Part II: Fitting Treatment
It always amazed me how quiet Soho could be midmorning on a weekday. In an hour
or two, there might be small throngs of hip 'insiders' congregating outside
Balthazar or Spring Street Naturel, vying for a chance to indulge in an
overpriced lunch. But by around 10:30a, the locals were all midtown, working-or
happily ensconced in their lofts, creating art. And the tourists were either
standing at TKTS, hoping to grab half-price matinee tickets to Broadway shows,
this being Wednesday, or were window-shopping along Fifth Avenue. There were
only one or two lost souls wandering past the store where the cab had stopped,
and they hurried along in true New Yorker-style, pretending not to notice how I
was being unceremoniously pulled by my hair from the cab onto the sidewalk.
"Wait, damnit," I exclaimed in surprise as he pulled me past the shop entrance,
to an unmarked black lacquered door to the right of it. "Where are you taking
me?"
I instantly sensed, as soon as the words had left my lips, that he did not view
'damnit', especially in that tone of voice, as acceptable sub lingo. Instead of
pulling me closer toward the door, he stopped and pushed me against the brick
wall that lay to its left. His hand stayed in my hair, slowly rewrapping his
hand in my short brown locks to better his grip. He raised it higher and higher,
making me almost stand on tiptoe to avoid the pain of the yank. He pressed his
body against mine, pinning me so hard that the edges of the bricks scraped
against the back of my bare calves. His face went past mine, so that his lips
were at my ear. He waited a moment, letting me assess the gravity of my
situation, before he spoke.
"This is where it ends."
"Where what ends?" I asked, in part fearful that with one word, I had thrown
away my entire future with this man, and in part indignant at the presumption
that he had the right to enforce rules he hadn't yet decreed.
"The freedom you mistakenly seem to feel you possess, my dear. The freedom to
dictate how you are treated. Where you are taken. And how you are taken. You
never owned it, it was always on loan. And its being recalled here and now. What
happens inside here, what I buy, what I do...will reflect your subjugation, but
won't enforce it. Even my strength," he said, pulling my hair harder for
emphasis and then pressing my head hard against the brick, "even that won't
enforce it. But by the end of our shopping trip, you will tell me, my darling,
what it is that will bind you to me. Understood?"
Each of his words had both cut me and caressed me deeply, and as he slowly
released his grasp on my hair, I nodded weakly and eeked out a perfunctory "Yes,
Sir," desperately hoping my knees wouldn't fail me, leaving me as diluted as the
juice that was dripping down my inner thighs. I again took comfort in the lack
of crowds on the street.
Though his hand was no longer in my hair, his lips stayed close, his breath hot
and arousing, his demeanor suddenly more paternal. "Tell me again why you're
here, Dana," he whispered, the back of his palm tenderly caressing my cheek.
"To please you, Sir." I answered, hoping against hope he would sense my
sincerity and my nipples would be spared this time. Thankfully, they were.
"If that's true, love, then you'll remember it through the rest of the
afternoon. You'll realize that everything that follows is designed for my
pleasure and to test your ability to provide me with that pleasure. Nothing will
happen that I don't sanction or haven't helped orchestrate. Do you understand
that?"
"Yes, Sir..."
Then remember one last thing, Dana," he whispered, "Know that you're here to
test your limits. To accept what I've decided is best for you. To earn my time
and my touch. I'll never put you in danger. But I won't recognize 'No'. I won't
respond to 'Stop'. I understand only your safeword. And when I hear it, it
really does end. All of it. And you go home. So please love, use it sparingly.
I'd like to be able to keep your pretty body around to use."
He kissed me once on the lips, as gentle a kiss as I'd ever felt. Then he
stepped away, pulling my arm sharply as I stumbled three steps behind him, and
then knocked three times at the black lacquered door. I could hear the clicking
of stiletto heels from the other side, a quick sliding of the keyhole metal and
then the creak of the door as it opened slightly. "Mr. Gaines. Welcome! Please,
Sir, come inside." I strained my head to see the face that belonged to this
throaty, feminine voice, but his back blocked my view. The dialect sounded
gutteral, German perhaps?
He pulled me from behind him, past the threshold and then practically flung me
forward, so that I stumbled into the middle of the room, leaving him behind
along with my balance. I recomposed myself as I oriented myself with the new
space. It was dimly lit, funky yet opulent--black velvet-covered walls, maroon
curtains and mirrors all around, one crystal chandelier hanging from the middle
of the ceiling, an almost musky scent in the air. A round platform, about five
inches high and three feet in diameter, sat in the middle of the floor; chains
ending in shackles hung from the ceiling above it. The stereo played at medium
pitch and I made out the words to be from Elton John's Angeline.
"And keep me well fed, give me warm bread
Lay my body on a feather bed..."
Aside from the black-leather-catsuit-and-stiletto-clad woman who had initially
greeted 'Mr. Gaines' (it sounded so odd since he'd always been Grahame to me),
there were three young, busty, exotic looking women, dressed-well, make that
barely dressed-in black silk scarves that left little to the imagination, who
also greeted my 'date' in familiar tones. They wore highly ornamented silver
collars around their necks and looked like slave girls. I felt a sharp pain of
jealousy as they led him, gently running their hands over the shirt that covered
his back and arms, to an overstuffed lounge chair placed in the far corner of
the room. By its side was a small table with a champagne glass and some
chocolate truffles. Behind it was an ice bucket, overflowing with ice and a
chilled bottle of what I assumed was champagne. I thought to myself that if the
store were a disco or an 'in' club, this would be the VIP suite.
"Well I talk tough, I act rough
Lay still honey I can't get enough..."
The girls (Hadn't I seen them in Vogue?) immediately went to work, the Asian
and the Caucasian taking off Grahame's shoes and beginning to massage his feet,
while the third, who looked like a rare Nigerian beauty, pulled the cork from
the champagne and slowly poured him a glass. After handing it to him, she began
to massage his shoulders and neck.
I started to shoot him a look as if to say, "Having fun?" but thought better of
it. Ms. Catsuit took me by the arm, walked me over until I was positioned in
front of Grahame, and then pushed down my shoulders as if urging me to kneel. I
stared him straight in the eye, starting to wonder exactly what I'd gotten
myself into, as the song droned on...
"And keep your nose clean, let me be
On your knees when you speak to me
And trust me, Angeline..."
"I'd do it if I were you," Ms. Catsuit hissed in a stern tone, as she snapped
her fingers. A fourth girl came out from behind a maroon curtain and handed her
a crop and then retreated back into the shadows. She pressed down more
insistently. "Last chance. You're lucky to have been brought here. Very few
girls are. Apparently fewer still deserve to be. Why don't you treat your Master
with the proper respect?"
I decided to play along. What the hell...if this is what he wanted, I could be a
sport. I kneeled, arms forward, forehead to my outstretched elbows. A throwback
to my days at stretch class. I thought I might be laying it on a bit thick, but
no one seemed to mind.
"Eyes closed," dictated Ms. Catsuit, and I complied. Then I felt her tie a
blindfold tightly around my eyes. I resisted the urge to protest, again deciding
to give him his fun. Hey, I could stretch my limits with the best of them. "Sir,
how would you like us to adorn your slave?" I heard her ask Grahame.
"She's untamed," he answered in a somewhat condescending tone. "Leather.
Something tight. Very tight. And attachable. Today she learns her place."
"Yes, Sir. I think we have just the thing...let me take her back and have her
dressed. Then I'll bring her out for your approval."
"Stay still, stay quiet," she commaned, and I felt a tightness around my neck as
she stooped down and affixed something stiff around my neck--I presumed it to be
a collar. "Hey Lady, what the hell do you think you're..." I started, pulling at
the collar and shaking my head, only to be cut off by Grahame who barked out,
"Three!"
Suddenly, I heard two sets of footsteps come from behind and felt myself yanked
upright by my wrists. The assault pulled me in opposite directions as I wobbled
uneasily. Then I felt the first stroke and struggled in desperation, pulling
against the arms that held me in place. "Grahame, we never agreed to this," I
shouted angrily to the room, guessing in my blindness as to where he was
actually seated. "We never talked about outsiders. I don't want this...stop it
now!"
"I believe your safeword is "Safeword," is it not?" asked Ms. Catsuit icily, her
words hitting me harder than the crop had. A moment of silence as I absorbed her
words, and remembered Grahame's warning. I bowed my head as I slowly nodded
yes. Tears welled up behind the blindfold but I refused to sob. "That's what I
thought," she continued. She needn't have bothered; she'd already made her
point.
I didn't struggle against the second and third stroke. They burned but I bit my
lip, thankful that my shirt was still on and the crop wasn't hitting bare skin.
I pictured Grahame watching, evaluating my response, perhaps smiling. It soothed
me somehow.
"Now come," she said. The two sets of hands finally released my wrists as I felt
myself tugged forward by a leash that had apparently been attached to the
collar. "Come, girl. Let's get changed. Let's see just how pretty we can make
you for your Master."
