A Dance in the Cage
You know the girls dancing in those cages at clubs? Sometimes on a pedestal, sometimes suspended over the raving crowd? Ever wondered how they ended up there and what makes them move all night?
Despite the allegedly soundproof glass Bianka felt the vibrations at her eardrums, in the pit of her stomach, in the tip of her pen. The bass pounded its way through every structure, item and living being in the whole building. It was the heartbeat of the club, and with the small hours of the night being near it was hammering wilder than ever. If the owner, manager and icon of Club Noir were to turn around from her desk, she would be able to overlook the main floor through the glass wall of her office. She would see the fetish folk celebrating its own depravity, loosing itself in the dark world the legendary Bianka Schönfeld provided. A world of masks and collars, of monogloves and hobble skirts, where leather was the new lace and black the new black. To the left the long cool-lit bar ran in a wide arc alongside the clubbing area, which in turn bordered at the right on the VIP lounge. Further in the back the entrance to the lower levels awaited those in search for more titillating activities. The rooms for this spicy kind of entertainment were soundproof, for sure. Continue reading
Selfie (a.k.a. Rogue Tie)
You are always so good at making lists, Becca!
This is a compliment I hear a lot from colleagues and friends alike. Always meant sincere, it does have a backhanded element to it. It labels me organised, bureaucratic, predictable. Rebecca, the Excel Queen. Rebecca, mind you. Not Bec or Beckie. Not Becca, either. But people are so quick with shortening my name. Just as quick as with making list-related compliments.
A list, then – old-fashioned with pen and paper, in my girly handwriting:
- Restrains, 3 pairs (handcuffs, elbow cuffs, hobbles)
- Latex hood
- Ball gag
- Posture collar
- Nipple clamps
It was the rigid cuffs and hobble chains for me again. The same attire I had sported many times since the trial two weeks ago – which was a bit over the top, if I were to be asked. I had taken the damn whip for some quick laps, not to pack its boot full of TNT and drive it into the next public building. But the new nation-wide zero-tolerance doctrine had diffused into all layers of the penal system. I only got a quick glance at the bus that would bring me and six other female prisoners to our new home. As soon as the steel door to the remand centre’s vast garage opened, the guard next to me pulled a hood over my head.
“Hey, what the fuck—”
“Shut up, or you get your bitchy mouth stuffed, too.” Continue reading