Madame B - Desire

Lara's hour of passion with Paco must have gone on longer than she expected, because it's nine a.m. when she bursts into the room, waking me up, babbling excitedly about Paco's prowess between the sheets. She jumps in the shower and is still talking as she dries herself and clambers into bed.

"Oh, Helen, I wish you'd met someone," she says. "You could have so much fun if you just loosened up a bit."

I say nothing. What happened to me is not for sharing, not with Lara, not with anyone. It's a perfect memory of two people who came together one hot, steamy night. I roll over, close my eyes, feel my body thrum and throb in memory of the rhythm of the night.

Some of the most beautiful, confident, powerful women I know are also the ones who get off on submitting to another person's will, allowing their body to become someone else's plaything for the night. Abigail is no exception. She's a smart, sexy woman, strong and in control. I wasn't surprised when she told me she likes to be dominated. She's tough. She can take it. She needs it. You see, by night, Abigail likes to sell her body to the highest bidder and submit to whatever pleasures-and pains-that bidder will offer her. It's nighttime, and I'm driving across the city alone. It's so cold outside that I can see people's breath turn to mist. Everyone is bundled up in faux fur and leather, with hats and scarves and gloves. If anyone looks in my car, all they'll see is a woman dressed in a very respectable trench coat, her red hair in a chic bob-nothing out of the ordinary. What would they think if they knew what lay beneath the coat? I laugh at the very idea and tingle with excitement in the knowledge of my sexy secret.

Because tonight I'm going to do something amazing, something I've never done before, something that has me wet at the very thought of it. Beneath my conservative coat, my body is bound in lace and leather. But no one knows this as I drive my car through the roads of the West Side on my way to the heart of the city, where, during the week, I earn my living in a skyscraper. I turn up the car stereo, psyching myself up for what's in store. As though I need the extra excitement. As though I'm not already high on my own adrenaline. I turn into a tiny cobbled alley. To the uninitiated, it doesn't look like much: a few garages and old buildings. But to those in the know, this place is the center of the universe-for one night a month at least. I fumble in the glove compartment for the laminated permit and show it to the black-clad guy who stands outside a large steel door. He looks at the pass, then at me. He nods, and then the door opens. I steer my car down a steep ramp and into the underground parking garage.

I look around: The garage is nearly full although I'm the only person down here. I look around at the other cars: They're expensive but nothing flashy or outrageous… nothing to indicate that their drivers are wild, experimental, sexy people. We all share the same secret. I take off my trench coat, fold it carefully, and put it on the passenger seat. The cold air hits my skin like a delicious slap, and I check my outfit to make sure everything's in place. The ripped fishnet stockings that cover my legs are there, disappearing beneath a short leather skirt, and the peephole leather bra is in place. In the cold air, I watch my nipples, forced through the tiny holes, become harder. I kick off the comfortable flat shoes that I use for driving and pull on the last part of my costume, a pair of boots with thirteen buckles and five-inch heels. What would my straight-laced colleagues, let alone my employees, think if they knew that on weekends I swapped my business suits and sensible pumps for these extreme items? As always, it takes a few moments for me to find my balance in my skyscraper boots. My whole posture alters, pushing my tits forward, tipping my ass out, and exaggerating every curve of my body. Walking in these things is torture, I think to myself as I take my first faltering steps of the evening, staggering like a baby giraffe finding its feet for the first time. When I'm sure I'm steady on my feet, I whisper out loud the word "torture" and thrill at the way my pussy reacts to it. I find the sound of that word as thrilling as any caress or slap; it's foreplay I can do all by myself. Smoothing down my hair, I check my reflection in a metallic car door before making my way to the private elevator that will take me one floor up and into another world.

The elevator doors open to reveal a girl with a clipboard. With a smile she lets me enter when I show her my pass. I haven't seen her before. She's cute, with dirty-blond hair and a chipped front tooth that I find deeply sexy. And so, with head held high and nipples preceding me, I exit the elevator and walk through the foyer to the oak-paneled, velvet-curtained room that has been transformed just for one night into a garden of pleasure and pain just for us.

I know a few people from the scene, and we chat as I sip my orange juice. I get a few compliments on my outfit, and when I tell old friends what I'm doing here tonight, they raise their eyebrows and rub their hands together in anticipation. I wander around, watch a stunningly beautiful young man yelp and yowl with pleasure as a dominatrix who's twice his age and half his size inserts a butt plug with a ponytail on it up his ass and twists it, stimulating him until he begs for mercy. In another dark corner, a gloriously, unashamedly fat woman sits on another girl's face while a man fucks her in her pussy. I feel free, blessed to have access to this place where anything goes. The motto here is that if another adult consents to it, you can do it, and my eyes take in dozens of adults who are not only consenting but begging for sex, for attention, for torture. I'd love to reach out and touch some of these players, to join in the games, but tonight I must restrain myself. I look at my watch, the hands just visible in the flickering half-light. It's eleven thirty, half an hour until the main event begins, the event in which I will take part, in which I may even star.

At the stroke of midnight, the chimes of a grand-father clock start clanging, and the club falls silent. We all know what this means: At midnight, the slave auction begins. Various men and women are offering themselves as slaves for the next four hours to the highest bidder, agreeing to relinquish control of their body to another. The bidder can be male or female, and the winner gets to use and abuse his or her slave until one-or both-parties end up begging for mercy. And I have put myself up for auction. We're raising money for a local sex workers' charity, and although it's great that someone benefits, my primary motivation is self-gratification. To be at the mercy of a stranger all night, to relinquish all power and hand over my body for pleasure and pain-oh God, I'd pay good money for that. I'd give up all my money for that.

The girl with the clipboard ushers me to the side of the stage. I'm always nervous before I surrender control of my body, even though I know the results will be orgasmic. It's not fear as much as an adrenaline rush and an impatience to be done with the formalities and get down to it-to start fucking-now. The club's MC, who will act as auctioneer for the evening, takes to the podium in the center of the stage. His name is Leroy, and I've known him for a few years. He's beautiful, a mixed-race dancer with shorn brown hair and perfect skin. I've had a crush on him since I first set eyes on him, but I'm pretty sure he's gay. Tonight he's showing off his ripped dancer's body in a pair of skintight lederhosen, which outline his generous cock and balls, and workman's boots. As I take my place on the stage, I give him a playful slap on the ass and whisper that it's a shame he's doing the auction and not out there as a buyer. I'd love to have some time alone with Leroy, to have his brown body bend my white one to his will, especially because I hear he's a really evil master. But as I scan the crowd that has gathered in front of the platform, I realize that tonight the place is packed full of sexy, glamorous people, many of whom, like me, work in the city and earn six-figure salaries. There's gonna be a lot of money raised tonight, and the successful bidders will want value for their money. The play tonight is going to be extreme. I resist the temptation to fondle my rock-hard nipples through my peephole bra.