~Subject: my Master, my slave, my Light
~Date: Mon, 8 Mar 93 22:55:36 GMT
~Lines: 120


Alex is my enlightened slave, my Master, my teacher, my companion and my
husband.

I am his enlightened slave, his Lady, his guide, his mate and his wife.

These may look like mere words - poetic, perhaps, or strange and
contradictory.  But they are just true, oh, so true, in our life,
every day: they shine as a torch in the middle of our daily chores,
our jobs, our love, our friendship.

Some days ago I slapped his beloved cheeks until they were red and
swollen, until his handsome dark eyes were full of tears, until I
had put my mark of possession on his sore lips. He kissed my right
hand, and I felt proud as a tigress, clean as spring water, high
as an eagle.

A few minutes later he was the one hitting me, with the back of
his hand, and he continued to rain blows on my face until I was
trembling and shaken, too full of sweetness and surrender to be
able to think of something different from him - He was in that
moment my light, my food, my breath, my god, my All.

Then we kissed - our badly bruised mouths entwined together in a
savage, pure, passionate act of love.  Both my and his flesh bore
marks of utter slavery, both of our bodies knew how to offer
themselves to sweet cruelties, and to adoration too.  We were not
only slaves and dominants at the same time: we were brother and
sister, on a similar path, mates at the same school of discipline
and devotion.

After that splendid kiss I whipped his shoulders with the heavy
cat, making him purr with happiness.  And when his back was covered
with welts, I offered him the crop, holding it in my teeth... When
he finished lashing me, my buttocks were more violet than red. The
night passed drinking avidly the tenderness of our pain sweetly
given, sweetly received.

The morning after, there was the job, of course, and the school,
and the children: but the Alex performing his engineering magic on
those computers was not a different Alex from the one who had
performed his masterful magic on his slave's body - there was no
dichotomy - he was *that* same, identical Alex, with his whipped
body, his bruised mouth, his eternal light of enlightenment.

And Laylah, too, was the same Laylah: always struggling with the
beauty of a language which is not her native one, always trying to
teach something really beautiful, always with a bright vision of
infinite purity in front of the eyes of her consciousness: with
her back sore and tender, used and full of welts.

It is relatively easy to create a wonderful scene sometimes, to
live a perfect paradise sometimes, to be happy sometimes, to help
friends and lovers sometimes.

What is a bit more difficult, and wonderful and breathtaking when
it's done, is to transform every daily act into an Eucharist, to
make holy every single drop of the sea of our lives, day after
day after day.  Alex has taught me this, has shown to me this
perfection, has shared with me his secret, has flown with me this
flight.

But this perfection is never static, and we are tigers, but also
lambs; we made and we make mistakes, we misunderstand, we are tired
and stressed.  But the light is always in us: it will be always
there!  The light is in every tree, in every rock, in every living
being: it is in every starry powder spread by the gods on the
carpets of our nights.
The light that shines in the blinding pain of that crop upon my
buttocks and makes me cry out with anguish and ecstasy.
The light that's in my slave's eyes as I force from him the total
submission he is always so eager to offer to me.
That very same light.

I have always written of things which I lived, or dreamed, or
experienced in some way, my heart consumed by the force of a passion
which longs to communicate, to share.

My Lord is a great soul: I am what I am because he has loved me
so.  And he has changed so!  In the past we have lived terrible
moments, and in 1983 I left him, struck by desperation.  Life is
not a placid lake, it is a silver river, always running fast, with
cascades and pulsating waters. IT IS possible to change, to lose
love, to love again.  IT IS possible to die to happiness, and to
be born again to smile and life.  We lived it: the desperation,
the death, and the new creation, and our current ectasy is builts
on the tears and ashes of those horrible ruins.  Nor are those
shadows of our past cast out, away from us; it is not by cutting
off some of one's self that one will grow whole; they are inside
us, forever, tamed, cherished, compassionately loved.

We did it, you can do it, yes, you, you who now are alone, desperate,
without Master or Mistress.  The moment will come also for you,
and you will not be alone, split in half, or forsaken by gods and
men - right in your darkest hour, then, the light will come for
you also, on your own unique path.  Inevitably.

After summer is winter; and after winter, summer.

No one has greater love than this: to lay down his life for his
friends.  I'm sure Alex should give his life to save a friend... 

My Alex, so sweet and so proud, so strong in the most totally
exposed and vulnerable weakness of submission, so loving in the
pain he racks my body with, so pliant and so steely, so soft and
so harsh... I adore caressing his bruised body, as much as I love
to be embraced by him after an heavy whipping... thanks to the
Goddess, even the darkest night always has its hidden splendour,
and once you learn to see the white shining diamond masquerading 
as the darkest velvet black sky, you too will KNOW - that ALL IS
ONE, AND ALL IS LIGHT.


Blessed be,
    Laylah
	--
    You bite my slender wrists, my frail and fiery flesh,
    You drink the cutting taste of lips and breached sunsets
 
Laylah Martelli: 
lela@am.sublink.org,lmartell@nyx.cs.du.edu,an1826@anon.penet.fi