They’re a rock band … of sorts.
Well, they make music … kind of.
OK, they do gigs.
Very, special gigs. Completely unique.
Dressed in fetish gear, their angry baselines create erotic music; the sweet sounds of Melanie’s vocals over a heavy drum rhythm and the tormented cries of tortured “slaves.”
Totally unique, but they are my favourite band and they were playing in my town. I had to get to see them. I’d seen them in Berlin, watching as they bashed out all of their repertoire, leaving half-a-dozen naked men with blackened rumps.
It was hot, and I wanted to see them in Manchester: home of Oasis, Joy Division, Stone Roses and New Order. I wanted to see them channel the spirit of the kaleidoscopic Hacienda that seeps through the streets of Manchester and deliver a performance that turned heads and burned buttocks. I wanted to see them, I needed to.
But tickets sold out in minutes at the intimate venue, and the ticket resale website left me out of pocket by a monkey, and no closer to getting my hands on an elusive ticket.
However, I happened upon a stroke of luck: bemoaning my fate on Twitter, I was pointed in the direction of “Dave,” and he revealed himself as a touring manager with the band. He offered me a “front row seat” if I wanted it, and refused to accept any money; he was a genuinely awesome geezer and I collected my ticket on the day from the booking office.
Only, it was less front row, and more on-stage. I was led into the busy green room where Dave waited for us; the show was split into two halves: they had four men signed up to do the second half of the show, but if we allowed ourselves to be beaten during her first six songs, then we got a front row seat for the second half.
The room was decimated from four dozen expectant men with “front row tickets” to just two in seconds: only me, and a wiry geek remained and he was incredibly eager to sign away his bottomly comfort for the next week. Desperate, in fact.
I wasn’t quite so keen: I was a little annoyed I had been lied to, but the thought of being next to Melanie filled my belly with butterflies and my rational doubts evaporated. I had never been on stage before. Mindlessly, I signed.
Being naked in front of four hundred people was a thrill, more so because I was masked. We were tied to the bench, looking out over the busy hall and I started drifting: my mind wandered, floating about what was happening to me, to us, and I felt the raised touch of the emergency button on my right finger.
We had had a brief medical and they chatted to us about limits, but the microphone inches from us were designed to capture our screams and Dave made no secret of the fact that we would be a bloody mess of pain by the end of the night: tortured to within an inch of our lives.
But I attended the concerts because I loved the domination of Melanie over her subjects; I adored the flash of anger in her eyes, and the swish of her bullwhip on their rump. I attended because she was the subject of every one of my masturbatory fantasies and because she appeared in every one of my dreams. I adored … her.
I liked everything she did, and the premise of being on stage and part of her show was little more than a pipedream.
Or so I thought, my impossible dream was vividly real as my exposed rear waited for her. I was ready, desperately wanting the show to begin, yet filled with trepidation. My heart pounded on the soft bench as I frantically replayed the songs in my mind. I’d seen the videos: Melanie was intense, as the poor abused men desperately pleaded with the sadist on the vocals. It was sheer depravity.
My memories were interrupted by a dimming of the lights; a cheer surged through the audience as I felt the stage creak, followed by a cacophony of aggressive yells. The concerts were always rowdy!
My hairs stood on end as I expected my skin to explode into shards of pain. Anticipating an inferno across my back or buttocks, foreseeing a mix of controlled agony across my body.
Waiting. Expecting and waiting. Never had I wanted something so badly as that moment. I could feel her standing behind me, sizing up my hairy rump. I could sense the decision in her mind as her cunt moistened from the prospect. She was there, she was about to unleash my fantasies into reality and set free my darkest desires. Melanie was about to do this, for me.
The first crack of her whip knocked me for six: it felt like a blade slashed my buttocks open with white-hot pain dripping into my flesh. I gasped, choking on air as I yelled, hearing my desperate cries fill the room as she lacerated my buttocks again and again.
Each time, I yelled as my skin splintered upon impact with her weaponry. Each time, it encouraged to her to slash harder and harder against my prostrate body as the Geek next to me was blubbering.
But it was exciting: my body shook as I took wave after wave of strikes. My bum felt wet, my hands clammy, but I was drifting.
It felt as though I was looking down and watching the ferocious eyes of Melanie savage me. I could see the definition of her muscles under her black tattoos as fierce strikes rained down on me. I saw the woman I adore as my finger toyed with the button, I knew could not disappoint Melanie: I wouldn’t. “Who wants to hear some pain?” She screeched into the wall of noise. “I’m going to make them scream! I’m going to make them beg for their mummies!”
It was no ideal threat; my body was seized: part fear, part excitement, but just mostly agony. Her violent slashes against my body had made them tender, and the backs of my thighs, bum and the tops of my back were streams of pain.
And yet, as the band started up, it felt right; I’d been here in my fantasies and in my imagination. It was … amazing.
Through all six songs, it was amazing. I knew it was torture, but it left me speechless and drained. Every fibre of my skin burnt with red-hot pain while my mind sizzled with relief. Not pleasure or satisfaction per se, but a calming aura of relief.
After the first half of their show finished, and we were unstrapped from the bench, I felt my wounds; they felt hot to the touch, and I winced as I walked to the green room with the Geek not saying a word.
Melanie was sitting on the table, drinking beer from the bottle as we entered the small room. “Get yourself a drink if you want,” she shouted across her bandmates and gesturing at the table of beers.
Dave passed me a bag with my clothes as I glanced upon the well stocked selection. “You don’t happen to have a front row ticket for Buxton’s gig, do you?”
Melanie laughed. “Sure,” she muttered as she jumped down from the table and openly felt the backs of my legs. “Gone easy on you today.” I snorted and she licked her lips. “Dave,” she called. “Get him down for band practice Sunday. I think I need some practice.”
My fantasy woman stared at me in the eyes, desperate to detect weakness in my beaten body. She wouldn’t find any: Sunday couldn’t come around quickly enough.
Featured image from here