There were dark moments. Times when I felt trapped inside my own body, unable to make eye contact for the fear that the world would see what I was really feeling, my torn soul. So I looked away, unable to reach out and touch those standing a mere arms reach away; the frustration, the anger, the self-loathing, the pain, overwhelming,
I am stronger than this, this moment, this piece of time, step aside and let it pass...
I whispered, over and over, in the dark moments of quiet, but I could not find the strength to move. And so I stood, like a deer in the headlights as the car rushed towards me, and then. Crunch. I was flung far into the black, my limbs torn from me, my blood falling as though mocking rain.
In that moment of impact I searched for escape.
Dimly lit and anonymous.
I found the address in some back alley website. Grainy images of the fire and rack against the grunge of an underground basement somewhere in the east side. The images speaking to me on some primal level of pleasure and pain... of escape. The time and place, dress code; the website said BDSM like it was a fashion trend, a branch of cult wardrobe instead of a lifestyle choice or sexual leaning. I felt butterflies reach my throat as I trawled through my closet...
Am I really doing this?
I chose boots over shoes, no heel, black to the knee. Stockings and suspenders playing peek-a-boo under a skirt recently purchased. The further into myself I withdrew the higher the hemline seemed to get. A quarter length black military jacket cut just below my bust shrugged over dark ribbon and lace; the corset bones rigid against my flesh, holding me together like stitches hold a weeping wound.
No-one knew my plans, my new found direction. They wouldn't understand. I didn't understand, drawn by a need which suddenly felt unbearable. I left a note I expected no-one to read. A trail should I disappear down some dark alleyway. I wasn't being stupid, or cautious, somewhere in between the two. It was just me, a taxi cab and an unmarked steel door.
I swallowed as I knocked, my knuckles wrapping loudly against the cold metal, I felt the paint flake off beneath my skin. The face at the door was that of a giant; a Samoan lad, facial tattoos, big hands, barrel chested. I felt his eyes give me the once over as I handed him the entrance fee. He grunted as he heaved open the door; the distant beat of music echoing behind the scrape of metal and the complaints of hinges. I steadied my breath as I walked past him towards the noise, starting as the metal door slammed home.
"Down the hall, left and down the stairs."
I nodded, looking back and up at him, a reassuring smile on his face.
"They won't bite, unless you give them permission."
My smile was stretched in response. I turned to face the barely lit corridor; my hands trembling lightly. I trailed my fingers along the wall as I walked, the rough texture of naked bricks prickling against my fingertips, drawing my attention from my stomach. The stairs, steel grates winding down into the earth, my footsteps echoing as I descended, the sound merging with the music progressively growing louder. The darkness seeming to descend with me until I reached a dirty red doorway marked by time and the passage of people, draped with curtains serving as a door; here the shadows lay thick amidst the hollow sounds of the music.
I brushed aside the fabric and made my way across the threshold; a steadying hand reaching out suddenly, catching my arm when I stumbled, the floor suddenly uneven and soft. I looked down to a sharp intake of breath, heard even over the din of the bar; a male, naked, lay face down across the entrance. A human doormat. I balanced on the small of his back, numb for a moment as the hand that held mine squeezed my fingers softly.
"My lady." A soft voice acknowledged, calling me from my posture. His hand allowing me to regain my balance and step down from the prone form; I blushed, his soft lips brushing across the backs of my fingers before he retreated into the dark leaving me alone.
The bar was expansive, the room unfolding over the numerous layers of the entire basement level of the building above us. Dimly lit the ceiling was painted black and hung low with wicked looking beams and exposed steam pipes from the turn of the century. Candles burnt and melted on every wall, a mess of old wax slowly being covered by new, dripping downwards towards the floor. In the depths of the dark the music drifted out and around me, not loud but voluminous, filling every space like a secret, warm and twisted. I felt it inside me and I became the centre, this small world circling around me in all its intoxicating glory.
A twisted fun house of flesh and perversion.
Standing there, on the precipice of escape, the vibrations of the base crawling into my chest; the beat of my heart merging with the sounds of this underground world; I felt the peculiar sensation of rhythm in my lungs as I breathed in the aroma of stale beer, damp cement and the unmistakable odor of sex. The taste of leather and latex on the back of my tongue. I moved, curiosity pulling me into the candle lit corners. The darkness withdrawing as I moved closer to the shadows, every alcove seeming alive with writhing bodies, spectators surrounding acts of debauchery and release. The floor was sticky under my feet. I tried not think with what.
A small group of people drawing me deeper; their eyes on a woman clad in latex as she ground her body against a naked male bound to the dirty wall. Shackles bolted to a low cement beam held his wrists, his hands an angry red recognizable even in the dull light, held too tightly for too long. The image of his cock, hard and proud, whispered of the same ill treatment, its swollen head weeping with restrained lust. I watched as she raked her nails across his chest and pinched at his flesh; a mask of torture and obscene pleasure on both the victim and the architect. The spectators silently leering, some naked themselves taking pleasure in their own hands as they watched.
The scene was graphic and surreal. I knew I was breathing too quickly, my body trembling, my breath shallow, chest heaving. My whole body shook as I forced myself to take a deep breath. My head was spinning but I could not say why. I stumbled, moving until I found an empty alcove where I pressed my back against the cold cement wall and I steadied myself in the dark.
Jesus.
The air whooped as I took another deep breath. Turning into the wall my fingers danced across the clasps of my corset, laying the fabric open and allowing my chest to expand into my breaths. I placed my forearms flat against the cement above my head, my chest stretched, my back arched. I had had a panic attack before; this didn't feel like one, this felt like adrenalin. A surge of flight or fight, the butterflies in my stomach migrating to all corners of my being and simultaneously flapping their wings causing a hurricane of responses.
I moved my hands higher and stretched against the wall, the steel of manacles singing as I accidentally brushed against them. I reached out and found the clasp in the dark; my fingers moving over the metal, noting the soft leather interior and the butterfly bolt serving as the locking mechanism. I trembled as I explored, moving my hands blindly around the small space, finding the second hanging an arms length away. Curious I held onto one and stretched until I could hold both at the same time. The distance was wide and I pressed myself into the wall as I stretched, my bare chest complaining from the cold and texture of the rough cement. I closed my eyes and let my hands take some of my weight, letting myself hang for a moment, my cheek pressed against the wall.
"You look good up there."
The voice was soft, masculine and close. I think that I would have started had I had an adrenalin reserve, instead I pressed myself into the wall and breathed, allowing my feet to take my weight again and slowly let go of shackles. I flexed my back as I pushed back from the wall and turned. My corset still hanging open, my breasts bare. I inched the fabric together to cover myself, not ready to lock myself within the claspes just yet. My chest still tense. But not wishing to abandon modesty despite my surrounds.
"I am sorry, I just needed a moment."
I don't know why I was apologising. He looked as if he belonged here. As if it his space I found myself in without an invitation. My fingers played nervously with the clasps before I crossed my arms over my chest, holding myself together under his gaze. He dismissed my apology with a flourish of a hand and then sensing my continuing discomfort he held up his index finger as if struck by an idea, his figure moving to find hidden ropes and suddenly the alcove was closed off behind thick curtains. The world outside disappearing except for the sound of music and the intermittent sound of arousal.
"Better yes?" He held his head cocked to the side as he continued to examine me. I nodded. It was better. A soft cocoon allowing me a little space from the reality I had thrown myself into. I wasn't sure what to do. So I waited. Watching him back. Watching my breathing. Feeling myself still and the silence stretch. Until it was broken by a nod and his soft voice.
"You really are quite beautiful." He said it with a tone that implied it was not a compliment but a simple observation. I found myself blushing none-the-less.
