THE PRIVATE PARTY

8

            You are sitting in the dressing room of the Club, awaiting instruction. You haven’t seen anyone: the door opened voicelessly and you tramped up the stairs and through the metal doors on your own.

            You were sad to be alone in the dressing room, disappointed to be not greeted with praise by someone, Kirstie perhaps, the Nurse, or Don, the Doctor. You didn’t allow yourself to hope that you would be greeted by the Owner himself.

            You have taken off all your clothes. There wasn’t a costume hanging in your locker. You admit to yourself now that you were eager to take off your clothes, you have been looking forward to exposure all day. And to arousal too. This makes you feel a little troubled, guilty even. You wonder if feeling arousal at something you were forced to do, something you are doing only for filthy money, is evidence of something bad in you, something corrupted, perhaps by these years in Transfertown. Perhaps you have been co-opted, as those girls in the class you took, years ago, used to say. But you are tired of fighting. You will fight everything but desire; that one is not worth fighting.

            Sitting on the bench, you stick your legs out in front of you and admire your pedicured toes. It is the best pedicure you have ever has, with clear polish. You went right inside the Cordon to get it, sat with married ladies and drank the ginger tea. Your toes look like privilege.

            You hear the door opening, and someone whistling and heavy footsteps, the sound of a man, and you jump up and there he is, standing before you fully dressed, a duffel bag over his shoulder. You want to grab something to cover yourself, but there is not a gown or a towel. Your clothes are in the locker. You open the locker door and stand behind it.

            “Sorry,” he says. “I can come back.”

            “Okay,” you say. “Do that.”

            “But.” He is looking around the room. He is tall, over six feet tall, and light brown, and he has a shaved head. “They told me to change in here. I think there’s only one change room.”

            “Oh,” you say. “You mean, you are, you are performing tonight?”

            “I think I’m with you,” he says. “Hi.”

            “Oh my goodness.” You don’t know why you say this. Your heart is thumping. This guy is huge. He is also handsome, beautiful even, in a magazine model way. But you do not like being naked in a room where any guy can walk in without warning.

            “Sorry,” he says. “I’ll come back.”

            “No,” you say. “We’re going to get naked anyway.”

            “Yup.” He smiles. He drops his bag to the ground. “Here. Watch this.” He begins ubuttoning his shirt. Quickly, whistling a little, he strips off his clothes.

            As his chest emerges and then his tight boxers and then his muscular legs – what is he, a cyclist? a dancer? – you emerge from behind your locker door. He smiles at you; he is putting on a show for you.

            Off come his socks, and then the shorts. He stands there naked, spreads his arms wide. “Ta da.”

            You giggle a little. You don’t mind giving him a once-over. He has a big c-ck. Of course he does: that’s why he was chosen for this. Circumcised. His chest is hairless but there is some neat fuzz on his belly and groin. He is actually beautiful.

            “Well,” you say. You stand before him proudly naked too. “Ta da. Now what do we do?”

            “Good evening,” says Don, the Doctor, behind you. He has come through another door. He is leaning against the frame, smiling at you both. At least he is fully dressed. “No need for introductions, I see. Kayla, you’ve met Philip.”

            “Nice to meet you, Philip,” you say. You shake hands, looking each other carefully in the eye.

            “So, today’s menu,” says Don. “We’ve had some requests to see a man tied and teased. Philip is going to be tied, you are going to tease him. He’s going to be the sub to your mistress, ok? You’re going to get the Nurse outfit tonight. It’s going to slowly come off, of course. You’re going to get him to strip for you, then you’re going to tie him to a post, or a cross, we haven’t figured out what we’ve got on the stage yet.” Don looks at his watch. It’s as if he’s giving instructions to a park cleanup crew before their shift. “You’re going to tease him in whatever way you want, get him horny. Then you’re going to stroke him, lick him, bring him really close, tease him for a long time like that. Edge play. Keep him on the edge.You’ll know when he’s about to erupt, back off before he does. I’ll give you a signal when it’s time to really bring him off. We want the audience to really feel his discomfort. Good?”

            You can’t help giggling. Philip shrugs, smiles. You are embarrassed to realize that even this instructions have made you tingly and moist. You can’t wait to have your hand wrapped around that c-ck. Although you are slightly disappointed that it won’t be you on display, and no one has promised you a public orgasm.

            “I’ll get your costumes,” says Don. He turns to go, then stops, says, “Oh, and then you’ll be on display for a bit too, Kayla. We’re going to get some audience inolvement this time.”

            You go cold. “What? Audience involvement? What does that mean?”

            Don hesitates. “The Owner... remember, he doesn’t like...”

            “He doesn’t like it if I ask questions. I know. Sorry.”

            “You just have to be up for anything.” He turns again. “Listen,” he says at the door. “You might be tied down. People will get up and they can touch you. Philip will be standing behind you to keep it all under control. The Owner wants to see you get off again. That’s all I know.”

            You and Philip stand in silence a moment. Your eyes can go anywhere in the room but his body. He is doing the same. You are feeling a few things at once. Anger, again, that someone expects you to be treated as a plaything and not consult you about it. Anger at yourself for agreeing to do this, for being such a doormat, a slut for money. Anger at yourself for being so aroused at the idea. Shame. And pleasure, too, that the Owner took notice of you, wants you back, wants to witness – perhaps for his own pleasure? – your own pleasure.

            Don comes in with the vinyl nurse’s outfor for you, some leather shorts for Philip. The two of you get dressed in silence, like astronauts preparing for a spacewalk. The sound of the club’s music, through the walls, is now clear: the thumping of lust.