Authors: Roxy Harte
“She didn’t come home again last night,” Joel answers.
She didn’t come home?
For Morgana “home” is a room in
The Attic, and it’s disturbing that she didn’t sleep here. His use of the word
“again” makes me worry even more. Not that I’m her keeper, and she is a grown
woman who can come and go as she pleases, but it seems so out of character for
her to stay out all night. I close my eyes and rub them before opening them.
“Is she on today’s schedule?”
Joel shakes his head and I know that he is as worried about
Morgana as I am. Though admittedly, I am worried about her mind and he is only
concerned with the security risk she poses, but honestly, if she was going to
burn the place to the ground in a psychotic rage, she would have already done
so.
“Consider The Asylum or Bedlam,” Dave suggests, and I know
he is referring to renaming the club. “The only way this place is going to
survive is if you make it yours
completely
. As it is the crowd arrives
expecting stage shows and show tunes.”
My jaw grinds tight, knowing he speaks the truth and I can’t
deliver. I have to do something soon or Lewd Larry’s is going to collapse under
a weight of despair and neglect. I’m just not ready to consider any
suggestions. “And what would renaming the club do to Morgana’s state of mind?”
I don’t realize I spoke out loud until Joel answers, “I
suspect you will find in the upcoming days that she has been seeking employment
elsewhere. She won’t be your concern much longer.”
I’m stunned. Morgana leaving? I won’t believe that.
Returning to the original subject I tell Dave, “Perhaps Bedlam.”
“I’ll tell Jasper and see what he can work up for you.
Should I have him schedule a meeting directly with you to review what he comes
up with?”
The dig is there in his voice. I have put my legal guy in
the position of errand boy because I’m not being a mature adult and contacting
our advertizing guy myself. “Tell Jasper he has two days to come up with
something to
wow
me. Tell him I’m giving him carte blanche. I need to
see his ideas for a complete redesign.”
* * * * *
By the time my hand finally descends on the knob of the
conference room door, I am wired tight and force myself to inhale and exhale a
deep cleansing breath before entering.
She sits alone, waiting in the room purposefully decorated
with Zen simplicity in calming shades of pastel aqua and soft mocha brown. The
lighting is dimmed and New Age music plays softly to help our clients remain
calm and at ease as they reveal their darkest fantasies.
I force a smile as I enter. “Hello! I know you’ve been
waiting a horribly long time, and I apologize for my tardiness.”
I am not terribly surprised my newest client is in her
mid-forties. She is thin, excruciatingly so. Her frosted blond-brown hair is
cut at sharp angles just below her chin, giving her narrow face a pinched,
nervous look.
She stands, forcing a mask of confidence. As she extends her
hand, her smile shakes a bit. “I’m Sharon.”
“Doctor Psycho.”
She laughs nervously. “Is that what I should call you then?
I mean now? And during the session?”
“Yes, that will be fine, though you may call me Sir if you
prefer.”
She nods, still smiling, but a more nervous smile, her
shaking upper lip a dead giveaway at how not at ease she really is. “That’s
good to know, I mean, that Sir is also acceptable.”
I gesture for her to sit, then pull a chair up directly next
to hers, pivoting both of us to face each other. “First, we talk. What exactly
are you looking for in our session today?”
Her mouth opens and shuts, opening again to remain ajar,
seeming unsure what to say. She glances anxiously around the room. I don’t
believe she is looking for an escape; it would be too easy for her to merely
stand and walk through the door she entered if that was what she wanted. I
suspect her apprehension is in part due to the insularity of the room. Only the
one door, no windows, and I am the only person she has seen since being tucked
into this quiet oasis…and now I am asking her to reveal her deepest, darkest
secrets.
“May I touch you?”
Her lips slam together and I realize I have surprised her, but
she manages to nod. “It’s okay to be nervous.” I lift her hand from her lap and
hold it gently. “Let’s start with the types of scenes you’ve experienced in the
past. Can you tell me about some of your past experiences?”
She doesn’t lower her gaze as she answers, even though her
hand has begun shaking in mine, her words fast, almost running together. “I’ve
never done anything before. That’s why I’m here, because I think about it, you
know? I fantasize. I think about it constantly. I’ve just never been able to
ask anyone. I’m recently divorced. This isn’t something I could have ever asked
my husband about…and now that I’m dating again…well, how do I ask a man for
that? To hurt me during sex? I haven’t figured that out, but I know that’s what
I want, because when I’m on a date, I think about wanting them to use me
roughly. I think about screaming and what it would take to make me scream
during sex, and I just don’t know how to ask them for that. Oh God, you must
think I’m insane.”
“No, not insane. I’m very impressed that you are here to
learn more about yourself.” I rub her hand between both of mine, hers cool to
the touch and shaking, mine much warmer and, I hope, calming. She hasn’t looked
away, even though she is obviously embarrassed. “Let’s start with one of your
fantasies.”
“This is really hard.” She does look away then and fidgets
in her chair, but she quickly recovers, looking up, seeking my eyes.
Once I have her gaze held, I resolve to hold her there.
“I want to be bound so that I can’t move.”
“Would you prefer rope so that you are tied at your
wrists…your ankles? Or would being completely wrapped, more like mummification,
be more preferable?”
Standing, she pulls her hands from mine and crosses the room
quickly, interestingly not toward the door. She stops to stand before a
built-in saltwater aquarium. Bright yellow tangs swim by in a small school and
she lifts her hand but doesn’t touch the glass. She keeps her back to me. “I’m
not sure how to explain it, but my fantasies involve being held by wide iron
manacles that start out cool but then warm to match my body temperature. I am
held at my neck and at my wrists and ankles…so that I can’t escape the pain…or
the pleasure.”
I remain seated, giving her space to communicate her needs.
“You said exploring the relationship pain has to pleasure appeals to you. Why
do you believe pain is something you want?”
“I think about it!” She turns, insistent, animated. “Every
night when I go to bed, I fall asleep thinking about being spanked, whipped,
cut, branded… I want someone to hurt me.”
“And you want to come while you are experiencing pain?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
“Now, Sharon, where did these fantasies come from?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I was born with them, because I’ve
thought about it my whole life.”
Her answer doesn’t surprise me. It seems that most who
embark on a path of sadism or masochism allege their desire stems from
childhood fantasy with no explainable source. My concern lies with her
insistence that she seeks the relationship between pleasure and pain but claims
that she has no previous experience, the dreaded
eyes-are-bigger-than-her-stomach syndrome, wanting to go straight into a hard
scene without buildup. “Can you describe the perfect setting? Would it be a
Victorian Era or a medieval dungeon?”
She wrinkles her nose at my suggestions but walks closer,
becoming animated as she talks. “I want something dark, modern. Can you terrify
me?”
She is a beautiful woman, tall, leggy and blue-eyed, but her
eyes are missing the innocence she declares. There is something about the way
she carries herself that makes me question everything she has stated during
this interview.
“Sharon, why are you really here?”
She hurries forward, sitting across from me. “I don’t
understand the question. Are you asking metaphorically? Or haven’t I been clear
enough? I don’t know any other way to ask for what I need. I want to be tested
and terrified and if at all possible, I’d like to find the pleasure within the
pain that you can give me.”
My eyebrows lift of their own accord. My clients don’t
usually intrigue me, but this one is beginning to. Glancing at the clock on the
wall behind Sharon, I see that it is almost six. Plenty of time if The Factory
is available, but if it isn’t… My mind starts clicking and pacing the scene.
This is what I love about my job, the individual experience and making sure
that each scene is tailored to meet the mental, emotional and physical needs of
my clients.
“Now, Sharon, I do want to caution you. I can give you
exactly what you are asking for; however, you are inexperienced and since this
is our first session, we are limited to sixty minutes. I don’t want you to be
disappointed if I pace the scene at a rate that I believe you can handle. I
will not jeopardize any level of your health because you want more than I
believe you are capable of handling.”
“I understand.”
“I wasn’t finished.”
“I’m sorry, Sir.”
I nod, glad that she used the title Sir, hoping it means
that she is ready for what I have planned. “That said, I want to go into this
scene assuring you that I do not believe that you will be disappointed. Now I
want to discuss safe words, because you are controlling this scene. If you are
overwhelmed and believe you need to pause, if you are wearing a gag, you will
lift the pointing finger of your right hand, meaning that you need a moment to
collect yourself.” I demonstrate and wait for her to imitate the motion before
continuing. “If you are not gagged, saying the word ‘yellow’ will suffice and
when you are ready to resume you will say ‘green’.”
She nods, and I keep explaining the rules of proper safe
word usage.
“If you say ‘red’ I will also stop, but the scene will then
end and it will not begin again. So only use that word if you really want me to
stop. Remember that no other words stop or slow the scene, no matter if you are
begging me to stop or crying for me to slow down or to give you a second or any
other combination. Only green, yellow or red will change the direction of the
scene. Do you understand, Sharon?”
“Yes Sir.” She nods emphatically, smiling too wide, her
nervousness seemingly vanished.
“Now when we took your original information, we asked for
your complete name. Did you give us your correct name including first, middle
and last?”
“Yes!” she answers quickly, nodding to assure me, then
remembers to add belatedly, “Sir.”
“Good, Sharon Olivia Von Buren, because if this scene or
future scenes take on an intensity that in my mind—or in the mind of any of the
other Dominants who work here—that perhaps is too much, we will stop the scene.
And if you are insistent that you are okay, even to the point of encouraging us
with the word green, we may ask you to state your name. If you cannot state
your full and complete name, we will stop the scene immediately.”
“I understand, Sir.”
“Good. I am going to take you to a changing room that has
lockers for you to place your belongings. I want you to take off all of your
clothing and when you are ready, I will be in the hallway waiting.”
She takes longer than I expect, and when she does step into
the hall I see she is still wearing her bra and panties, by the looks of which
are an expensive matching set. I don’t tell her I expected complete nudity,
though I did. I respect her decision. This is, after all, her session. I turn
her around and place her in metal handcuffs before leading her to the playroom.
The gray and black abstract-patterned carpeting along this
hallway is a tight nap, similar to what you would expect in an affluent
doctor’s office or a fine hotel. The walls are painted a dark color, gunmetal
gray or magic mushroom, I think. No, definitely gun-metal gray, the magic
mushroom was the mocha brown used in my office. I thought that was very
apropos.
The lighting is barely there, small pin-lights recessed in
the ceiling, which cast a faint trail. This is the fourth level of Lewd Larry’s
Fetish Fantasy Nightclub. The place we refer to as The Attic, the five-star
playground of those clients willing to pay premium prices to play with
professional Dominants. Generally five-hundred dollars an hour for a basic session,
depending on what is expected. The rate per hour can go higher, but never
lower.
I stop in front of a heavy metal door, peeling paint and a
rusted padlock signaling that the interior of this room will not be as plush as
the hallway and rooms we will leave behind. “Are you ready, Sharon?”
“Yes, Doctor Psycho, I’m ready,” she assures me. “I’m so
excited!”
I turn the key and release the padlock. It makes a scraping,
ancient-sounding
creak
as it releases, followed by the tight groan of
the hinges as I push open the door to one of my favorite play rooms. Highly
industrialized, it plays on the fears of most by being dark, shadowy,
mechanical and sterile. With instruments of pleasure and pain always within
hands’ reach but stored in a way to be concealed until needed, the element of
surprise is always geared in my favor.
She steps back and I glance at her face, surprised her
nervous excitement faded so quickly.
“Doctor Psycho?”
“Yes, Sharon?”
“Inside. During the scene. Could you call me Mrs. Von
Buren?”
“If you would prefer.”
She smiles and nods rapidly. “Oh yes. That’s exactly what I
want.”
I pull Sharon Von Buren into a pitch-black room. Her first
contact with the otherliness of one of my many realms is her bare feet stepping
onto cool concrete. I have been told the sensation has made many a pussy
clench. I hold my smile in check as she reacts to the sounds and smells that
make this room distinctly The Factory.