This is a 2 part story, divided for easier consumption. This content is not intended for minors, nor does it contain anyone who is one.
It's 5:36 on a Monday evening and I should be riding the #4 bus that goes to my tiny apartment in Capitol Heights. But today I took a different bus. One that took me from my work and went farther south, beyond the staid highrises of downtown. The bus travels past rows of chic urban townhouses. Neat borders of trees line the road, along with mid-priced sedans and sensible hybrids. Everything seems very ordinary and normal. Except for this gothic looking row-house, the one I'm now standing in front of. Its windows have wrought iron bars, the kind you'd see on a business that is worried about theft. But the utilitarian feature is artful. Sculpted spires and dangerous spikes. I think it's a clever hint of what's inside. At least, I hope that's what is inside as I double-check the address mapped in my phone.
I ring the bell, I wait. My stomach is in knots, my armpits feel damp despite the cool sprinkle of rain that's falling. I tap my feet impatiently. Nobody's coming. It's the wrong house, or it's the wrong time, or I'm just flat-out wrong. This is what I get for arranging this entirely online with no phone number to call. I've probably given my credit card to some scammer.
The imposing front door painted a glossy black is unlatching, it's suddenly opening. A man dressed all in black is staring at me, a pleasant smile on his face.
"Siena?"
I nod my head. "Yes, is this the-"
He doesn't let me finish, already opening the black door. "Please, come in."
I quickly walk in, and step to his side. It looks like the hallway to any ordinary house: clean white walls and tiled floors, an expensive looking painting on the wall. He closes the door and takes a step forward, being sure to keep his distance from me in the narrow space. His outfit is sort of butler-like; black slacks with a black dress shirt, topped with a black vest. It also sort of looks old-fashioned, there's a gold chain hanging from the vest that's tucked into a pocket. I wonder if he's just the concierge of this unique establishment, or if he's the manager in charge, but before I can ask any questions, he starts walking.
"Follow me."
We walk down the tiled hallway until we reach a set of double doors that are propped open, and then we turn to the right. A sleek door of black inset with squares of gold is unlocked by the man. When the door is fully opened, the man steps aside and gestures for me to go ahead.
Four walls painted a dusky burgundy topped by an industrial black ceiling. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the dark interior, but the scent inside has given it away before I can even see it all. The tart smell of leather mixed with the deep oak of wood, intertwined with things like sisal rope and iron, the salty leftovers of human sweat. And most deeply buried in the layers is the scent that hits my brain like a warning. It smells like sex. The warm fragrance of a man's musk, mixed with the spicy hint of pussy. Oh God, I hope I did the right thing.
"To your right, there is a changing room. You may remove as much or as little as you like, but whatever remains should be something that you are not concerned for in terms of damage to the garment. I only ask that you remove any jewelry that could incidentally cut or injure you. We do not allow any illicit drugs on the premises; usage of such will result in your expulsion and forfeit your time. Lastly, your appointment starts as soon as you enter this room, be mindful of this when changing. One hour can pass in the blink of an eye."
He's staring at me, making sure I get all this info, his arm extended towards the changing room. I'm sure I look like a deer in headlights, but I nod again.
"Got it."
He nods back, watching as I go into the changing room and shut the door behind me.
It's a fairly big room, something like a hotel bathroom combined with a walk-in closet. There's a stall shower, a toilet, and a large pedestal sink. Near the door there's a sit-down vanity with a mirror rimmed in gold. I spot a small, pale pink tub sitting on the vanity. I realize they're baby wipes.
I take off my long rain trench, then my blouse and skirt. I almost never wear a skirt, but I did today so that I could wear stockings. When my clothes are hung up in the little closet, it seems a strange place to see my belongings. I'm a little nervous about just leaving my purse hanging there. But there's nowhere else I see that I could hide it. As if anyone else will come into this room when I'll be right outside, if, however, occupied.
One quick glance in the mirror before I leave the room. I keep my hair in its practical ponytail, I hoist up my satin bra and smooth down the seat of my underwear in a matching shade of dark blue. Something sexy that I decided wasn't too sexy. A ridiculous decision when I'm going to pay for a service. A quick tug on the top of each smokey black stocking. Maybe it's too much, so I kick off my black pumps.
Another deep breath, and I leave the solitary safety of the changing room.
I feel a little cold in the room, goosebumps when my stocking feet walk onto the wood floor. On the far side of the room, the man in black is standing with his back to me, going through some things. I wasn't sure if he'd be the one doing my session, but it seems he is. For some reason, it's not what I imagined. He seemed too... ordinary? Maybe too short? I'm 5'7 and he's only a few inches taller than me. But I'm not sure what I expected out of my disciplinarian-for-hire. A fantasy that won't ever match the people who exist in your real life.
I'm sure he's heard me come out, but he continues to putter, letting me stand there nearly naked. I feel even paler than usual in the dim room, the dark brown ends of my ponytail make a shocking contrast to the skin that hardly ever sees the overcast daylight. When he turns around, I instinctually cross my arms across my chest.
He walks across the room with something in his hands, a reserved smile on his face. I can feel my face going pink as he stares at me, his eyes traveling up and down, assessing his subject. He comes to a stop just short of arm's reach, then simply stands. Saying nothing. My earlier assessment that he wasn't intimidating was premature. I open my mouth anxiously, then stop myself. We're not supposed to talk anymore, or at least I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to speak.
I try to take a deep breath, I try to relax my arms that are still locked in front of me. I'm stuck on his eyes, still looking at me. They're round and alert, a pale blue that is a little unsettling when matched with the placid smile stuck to his face. An almost serial killer-like calm. But he also has this thick mop of auburn brown hair that gives him a sort of boyishness. His thick reddish strands are wavy but styled nicely with enough product to contain those waves. I've fought enough with my own thick hair to know it takes some doing to keep it all in place. His skin is smooth and shaved, tan but not orange. He takes care of himself, which can translate into vanity.
The staring match ends when my eyes travel down his chest and look into his hands that are holding something. A pair of black restraints, cuffs of some kind. He notices that I'm staring at this, and speaks.
"Are you ready Siena?" he asks in a smooth voice, with just the hint of an accent, maybe something Slavic. Or Italian maybe? Whatever it is, it matches the formal way he speaks. English learned with better grammar than a native.
"Yes," I nod.
"My name is Damian, and in here," he gestures towards the floor, "I am Mr. Damian."
