already, he couldn’t continue this path. He didn’t know how Jin was able to keep doing this; the inhumane demands of their father. But he had surely had enough of it.

The silence is shattered by Jungkook’s wavering voice, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Jin turns to look at him, and see’s that his eyes are bloodshot red, and tears streaming down his face. He sighs, but asks him sternly “And what do you mean by that?”

“I mean…” he trails off, before taking a deep breath, “that I’m leaving here, for good.”

Jin stays silent momentarily, before he breaks out into a mocking laugh. “Are you insane? Do you really think you can escape from him?”

“I don’t care, I can’t take this anymore!”

“Then you’ll have to get used to it. It’s who we are!”

“Being a puppet for him?!?” Jungkook wails mournfully. “Smuggle drugs? Illegal crimes? Kill innocent people? That’s who we are, right?”

“Yes. You must accept it already! Do you think me, Yoongi, Hoseok, Namjoon, Jimin, or Taehyung like what we do?”

Jungkook glares towards him, at the mention of his other siblings. “Yes! None of you show any remorse!”

“That’s because we mask those petty emotions. We all have to deal with father’s shit, so why are you being so fucking difficult?”

“Because…” he closes his tearful eyes in pain. “I take after my mother, and she would never have wanted me to become like this.” Jungkook then turns around, heading towards the door.

Jin knows there’s no point in trying to convince his little brother to stay, so he regretfully watches as he leaves the place they called home… forever.

~~~~~

“Go harder!” the middle aged woman, panted breathlessly. She was lying on Jungkook’s bed, in room number 10.

Jungkook tried his best to stop his face from cringing too hard, whenever she would let out a high-pitched moan as he thrusted into her.

Working at the brothel this past couple of weeks, has become increasingly difficult for him. Ever since that night he took you to that bar, and you slept at his place; he couldn’t get his mind off you. He would find himself trying to get more breaks, just to message you, and purposely try to edge his clients to spend less time with him, so he could spend more time with you.

You two had gone out for coffee many times after that night. Much to Jungkook’s protest, you managed to convince him to come to the area you lived, so you could go for coffee, instead of alcohol.

Even if Jungkook didn’t like a client, he still didn’t mind doing them sexual favours, since he liked intimacy. He liked having sex; it always felt good. So that’s why he had no problem following all his customers commands with ease. But ever since you came into his life, he started to find it difficult.

He found himself not enjoying the feeling of being inside random people anymore, as he slowly started to long for you instead. He wanted your touch. But he knew not to push you, which made him crave for you even more.

Every time you would meet up to have coffee with him, or just walk around the city, he would always put his hands on you. Even when you two weren’t walking around the red-light district, he would still wrap his arm around your waist. You were just so amusing, and different. No one could make him smile, like you made him. But that truly worried him though, because he knew; he was falling for you.

“C’mon go faster Kookie!” the woman beneath him shouts, breaking his train of thought.

Jungkook looked down at the panting female, and just wanted this session to end already. How could he go faster, if he literally didn’t even want to be inside this person? She wasn’t unattractive per say, but he just couldn’t focus, as you were constantly preoccupying his mind.

Maybe if I just closed my eyes and imagine it was Y/n… he thought mentally. He then follows his thoughts actions, and started to imagine you laying beneath him instead. He focused on the feeling of his dick surrounded by your drenched walls, your long hair fanned out on the bed, your cheeks a rosy pink as he would whisper sinful words, and you would cry out as he ruthlessly thrusted into you… Ohh yes, that’s something he would die to experience.

He could almost cum on the spot, just to the imagination of it, until the woman squawked a moan. The sound instantly brings him out of his fantasy, which makes his mood turn sour.

My lord, does this woman have a fucking mouth.

She lets out another piercing scream as he thrusts again, so he decides to put a hand over her mouth. She looks up at him confused, as he muffles her voice.

“Your moans sound like a dying banshee,” he says emotionlessly, as he continues to thrust into her.

If she had any complaints, he didn’t care, and just continued to robotically jam into her. He brings his free hand down to rub her clit, so she could reach her high already.

This continues for another two minutes, before he could feel her walls clench down on his dick, as she muffles an extra loud scream.

The only problem was; he himself didn’t reach his peak yet. That was the biggest problem he was facing these past couple of weeks. He couldn’t get himself hard enough with anyone, because he wanted you only. So he pulls his cock out of her, and removes the unsoiled condom. She marvels at the sight, as Jungkook grabs his length. He points it towards her mouth, demanding;

“Now suck.”

~~~~~

You were currently waiting in the lobby of the brothel Jungkook worked at. He convinced you to come and watch a movie with him, and you were excited about that. These past couple of weeks you’ve spent hanging out with him, really did make you happy; he made you happy.

He was extremely charming, arrogant, cocky, yet had a caring side, which you loved. He was different than other people, and you were grateful Jin told you to meet him. That being said, you were still clueless about who Jin and Jungkook really were, as they still hid many secrets from you. As the weeks passed, you also noticed Jin looking more and more stressed, which worried you. When you’d question him, he would just smile and tell you that eventually he’ll spill the truth.

You were just so lost; what were you supposed to do? Jin originally told you to go and help Jungkook, but help him with what? He said that he could be in harm, but in what way?

You’re still deep in thought, before the receptionist speaks up, “Miss Y/n, Kookie’s last session of the day is over now.”

Getting up with a smile, you thank her, before heading down to his room number.

Your excited to see him, since you’ve been busy this past couple of days with work and school. So, this is just what you needed it.

You’re still walking down the brightly lit halls, when you see a woman come out of Jungkook’s room. You continue heading towards there in silence, and as the women passes you, you notice that she was very pretty, and looked extremely sophisticated. She completely ignored your presence, but you couldn’t help but notice that it looked like there was a bit of a thick, white substance in her hair.

She probably forgot to rub in her hair gel… weird.

You reach his room, then knock gently three times. There’s a bit of shuffling, till you hear the door unlocking to reveal the devilishly handsome Jungkook. He was wearing a large white t-shirt, with distressed blue jeans, which allowed you to see his popping thigh muscles.

Jungkook bites his lip at your appearance; you wore a black long sleeve shirt, tucked into a pair of flowy black shorts. It had a floral design on it, and it could’ve almost been mistaken for a mini skirt.

“Come in, I’ll just be a sec.”

You walk in, and go to sit at his bed. He rushes towards his washroom, leaving you alone for a couple of seconds. The bed was already made, but you noticed the same white substance that was in that woman’s hair, was also splattered a bit on the bed sheets.

You inspect it closer, before you realize and stand up hastily. What if it’s his… oh my god.

You were so flustered that you didn’t even acknowledge Jungkook come out of his bathroom. He walked straight up to your standing position, and looked to where your attention was at. He saw you blushing furiously at the white stickiness on his bed.

“Sorry about that. I told her to swallow all of it, to leave no mess. But she kept choking on my dick, so she couldn’t.”

Too much information! Oh my god, I completely forgot how shameless and open he could be!

“O-ohh,” you stutter in reply.

Jungkook smirks at your bothered state, then goes to intertwine his hand around yours, leading you out. “Why are you blushing so much? You haven’t seen cum before?”

“N-no…”

“Oh… that’s because you’re a virgin, right?”

Why must he keep bringing that up!!?

“Well, that’s okay. Soon you’ll get used to it, when I get to cum inside you.”

OH DEAR LORD GIVE ME STRENGTH!

“Uhh baby steps!” you choke out embarrassed.

He squeezes your hand harder, with a little laugh. “You’re just too funny to tease, Y/n.”

~~~~~

“So what movie are we going to watch?” you ask curiously, while sitting in the passengers seat of his expensive car.

“I don’t really know,” Jungkook confesses, trying to keep his eyes solely on the road.

He literally couldn’t keep his vision off of you. Even though you wore a rather simple outfit, you just looked so incredibly hot to him, while you tried to consciously tug your shorts down.

Fucking hell, I’m getting hard just looking at her.

“Does that mean we’ll just decide on one, once we get to the theatres?”

Ughh, even her voice is having an effect on me. Shit!

“Well, we aren’t watching a movie there,” he smirks.

Huh? Where else would we watch one? You glance at his smirking look, and ask him “Where are we gonna watch one, then?”

“At my place.”

What? You haven’t visited his apartment since the last time, after that bar. You experienced your first kiss that night with him, and literally slept in the same bed as him! Thus, you were a bit nervous to go back.

“What’s wrong? You don’t wanna go there?”

“N-no! Its fine!” you squeak out quickly. “I just… you should’ve told me before that you wear planning that.”

Jungkook continues to smirk cheekily, “Ahh well, I wanted to keep it a surprise. Especially considering what happened the last time you came over.”

You’re sure your face is bright red, as you feel yourself burn at the memory of being wrapped up into his arms. It was starting to become way to hot in the car, so you move your hand to blast up the A/C.

He smiles at your flustered state, and then goes to put his right hand on your left thigh.

You both jolt at the contact, as this was the first time he could actually feel the smooth expanse of your bare thigh.

“Its my first time seeing you wear something so short.”

You’re momentarily afraid he could hear your heart thumping deadly fast, before you stutter a reply. “U-uhh yea, it was way to hot to wear long pants today.”

He gives it a squeeze, and rubs his hand against it. Damn, I need to control myself.

Clearing his throat, he says “I like it.”

You just awkwardly nod your head in reply, not trusting your voice at that moment.

Another 10 minutes pass, before he pulls up to his apartment building. You both get out, and walk towards the building together.

The ride in the elevator was silent, and you noticed Jungkook was not looking at you while he stood across from you.

That’s weird, I would assume he would always want to stand beside me, like usual. You look as he grips the metal railings tightly, and his fringe was covering his eyes. It looked almost as if he was gritting, trying to restrain himself from something.

The elevator stops, and the doors ‘dings’ open, before you could ask him if there was something bothering him. He doesn’t say anything as he lets you exit first, and chooses to follow closely behind you, instead of walking side by side.

You can’t help but feel slightly conscious, as you could sense his dark eyes staring at your back.

Jungkook kept quiet as he watched you walk towards his apartment room. He looked you up and down, licking his lips. The subtle sway to your nicely curved hips as you walked, was driving him insane. He was tempted to go and stick his hands down your shorts, grabbing a big handful of your ass.

Control yourself, dammit!

As you were both approaching the door, he started to feel quite uneasy. Maybe it was a mistake to bring you back to his apartment. He was trying so hard to control himself, but these weeks with you were taking a deep toll on him. He has never been so physically and mentally attracted anyone before, even your little smiles would be enough to make his heart jump a little. He wanted you, so very badly.

And as you two finally reached his door, you felt as if something may happen tonight; you just didn’t know what.

He watched you hesitantly walk in, when he unlocked the door to his home. But unknowingly to you, his thoughts were clouded of the explicit fantasies he wished to act upon. And as he locked the door behind him, while looking at your stiff frame, he lustfully thought;

Maybe it was time to forget those baby steps.

[quandqry-blog]

Muse Sheet

Everything you need to know on Franklin Mendel/Quandary under the cut.

General Info

Full Name: Franklin Mendel

Name Origin: Franklin - liberally free-thinking (Middle English); Mendel - comforter, guardian (Yiddish)

Nickname: Frank/Frankie - self-explanatory, really; Mend-All - as one of the more...grounded associates, Franklin’s established himself as quite the handyman in Nygma’s ranks and a jack-of-all-trades, taking up various roles when required. 

Alias: Quandary - a state of perplexion and uncertainty over what to do during a difficult decision, typically of a moral nature.

D.O.B.: 19/07/87

Place of Birth: The Bowery, Gotham City East, USA - the lowest of the low, the worst Gotham has to offer. Bordered to the north by Crime Alley, the Bowery is home to Crown Point, a smaller inner-district ridden with crime, homelessness and prostitution. Underdeveloped and laden with the circulation of illegal drugs, police activity is at a minimum within the Bowery, while independent gangs rule the streets. 

Ethnicity: Sicilian - born to Sicilian immigrants, Franklin identifies strongly with his roots, identifying more with the culture and history he was born into than that of the US he was raised within. 

Religion: Roman Catholic - he was raised as such by his parents up until adolescence, where he started to assume a more casual degree of practice. While he acknowledges the concept of Catholicism as part of his heritage, Franklin isn’t an especially strict follower of the teachings, and would likely be considered a lapsed Catholic by most.

Place of Residence: The Cauldron, Gotham Central, USA - known for it’s organised crime, the Cauldron was run by Mickey Sullivan and the Irish mob - a sub-organisation of assassins who operated beneath Falcone - until Holiday wiped them out during Thanksgiving. As a gesture of goodwill, the territory was transferred over to the Sabatino crime family, Gotham’s oldest Italian mob, where it developed a reputation for housing and producing the city’s most feared hitmen.

Brief Description of Home: Franklin rents a top floor apartment on the outskirts of the Cauldron, consisting of a general living area and a sorry excuse for a bathroom tucked behind the door. He’s made a few repairs here and there to ensure everything’s functioning, but, if it weren’t for the blanket over the sofa - no bed, you see - or the coffee pot by the window, you’d be hard-pressed to believe anyone was living there. It’s poorly lit, cast in dreary greys and browns, and you’d be able to cross from one side of the room to the other in about three steps. Hardly ideal, but, in terms of putting a roof over his head and a minor base of operations, it serves its purpose.

Brief Description of Local Area: Much like your typical Gothamite, Franklin’s desensitised to the morbid ways of life within the city. Murder, theft, folk going missing overnight - hell, the middle of the day - are so commonplace, they’re scarcely worth fussing over - and, when you consider just how brutal the Cauldron can be, well, everything’s scaled up to eleven. Paranoia runs rampant in the streets, with friends turning each other over to the mob for a hefty fee, and blood will be spilled over petty disputes. Still, it’s ideally situated for ease of access to other areas of Gotham, and the Stacked Deck’s a fairly decent watering hole, if you can stomach the clientele. 

Current Occupation: Henchman - well, if we’re being official. It’s a fairly broad term, so he’s dabbled in his fair share of laundering, theft, murder, extortion, blackmail, getaway driving, etc. in his service to the Riddler. 

Income Level: Ehhh, it’s flimsy at best. He doesn’t have a conventional job, so there’s no money being made in his name. Whatever he does earn with Nygma tends to be split ten ways with other crooks, and deposited into cliched we’re obviously criminals swag bags, so, you can bet he’s not seeing a dime of that from all the times he’s spent behind bars...Good job he’s low maintenance, huh?

Education Level: As an orphan growing up in the East End of Gotham, Franklin never had access to nor the opportunity for a formal education. He was sitting around the sixth grade when his parents died, but everything he learned from that point on came from a significant degree of self-learning. Rarely would you find the urchin without a book, lost within the depths of literature and the human psyche. And, street smarts sure go a long way.

Do They Drive?: You’ve heard the saying like a duck to water, yes? Well, Franklin’s got a knack for that sort of thing, being able to adapt and account for numerous setbacks in areas he’s barely familiar with. He’s got a Mercedes S63 Coupe from Johnny Sabatino, as a gesture of their friendship and familial ties, but he’s rarely ever found himself needing to drive, when the labyrinth of Gotham’s a much more efficient means of crossing the city. He’s not beyond taking up the role of getaway driver when required, though. 

Sexual Orientation: Demisexual - while he’s not beyond acknowledging someone’s attractive and breaking into a sweat on the subway, Franklin predominantly experiences secondary sexual attraction, in that a foundation of trust and familiarity must be laid out before considering any partners. Unfortunately, this may come across as being fairly prudish, or not getting laid ‘enough’, but, for Frank, the attraction/appeal simply isn’t there until he’s made the connection, at which point, the notions become a tangible force.

Romantic Orientation: Aromantic - while the definition of aromantic varies between individuals, for Franklin, the concept of romance seems arbitrarily and inconsistently defined. It’s foreign territory, uncharted land. An entirely abstract notion. Now, he’s experienced passionate friendships which fall outwith typical ‘platonic’ boundaries, but the concept of romantic idealisation and elevating one person over another on account of some trivial feeling seems well and truly illogical. His love is based on practical conditions - constancy, loyalty, trust, action - not chemical highs and giddy emotions.

Physical Appearance

Height: 6′1″ [1.88m]

Weight: 187lbs [85kg]

Body Type: Franklin has a fairly lean, nimble physique - while proportionate and somewhat defined, he’s not especially athletic. Shoulders, chest, calves, quads - they’re all there, present, accounted for, but not to the extent of, say, a model or trainer. It’s a practical mass, gained through everyday labour and hardship, not the product of ego or vanity. 

Eye Colour: Dark Green.

Hair Colour: Light Brown 

Hair Style: Fairly short at the back and sides, with just enough heft to naturally quiff at the front.

Skin Tone: Light Olive - not as prominent as, say, other Sicilians, but definitively not white, either.

Prominent Features: He’s got an arrowhead-esque range of moles upon the head of the left deltoid, and a nasty scar on the inside of his bottom lip, courtesy of the Sabatino initiation process.  A tattoo of his parents’ initials on the inside of his left ankle, and one at the base of spine - domando, Sicilian slang that combines the Italian for query and demand. A few scars and bruises here and there from the previous week’s scrapes, but nothing too permanent or long-term, ‘til next time.

Dress Style: In spite of his line of work, Franklin isn’t a flashy sort of guy - if anything, his wardrobe’s the goldilocks zone of comfort and practicality, while maintaining that dreary pseudo-noir Gotham aesthetic. Long sleeved sweaters, cotton shirts, military jackets, grey denim, contrast jumpers, shirt jackets, leather boots, etc. etc. Greys, browns, greens. Everything you’d expect from a mobster-turned-Riddler henchman.

Accessories: He wears a brown leather watch on his left wrist, and used to carry his mother’s engagement ring around on a silver chain, but pawned it off in his youth for petty change during an all-time-low.

Grooming: Besides a light stubble every now and again, Franklin’s fairly well-maintained - not to the point of excess, mind you, or devoting too much time to his appearance; mostly the I woke up like this, groggily ran a brush through my hair and voila! look. You know the type.

Speech and Language

Rate of Speech: Franklin has a fairly fast, almost erratic, means of communication. It stems from finding difficulty in making the connection between his thoughts, what he wants to say and actually saying it in a way you’ll understand. By extension, if he’s ever explaining something, he’ll typically make a conscious effort to slow down, to ensure you’re keeping up - it may come across as condescending at times, but, hey, you’ll know all about it if he is.

Accent/Dialect: He boasts a fairly prominent New Jersey dialect, with the trademark diphthong and underlying slur. On paper, coffee and chocolate become ‘caw-fee’/’chawk-let’, park and dark become ‘pah-k’/’dah-k’. He’s aware of the negative stereotypes surrounding the dialect the ‘lazy’ pronunciation of vowels and absence of r’s, but he’s not going to go out of his way to mask or distance himself from it. Far as he’s concerned, it’s part of who he is.

Tone: The tone of his voice is comfortably within the middle ranges, not especially high, nor particularly deep; somewhat rasped in the lower regions, heavily accented when caught in the moment. Rarely will you ever hear him raise his voice, either, for there’s a distinct sense of control and reservation at play - it’d be illogical for him to be saddled by emotion and impulse, so you’ll find he conducts himself with a calm, authoritative air.

General Speech Pattern: For the most part, Franklin’s just your everyday Gothamite - he may be in Nygma’s employ, but he’s not going to run around using flowery language, accusing everyone of being imbeciles, flaunting his intellectual superiority through antiquated words. He values words, he values meaning, so he can often come across as being fairly reserved in terms of interaction, for he's pretty damn selective in what he says, speaks only when there’s a point to be made or a conversation of value.

Mannerisms/Demeanour: In contrast to Nygma’s theatrical flamboyance, Franklin’s much more...reticent. It may be mistaken for a brooding, stoic disposition, but he’s much more sure of himself and his ability to get his point across without the grandeur Nygma so readily employs. He’s calm, cool, collected. Patient. Not so easily riled. Truth is, he often finds himself cringing when Nygma gets in the zone, since the whole ordeal’s so painfully obnoxious, but, hey, gig of the century.

Typical Posture: He’ll typically stand straight and proportioned, but not rigid. Circumstance may see him slouch a tad if he’s been lingering for a particular length of time, but, generally speaking, he’ll remain upright to the best of his ability. 

Common Gestures: Franklin has a tendency to fold his arms so that each thumb rests under the bicep, while his fingers lightly tap upon the top. It’s not so much a sign he’s uncomfortable or anxious, more...a means of occupying himself, stimulating his mind and body, where it’s otherwise lacking. The occasional foot-tap makes an appearance, too.

Everyday Behaviour/Habits

Finances: As mentioned during the ‘income level’ section, every penny Franklin makes comes from his criminal activity with Nygma. There’s no need for him to be cautious or prudent with regards to his spending habits, for he spent so much of his life on the streets anyway that the concept of money seems pretty damn nonsensical. If he wants something, he can simply take it, for he’s already damned as far as a criminal record goes. Besides, he’s not exactly high maintenance - he’s pretty much living on microwave meals, take-outs, a few repair materials and strong black coffee.

Vices: Franklin’s partial to the odd glass or two of Amaretto, with a large bottle tucked away in his apartment. One’s kicking about somewhere in Nygma’s HQ, but its current whereabouts are, as yet, unknown. He’s also dabbled in weed from time to time, but nothing so extreme as to impair his judgement or performance. Nor does he bolster an addiction.

Daily Routine: It’s nigh impossible to map out a typical day for Franklin, since so much could change on the turn of a dime. He’ll roughly wake for around 8-9am, take a leak, brush up, etc. etc., keeping his phone nearby in the event Nygma calls, then grab breakfast on-the-go as he paces across Gotham to find intel of his own, people to extort, victims to test. Nygma’s not exactly running a criminal empire, so Franklin doesn’t need to be on his hands and knees 24/7 for him, he’s got a life outwith being a henchman. Having said that, should he not be required, he’ll be left with a significant amount of time to fill, prompting him to either make some repairs back home, check over everything at HQ, or take one of Nygma’s traps for a spin. Coming home, it’d be your standard washing away the blood of your victims, watching mostly-static over a microwave meal, then curling up on a ratty sofa with no remorse for the people he killed. Not his fault they didn’t have what it takes to survive. Clearly didn’t want to live enough.

Skills/Talents: Critical thinking; innovation; diplomatic; articulate; intuitive; adaptable; integrity; polyglot; mechanical engineering; woodwork; psycho-analysing; philosophical; light-footed; silk touch; quick-witted; driven. 

Weaknesses: Franklin doesn’t do too well when it comes to being called out or contradicted - his thoughts essentially haze over, struggling to overcome the sudden obstacle, leaving him pretty damn stuped. While boasting a mean right hook, he’s also not the most skilled fighter, meaning he could easily go down if outnumbered or overpowered. 

Hobbies: Woodwork; learning; geocaching; poker; hiking; orienteering; camping.

[More to add.]