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| The
Via Crucis of Camille - Crux 2 - Page 14 |
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For
most of this session, until now, the revealing
garment was not touched. It revealed more
as it move up and over her breasts, showing
them while covering them at the same time.
It was time to change that. I approached Camille
to rip the top, to uncover her breasts.
With one swift move of my hand I tore the
garment in two, leaving it still, hanging
from her shoulders, but no longer covering
her breasts.
Camille was now more exposed. Exposed to
my eyes, exposed to the camera, exposed to
the whip.
I understand these sessions as rituals, with
steps to follow, steps that accomplish something
new each time. As in any ritual, each step
has meaning. We, humans, are prone to rituals,
we need them, every culture has its own rituals
and so, this time in my room is a ritual that
we both follow, Camille and I. She does her
part, I do mine. It's almost a mating ritual
for us, although to a viewer it might mean
something else.
This looks like a sacrifice ritual and when
I rip Camille's top to expose her a little
more, another step of the ritual has taken
place. So the whip must go where it must go
to continue with the ritual.
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As
Lyvia received the 50th lash, she fainted, her
naked body falling to the sides, her hands firmly
in place. A soldier approached her and threw
some water on her face to get her to recover.
She was forced to her knees again, a rope was
tied around her waist to keep her body against
the wooden block.
"Continue"
the soldier in charge gave the order and the
executioner carried foward the cruel punishment.
The whip kept falling on the young woman and
she could no longer scream, she could only moan,
her eyes wide open, fixed on the sky above,
her wrists bleeding.
When the executioner
reached the last of the 100 lashes, a long cry
came out of the young woman's mouth. She fainted
again, her face hitting the block in front of
her. Her head then went to the side and her
body was twisted to the side, held against the
block by the cutting rope.
She was made to react
again to complete the first part of her first
sentence. She was again erect, her face looking
up as the executioner took a big hammer, often
used to break prisoners legs when they were
on the cross.
He raised the crusher
up and swing it down to hit the wood holding
the young woman's fingers. Everyone heard the
crack of the bones as the fingers were crashed.
Blood spilled out from under the wood holding
her. Lyvia let out a piercing scream and lost
conciousness.
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The
whip fell on Camille's now exposed breasts,
she turned to look at me, to fix her eyes
in mine. Her body shacking with the pain of
the new lash. She showed her pain and her
anger, but her anger was not directed to me,
it was not Camille's anger but her character's.
In this Camille was very consistent
Camille's character was suffering the martyrdom
she had devised for her fantasy. Her fantasy
was a martyr of old. So Camille was feeling
the suffering of all three of them.
One old acting lesson told her to keep everything
in perspective. To see her character from
a higher position. To split herself into those
two beings: herself and her character. But
in this session she had to go beyond that,
she had to see her character's fantasy as
well.
Perhaps I was asking too much from her, but
the way she was working the escene told me
that she could handle it.
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Again
I moved away from the action to pull the camera
away from Camille. It was time to have a longer
shot. It took a very short time, before Camille
could stop shanking in pain from the last lash,
I was back with a new one, a fresh painful lash
to her belly.
The bottom part of her garment was raising,
showing more of her crotch but the way the ligth
fell on her, everything was under a soft shadow.
Camille was more exposed. I was getting closer
to the end of this part of the ritualistic sacrifice.
Camille was struggling still to keep herself
on top her wooden pedestal but with less strenght.
She was giving me the clue that she was ready
to complete this part.
I had the actual power to stop or to continue
with her torture, but she was allowed to suggest
that she was ready to finish. Only if she was
in some kind of danger she had to power to stop
it.
I wasn't ready so I went on, watching helpless
Camille struggle to keep her balance on the
sharp edge of the wooden pedestal.
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