Chapter One – Entry

There is no name for the place. No sign hung over the brown, steel door. In keeping with its theme of anonymity there isn’t even an address number. A shiny speaker grill stands out amongst the drab colors.

I press the call button twice. They never answer the first time; some kind of dominant ritual. “Yes?” a metallic voice comes back.

“237651, Bishop,” I say.

The speaker buzzes in acceptance of my assigned password. In contrast to the stingy front porch, I step into a gaily-decorated hallway. Plush carpet, tender scent from a potpourri basket, soft overhead lighting which accents various paintings on both walls. All the art depicts the same motif; women bound, whipped and sexually used. I’ve never managed to critically assess any of them, my burning desire always overtakes me and shoves aside all reason.

A tall, good-looking woman comes through the nearest door. Early fifties perhaps. Germanic features, dark blonde hair done up to reveal a graceful, swan neck. Red silk dress that drops below her knees. No matter what time I show up; morning, noon or night, she’s always the one who greets me. Fresh, alert. Domineering. The iron fist in a velvet glove. She smiles.

“Good evening, young madam. You have decided, yes?”

My silence and bowed head is all the answer I can manage.

“Excellent.” Red Silk nods once and takes me by the hand. She leads me down the hallway to the third door on the left. “The attendants will be with you soon. While you wait, it might be wise to use the toilet.”

Her orders are always gift wrapped as suggestions. Even before she locks the door from the outside, I am hiking up my short skirt and sit on the commode in the corner. It doesn’t take long—a sign of my nervousness. Soon, I am up, pacing a tight circle.

How long have I known about this place? How long before I found the courage to come here? Two months, three? Who knows? Whispered titillations from friends allowed me to glean a general idea of this location. Then, a chance encounter at a party with one who’d been inside. A hastily scribbled note with a description of the door, and a signed referral slipped into my hand. At times I would drive by, my car at a crawl, as I circled the block three, four times, always telling myself I’d stop on the next go round. Finally, one night, I did. I petitioned for entrance and have been drawn back ever since, despite how they treat me. On my last visit I was given a proposition from Red Silk and one week to think about it. I knew then what my answer would be. Nothing has happened to change it.

Two attendants enter, a man and a woman. They act like they’ve been through this a thousand times before—alert to their job but clinical, interacting more with each other than with me. They may tell me to