Monday, 2 April 2012



How many spots in life are there which will bear comparison with the beginning of the second term of a masters degree at the Republican College of Art? So far as external circumstances are concerned, it seems hard to know what a man could find to ask for at that period of his life if a fairy godmother were to alight in his room and offer him the usual three wishes. The sailor who had asked for "all the twenty-one year old boys in the world," and "all the beer in the world," was indeed driven to "all the twenty-two year old boys" as his third requisition; but at any rate his two first requisitions were to some extent grounded on what he held to be substantial wants; he felt himself actually limited in the matters of boys and booze. David Hockney would have been in the same condition as a wisher except that he would have asked for further developments in his bondage and discipline encounters with Kitaj.

After giving Hockney the treatise and cock and ball torture, Kitaj had allowed the holidays to come and go without subjecting his rubber slave to any further sexual outrages. Therefore readers will scarcely need to be told that upon returning to London for the second term of his masters, the first thing Hockney did - after depositing his luggage - was to call on Kitaj, and he found his rubber master deep as usual in his books. Hockney immediately occupied his old place with much satisfaction.

"How long have you been back old fellow?" he began; "you look quite settled."

"I only went home for a week. Well, what have you been doing in the vacation?"

"Oh, there was nothing much going on; so, amongst other things, I've nearly floored my little-go work."

"Bravo! you'll find the comfort of it now. I hardly thought you would take to the grind of painting so easily."

"It's pleasant enough for a spurt," said Hockney; "but I shall never manage a horrid perpetual grind like yours. But what in the world have you been doing to your walls?"

Hockney might well ask, for the corners of Kitaj's room were covered with sheets of paper of different sizes, pasted against the wall in groups. In the line of sight, from about the height of four to six feet, there was scarcely an inch of the original paper visible, and round each centre group there were outlying patches and streamers, stretching towards floor or ceiling, or away nearly to the bookcases or fireplace.

"Well, don't you think it is a great improvement on the old paper?" said Kitaj. "It is a hint to the landlady that the room needs redecorating. You're no judge of such matters, or I should ask you whether you don't see great artistic taste in the arrangement."

"Why, they're nothing but maps, and lists of names and dates," said Hockney, who had got up to examine the decorations. "And what in the world are all these queer pins for?" he went on, pulling a strong pin with a large red sealing-wax head out of the map nearest to him.

"Hello! Take care there, what are you about?" shouted Kitaj, getting up and hastening to the corner. "Why, you irreverent beggar, those pins are the famous statesmen and warriors of Greece and Rome."

"Oh, I beg your pardon; I didn't know I was in such august company;" saying which, Hockney proceeded to stick the red-headed pin back in the wall.

“Don’t you know that BDSM first flourished in ancient Greece and Rome? I can see that you still have a long way to go as a rubber slave.”

“Oh punish me master!” Hockney said as he got on his knees and placed his palms together in prayer.

“If I punished you I’d be rewarding your impertinence. Aren’t you aware that we know BDSM was practised in ancient Rome thanks to Petrarch’s Satyricon, written in the first century of the Common Era.”

“No!” Hockney squeaked.

“In Book 4 Encolpius is given an aphrodisiac to drink.” Kitaj informed his rubber slave. "Encolpius has his hands tied behind him and the servant girl Psyche fondles his penis, trying to arouse him.  Psyche also pricks his cheeks with her hairpin to silence him when he tries to cry for help.”

“But that’s boring heterosexual BDSM!” Hockney complained.

“I’m here to dominate you - not to pander to your fantasies!” Kitaj snapped. “A bit later Encolpius and a woman Quartilla are forcibly bound together, for sport, by a group of young soldiers.  The type of bondage used on Encolpius and Quartilla forces her mouth into close contact with his mush, her breasts rubbing against his chest, and their thighs each pressed into each other’s. As a result of the aphrodisiac he’d consumed Encolpius becomes filled with lasciviousness and begins performing on Quartilla who on fire with a similar wantonness shows no reluctance for the game, to the great amusement of the soldiers.”

“I’m not interested in straights!” Hockney wailed.

“But it gets better!” Kitaj insisted. “At the same time as he is thrusting into his bound partner Quartilla, a gay man mounts the bound Encolpius from behind. Though Encolpius falsely claims he finds this repulsive, he wriggles in response to the intruder’s thrusts, just as fast and furiously as Quartilla is wriggling under him – although this dope claims his reactions are involuntary. The young soldiers find this spectacle quite ludicrous and burst into laughter to the humiliation of Encolpius.”

“That’s better,” Hockney admitted, “but why all the hetero stuff?”

“In ancient Greece and Rome,” Kitaj explained, “as well as in other cultures, there was an association between fertility – that’s success in conceiving children to you - and some types of flagellation.  For example, whipping the buttocks with nettles was supposed to increase fertility according to the ancients.”

“Fooey!” Hockney spat.

“Shut up and listen to me!” Kitaj exclaimed in a stern tone. “In the ancient world flagellation was also considered an aphrodisiac, or stimulant of sexual desire. Men were often whipped by hookers to restore waning desire. There is much Greco-Roman art depicting a sandal being used for erotic spanking or slapping. It can also be surmised that much of this activity was consensual, since the person being whipped was seeking to get something out of it — arousal or fertility.”

“I don’t want to hear about female on male domination, I want you to punish me!” The words exploded from Hockmey’s mouth like s stinking fart from the arse of a tramp.

“Go!” Kitaj declaimed as he pointed at the door. “And I don’t want you to come back for at least a week. Learn obedience before you trouble me again.”

After the long holiday during which he’d had not sex, Hockney was feeling particularly randy. He had heard about a place in Soho where men might leave messages for each other. Hockney knew he shouldn’t be doing it but he paid for a card he’d hand written to be displayed on a notice board. The shop owner had explained to him how he might code his message, and also told Hockney he should return the next day.

The next morning Hockney got to the Soho shop before it opened. When the  proprietor turned up and gave Hockney his messages, the first letter was from a guy who just wanted to fuck him. While the thought of someone’s cock slipping up his arse was a nice idea, he could get that type of action anywhere. Hockney was looking for a sterner master than Kitaj, and when he opened the next message he thought he might have found one.

The missive didn't really tell Hockney much beyond the fact that his correspondent lived in London and his last slave had been found dead floating face down in a canal, so he was looking for a replacement. He said he would consider Hockney but made no promises about a long-term arrangement until the art student had been tested for obedience. The letter contained the address of a hotel. Hockney's contact said that if this young man wanted some serious BDSM action, he was to go to this establishment – which was in Bayswater – and leave a note with the concierge saying he’d turn up at the establishment the next day. When he returned at the appointed time, Hockney would be told which room to go to. He was also under strict instructions to appear dressed in women’s clothing. The rubber master said in his letter that he had everything else required, so Hockney was just to turn up suitably attired.

The next day, after buying the necessary clothes and changing into them, Hockney got to the hotel at precisely 7PM. He made sure he was punctual as he didn't want to start off on the wrong foot. The bellboy told him to go to room 23 and when he got there he found the door was open. Walking into the suite, Hockney found the curtains were drawn and that there was a message on the bed, He could see someone sitting in the corner of the room but the man didn't say a word. The note simply told Hockney to go into the bathroom to perform a listed series of tasks.

Once he was in the bathroom, Hockney stripped off and started washing even though he’d had a bath before making his way to the hotel. Then Hockney shaved down below – it seemed his new master disliked pubic hair. Once his hygiene tasks were completed, Hockney’s instructions were to return to the hotel bedroom naked. The art student wondered if he'd get a second chance to reapply his make-up and don once more the female clothes he’d taken so much trouble over for this date – or if he’d been told to arrive in them simply as a form of humiliation. Hockney had quickly got to really like his French knickers and stockings, so stripped of them he felt even more naked than usual!

Emerging from the bathroom Hockney saw that while he’d been preparing himself for the sex session that was about to commence, the main door to the room had been shut. Likewise, some PVC knickers & stockings had been placed on the bed. Hockney made his way towards the fetish gear, but his master stood up and called him over.

“Sit on the chair!” The man ordered.

Hockney did as he’d been told. At the same time he got to see what this rubber master looked like. He was around six foot tall and slim too. Clean shaven and wearing a suit, this dude was in good shape for someone in his late-thirties. The rubber master undid his own belt, unzipped his flies and loosened his trousers so that he could spread his legs wide and make the two sides of the zipper taut. With his breeks held up by pressure from his outer thighs, the master sat on Hockney’s legs. The two men were facing each other and they French kissed. The rubber master took the art student's erect cock in his hand and rubbed it against his own limp member. As he did so he made sure he dragged Hockney’s dick against one of the taut edges of his fly for some scarification. The slave let out a yelp of pain. The dom twisted Hockney’s cock around so that they could both admire the scars he'd made on it.

“Now if you have another master and he looks at your cock, he’ll know you’ve been with me and he’ll punish you!” The dom hissed.

Then the man got up and ordered Hockney to put on the fetish gear that had been left on the bed. The art student minced across the room to where the PVC gear had been carefully laid out. While putting the knickers on Hockney made sure he kept bending over and exposing his arse to the master he could no longer see - just to prove what a total cum slut of a cross-dresser he was. When he’d got the stockings on, he turned to look at himself in the mirror and decided he was pretty hot!

After walking across to the bed, the rubber master passed Hockney some cuffs for his ankles & wrists. After Hockney put on the cuffs, the rubber master placed a blindfold on the slave and then announced that he would do whatever he pleased with his bitch

He pulled Hockney into the middle of the room and the art student was left just standing there not knowing what to expect. The rubber master's hands were touching parts of Hockney’s body but not his nipples and certainly not his cock or arse. The rubber slave was disappointed by this considering how hot he figured he looked with the PVC knickers on. Then without warning, the art student found himself pulled over into a bending position and his hands were quickly strapped to his ankle cuffs

After this the dom walked around his prey and ripped open the rubber knickers before pulling Hockney’s arse cheeks apart. The slave briefly felt the man’s breath on his rectum. Then the rubber master walked away and Hockney wondered what was going to happen next! He didn't have to wait long to find out, as the dom returned to his arse not with an hard cock – which was what Hockney was really was hoping for - but to punish him. He hit the art student so hard with a whip that Hockney nearly fell over!

“What do you say you slut?” The rubber master demanded as Hockney was still smarting from the sting of his whip.

“Thank you master!” Fortunately for Hockney, Kitaj had already taught him the correct response to this question.

And having been thanked the man repaid Hockney by sending another spasm of pain through his body with a second crack of the whip. This was followed by another lash and then another and another. The punishment went on for 20 minutes and Hockney knew before it was over he would not be able to sit down for a week. Nonetheless, his cock was harder than it had ever been before – even with Kitaj - and Hockney knew if his dick was just touched he'd cum.

Hockney didn't know what to expect when the rubber master stopped beating him. The art student kept still and listened. He couldn’t work out what the dom was doing. Finally he felt the man’s hands on his straps and cuffs – they were being undone.

“I’m leaving now,” the man told him, “stand still and count to 500 before removing the blindfold. By the time you’re ready to leave the hotel I’ll be long gone.”

Hockney did as he was told. When he removed the blindfold he found a note on the bed telling him he’d passed the first test and that if he wanted another beating he was to return to the same room in exactly one week, and to make sure he left a message with the concierge the day before if he intended to do so!

Hockney was in a state of high sexual excitement and after reading the note the first thing he did was go into the bathroom and jerk himself off over the toilet. Hockney knew he’d been unfaithful to Kitaj but figured his real master need never know about this. Kitaj had told him not to show his face for at least a week, so that meant he could give the wounds on his cock time to heal up before seeing his true love again. Hockney had just been desperate for sex and figured that if in the future Kitaj gave him good times, then there was no need to see this new rubber master again. Hockney really was a most disobedient slave!


  1. Stewart Home, were you, or Kitaj for that matter, a woman, I would find all this extremely provocative, especially regarding the statement in the header ... Since you are not...or, maybe you tell me...

  2. Becoming-woman, as Deleuze and Guattari use it, is not biologically, hormonally, or chromosomally defined. Nor is it a gender theory; gender is a term whose field is composed by specific trajectories in the formation of socio-political and cultural spaces, which may or may not be attached to biological femaleness, which itself is not a transparent or determinate concept. For Deleuze and Guattari, becoming-woman is not a necessary condition of the possibility of biocultural concepts of femaleness or the feminine, but rather an immanent condition of becomings, and a positive element in an economics of desire, rather than in its socialization through codes and blockages.

  3. Becoming-woman might be something that gentlemen-theorists deploy to signify a broad range of diversifying/diversified subjectivity, but avoid using that stigmatized word. Or, at least, stigmatized during a certain period of time in history. Which is to say that becoming-woman might as well be a matter of academic tastes, affinities, and/or inclinations of a temporary nature. If so, are you telling me that the Deleuze/Guattari concept defines whether you are a woman or not? If not, what is it that does? And why D/G from all the theoreticians in the world, you tell me...

  4. Feminist philosopher such as Luce Irigaray have rightly expressed anger and frustration at Deleuze and Guattari's controversial concept of 'becoming-woman' as well as their seeming desire to delegiimise the so-called molar politics of feminism in favour of a universal molecular revolution.

  5. Were I a feminist theoretician, I might be critical of the concept in question, too. But I wouldn't be too sure about the allegedly seeming nature of their anti-molar politics. In any event, since I'm not an expert in such matters, I find stuff online. Here's what I found. Being barely familiar with the themes discussed, I can only sense that something of importance is being touched upon in the article, but you will know better than I. See...

    Once upon a time, to be hip meant to be radical, radically revolutionary, revolutionary decadent, decadently intoxicant, toxically fiery, fiercely dedicated, decidedly transgressive. Not so long ago, in 2005, Stewart Home writes in his book Tainted Love about swinging London, beats, and other revolutionaries heavily engaged in the sweeping revolutionary tornado generously fueled by the underground pharmaceutical industry. He casts light on the eerie dynamism resulting in the officialdom’s complicity in the criminalization of drugs, that, at a dialectical stroke, sucked the underground—up on the surface! One would be prone to infer that just as much the authorities persecuted and prosecuted decadent revolutionaries, they amplified the anti-subversive sentiment, that will see its latter day, mainstreaming turn.