by Amy Valenti
If he was the mystery Dom, then... how much of this had been set up? Had he somehow lured her into the coffee shop? Had he been stalking her, entrapping her? Had even that encounter with Mother Superior – Madeleine – been pre-arranged?
And even now, was she drawn so far in that there was no escaping his web?
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“It’s you, isn’t it? You’re the one with the Medico della peste mask. The Dom. The master. At the Club.”
It all made sense. That encounter was never going to be a one-off. It was too intense. Too damned unusual. Neither of them could ever let something like that go. Even as she’d staked out the Club to try to identify him, he’d been doing the same to her.
I’ve seen you there. At Madeleine’s place. The Club.
Down on his knees before her. A submissive position and yet totally in command. Slowly, steadily, driving the long porcelain beak of that mask between her legs.
“The Club Extraordinaire. The mask. You whipped me with that cat o’ nine tails while you...”
He was staring at her.
At first she took it for excitement as he watched her starting to understand, but then she saw that it was something different.
“You mean... Madeleine’s place? I... I had no idea. I’ve just seen you there. Arriving and leaving. You can’t help but see the comings and goings from the coffee shop. I didn’t know...”
He didn’t know.
He had no idea what went on behind that discreet blue door across the street.
He’d seen her at the Club, not inside it.
She’d made a stupid, ghastly mistake, and now he was staring at her and it was as if she could hear the whirring of his brain as he raced to catch up.
She’d leapt to the wrong conclusion and blurted it out and now he was staring at her.
“It’s a sex club?”
“Bondage,” she said. When you dig yourself a hole you might as well keep on digging. “Sadomasochism. Role-play.”
Too much information! Now wasn’t the time to fill in all the details.
“Jeez...”
He was shaking his head now. That wasn’t a good sign. She knew that. And the look on his face wasn’t encouraging, either. The mix of disbelief and horror.
This was a man who debated how many degrees of niceness applied to him.
A guy who cut himself off whenever he started to swear and then still apologized.
He had raised his hands now, palms towards her. A gesture of surrender, or fending off – she wasn’t sure. He shook his head once more. “I don’t know,” he said, and then again he said, “Jeez...”
Then he turned and walked away, back into his coffee shop, his life, his world.
And Julie turned away, and walked back into hers.
§
“So what made you think it was him?” asked Rachel. Julie had called her almost as soon as she got home to the apartment.
“I don’t know.” Julie paused, but her sister was doing that thing again, letting the silence draw itself out. “It was when he said he’d seen me at the Club. I misunderstood: I thought he was telling me he knew about the place and that he’d been there. That he’d been inside. And then once I’d started down that line of thought it wasn’t such a huge leap to see the similarities between him and the other guy, the masked Dom. Similar height, similar build, similar features.”
“Or at least, the features that weren’t covered by the mask. You didn’t really have much to go on, did you?”
The more she thought about it, the more Julie realized that she didn’t. She’d just leapt to a conclusion and clung onto it.
“The brain works like that,” said Rachel. “Memory is context dependent. It’s tied to places or smells. It’s what we call mood-congruent, too. It’s connected to your emotional state – you’re far more likely to remember things if you’re in the same emotional state as when they first happened. With Matt you were excited, aroused, and that made the memory of the Club so much more vivid. Trouble is, when that happens, sometimes things get muddled up. You remember the tall blond Dom and you’re confronted by a tall blond guy and you feel the same and the two run together.”
“Are you saying I imagined it all?”
“No. Just that your brain may have been focusing on the things that enhanced and confirmed your conclusion, rather than anything that might counter it. And that standing there with Matt you were just as excited and aroused as you were in the Club. Make a note of that, Julie: it’s the one really important thing to notice from all this, apart from that you’re pretty good at making a dick of yourself sometimes. You were excited and aroused by him. So, given that this Matt seems like a really nice guy, and that you’re so damned attracted to him, then maybe you should be doing everything you can to get him back rather than whining down the phone to your big sister. Am I wrong, or am I never wrong?”
That was a childhood thing of theirs, and Julie knew the answer. “You’re never wrong,” she said.
“Good. Then do it, bitch.”
§
The coffee shop always closed by mid-evening, after that final spike of people grabbing a coffee before heading home, or looking for a bit of caffeine to pick them up before an evening out.
Julie stood across the street and waited, aware of the irony that, where once she’d sat in the window to stake out Club Extraordinaire, now she stood not far from that blue door in order to watch Matt’s coffee shop.
As she waited, she was aware of the cabs pulling up, the people getting out.
Most were dressed discreetly with either their outfits in shoulder bags or at least covered by long coats.
The fabulous shoes were a giveaway, though. Long leather boots that disappeared under those coats, boots made from patent leather and with high, needle heels. Platform wedges that gave an extra six inches’ height. Long points to the shoes, heavy buckles and studs, zippers everywhere.
Glimpses of stocking, fishnet or sheer. Pants that caught the streetlights – leather, or possibly latex.
The hair and make-up: stiff and lacquered, or slicked flat, and always clearly the result of lots of effort; faces carefully painted, heavy on the eyeliner and never subtle when loud would do better.
To anyone standing here as the cars pulled up, these were people who were serious about their Saturday evening entertainment and, whatever lay behind that discreet blue door, they were clearly looking for a good night out.
Julie felt the pull. This side of her personality was something she was never going to deny.
She recalled Matt’s reaction: that gut response before he had time to decide how he should react. The look of shock that had seeped across his features.
He was a nice guy, and the world of Club Extraordinaire was not, by any definition, a world of niceness.
But if she was not going to deny that side of her, then why was she waiting in the dark, watching Matt’s coffee shop? Why was she so drawn to him?
Across the street, the last customers were leaving, and Matt was clearing their table.
The moment had arrived.
Do it, bitch.
§
“I grew up with my sister, Rachel, in a comfortable suburban home, in a stable family, with loving parents, a dog and a cat, and I did well at school.”
She stood in the coffee shop doorway. She’d just waited here until he glanced up and saw her, and then she’d started to speak. It was unrehearsed, nothing like what she’d imagined she would say when she stood across the street waiting. It was just... her.
“I have a normal life, a normal job. I’m a bit kooky, but I’m not any kind of a freak. Rachel would tell you that, and she’s a psychotherapist with published papers so she should know. But I realized a while back that there’s more to life than just that. There’s more to me than just that. I learned scuba diving. I did a parachute jump and I’ve done a bungee jump from the Navajo Bridge over Marble Canyon. I’ve been to Osaka and eaten raw J
apanese puffer fish and I’ve been to Newfoundland to see the Northern Lights.”
She took a step into the coffee shop and let the door swing shut behind her.
“And sometimes I go to Club Extraordinaire, where your friend Madeleine dresses up in a leather nun’s habit and whips men’s naked asses and where I’ve learned the difference between being whipped and being paddled and where I’ve been tied up and locked in a sensory deprivation tank where all I can experience is the pull of my bindings and the squeeze and tug of nipple clamps as I breathe.”
She was doing that too much, too soon thing again.
Matt stared at her, eyes wide like a rabbit caught in the headlights. He licked his lips as if about to say something, but remained silent.
This was exactly the kind of moment in a movie where he would turn and indicate an elderly woman standing just out of view and say, “Meet my mother,” but thankfully he didn’t, they were alone, it was just her words hanging in the air, her too much information for trying to win a guy back thing.
“What I’m saying is this is me, Matt. I’m just like other people in most respects, but one thing I’m certain of is that I’ll never hold back. You get one try at all this, and whereas I have the loveliest sister in the world who has always played safe and lived the life her parents would have hoped, well, I’m the one who wants more. Who tries more.” She remembered another thing Rachel had said. “And sometimes I get slapped in the face by life, but I’m always going to try.”
Still... she couldn’t read him. Didn’t dare read him.
She didn’t realize how much this mattered to her until now, standing here, running out of words to explain herself and knowing the words she used hardly painted the most inviting picture.
“Are you still mesmerized by me, Matt? Are you still unable to stop thinking about me? Because I hope so. I really hope so.”
Part four: The One
“Madame. Can you help me? I think I need to change. I need to take control a bit more. You know what I mean?”
Club Extraordinaire was Julie’s escape from the push-me pull-you stresses of real life.
A place to be her. A place to explore what being her meant.
Madame Superior looked at her, smiled, and said, “Sure, honey. You just leave it to me. We’ll get you fixed up.”
She hadn’t come prepared for this, hadn’t expected it. All she had was what she’d been wearing on the street: jeans, a cream blouse, a tailored gray jacket. “It might take some work,” she said, and Madame smiled.
“Just as well I’m an artist then, ain’t it, honey?”
They took her into a small dressing room. Mirror tiles covered all four walls from floor to ceiling. Even the ceiling was mirrored. Even the floor! Maybe this wasn’t a dressing room after all...
“Hey, boys!” called Madame, and a trio of men in leather shorts appeared, crowding around Julie. Their eyes flitted between Madame and Julie, waiting for commands. “We’re going to be doing a little making over here, boys. You get the clothes and make-up. Now.”
Soon, Julie stood there naked, catching her breath after being pulled, turned, stripped. She felt exposed and vulnerable as Madame assessed her.
“I know what you need,” Madame said finally. “You need some pants.”
Julie hadn’t known what to expect, but this wasn’t it. Not until one of the house slaves brought them in. The pants. Tiny. Black leather.
“They might be a size or two too small, but we’ll make ’em fit, even if we have to sew you in.”
No underwear, she stepped into the pants and they were tight even around her ankles. Under Madame’s direction, two of the slaves expertly rolled the leather pants up Julie’s legs to the knees.
She’d never felt quite like this. Exposed and... she didn’t even know what the other feelings were. An odd thrill of power, with two guys on their knees, their hands on her, their faces so close to her, as they eased her into these skinny black pants, so tight they could have been sprayed on.
She had to lie down, let her breath out, suck her tummy up into her ribs until, eventually, the two guys between them managed to fasten the pants at her waist.
She thought she might never breathe again, they were so tight. Thought she might never be able to stand, let alone walk.
And then she realized that the pants had become like a second skin. She’d never felt so slender, never felt so at home with her shape, her curves. Never felt so God-damned sexy!
She stood, and allowed Madame Superior to feed her breasts into a cone-bra that was rigid and yet somehow gave in just the right places so that her stiff nipples stood out. A tiny black off the shoulder top completed the outfit. It was understated by the standards of Club Extraordinaire, but its effect was dramatic on Julie, a psychological thing. She saw the way the slaves looked at her, saw the way Madame Superior looked at her, and she felt strong and in control.
“Now, honey, all we need is some hair and make-up and you’re done.”
“And shoes,” said Julie. “Whatever you do, don’t forget the shoes.”
§
It took some time to find him.
Saturday night, the place was packed.
And the people... Well, the people. Julie’s outfit may well have been understated by the standards of those around her, but it was the kind of outfit that grabbed people’s attention.
As she threaded her way through the hallways and dungeons and playrooms of Club Extraordinaire people stopped talking to point. Some she recognized and some were complete strangers. Men in leather and chains. Tattooed women in lace and tape and thigh-length, high-heeled boots. Men down on their knees, licking those boots while whips trailed casually along their spines. All stopped to look.
Scenes paused in mid play, floggers raised, knots half-tied.
All because of a woman in leather pants that could have been sprayed on, a body to die for, six-inch black patent leather stilettos and an attitude as if she owned the place and everyone in it.
She was searching, intent.
She came to one of the torture rooms. She was getting used to the eyes on her, the conversations interrupted, the scenes paused. She was getting to like it.
A skinny white guy lay full stretch on a rack, arms above his head, secured at the wrists by heavy iron cuffs. His belly was concave, pulled taut. His manhood lay sideways, long, slender and semi-hard across his hip. How long had he been like that? He lay there, head turned towards Julie, mouth a little open.
Whatever had been in his head was gone now, as he watched her move across the room. She came to stand before him and his dick twitched, started to fill out and then pushed upwards until it was lying hard and flat against his abdomen.
The power she had over him was palpable, heavy in the air.
She smiled and he arched his back, straining against his bonds. Then she shook her head, and said, “Not your turn. Bitch.”
She turned, walked away, leaving him to his suffering. Maybe the denial was what worked for him, too. She hoped it did, because she had her mind set on other things.
§
She found the man in the mask.
The white Medico della peste with the long down-turned beak and round eyeholes covered with shells of dark glass.
She had known he would be here. She had wanted him to be here.
He was in a tux again, his bow-tie undone, draped around his neck. It was a look that worked for her every time: up-market, refined, and yet in disarray, starting to unravel. Control and abandon was a heady mix for Julie.
He was tall, his dark blond hair slicked back, and when he spotted her a smile played across those thin lips, just visible beneath the mask.
She remembered that night. Him on his knees before her, teasing her into orgasm with the touch of porcelain.
It came on her in a rush: the need, the urgency, the sudden shift to focus on the here and now.
The guy was alone, in one of the chill-out areas between rooms. Just standing by a wall, as if
he was waiting for someone.
It was as if everything else froze around them.
She could have him now, if she chose. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she knew they were working over her: the tight leather, the shoes, the way that bra shaped her breasts, the smooth skin across shoulders and neck.
He wanted her: she could feel desire stretched like a web between them. He needed her.
She smiled, shook her head, and in that moment she saw his whole frame slump, just a little.
It was a powerful thing, the sexual tension between her and the masked Dom, and the memory of that evening would always be incredibly vivid and intense. But it was a thing that was over, done. It had been a need, that evening. A desire to be fulfilled. A thing of that particular moment.
Now, the guy spread his hands and shrugged.
She shook her head again.
Not your turn. Bitch.
She turned, moved away, on the hunt.
§
He was there, in the jail room, pale eyes wider than she’d ever seen. He stood in a ring of onlookers as that skinny blonde woman in the catsuit pulled back and then swung a horse-hair flogger across the bare ass of her partner, who hung from iron loops set into the wall, his face pushed hard against the brickwork.
The man’s body jerked and he cried out, and Julie could see that he was harder than any blue pills could ever get a man, up against the wall.
She looked back at Matt. He hadn’t spotted her yet, so she was able to study him: so disconcerting seeing him in this setting!
He hadn’t come prepared. He was wearing what he’d had on at the coffee shop, the black jeans, Converse sneakers and black t-shirt. Oddly, it didn’t look so out of place here among all the fetish-wear: just a very particular fetish. High school casual.
She’d given him an ultimatum earlier: “This is me. This is who I am. The Club... it’s not all of me, but it’s a part, it comes with the package. You have to see it. You have to give me a chance. Are you willing to give me a chance?”
Now, he shifted from foot to foot, like a twitchy animal.
She wondered what was in his head. How scared he was. Whether he was just waiting for her to find him, or if that might scare him even more: the reality of being here with someone who knew the place so well. Of seeing this side of her in the flesh.