My workspace is dark, because I prefer the darkness. Shafts of light are permitted to pierce the gloom through the windows, a slide of blue from the signs outside my building advertising drinks, girls, and boys. This part of the city is a tightly-packed pedestrian thoroughfare, forbidding visitors from sweeping through on wheels like gawking cowards, attracted by sin but too afraid to indulge in it. No, this place forces one to walk towards it and remain or run.
This is why I've set up my studio here. Others ply the same trade I do, and still more insist on naming us all whores. What a common, vanilla way of thinking. Most often I don't fuck my clients, and I don't let them cum. They come to me for control and pain, and I give it to them. Sometimes it's with ice, and sometimes it's with heat. Sometimes it's the tense, burning cramp in lungs disconnected from their air, and sometimes it's the throbbing ache of muscles stretched to the point of snapping. Typically, I know what they want ahead of time, but there are occasions when they surprise me.
It's just brushing past 11pm, and the smell of hot food from pubs and small hole-in-the-wall restaurants wafts in through my open windows, mingling with the aromas of the sandalwood incense I burn and the clinically sterile latex and PVC that I wear. The material groans softly with every movement I make as if I'm either punishing it or arousing it, and that suits me well. The shining black arrangement is a pair of shorts just barely long enough to cover my ass entirely coupled to a corset of the same material that supports my lower back with the severity of its lacing. Shining, pliant gauntlets of PVC flow from just above my elbows to my hands, with five bands buckled tightly along each limb to keep the material obediently snug against my skin. Similar straps at my thighs are only there for show, and a belt of black, stiff plastic ringed with steel buckles rests low on my slender hips, lending me a gunslinger's look.
Often I clip the tools of my trade to the belt, and tonight that tool is a black leather riding crop. The flap caresses against the fishnet stockings I wear as I stand, and just barely touches the top of my knee-high black stiletto boot when I sit, like I am now. Slender shafts of light flow in over my shoulders, just highlighting the curves of my arms beneath the jet-black fall of my straight hair. My lips, tinted red, curve slightly as I hear the creak in the hallway floor boards beyond my front door. That will be my client.
There's a knock at the door, but if indeed this is the person I'm expecting, they'll know that I've left out a key for them behind the potted plant a few feet away. The spare key doesn't typically live there at all hours, only when I'm expecting a guest. If they have an appointment, they can find the key. If they don't, they can't. Soon enough I hear the key click in the lock, and the door opens to reveal the silhouette of the girl I'm expecting.
I've met her in person before now, having talked with her online through emails and meeting face to face in a cafe to go over specifics. She knows what she wants, she has the money to make it worth my time, and she has the maturity not to make me regret it. I always interview clients before I work with them - one has to, in this incendiary line of work. The girl, named Katie, enters my workspace, a studio apartment decorated as one might be inclined to expect. The edges of black leather upholstery and glass and iron fixtures gleam with the blue light from outside. My sectional couch faces the entrance, and that's where Katie sees me lounging like a queen as she locks the door behind her and carries in a back pack and a take-out bag.
There's a small, cushy area rug right at my feet, and the girl immediately kneels down on the thick white pile before me. "Good evening, Mistress. Thank you for seeing me tonight."
She's sweet, and she's nervous. I already knew both these things about her when I met with her a few days ago. Katie's red hair is on the side of carrot orange, and a fitting match to the freckles that dust over the bridge of her button nose. Her blue eyes were bright then and now keep their gaze steadfastly on the toes of my boots, and her skinny form hunches forward. My attention moves to her clothing, and I note that it's nondescript, comfortable, and easily removed - slippers, leggings, and a baggy tee-shirt.
I hold out my hand expectantly, and she gently hands over the key and the plastic, warm bag from the eatery next door. For a moment I look inside, using the light from the window to inspect her selections, and then I nod in satisfaction. That earns her a gentle caress along her hair as I rise to my feet and head to the closet to fetch a few items. "Take off your clothes, kitten." After a brief pause, I purr "Let's see that tattoo you told me about." The sound of fabric rustling and being stuffed into her back pack assures me of her obedience, so I select a few items from the back of the closet shelf and return to where she kneels.
The smooth skin of her back shows the narrow strip of her spine and the shapes of her shoulder blades, but not to such a degree that it's revolting. There's a tattoo of a four-leaf clover on her right shoulder, the design small and easily covered. Clearly her body isn't made for what I would consider rough use, but then my own standards are pretty far afield from the lovers she typically favors. When I bend down to affix a narrow collar about her throat, the girl's breathing hitches and she grows tense. Of course we had discussed a safeword for her to use, and she knows that were she to utter it at any time I would stop. I don't wait to see if she'll say it, and she knows that I won't wait. That is part of why she's paying me; she wants her limits pushed.
The tops of my fingers softly brush against the quivering tenderness of her throat, and politely she tips her head back to give me room to work. I assure that the collar gives me enough room to slide two fingers between the leather strap and her skin, which allows her to wear it comfortably without it flapping around with every twist of her head. A small, silver tag glints in the light, and while she can't read it, the label is fitting all the same - kitten. That tag hangs from a steel D-ring at the base of her throat, and to this I clip a slender leash in black.
I let the leather slide through my fingers as I sit down once again, and gesture down to my left ankle. "There is a box under the couch. Pull it out and open it, kitten." Nothing I do is hurried, especially my words. We have all night, as far as I'm concerned.
The girl nibbles her lip, the expression adorable, framed by her unbound, wavy hair. Those locks hang hangs down over her naked shoulders to frame the black line of the collar around her neck and the dark droop of the leash attached. With a soft nod she looks down and finds it, the box the same size as an attaché case, and she pulls it out carefully to rest on the floor by her right knee. After a glance upwards at me, she unfastens the latch and opens the lid to find that a pair of new dog dishes in gleaming chrome wait inside, along with a bottle of water.
I watch her as she processes what she's seeing, and as she goes through that emotion unique to BDSM (namely, dismay and arousal wrapped into one) I begin pulling out the food from the take-out bag. There's a salami sandwich and a bottle of lemonade for me, a few napkins and plastic cutlery, and a box of popcorn chicken for her. I hear a clink down by my feet, and the bowls have been taken out, the suitcase pushed aside to keep it available but out of the way.
"Kitten, pour the water into your first dish."
Katie nods and gulps, taking up the water bottle, twisting the cap off and pouring it out. The rest of the studio is so quiet that even that bit of sound seems terribly loud, and I smile as she winces until the last drop lands in the chrome dish. I hold out a hand for the bottle and receive it, slipping it back into the take-out bag which now serves as a trash bin.
"How neatly done, kitten. Have a treat for being so clever." I pull out a small piece of salami from my sandwich and offer it between pinched fingers to her, looking her in the eyes heavily until she understands that she may not use her hands to eat. Very delicately she shifts forward and takes the meat from my fingers, even going so far as to gently lick them clean. "You're so very sweet" I muse, and that makes her smile, cheeks flushing. "Now, hold up your second dish so that I can fill it. You may use your hands for this task, kitten."
Gulping with a nervousness that assures me she's now well into the spirit of our game, Katie picks up her second bowl, still empty, and holds it up to me imploringly like an extra from a performance of Oliver. I pour the little pieces of popcorn chicken into her bowl, then dispose of the empty container in the take-out bag, saying "Place your bowl on the floor by my foot, and you may have your dinner."
"Thank you, Mistress" she says, practically in a whisper.
