Taken

"I don't want anyone coming up and asking me to ... play."

She thought this would start a long conversation, even an argument. But it didn't. "Don't worry," Sheri assured her. "The club has a protocol for that. Just ... dress appropriately."

She nodded and went back to her office, feeling flushed. My God, she was actually doing it! Forget about what "dressing appropriately" meant. She still wasn't entirely sure why she was going. Curiosity? Temptation? Should she turn back, tell Sheri she changed her mind? No, she couldn't. Maybe Saturday morning, tell her she was sick. Or a family emergency.

Friday, she went shopping for something to wear.

Saturday morning, she went to confession. Five breaths before the priest spoke. "You sound determined to go to this place."

"Is it wrong just to go, just to look and learn?"

"It is wrong to deliberately put yourself into the path of temptation."

"We face temptation everyday."

"There's a difference," the priest lectured her, "between encountering temptations that come toyou, and going to a place like this where temptation lives."

She took a deep breath and collected her thoughts. "If I go where temptation lives, and come away victorious, wouldn't that make my faith stronger?"

"Or would it give you the illusion of doing so?"

"But – "

"My child," he sighed, "this is neither the time nor the place to debate the fine points of moral theology. This is a place to repent of your sins, not to defend them. Now I cannot prevent you from going to this place, except to pray for your eternal soul. Recite the Lord's Prayer twelve times, and also the Hail Mary. Remember that your duty as a Christian is to keep one's mind and body pure through obedience to God's laws." The priest paused, asked if there was anything else, then absolved her of her sins and bid that she sin no more.

Five o'clock Saturday, she had a light supper, showered, and put on the outfit, a mix of old and new – black bustier, leather skirt, fishnet stockings, black leather boots. She wore bright red lipstick to match her ruby stud earrings, and her hair was slicked back. Margaret struck a pose in her full-length mirror.

"Bad girl!" she whispered to herself.

Her raincoat and purse were waiting when the buzzer rang, just before seven thirty. She went down to the lobby, where Sheri was waiting at the front door.

"Hi! You ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," Margaret answered.

Sheri laughed and put a hand on her arm. "Okay. Try to relax." She led her to a car where a large man with a well-trimmed beard sat behind the wheel. Sheri suggested that Margaret sit in front, as she was taller and would need more leg room, and she would take the back seat. The driver introduced himself as Ronny, Sheri's husband. With everyone all buckled up, he drove off.

"So," she asked them, "how long have you two been ... um, ...?"

Ronny grinned. "I've been in the Scene 'bout twenty years. Sheri and I met at a private play party twelve years ago."

"And married three years after that," Sheri beamed.

Margaret couldn't help smiling as Ronny turned onto the freeway heading west. They were obviously happy together.

"What made you wanna come with us?" Ronny asked her.

Margaret shrugged. "Not sure. You said there's some 'protocol' for people who are just there to watch?"

He nodded. "Take a white rose from the bar. And don't be afraid to tell people you're a newbie. Oh, and there's the house safeword: 'Red.' Somebody calls that out, it means whatever scene they're doing stops right there."

Sheri leaned forward. "And have your driver's license out, too."

"For drinks?"

"Nah," Ronny replied. "Age of consent."

"Scene clubs are typically alcohol-free," Sheri explained.

"Who needs booze with the fun we have!" Ronny chortled. Sheri grinned, and Margaret tried to force a smile.

"Um, do you mind if I ask, which of you, ... I mean, ... who's ..."

She still couldn't figure out how to ask what she wanted to ask, but Sheri got the hint. "The bottom?"

Ronny now joined in: "What's the name of the bottom!"

"That's what she's askin'," she asked, impersonating Lou Costello, "who's the bottom?"

"No, Who's thetop!"

"I dunno!"

And they both cried out: "Switch!" Then guffaws and cackles, and it took a while before Margaret got the joke. Then Sheri explained: "I usually bottom to Ronny, but I'm a switch and sometimes top other people."

Ronny looked at her his expression seeming to ask if she understood – and she did, or was at least beginning to. He then smiled, looked back on the road, and talked about how the differences and overlap between "top and bottom" and "dominant and submissive."

He took an exit and announced they were almost there, and slowed as they entered a commercial district and turned into a large empty parking lot. The building in the center was like a large black cube. On the door was painted a red rose with green stem and leaves, and the thorns tipped blood-red. People came out of the cars in various attire – everyday, biker leather, goth. Each gained entry with a black plastic card, swiped through a reader by the door. Ronny led Sheri and Margaret, using his card. Margaret took a deep, deep breath before stepping through.

*** Eight ***

The entryway was snug, with a table and computer, and black velvet drapes covering the walls. A door opposite the entrance led to the rest of the club. Behind the table was a stunning red-headed woman wearing an elegant scarlet dress and a black choker.

"Good evening, sir!" she greeted Ronny.

"Good evening, Katya," he responded, and he introduced Margaret as their guest. Katya produced a printed sheet, and an inkpad and stamp, while Margaret reached into her purse to produce her driver's license. Katya handed her the sheet, explaining that they were the rules for the club. Margaret showed her ID, and Katya stamped her hand. She reached under the edge of the table, and the door to the club opened with a buzz.

"Enjoy yourselves!"

Ronny nodded with a smile, and led the way in.

The social area looked like any club lounge – save for the bondage gear hanging from the walls. A cash bar served non-alcoholic drinks, and at one end was a vase with various colored roses. Margaret, after taking off her coat, went over to take one of the white roses. The other colors – pink, lavender, red, purple – indicated willingness to play and whether the holder was a top or bottom; so a pink rose was for a bottom or submissive who was not sure about playing that night, and a purple rose for a dominant looking to play. She ordered a ginger ale while she looked over the rules sheet.

Club members were all very polite, welcoming her and introducing themselves. Some had a question or two. Others offered to answer questions. Much of the time, Margaret watched as others interacted. Sheri, wearing a leather midriff top and leather hot pants, and Ronny in a leather vest and blue jeans, were talking to a skinny older fellow in a latex outfit. Through the large tinted window panel, the first floor play area was visible. A pair of diagonal standing crosses were prominent, along with some tables and an old-style pillory.

Now a tall man approached her, wearing a dark charcoal Nehru jacket and slacks, a thin steel collar around his neck. Margaret had noticed him enter with an elegant woman in a silver fur, and how many around her showed great deference and respect. The man stopped and gave a slight smile.

"Excuse me, miss."

"Yes?"

"I am Samael," he introduced herself, "servant to Lady Claretta." He motioned to the woman now sitting on the couch with straight dark hair and angular features, glass goblet in one hand. She wore a royal purple dress, a single-tail whip hanging from her belt. The lady smiled at Margaret, raising her glass in greeting.

Samael continued: "She invites you to join her for conversation, if you are so inclined."

Margaret agreed, and followed him to join her. She still had questions, and perhaps this woman could answer them. Lady Claretta introduced herself, and Margaret did likewise before shaking her hand and joining her on the couch. Samael stood nearby, ready to attend to them.

"And how did you hear of the Rose and Thorn?" Claretta asked. Her voice was compelling, and her accent suggested breeding and means.

"A coworker. Sheri Kahn?"

"Ah yes, and her husband Ronny. They've been members here for many years. Have you long had an interest in the Scene?"

"Uh, no, not really," she stumbled out her words. "I'm just ... curious."

Half-truth, half-lie. She looked about nervously, taking sips from her drink. It took a few moments for her to notice Claretta staring at her. No, that wasn't the right word – studying. She was examining her. Her eyes made Margaret freeze, and she slowly, gracefully leaned closer to her to speak:

"I sense in you that you tend erotically towards the submissive. Yet, in work, you are much more dominant. Work is also familiar to you, while this realm seems alien. Such contrasts can be unsettling. Yes?"

Claretta's voice seemed to wrap about her, then seep into her, drawing the truth from her. For the first moment, it felt blistering hot, then relaxed into a comforting warmth. She knew, somehow this woman knew and understood, and it relieved her enough that she could respond: "Yes."

Claretta delivered a half-smile. "Know this, my dear. Our realm is a realm of paradox, and when you can accept and embrace this, then you may come to understand."

The lady in purple leaned back, letting Margaret take this in. Paradox. All about her, people pursued pleasure through pain. They shed their everyday selves and adopted roles and new names, all to bring out their deeper selves. They used instruments of restraint and torture with loving and trust to bring about freedom and bliss. She wanted to understand more, and so she turned back to Claretta, letting loose one question after another – and Claretta was only too happy to answer, sometimes with utter simplicity, sometimes with the poetic vagaries of a Zen master'skoan to guide her way to clarity.

Her most telling statement: "When submissives entrust me with power, that is their gift to me; what I do with that power is my gift to them."

Then the questions stopped, and after a while of sitting in silence, Claretta put down her glass. "Come, my dear." They rose simultaneously, and Samael attended as Claretta gave her a tour of the Rose and Thorn.

They walked through the first floor playroom, bathed in colored light. Margaret caught sight of Ronny and Sheri flogging the man they had talked to earlier. Nearby, another couple walked about a naked woman suspended some three feet off the floor by an intricate rainbow of iridescent ropes, caressing her all over. A second woman, blindfolded and secured in the pillory, twitched and writhed as a bearded man ran an instrument over the surface of her skin that delivered crackling flashes of bright blue electricity.

At the other end of the room was an elevator, and they rode to the second floor. The entire floor had been divided into four areas. Club members in various costumes engaged in various forms of play. Doctors and nurses examined patients. A medieval priest performed an inquisition on a blindfolded heretic, poking him with needles. Schoolboys were lectured and punished by a strict headmistress.

"Role play," Claretta explained, "is a most delicious way to explore one's desires and emotional needs, erotic and otherwise."

"But," Margaret clarified, "no sex."

"No, my dear, not here. Of course, that raises the question of what constitutes sex ... "

Margaret could still hear her voice, but her attention focused entirely on another scene in front of her. A woman in a peasant costume, hands bound with rough-looking hemp rope, gagged and blindfolded, was being tormented by two men in Nazi-like uniforms. The woman would whimper through her gag, struggle in her bonds, as the men grabbed her hair, held a riding crop to her chin, fondled her breasts ...

And Margaret imagined herself as that woman, the men's faces a blur, their hands in leather gloves, her dress ripped open, one man holding her hands over her head, the other pushing her down to the floor, opening his pants, taking her ...

Her eyes were closed when she felt a hand on her shoulder, then Claretta's voice, now softer: "Are you all right, my dear?"

Margaret opened her eyes and looked at her. She managed to nod.

"Do you wish to go back downstairs?"

"No, no," she insisted, "I'm fine, thank you."

They continued, Margaret watching the captivity scene, and imagining, and shaking at the thought.

Later Claretta asked if she wanted to see the third floor, devoted entirely to "animal play" – submissives playing as ponies, cats, dogs and the like for their dominant trainers or owners, or sometimes "furries" playing animal together. Margaret politely declined, and they went back downstairs for another drink. As the night wrapped up, people relaxed and talked. Ronny and Sheri were conversing with the man they had flogged, who was grinning from ear to ear. The once-captive peasant girl was seated on the couch with the two men in uniform, chatting cheerfully. There was caring, holding, softness. This was the aftercare Ronny, Sheri and Claretta had explained. She remembered when she would make love with a man, and they would cuddle and talk in the afterglow. This was much like that – but with an intensity commensurate with what proceeded it.

Lady Claretta was now wrapped in her fur again, getting ready to leave. "I hope you enjoyed yourself tonight," she said to Margaret, "or at least learned something."

"Yes, I did. Both"

She smiled and nodded. "I'm pleased. If you would like to keep in touch, to ask more, learn more – "

Margaret couldn't help saying: "Yes, I'd like that very much."

Claretta turned to Samael, who produced a violet calling card, bearing Lady Claretta's phone number, website and email. She took the card and thanked her, and the two women shook hands.

Riding on the way back, she reflected on the night. It was nothing like what she expected. There was so much respect, so much said and not needing to be said. It was indeed a different realm for her, one that oddly spoke to her. And yet, there was something lacking. For her. A door was opened, at least partway, a door of what was possible. Safewords, for example. She'd never thought of that, but it made sense, especially for someone like that captive peasant woman, struggling in her bonds as four hands went over her. Safewords gave submissives like her the real power over a scene. Yes, a scene, like theater, magical theater, with the players as much a part of the audience as they were performers and directors. And there was no presumption, no guesswork. Not like eight-minute dating, where you had to puzzle each person in a limited time. The people here took their time, explained what they wanted, what their boundaries were, talking so frankly, so openly, about what each of them liked and wanted and needed ...

What she needed. What did she need, want, like? Could she, even in this realm, be so frank and open?

At least there was an open door, and some light to see it.

*** Nine ***

Another Wednesday night. Another eight-minute dating event. Margaret sat at a table in a restaurant, a blonde fellow talking and talking and talking. But her mind was thinking about others things. About the Rose and Thorn. About her conversation with Lady Claretta. About being a peasant woman molested and violated by two men in dark uniforms. About her masked intruder. About leather gloves on her face, over her bare body. About her last time at confession.

"You need love," the priest said simply.

"I know, Father," she agreed. "We all need love. But, ... how do I get there? How do I find it?"

She was thinking about what Christy, her friend at work, had said: "Why don't you think about the kind of guy you want, and then go where you're most likely to find somebody like him?"

And finally, she thought: "Am I going to find him here?"

And when the answer came to her, she apologized to the blonde fellow sitting across from her, gathered her things, and left.

That Saturday, she was sitting in her kitchen, alone as usual, reading her paper over breakfast. She looked up for a moment, and her eye caught the violet card posted on her message board. All those thoughts that occupied her mind on Wednesday came back in an instant. And then she found herself getting up from her seat, taking the card, and dialing the number. Samael's voice recited a greeting, and she left a message for Lady Claretta.

About an hour later, Claretta called her back, inviting her to five o'clock tea the next day. Margaret wrote down the directions, then checked Mapquest to make sure she knew where she was going.

Sunday afternoon, Margaret drove to a residential area at the outskirts of the city, until she found the Gothic style house with its perfectly maintained lawn and hedges. She went to the front door and rang the bell, adjusting her skirt and brushing back a few strands of her hair. Samael answered, greeting her with a smile and escorting her to the parlor. Lady Claretta was seated on a divan, dressed in a purple Chinese silk dress. A goth girl, dressed in a French maid's uniform and wearing a studded collar, was serving tea from a cart.

"Miss McCullough, my lady," Samael announced.

"Thank you, Samael," Claretta replied. "That will be all for now."

He bowed and left, and Claretta motioned to a nearby seat. "How have you been since we last met?" she asked Margaret.

"I've been all right," she replied softly. The maid continued serving them.

"Really, now?" Claretta was obviously more perceptive than she realized. No wonder she'd gained the reputation she had!

Margaret fidgeted. "Well, ... I'm feeling ... unfulfilled."

"And this disturbs you."

"It's ... eating away at me."

Claretta took her cup of tea from the maid. "Are you familiar with William Blake?"

"Somewhat."

"'The Marriage of Heaven and Hell'?"

"Not that one."

"'She who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence.'"

The maid handed Margaret her tea. Claretta nodded and motioned to her, and the maid then curtseyed and departed. Margaret took a sip of her tea.

"What if what you desire," she asked, "or seem to desire, doesn't make sense?"

Claretta reminded her of the importance of paradox. "What may appear to make no sense on the surface, at a deeper level can make perfect sense."

Margaret hung her head and closed her eyes. She would have to dig very deep indeed. She could make no sense of this, and found it so hard to put it into words. Claretta gently coaxed her to talk, and so she lifted her head and began to explain – how it all started, how her fantasy proceeded, how it made her feel. When she was done, taking deep gulps of air, she buried her face in her hands.

"I see," Claretta murmured, with a melody of discernment.

Margaret jerked her head up. "What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing!" Claretta insisted. "There's nothing wrong with you at all."

"Then why do I keep thinking about this? I mean, nobody in their right mind wants to be raped!"

"Of course not, my dear."

"Then what the Hell is this?"

Claretta answered simply: "You want to be ravished."

That single word –ravished – was a revelation. Like a fast-moving augur drilling to the heart of her desire, it brought light to what was dark. Ravished, yes. She wanted to be ravished – taken, touched and brought to bliss, as she imagined. Yes, that was her desire, to be ravished.

"Ravishment fantasies are some of the most common," Claretta explained. "And complex. And powerful." Margaret nodded, in complete agreement. How could she not agree? "And difficult to sort out," Claretta went on, "all those images and emotions."