by Ella Baxter
I hang up, swallowing a few times. I cling to the melodic comfort of Judy’s voice in my head, mentally turning the volume up until we all love and miss you here is blaring in my ears like an air raid siren.
‘I’ll show you the rest of the clubhouse now,’ Tanya announces.
She leads me down the corridor, opening doors and declaring their purpose.
‘The slave chamber.’
‘The rope room.’
I notice how erect her posture is as she walks and how leaden my movements seem in comparison to hers. Hearing Judy’s familiar voice in this environment has thrown me.
‘The playroom for littles and their bigs.’ She points to the far side of the room. ‘There’s kinetic sand and some soft toys at the back.’
She closes the door and moves on to the next room, which is white and spacious.
‘Absolutely anything goes on in here, let me tell you.’
Judy was the one who had agreed that I should avoid the funeral. She was the one who had said this was a good idea. I’m doing the right thing, I assure myself. And like she said, they all love and miss me there.
Tanya opens the door to the last room, which has a central platform surrounded by chairs. ‘For humiliation,’ she says before slamming the door shut. She gestures down the hall to the few remaining doors. ‘And so on—you get the idea.’
As she walks me back to reception I suddenly remember Steven and look around for him. When did I last see him? In the aftercare room? Is he still on his knees?
Tanya links her arm through mine, clearly not bothered by Steven’s whereabouts.
‘Look, you probably know this already—one of the perks of your generation—but I should just remind you that the pain you cause or experience in here will never ease the pain you are going through out there. The same goes with pleasure. You’re looking in the wrong place if you are trying to escape from something. BDSM is a means of controlling our experience of the world. You dictate the terms. But if you’re after healing, that takes place up here.’ She taps her head. ‘Any questions?’
It seems the training session is over. I’m grateful for her time, and I wonder if it would be appropriate to give her some cash. I’m not sure if she volunteers, or if hers is a paid position. I think I have a twenty in my bag, so I open it and rummage around while she looks at me steadily.
‘How about you go and buy yourself something nice to wear, there’s a place in town you could try. I’ll give you their card before you leave,’ she says, ‘and then come back in a couple of hours and we’ll have someone for you to play with.’ Her voice softens. ‘You need to change, and I’m not just talking about your appearance. Create a “Mistress Amelia”, then put this girl’—she touches my arm—‘to rest.’
I nod. Yes. That’s what I need. I need to put this girl to rest.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The window display for The Marquis—where Tanya recommended I come—features two intricate leather horse masks, each suspended on a silver chain, in front of a dark silk curtain. What are the odds? I had pictured myself as a warrior on a horse, and now here I am standing in front of a couple of masks that are so expertly sewn, their flat teeth look real. Even their equine eyes seem to follow me as I enter the shop.
‘You would be a large, because of all that hair,’ the saleswoman says as I pause by the doorway to peer more closely at the horse masks.
‘Thank you,’ I say, while patting it down.
Steeping further inside, I find myself surrounded by tall glass cases in which are displayed metal clasps and plugs, handcuffs and lubricants. The shop smells of Dettol and the air conditioning is cool; I’m reminded of a hospital ward. Pink Floyd wails from the speakers behind the counter, and I tap along to it, while moving through the display cases of dildos, which are lit from below, making each one look like an overfed, phosphorescent worm.
‘I’m about to do some workshops with the Widow Maker, but I don’t know what to wear.’
The saleswoman rests her elbows on the counter and looks me over.
‘You’ll need a decoy, then a reveal,’ she advises. ‘Like a latex dress, for instance. That’s the decoy, because they think it’s your outfit, but then you snap it off and underneath are nipple clamps. That’s the reveal.’ She gestures. ‘Try the rack over there—a catsuit might be good on you. It has a high neck that you can tuck your mask into.’
There’s a range of costumes hanging on the rack. I flick through them until I get to a glazed-looking bodysuit. I slide my hand down the length of it, letting the friction create an uncomfortable squeak. The saleswoman takes a spirited step out from behind the counter and pulls a rubber suit from a different rack. It looks similar to a wetsuit, with a thick zipper from the crotch to the neck.
‘This is much thicker.’ She flaps the suit at me. ‘It will change your life.’
I check the price and lean away.
‘A full piece in this density of rubber is like another skin. When I wear this, I feel really evened out and confident. Like I have a new body.’
‘A new body,’ I repeat quietly. I reach out and take the suit from her.
‘Is that the level of intensity you want?’ she asks.
‘Of course,’ I say, ‘that is exactly the sort of intensity I’m after. It would be amazing to feel like someone else entirely. Do you go to clubs in this?’ I ask, still staring at the rubber skin.
‘No, I just put it on at home. I do this thing where I coat it in cold Vaseline that I keep in the fridge, then I get my boyfriend to chase me around the apartment—but he can’t catch me, because I’m so slippery. It’s a phenomenal feeling.’
‘Why cold?’
‘It’s just another layer away from what I usually feel, isn’t it? Similar to what you were saying, I want to feel cold and fast, because I always feel warm and slow. Sometimes, I even wear just a little bit of rubber to work so I can bring some of that confidence here with me.’ She snaps at something tight under her loose shirt.
I leave the store with a horse head, the rubber skin, a leotard and a fishnet body stocking. On my way back to the car I stop by a brightly lit fast food restaurant and sit at a stool in the window, eating my way through a box of chicken nuggets. As I’m looking out the window at the lunchtime crowd, my phone dings with a message.
Vincent. You should have been here.
I slam my phone down onto the bench and then immediately pick it up again to reply: You shouldn’t have written that.
I reach down to the bag at my feet and pull out the rubber bodysuit, draping it across my lap. I need to be thicker-skinned.
I eat another nugget and wait to see if the rubber will protect me from the guilt.
Imagine telling me I should have been there. Imagine being so self-centred that all you can think about is what you’re going through.
I scroll through Simon’s social media pages to see whether he has posted any pictures of the funeral. There’s nothing so far.
I close my eyes for a moment to see whether the suit has helped, and I do feel that the guilt is bearable. I place a hand between the two pieces of rubber, and after a few minutes I feel confident enough to ring Simon.
‘Amelia?’ His voice is low.
‘You sound terrible,’ I say, gripping the suit.
‘When are you coming back?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘We needed you here,’ he says emphatically.
I pull away and turn down the volume on my phone.
‘How was the funeral?’ I ask.
‘Awful. Vincent threw himself on her coffin and ate one of the roses.’
‘Did Judy get the pinkie ring and the watch, like I asked?’
‘Is that what you want to talk about?’
‘Yes, she would have wanted them with her.’
‘Today was important, and as usual you decide to make it all about you.’
‘I had to leave.’ I say it more to remind myself than to persuade him.
‘I
can’t understand you at all right now. You’re unbelievably selfish.’
Family is supposed to make you feel better about yourself, not worse. I hang up on him.
I fold the rubber skin back into the bag, and eat the rest of the chicken quickly, before striding out of the restaurant and onto the street. I swing the bag with each step, trying to wave away the feeling that I am being selfish. It’s selfish of him to call me selfish—I should’ve said that!
Ignoring the sour taste of grease and chicken, I get into the car and drive back to the clubhouse, very, very ready to inflict pain.
Tanya greets me, and says that she has arranged a session for me with Carl, one of the regulars. The session can last for up to two hours if it all goes well. She pauses to pump some hand sanitiser into her palm.
‘And if I don’t like it?’
‘You can leave anytime. It’s quite informal. We pair people up based on their experience levels, so an experienced member is put with a newcomer. Because let me tell you’—she pumps the sanitiser again—‘there’s nothing worse than having two newbies bash each other then leave feeling like kink isn’t for them.’ She blows on her hands to dry them. ‘Also, you should know that if you’re going to play in the middle of an afternoon on a weekday, it’s really only retirees who are available.’
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘And what does Carl look like?’
She ignores my question. ‘There’s a shower round the back, so go scrub up, and when you’re ready give me a yell and I’ll show you to the room.’
I shower off the smell of chicken, and as I’m drying myself Tanya informs me that Carl likes to be shamed. ‘He likes being laughed at, pointed at, ignored …’ she yells over the top of the cubicle. ‘He doesn’t like seeing vaginas, so underwear on at all times, please! Also, no penetration and no whipping. Sometimes he likes the nipple clamps, but let him initiate that, and only use them on him.’
‘Can he not tell me this himself?’ I ask as I pull the shower curtain open.
‘Yes, of course, but if you’re unsure of anything please ask, don’t assume; ongoing consent and negotiation is what we encourage here. Check in with each other, and stay present.’
The door buzzer interrupts my briefing, and Tanya leaves to see who it is. I lean against the sink and look at my reflection, turning my face until I see the angle where I look like my mother. Every atom feels like it bends to the sky searching for her. I imagine her here with me. She would be laughing and wanting to take pictures, hamming up the poses. Or maybe she would hate it. She would have felt sorry for the fish at reception and be bothered by the font on the paperwork. She would criticise Tanya for wearing a lot of black and not smiling more. She probably wouldn’t even like the light fittings; they’re too ornate. I reach into my bag and pull out my phone, and before any filter can kick in, I call Judy back.
She answers while I’m still looking at my mother’s jawline in the mirror.
‘Judy, hello, I miss you,’ I say.
‘You have such good timing. I’ve just sat down with a new blend of tea from the health store. It’s called Wild Woman and it has basically just a ton of cinnamon bark in it, and—hold on, I’ll read you the label.’
I hear a rustling on the other end of the line.
‘To the woman who longs for the forest and rivers, to the wild woman within. Unleash the glory of your true feminine spirit with the rich taste of bergamot, jasmine flower and intriguing spices. Right up our alley, isn’t it?’
I love how little talking I have to do with her.
‘What are you up to, love?’ she asks.
I don’t know whether to be honest or not.
‘I’m at this place,’ I say hesitantly. ‘I guess it’s a kink clubhouse.’
‘Why are you doing that, then? Most sex is weird enough nowadays. Just go and meet a fella at the pub.’
‘The pain is kind of different—it’s more considered.’ After one night at a club and a brief orientation, I sound like an expert.
‘Well, just make sure they’re not live streaming it on the internet,’ she says.
I squeeze my eyes shut and stop myself asking about Simon and Vincent.
‘Did you find the watch and the pinkie ring?’ I ask.
‘Yes, hon, but Simon was wearing the watch and Vincent had the ring on. Sorry. They are both very attached to them.’
Simon, the lump.
‘So you think I should leave this place?’
‘Probably,’ she says.
We say our goodbyes and she reminds me again to check for hidden cameras.
I message Simon: I will tear that watch off you and bury it with her.
He immediately responds: You’re not even here, you twit.
He follows with another message: FYI we decided on cremation.
I try to swiftly compartmentalise the word cremation. I don’t think any more about it; I just pop it in a box internally, then seal it shut. I don’t think about fire, or her body, or anything associated with fire and her body. I don’t think anything, because it’s in the box which is fucking shut inside of me, and he’s an absolute shit to tell me via a message, because we both work in the industry, and everyone knows that the choice between cremation or burial is something that should be discussed at length. And imagine using FYI! Imagine telling your sister something like that, and then expecting her to be okay. Imagine expecting anyone to behave once you have lit that fuse.
I message Vincent: Put that ring in an urn with her or I will never forgive you, and I will rip it off your hand next time I see you.
He too writes back immediately, which makes me think they are possibly in the same room, watching together as my rage blooms.
What ring? he writes.
Furiously, I pull my rubber skin from the shopping bag and unfurl it, thrashing it through the air a few times before scrunching it down and pointing my toe, ready to roll it on.
Tanya reappears at the door. ‘No, no, I don’t think so!’ she says. ‘Rubber is kind of extreme for our Carl.’
‘I think he’ll like it,’ I say. ‘It’s my new body.’ I shove a foot in.
‘No, Amelia, I’m serious—this is a very specific fetish that not everyone is into.’
‘And we are here to explore new things together,’ I say.
‘No, no, no.’ She grabs the bag from Marquis and digs through it. ‘Here, this is much better.’ She throws the fishnet body stocking and leotard at me. Then her eyes widen as she pulls the horse mask out. ‘Why would you even?’ She holds it up so that the horse head is in line with her own. ‘Kink is not a farce.’ She shakes the head at me.
‘For your information, I know that,’ I say.
‘There are subtleties at play here, and you need to be very respectful and very unassuming.’
‘Of course,’ I say, looking at the horse mask.
I try to pull the fishnet body stocking on gracefully, but it’s difficult when I’m being watched like this. I look at the mottled skin on my thighs, like uncooked hams stuffed within the netting of the itchy nylon. I pull the leotard over the top, which cinches me in, and I wonder if people are more attracted to those who have been concertinaed down. The leotard is shorter than it should be for the length of my torso, which makes it rise up between my labial folds.
‘Come on,’ Tanya says. ‘Let’s get you started.’
She walks off, and I quickly shove the rest of my things into the bag before shuffling after her, my stockinged feet sliding across the tiles as I try to catch up.
‘Wait, wait,’ I say, and as she turns to me I feel the full force of her impatience. ‘How do I look?’ I ask, raising my hands and turning slightly to the side.
‘Very kinky,’ she says, swinging open the door to the playroom.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The room has the general atmosphere of a building site. There is an abundance of loose chains in piles, and to the back is a platform that has been draped in a sheet of plastic. On one side there’s a massage table and a
swing attached to the ceiling with cables, and in buckets against the wall are ropes, clips, metal parts, rubber rings and offcuts. I hadn’t seen this room in the tour earlier.
Tanya is matter-of-fact and efficient. ‘Both of you are consenting adults engaging in a play scenario. It’s not rocket science; just trust the training and go with it.’ Concern flashes across her face momentarily. ‘Are you taking this in?’
Judy was right: this is all a bit full on.
‘I’m going to watch from the back.’ She points to a low-hanging security camera.
‘Does that go online?’
‘Only on Tuesdays. Look, don’t overthink it, and don’t let him take charge. We can talk about anything else that comes up in the debriefing after.’
‘Can I have a minute to myself before he comes in?’
‘Yes—but just remember, you’re not alone, and the first time is always a bit awkward.’ She pauses. ‘I guess I should also tell you that Carl used to work for the defence force, so it’s important not to make any loud noises around him.’
She takes a step towards the door then stops. ‘Actually, that last bit is pretty important: don’t let anything bang or fall near him. Do you want to write it on your hand so you remember?’
‘No, I’ve got it,’ I say, massaging my temples.
She leaves, and I am not sure what to do, so I walk around the room, stretching my neck from side to side and rolling my shoulders to warm them up.
There’s a knock at the door, so I race to the platform and crouch down in what I think is a sexually suggestive pose because my torso is lower than my hips. It’s a runners’ crouch before the gun goes off, but because the platform has been draped in a plastic drop sheet it’s slippery, and my stocking-clad feet slide backwards. My lower spine begins to twinge and I am scrambling to hold my position as a middle-aged man walks in.
‘Are you ready for me?’ Carl asks. ‘It’s just that I usually set a timer for the session and we’re already three and a half minutes in.’ He taps his watch and rocks back on his heels.
Carl is dressed in a checked shirt tucked into chinos. He has a thick brown belt around his waist that has been fastened with a brushed silver buckle that digs into his paunch. His grey hair has clearly been recently cut because I can see the tan line from where the ends of it used to reach. I would say he’s in his early fifties, but has a managerial air, which ages him.