by Bianca Crivellini Eger
73 Wilshire Street, 11.00pm, she said, and hung up. It was only a five-minute walk from my apartment.
The first time I had worn my dom outfit, my new skin, was a year before that night. I was nineteen and Luna, a long-time transgender entrepreneuse of the night had told me that she knew how I could take back my power. Known for her expertise in all things perverted, I met her in something like a townhouse in a large and rather anonymous residential building. It had been converted into an over-the-top eighteenth-century boudoir. Dozens of men were there, along with a few women, and what appeared to be couples frotting on the couch. There were living rooms and sitting rooms and actual large bedrooms spread out over two floors of pure orgy energy. The bartenders were beautiful women in black corsets who occasionally went upstairs to clean up messes caused by crowds of naked or near-naked men. The really nice thing about the party (I thought) was that it was relaxed enough that one could sit in a jockstrap and chat with people over candlelight, gin and tonics, and ciggies – inside! – before exploring options further. Where do these stairs lead to? I asked. Delicately, Luna took my hand and said come with me, I will guide you. She walked one step down the staircase, and only then, as my body moved with hers, I realized that she had handcuffed my wrist to hers. We got downstairs – the room smelled of man – and for the first few seconds I couldn’t see anything for the darkness. Then, when my eyes adapted, I began to distinguish the contours of shirtless or naked men, some on their knees, others bent over against the black walls, and yet others cruising around, their dicks hard and mouths open. Nobody will touch you, love, Luna whispered, you are safe.
We emerged on the other side, and I realised I was feeling many feelings: scared, aroused, disgusted, excited. But there wasn’t time to process; instead, we walked through a large door, into a quieter room, where two women were waiting for us on an opulent (slightly tacky) blue couch. God they were stunning. Dressed in black, tight, seamless leather; almost no skin showing; red lips and wearing high-heeled boots; with long limbs, a perfect posture, seductive gaze – all I wanted to do was to touch them. She’s very young, one of the beautiful women said to Luna. They were talking about me. She is, replied Luna – and though her words said yes, her tone – it seemed to me – implied something different. Ok then, continued the beautiful woman. She nodded, and the until then silent beautiful woman (I now know her name was Rosalynd) stood up from the couch, walked to the center of the room – Come in! – she said, her voice firm. A man entered the room through a door I had not noticed before. He was maybe forty, tall, broad shoulders, tanned, wearing an expensive suit. I immediately thought of him, my muscles tightened, I could feel my heart exploding. What is happening? Luna is my friend, why is she offering me to a man who looks just like my rapist did?
— On all fours! ordered Rosalynd. The man dropped to the floor. — Crawl to her! pointing him to me. As he crawled in my direction, my fear grew. I felt paralyzed. Stop now! Apologize to her! “Sorry”, he went. Mean it! Rosalynd flogged him on the back. “I am sorry”, he said. I was very confused but could sense that my body was starting to relax. The man was pathetic. On his knees now, his hands together, he implored me to forgive him, while three stunning, powerful women looked down on him. Come here now, crawl here! I can see your ridiculous dick wanting to get hard, and you don’t deserve that! Come! He crawled to her. She placed two little rocks on the floor and pointed at them. He placed his knees directly on the rocks. She ordered him to take his penis out, and he did. It was still limp — Ridiculous! she laughed. You are a ridiculous little man! She handed him a large metal ring. Quick! He slid the ring to the base of his penis. She then handed him a small, tube-shaped metal cage. He covered his penis with it and secured it to the ring. Stand up! Rosalynd said. He did and, without looking away, she pulled a tiny key from a tiny, tight pocket, locked the cage to the ring, and stepped on the man’s toes with her heel. What followed was a series of small tortures, inflicted with the utmost grace – Rosalynd moved slowly, I could not look away, I was hypnotized – insults that diminished his power and manhood, uttered using elegant words and a soft tone. The man, ridiculed, hurt, reduced to a meaningless nothing, was entirely in her power. He would do anything she asked. He would try to get close to her, to touch her, she would tease him by leaning in, only to put him down with a lash to the chest or a firm, sudden pull of the leash she had tied around his neck. His penis would begin to get hard but encountered the unforgiving bite of the cage, and made a retreat. — You think you deserve me? You don’t even deserve an erection. You disgust me!
I was so absorbed by Rosalynd, her movements, the dynamic that was unfolding before me, that I hardly noticed that the man I had been scared of, the man who reminded me of violence, of blood, of my weakness, the man who had taken my power from me, making me feel unsafe everywhere, all the time – that man had suddenly changed, or rather something in me had changed. I was not scared, my muscles had relaxed, I was at ease. I felt power and control, feelings I thought I had lost forever. I turned towards Luna. I want to learn, I whispered. I know love, she said, you go with Rosalynd, she will take care of you.
73 Wilshire Street, 11.00pm, Luna said, and hung up. It is now 10.50pm, I am in my dom outfit, ready to walk those five minutes to that address, where I will meet C, my slave who enjoys needle play. It has been one year since that night. The night I followed Rosalynd. The night I wore my first dom outfit. The night when I began to feel free and powerful again.