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“Don’t worry,” she said, noticing my unease. “I promise I’m discreet about who I outfit—that’s why they trust me to do this. And I’ve been to The Gallery many times. My name’s Michelle, and I work in the Metropolitan Ballet’s costume department. So you’re going to visit The Gallery for the first time?”
“I guess. When the costume’s ready.”
She smiled. “I’ll have it for you in less than a week. There’s not much to it. Have you seen the design?”
“My Dominant told me it was fetish-y, but I haven’t seen a picture or anything.”
She crossed the small, crowded space to her work desk and returned with a fashion sketch. I scanned the black outline of the lingerie with alarm. “That’s very skimpy.”
“It’s skimpy, yes, but it’ll look lovely on your figure.”
“This figure?” I gestured to my round hips and mediocre chest.
“It’s designed to accentuate the female anatomy.”
I studied the lines of the fabric that composed the bra…if it could be called a bra. “Is that lingerie, or a harness?”
“It’s a peek-a-boo bra, made of mesh and lace. It exposes the nipples.”
I understood why that might be necessary. I pictured my clamped, erect nipples poking out from the sexy black bra and blew out a breath. My blush still hadn’t gone away. This woman was outfitting me to be a sex toy for rich Dominants. But if she’d been to The Gallery, it wasn’t like she could judge me, or expose me as a freak.
“If you’d just get undressed,” she said. “Down to your panties, if you don’t mind.”
I did as she requested, placing my jacket, jeans, and t-shirt over her desk chair. She led me to a platform near the shaded window, clutching a worn notebook in her hand. I studied her soft, pale brown hair as she knelt to measure my inseam and hips. Something in her posture suggested submission, even now.
“Old school,” I said as she wrote down my numbers. “That notebook.”
“Oh, there are years of submissives’ measurements in here.” She tweaked one edge of the book. “Sometimes I look through them for fun, I suppose to see how many shapes and sizes we come in. Some of us are larger, like me. Pleasingly plump, I like to say.” She put the measuring tape around my waist and laughed. “Some of us are more svelte. Goodness, I won’t be jealous. My Master loves my shape.”
I didn’t think Michelle was that “plump,” just a healthy, middle-aged woman, nor did I find myself at all svelte. “How long have you been going to The Gallery?” I asked.
“For years now. Master and I are getting older, so we don’t go as often as we did. But when I go, it’s like being home again.”
“Are you and your Master married?”
I wasn’t sure why I asked. It wasn’t any of my business, but she answered with another laugh. “Oh no, we’re only compatible as power exchange partners. We’re both married to other people who are kind enough to share us. My husband is a mild, sweet man. He can’t give me what I need as far as pain, but I love him to pieces.”
I had so many questions, all of them unforgivably nosy. “Can I ask you something?”
“Here come some cold hands,” she said, as she prepared to measure around my chest. My nipples tightened but she ignored that. “And you can ask me anything, Juliet. I’ll answer as well as I can.”
“What’s it like to be there?”
She collected her measuring tape, rolling it around a finger. “I can’t really answer that for you. The Gallery is a different experience for everyone who goes, for every Master and slave, Dominant and submissive. For some, it’s a frantic trial, just as they want it to be. For others, the pain and lack of control is a meditative exercise. Others want to be humiliated or treated like an animal. What you see isn’t necessarily what’s going on between people.” She measured my torso, then my neck. “It’s noisy there, with voices, screams, and commands, but there’s a lot going on inside people as well. Some participants are stoic and don’t make a peep.”
I wondered what would go on inside me. I wondered if I’d be noisy or silent, frantic or meditative.
“Are you worried about going?” Michelle asked.
“A little. I’m new to the whole consensual-non-consent thing. I’m worried I won’t be good at it.”
“Your Master wouldn’t have invited you if you weren’t ‘good at it.’” She put air quotes around my words. “Lack of confidence is an all-too-common submissive trait.”
“He’s not my Master, just someone who’s teaching me about sadism and masochism. I mean, he’s a sadist, so I guess I’m a masochist.”
She gave me a strange look. “You guess? You’re either a masochist, or you aren’t.”
“I am,” I said, feeling naked under her gaze. “And my Dom is great. He makes me hurt in really awesome ways. He makes me crazy, in a way no other guy ever has.”
