It’s a warm buzzing night in the early springtime, just a few weeks before the schools and factories break for a well-deserved vacation. For some years, I’ve rented a rustic cellar two floors underground in a back alley in Stockholm’s old town. Built initially as coal storage that then got refurbished into a bomb shelter in preparation for the cold war, it now hosts a variety of alternative therapies, the breathing and screaming kind. This semester, I have offered there a weekly open class on ceremonial sadomasochism.
Three culverts connect in a spiralling shape, and at the centre, there is a tiny room with the floors, walls and ceiling covered in mattresses. I’ve often lain in this room, lights turned off, and all sounds from the outside streets muffled by the thick brick walls and layers of earth and concrete. All sounds inside are soaked up by the soft cocoon around me. While I float in this hidden heart, I can only hear my lonely heart beating back. For some reason, I had booked the place one more night than needed. It’s all paid for. And the space will be empty until the next morning’s yoga class. So I call you and ask if you want to spend the night with me in the pitch-black underworld. At first, you are hesitant and ask precisely what we will do, alone, down there?
We meet outside the iron cellar door. You are dressed in a short skirt, a vintage blouse that may be ripped and knee-high socks. With your hair in a high ponytail, you play the role well, looking like a teenage sophomore from the local witch coven who accidentally is about to summon the beast.
I suggest we turn all electric lights off and place a circle of twenty-one candles around a single mattress at the centre of the underworld. I’ll lay down naked, lifeless, and you will massage my body. Eventually, you’ll turn me around and make my cock hard. I’ll do my best to stay completely passive. Once I’m ready to explode, you will move away from my body and blow out the candles one by one. Counterclockwise. When the last flame goes out, I’ll return to life and hunt you in the darkness. I’ll be the predator, and you’ll be my prey. You may run, hide or fight. If I catch you, I’ll bite onto your flesh, rip your clothes and push my cock deep inside you.
I can feel your heart beating close to mine. You are scared. I pounce and land on top of you. Nails digging into your thighs, ripping your socks. You kick, kick, kick at me and manage to crawl away. In muted slow motion, we move together as in a dance; I follow your panting breath. Deeper and deeper back into the maze. All of a sudden, your movement stops. Trapped against the wall. This time I grab for your hair. Catch it and pull you down onto the floor. You fight, and I slap you hard. I feel my hand land on your buttocks, which is safe, so I hit you again and again. Until your resistance stops.
Dragged back into the mattressed room, you repeat your mantra over and over again. 1, 2, 3, you may do whatever you want to with me. 4, 5, 6, no one will miss my silly tricks. 7, 8, 9, you are my divine. While I penetrate you deeper and deeper. You are my dearest possession. Hidden in the middle of the maze. Like a little bird singing your song in a golden cage.
Later, when we turn the lights back on, you gasp in shock, then giggle before bursting out in laughter. My face is covered in dried blood, and my nose is slightly bent. Most likely from your kicking me. We follow the blood trail outside, red handprints on white cellar walls. We joke about if the police, for some reason, would ever go to this place with a blacklight. How it would light up like a horror movie. You dip your finger in my bloody nose and draw on the wall ‘R <3 A’ before we spend the next few hours wiping everything clean again.
