Beyond Law Beyond Morality

When I was in eighth grade, I started flirting with the Goth scene; after a few years, I realized I didn't like the music, or the black lipstick, or the general sense of trying to fit in somewhere by not fitting in. But I liked the clothes, or, more specifically, the more fetish-inspired elements -- corsetry in particular. I began to gravitate toward a more high-fashion style toward the end of my high school years, working into my wardrobe whenever I could things like corsets, fancy hosiery, ridiculous heels, patent leather, and other vaguely (or not so vaguely) kinky pieces. For my troubles, I developed a reputation as a major slut, despite the fact that I was still a virgin. But my style (among other things) imbued me with a certain level of confidence lacking in most of my peers that the gossip I knew was going on behind my back did little to undermine. That, and I was the valedictorian of my graduating class. So fuck them. I went to Columbia.

New York was a revelation to me. I wasn't from a small town, exactly, but it wasn't New York. There, my outfits turned heads in all the right ways. Being an expensive place to live, despite my ample scholarships, I found myself doing some modeling for extra pocket money. Student stuff at first, helping out friends taking photography classes, but eventually I began to catch the eyes of certain professionals. They paid well, especially whenever I was willing to show my naughty bits, which, being as I like to think of myself as blessedly free of the constraints of America's Puritan morality, was rather often. Best of all, for me, I gained access to a steady array of increasingly elaborate fetish costumes -- latex, full-body leather catsuits, bustiers, boots of every imaginable variety. I reveled in it, and, as I collected more and more in wages from the shoots, I began to amass my own collection. I began to feel more and more powerful, more and more sexualized, as I went deeper into this world. Soon, I was doing shoots with other models. Real posed stuff, all simulated sex, but definitely porn now, if there had ever been any doubt about it up to that point. I found myself looking forward with increasing excitement to upcoming shoots, until I was masturbating two or three times in the hours leading up to them.

Despite all this, I'd been holding on to my virginity for whatever reason; I really can't think of a good one that I had all those years ago, but it seemed important at the time. Finally, at a shoot in which I was posing as a dominatrix opposite a very cute little blonde, I got a little carried away. She didn't seem to mind. Neither did the photographer. Before it was all over, I'd come three times. Or, really, I'd made her make me come three times. The feeling of power was a big part of it. The outfits were instrumental to it all for me, but to actually exert the power I felt they gave me pushed me into a new world. Within a few months, I'd dropped out of school. I was doing movies by then, working almost every day, doing lez and hetero scenes, groups, whatever I was offered. My only stipulation was that I was in charge. I was the domme. I came to take greater and greater levels of pleasure from inflicting pain, and the more I inflicted, the hornier I got, and the bigger the orgasms became. I delved into more serious stuff as the months went on. Not the kind of stuff you see on mainstream sites, but real dark, sinister scenes in which I was inflicting very real pain, pushing my co-stars to and beyond their limits, leaving marks both physical and emotional. I stayed away from anything involving feces, but not much else. By the time I was 22, I was the darling of the hardcore BDSM scene, and I loved every second of it. And then I disappeared.

I had gone to sleep like any other night, along, well-satisfied from my day's work, looking forward to the next day. When I awoke, I was still alone, but that was the only part that was the same. I was in an unfamiliar room, paneled in rich, dark wood, with the sort of elaborate ceiling you generally find only in fancy buildings of a certain age. I couldn't see much else, as I couldn't move my head. A thick leather binding sat rather too tightly across my throat; I could still breath, but not quite effortlessly. My arms and legs were similarly immobilized, with as best I could tell three straps around each, and three more went around my hips and above and below my breasts. I was in a spread-eagle position, and was wearing nothing but the rings in my nipples. Despite my inability to move, I was quite comfortable. The surface below me was of a fine plush leather with just the right amount of padding underneath it. A few minutes after I woke, I heard a woman's voice. It was not in the room; it was coming through a speaker. It conveyed an odd mix of menace and comfort.

"Good, you're awake."

"Where am I?" I said, the tremble in my voice betraying the very real fear I was feeling.

"You are safe, more or less."

"I don't feel safe."

"That's understandable. And expected. No lasting harm will come to you; I give you my assurance on that point."

"That leaves short-term harm a distinct possibility," I said.

"Indeed it does."

At that moment, I heard a soft whirring noise, and a second later, I was penetrated by what felt like a fairly large object; distinctly larger than anything else by which I'd ever been penetrated. At least it had been well-lubed; that, or I was wet despite myself. It was painful to accommodate it, but it wasn't a sharp pain, and after maybe fifteen or twenty strokes, it started to feel alright.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I am a bestower of gifts. To you, I am giving an opportunity."

"What sort of opportunity?"

"The life-changing sort."

"I'm actually quite happy with my life, thanks."

"Yes, you appear to have a deep enjoyment for your work. It is that fact that first brought you to my attention."

So she was familiar with me, at least on that level.

"You have me at a disadvantage, then," I said.

"Quite. I have everyone at a disadvantage. I find it to be the best way to get what I want."

"And what is that?" I asked.

"From you, right now, information."

"Well, ask away. I'm pretty easy to talk to, despite my public persona."

"It's not the sort of information you can simply tell me, my dear."

The dildo sped up a bit.

"How does that feel?" came the voice over the loudspeaker.

"It feels like a big, fat dildo."

"Insolence is not becoming."

I felt a soft buzzing then on my clit, which quickly ramped up over the next few seconds and culminated in a strong electric shock which, had I not been so competently restrained, would have made me lurch violently off the table. I thought then that I was onto her game.

"Shall I call you Mistress?" I asked, trying to sound meek and demure.

"That is a courtesy you demand, is it not?"

"I do."

"Do you find the affirmation of your position such a title implies...arousing?"

"I suppose I do."

"I need no such affirmation, for my power over you is absolute. You may address me by name, if and when you come to learn it. For now, there is no need for you to address me at all."

Again, the dildo sped up to something like a medium pace now. The buzzing on my clit began anew, but stayed at a nice, low hum, just about what you'd get from a quality vibe. This went on for a few minutes in silence. I figured I'd just lay there and enjoy it. Whatever was going on, I wasn't going anywhere on my own. I knew that much.

Eventually, she came back on over the speaker.

"Now, how does that feel?"

"It's pleasurable."

"Good."

It sped up again, a good solid pace now, and the intensity of the vibe on my clit rose along with it. Minutes went by. Suddenly I felt a hand brush across my stomach. I opened my eyes, which I had not realized had been closed. She was dressed entirely in black leather that hugged her body like the proverbial glove. It was, to all appearances, a very nice body. Her head was covered in a hood, out of which stuck a long, blonde ponytail. Her lips were done up in bright red lipstick, her eyes deeply shadowed, lashes mascaraed, dark blue pupils exhibiting the same mix of aggression and tenderness her voice evinced. She said nothing; her hands soon found my breasts, and she began to rub my nipples and tug lightly at the rings. It wasn't long before she was providing the same ministrations with her mouth. The intensity of both the dildo and the vibe gradually increased. She was extremely talented at pushing pleasure down into me through my nipples, and I could feel an orgasm building, wanting to escape. My body was primed, but my mind was not there. It wasn't fear anymore.

She began to nibble on my ear, whispering into it, "I want you to come, Caitlin. Come for me now, and we are done. You will never see me again."

I didn't stop to think too much about how she knew my real name, which was not something I used publicly. Her hot breath on my ear was delightful, the earnestness in her words compelling, the now-fevered pace of the fucking machine exquisite. But still I could not come. She went back to the nipples, sucking them by turns deep into her mouth, rolling them around her tongue, biting just the right amount. I began to moan deeply, thinking maybe I could draw out my orgasm by sort of kick-starting it, pretending it was happening. But still it didn't. Finally it became too much. The pleasure began to turn to discomfort. She felt my body give up and let my breast fall from her mouth.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I can't."

She smiled, to my surprise. "I had hoped that was the case. Tell me why."

"I'm not...I need to be in charge. I need to..."

"You need to hurt someone to come."

"Yes," I said, suddenly feeling ashamed of that fact.

The vibe and dildo stopped. The restraints were loosed by some mechanism under the table. One by one the women pulled them out, and helped me to sit up.

"I am the same way. I felt you may be, given the intensity you display in your body of work. I needed to find out for sure."

"Well...good, I guess? I'm free to go now?"

"No. Had you come, you'd be free to go. I told you that. Now, I ask that you indulge me a bit further."

"How much further?"

"Remain here as my guest for...the rest of the day?" It was one of the few times I would ever hear the hint of a suggestion rather than a command in her voice.

"Well, if I'm not free to go, I suppose I accept."

"I told you I was giving you an opportunity. I still need to make it clear to you of what exactly that opportunity consists. The rest of your stay will provide you with such clarity. There will be no further travails to endure, I assure you. For the moment I will leave you; I have other matters to which I must attend. One of my...assistants will be in shortly. Please shower and dress; you'll have an ample wardrobe from which to choose. I'm sure you're hungry. It's almost nine; I apologize for the lateness of the hour. We'll breakfast together at ten. Until then."

With that she was gone; as she swept out of the room, a pale brunette replaced her. She was entirely naked, except for a chastity belt that ran around her waist and between her legs, and a collar around her neck. She stood just inside the door to one side, feet together, hands at her sides, posture perfect. She did not make eye contact or say anything.

Eventually I stopped waiting for her to. "I guess you're the assistant," I said, hopping off the table that was the only piece of furniture in the room. "Lead the way."

She turned, still silent, and headed out the door. I followed a few feet behind.

"Do you talk?"

"If you wish me to," she said.

"What's your name?"

"You may call me Marguerite, if it pleases you."

"Been here long?"

"Some time."

A nice, meaningless answer.

"Are you here by choice?"

"I would not wish to leave."

Would not or do not, I didn't ask. We continued down a long, windowless hallway, past numerous closed doors, and eventually reached a small elevator that we used to go up what I took to be two floors. It opened onto a large bedroom with an attached bath. This room had windows; they looked out onto an enormous expanse of grass of a rich green the likes of which I could not remember seeing. Beyond were dense woods, a mix of conifer and deciduous trees, a darker green curtain extending to the horizon it obscured. A solid cast of grey cloud hung over all, suggesting imminent rain.

Marguerite motioned to the bathroom. "You will find soaps, shampoos, towels, lotions, and cosmetics -- anything you might need." A massive mahogany wardrobe loomed in the corner. She swung open its doors, revealing a broad array of clothing, most of it, at a glance, falling somewhere between casual and elegant. The inside of the doors held, on racks, maybe thirty pairs of shoes.

"The drawers at the base," Marguerite went on, "contain undergarments, socks, and the like. You'll find everything to be of the appropriate size. Please be ready by ten o' clock. Breakfast will be served in the alcove. Proceed out the door. You'll see a staircase directly opposite; go up one floor, turn left and through the double doors. Miranda will be waiting."

"Is that her name?"

She didn't respond, but receded back into the elevator, closing the outer doors and disappearing. There was no button for the elevator; it was operated by a key that was not present.

I shrugged and went into the bathroom, which was large by any standard, and well-appointed in marble, brass, and wood. I let the shower run for a few minutes and stood looking at myself in the mirror until steam erased my view, and then I got in and gave myself a thorough cleaning. Once dry, I did the quick and dirty version of my hair and makeup, selected the least sexualized outfit I could, and followed Marguerite's instructions to the alcove.

It was a vaguely round room, surrounded almost entirely by windows laced by intricate metalwork and overlooking the grounds. We were on what appeared to be the third floor of four, although this particular room protruded from the main body of the house and had nothing above it, as could be deduced from the glass ceiling. The house stretched quite a ways in either direction. House, in fact, didn't do it justice. Mansion didn't either.

I took all that in with a glance while my host greeted me with a warm smile.

"Please, come in. I hope the amenities were to your satisfaction. I must say you chose clothes rather outside my expectations."

"I thought something sensible and comfortable would be good idea," I said. She herself was wearing an electric blue dress, vaguely Victorian but without the bustles and intricate finery. She had a pleasant face, now that I could see it all; a bit rounder than it had appeared with the leather hood on, with soft cheekbones and a delicate curve to her jawline. She was a bit older than I expected, perhaps in her early forties, although what delicate lines did etch her face were not those of worry or care or hard living. They gave only an air of experience and character. Her hair seemed not so brilliantly blonde now, but slightly faded, on the road to grey but with still a long way to go.

A small, round table with two chairs sat near the window furthest from the door.

"Please, sit," she motioned, doing so herself. "I know you don't drink coffee, so I've had tea prepared. Please help yourself. The food will be up shortly."

"So...Miranda," I said, pouring myself a cup from a fine silver pot. I left it at that; despite many things I wanted to say, I decided to let her lead the conversation.

"You're doing a very good job fighting back your urge to be insolent," she said. It wasn't an insult.

"You seem to know an awful lot about me," I said, acknowledging my smart-ass streak.

"As you will about me, I hope, in time."

Just then a cute, small-breasted redhead entered bearing a tray. She was attired exactly as Marguerite had been, naked but for collar and chastity belt. She moved effortlessly, setting the tray down on the table without the slightest noise from it or anything on it, and proceeded to serve scrambled eggs, two slices of bacon, toast, and fresh fruit. Like Marguerite, she refused, or failed perhaps, to make eye contact.

"Thank you, Lindsey," Miranda said. "Please wait just outside." With silent footfalls, she was gone. I was already tucking into my eggs. I didn't know exactly what was going on, and while I didn't feel overly threatened at the moment, I had no idea when I'd get the chance to eat again. Miranda ate more slowly, exhibiting far more refined manners than my own. This made me feel self-conscious, and I found myself slowing down to match her. The food wasn't going anywhere, I supposed. Either was the conversation, apparently.

"So, this is your home?" I asked.

"It is. One of them, anyway."

"And you're offering me, what, an opportunity to be one of your naked servant girls?"

"Slaves," she said matter-of-factly.

"I've had better offers."

"No doubt. But you have not yet heard mine. You've already proven yourself not to be slave material. Although the challenge of breaking you is compelling..." With a little half-leer she watched me chew. "But no. It's relatively easy to turn someone into a slave. But people like you—like us—are born, not made."

"People like us?"

"Yes. You and I."

"And what are we like?"

"True sadists. I've seen much of your work, and you excel. The pleasure you take from inflicting pain is palpable. Surely you don't deny this?"

I gave sort of a noncommittal shrug.

"And yet the scenes you enact, the roles you play, are only those, scenes and roles. As real as the pleasure is for you, the entire thing is one step removed from reality. Staged. There are conventions, limits, rules. The profit motive intervenes, both for yourself and for those that employ you. There are others around, not participating, and in whose presence your true nature must be...restrained."

She paused, waiting perhaps for a response which I did not offer.

"Please feel free to correct me should I say anything with which you disagree. I trust so far that I have not done so?"

I shook my head and mouthed "No."

"What is it, ultimately, from which you derive your pleasure? It's not merely the pain you inflict, is it?"

It wasn't. "Power. The sense of control." Again I felt suddenly ashamed.

"Yes," she said. "But, your partners, they undertake their roles willingly, do they not? To satisfy their own masochism, with the added incentive of a paycheck. Your power over them is, at root, something which they give to you. And which they could, conceivably, revoke. And thus your power is really an illusion, is it not?"

"I suppose from a logical approach, yes, but it's an effective illusion and it serves my ends admirably."

"No doubt. But it is all you have known. Can you begin to imagine the power you feel being stripped of its illusory nature, becoming a concrete reality, an absolute? Think on that for a moment, and if you're not already feeling a very heightened sense of arousal, then I have misjudged you, and will return you to your home immediately."

She knew me too well. I was already, almost unconsciously, squeezing my thighs together in an effort to exert a bit of pressure on my clit. I hadn't really thought about the limits consensuality placed on power, but now that she had brought it up, I couldn't not see it. I only had to think back to my own recent situation that morning, how helpless I had been, how utterly at her mercy, and then to put myself in her shoes, imagining what she must have felt. My God.

She could see it all on my face already. She smiled.

"This is what I offer to you. You have, since coming to New York, sunk deeper and deeper into the world of sadism. I offer you the ultimate expression of that world. I offer you the chance to embrace your gifts beyond any limits. But be warned; this is a world from which there is no return. It is a world beyond law, beyond morality. There is no right or wrong in this world. It is bounded only by your imagination and your pleasure. It is a world, I assure you, that will provide you with sensations almost inconceivably exquisite. You will wallow in your desires, and there will be nothing, nothing, to hold you back."