As I pushed through the black curtain entrance, my heart left to the depths of my chest. The local dungeon, a beautiful space that I had only seen filled with curious kinksters in jeans and t-shirts, was now throbbing with BDSM enthusiasts of every color, size, and fetish. Girls in pigtails giggled in high-pitched bells as they threaded needles through each other’s faint skin. A woman in a long silver gown slid passed me as if only a mirage. I shook uncontrollably; what was I doing here, again?
M pulled me over, kissed my forehead carefully and handed me my clothes, a delicate black skirt and blouse. I caught a few glances my way and wondered why anyone was looking. I took M’s hand and we stepped carefully through the first floor, striking up awkward conversation with a Fetlifer from school and a few of her companions. I silently watched a man, clad in a dapper grey suit and tie, as he obtained his own freedom from the strong rope that bound him to the recently-reinforced stripper pole. Apparently some folks had broken it once before. More magic tricks; playing cards and butt-plug ring toss. Still silent, still watching, still feeling like all eyes were turned on me though all had better things to watch.
M and I sat for hours, watching. He stroked my hair as I laid in his lap like a lost child. Lost, but found, unable to speak but fascinated with the world around her. At some point deep in the night I nodded and we walked downstairs, past echoes of screams and laughter. A mirage. Sitting in his lap again, just watching. Listening. Somewhere deep inside me something ticked, counting down. All of a sudden the clock hit zero and I told him I was ready, and as time caught up to me I found myself bound to the cross, flogged and spanked and caressed in places I had forgotten.
My screams of release lit up the dark.