The Aphrodite Experiment

Despite her conservative upbringing, Rochelle was not prejudiced against the Gothic ideal. In fact this tribe, with their emphasis on dignity, exaggerated good manners, baroque attire, cynicism and emotional introspection had managed to strike a deeply buried subconscious chord within her psyche. And what, after all, was the BDSM lifestyle, she had reasoned, but the Gothic philosophy taken to an extreme degree?

The Galley Slave, however, had always been the kind of place that she had been at pains to avoid. It was incomprehensible to her how pain and mutilation could be, in any way, connected with sexual pleasure. Her plans for widening her erotic horizons did not include actual sadomasochistic interaction - the very idea terrified her - simply a sartorial nod towards its aesthetics. What Suzie had referred to as a whip (actually a cat of nine tails dangling from the belt of her leather skirt) was simply a prop. Surely, she considered, this lifestyle represented an absolute minority at best.

However, as she steered the Honda into the carpark outside the club, Rochelle was surprised to discover that the philosophy attracted more subscribers than she had suspected. A long queue of people, most of them wearing leather outfits along the same line as hers, were queued up outside the entrance. Despite their near universality of attire, however, they were a mixed group indeed. Many of them were of strikingly handsome looks, males with razor-cut blonde hair and bulging muscles, or females with long tresses below their slim waists and long, fishnet-clad legs. Others were of plainer appearance - one grossly fat middle-aged man with his stomach hanging over a studded leather belt looked particularly ridiculous, while a short woman, whose chubby legs protruded below one of the shortest skirts Rochelle had ever seen gave her a pleasant sense of superiority.

Particularly shocking to her, however, was the relationship that some of the revellers held towards each other. Many of the people in the queue had others crouched at their feet in attitudes of worship, while one junoesque redhead held a chain attached to a studded collar on the neck of a skinny man who walked on all fours. One of the females was engaged in castigating another, who was kneeling before her, apparently begging forgiveness for some minor transgression.

Rochelle clambered from the car and began her usual ritual of straightening her clothing, She tightened the leather ribbon she was wearing in her hair, bent and smoothed the nylon stockings (the low-slung seats of the vehicle inevitably caused stockings to go baggy on her thin legs, no matter how careful she was), tugged the tops of the boots, wriggled to shake the worst of the wrinkles from the skirt, tugged the corset down into position and yanked it upwards to cover as much of her generous bosom as possible.

Gently, she massaged her temple. Since leaving home, she had developed a headache. Whether it was due to tension at her daring experiment or the tightness of the corset - for she was already finding it difficult to breathe - the nagging pain had become worse since she'd begun the short drive. Thankfully, a few doors down from the carpark entrance she spied the welcome lights of an all-night pharmacist. Wobbling slightly on the uneven surface - she still wasn't entirely used to the boots - she set off towards the store.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

At first, she wondered where the noise was coming from. Was there, she wondered, a nest of mice somewhere about? It wasn't long, however, before it dawned upon her that she was causing it herself. It was a good thing she hadn't planned on sneaking up quietly behind anyone, she realised, for it was possible to hear her coming from a long way away. For someone who found even the faint swishing of her stockings embarrassing, the creak of the leather outfit was mortifying indeed, but she consoled herself that there would no doubt be loud music in the club, to mask the noise.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

Rochelle drew in a deep draught of polluted inner-city air. The simple act of waking a few paces was already making her breathless. She fought down the thought that this whole experiment was a ghastly mistake. Was she not Lady Steel Orchid, mistress of pain, imperious and terrifying? In this outfit, who would dare mock her? What was a minor touch of asphyxiation and a mildly embarrassing noise to a dominant such as herself?

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak,

Her Majesty Lady Steel Orchid, Queen of Agony, Princess of Pain, tottered into the pharmacist tugging at her corset, her cat of nine tails swinging hungrily at her side.

"Have you got any codeine?" she asked the startled shop assistant. "I've got a dreadful headache!"

*****

When she emerged from the pharmacist a few minutes later, after swallowing two of the pills with the aid of a glass of water provided by the helpful pharmacist, the queue had grown even longer. Her feet already aching, she took the opportunity for a brief rest, taking her seat at a bus-stop a few doors from the pharmacists.

She looked across at the long line of weirdly-clad clubbers with interest. A tall thin man, wearing a cloak that barely cleared the ground, held the hand of a handsome youth dressed in a studded leather leotard. A pretty blonde, wearing a white, classical Grecian gown and silver thong sandals that criss-crossed her calves exchanged passionate kisses with a thick-set man clad entirely in studded denim. Two identical twins clad entirely in black were performing an impromptu dance, and a stick-thin redhead in a gold lame swimsuit had taken a studded collar from her swan-like neck, and was passing it around to an admiring group of friends, rather like a newly affianced girl might show off her engagement ring.

Rochelle tugged at her stockings again - they would bag around the tops of the boots in that embarrassing way - and smoothed down her skirt. She hadn't even joined the queue at the club yet, and she already felt daring and outre. I should have done this years ago, she mused. Yes, I'm finished with being a boring, conservative little mouse. Why, if Helene could see me now she'd back away, whimpering. No-one messes with Lady Steel orchid!

She stood up, yanked the corset back up into place, and smoothed her skirt. Time to make her entrance.

"Hey, chicky-babe," came a piping voice from behind her. Rochelle spun round, nearly falling over.

A young girl stood there, regarding Rochelle with a mixture of contempt and amusement. She was clad in a red crop-top, grimy jeans and scuffed joggers, but possessed at least enough sartorial nous, it seemed, to ensure that the stud in her navel matched the various items of metal hanging from her ears, lip, nostrils and eyelids. She could have been any age from twelve to about fifteen.

"Gi'ssa smoke," she said, scratching her close-cropped hair.

"Excuse me." Rochelle's eyebrows shot up. "Just who are you calling a chicky-babe? And didn't your parents teach you it's customary to use the word 'please'?" She realised her corset was again riding down revealingly, and yanked it into place. "In any case, I don't smoke, so you're out of luck."

"Yeah, well," the apparition seemed to consider this, and come to the conclusion that whatever argument she might have advanced, a non-smoker was unlikely to comply with her request. "Gi'ss five quid, then."

"I beg your pardon!" Rochelle tugged at the hem of her corset.

"Fuck, you deaf as well as stupid? I said gi'ss five quid."

"What?!"

"So I can go an' buy some smokes, fuckwit," the girl explained, as if providing an explanation that could not possibly be criticised for either logic or lucidity.

"You," snapped Rochelle, "should be in bed at this time of night!"

"So 'ow's that your business," the girl replied. "You me mum or summink? Get on with it, tittybooms." She held out her hand.

"Titty - how dare you?"

The girl stared rudely at Rochelle's generous breasts.

"Well, you're lettin' it all 'ang out, ain't ya?"

Rochelle looked down and felt her face redden, realising that despite hitching it up a few seconds ago, the decollotage of the corset had again slipped downwards, and that she was in imminent danger of revealing her nipples. She wriggled, working it back upwards into a position of reasonable modesty. "Young lady," she said, angrily. "I am not accustomed to being spoken to in that manner. Especially by some feral little piece of tat!"

"You probably should get out more then," replied the feral little piece of tat in question. "Come on. Five quid, I ain't got all night."

Rochelle essayed a cautious laugh, careful of the fit of her corset.

"Young lady - if I may use the word loosely - you'll get no money out of me. Do you really think you can intimidate me?"

The girl stepped forward a pace. Rochelle found herself involuntarily stepping backwards.

"Yeah, prob'ly,"

"W-W-Well you have another think c-coming."

"So how come ya shakin', then?"

"I'm n-n-not shaking," lied Rochelle, desperately looking around for an escape route as the girl took another step towards her.

"Five quid," the girl repeated. "Or I'll rip that thing off ya, an' the whole city can see yer tits."

"I-I-I... I... "

The girl took another step towards her. Quickly, Rochelle reached for her handbag, fished out a crumpled note and handed it to the girl, her hand trembling. Without a word of thanks, the girl strode off.

Writhing in humiliation, Rochelle slunk back to her car, her progress accompanied by further squeaks from her outfit. She decided she'd give the Galley Slave a miss for tonight. She didn't really feel her confidence was up to the task.

*****

"Hey, did you check out any of those sites?" Brianna asked Rochelle, a few days later, as they sat over coffee in one of the many cafes that surrounded the area of their workplace.

"No, I-I-I haven't got around to it yet," lied Rochelle, not feeling in the mood for an embarrassing explanation as to what had actually happened, and ruefully wondering how her leather outfit would look on whatever beneficiary of the local St Vincent De Paul society ended up with it.

"You should have seen me and Mason on Saturday night," went on Brianna, lost in happy reminiscences. "My sister Chloe came over with her husband, Jayden, for dinner. So, as a special treat, we dressed up for them."

"Did it go well," asked Rochelle, staring at the love bite on Brianna's neck.

"Fuck, do bears shit in the woods?" Brianna rubbed her back. "I'm still recovering."

"So what did you wear?"

Brianna lowered her voice. "We were Fanny and Phoebe, the naughty schoolgirls," she whispered, giggling. "You know, gym slips and ankle socks, and little round hats, like in St Trinians. Chloe even had her old hockey stick, from when she used to play. And I had a lollypop. I think I looked kinda cute, though I say it myself." Brianna stirred sugar into her coffee. "And we actually set the table in the media room up like it was our desk, and Jayden was our teacher, and Mason was the Headmaster. And we hadn't done our maths homework. Anyway, Mason had this cane - it was only made of balsa-wood, really, of course - and - "

By the time Brianna had finished her account, Rochelle's head was spinning. She had to admit, it did sound like a lot of fun.

"Wasn't one of those urls you suggested a school-play site?" asked Rochelle. In fact, she'd examined and rejected it, remembering that her real schooldays had been far from enjoyable, and having no wish to repeat the experience in role play.

"Mr Wachkham's Academy, yeah," Brianna replied. "Did you look at the videos there? That one of the sports teacher and the girl that took too long in the shower?"

"No, I must have missed that one? Er - how could you tell she was a schoolgirl if she was in the shower?"

"She was still wearing her hat, silly!"

Rochelle thought to herself for a moment. Perhaps, she thought, she had been too hasty in dismissing the idea. After all, she reasoned, for a girl who was (not to put too fine a point upon it) especially streetwise, perhaps Lady Steel Orchid hadn't been the best choice for an erotic alter-ego.

On the other hand, a young innocent schoolgirl - well, the unkind might say she was already half way there. No-one would expect her to be tough and confident in that persona. Quite the reverse, in fact. And they'd be no uncomfortable high-heeled boots to make her feet ache, no embarrassing squeaking when she walked, no rebellious corsets to cut off her air supply and need constant adjustment. Why, she already had her tennis socks and a white blouse.

Now, what was the name of those school outfitters and suppliers in Oak Tree Lane, she thought to herself.

*****

Rochelle stood outside the movie theatre, pretending to be considering the comparative merits of Notting Hill, The Matrix and Sleepy Hollow, but, in actuality, discreetly trying to catch sight of herself in the reflection of a parked car's window.

Oh, wasn't Mel going to get a surprise!

She bent, carefully, to hitch up her socks, which were meant to be knee-length, but which persisted in turning themselves into ankle-socks due to the thinness of her calves. The care was needed because of the bottle-green gym-slip, which while not as daringly short as the ones worn by the models on the website, still had an awkward tendency to rise up at the rear, and while Rochelle's panties were the same colour, that didn't make her any more eager to show them to the world!

She patted her hat more firmly on her head, admiring the twin plaits, tied with green ribbon, that had replaced her normal elaborate hairbow. Yes, she certainly looked the part , she reflected - for once, her skinny (slender, she corrected herself) legs were actually an advantage. Though perhaps few schoolgirls could boast the mammary protuberances that were proudly thrusting forward through the cloth of her gymslip!

"Come along, girls. No lollygagging. Oh, hurry up, do!"

Miss Amanda Dunning peered, short-sightedly, through the thick frames of her spectacles. She knew she really did have to get along to the optometrist for a long overdue eye test one of these days, but what with her commitment to the school drama society, coaching the under sixteen netball team, and all the marking she had to do, she never seemed to be able to find the time. Still, she reflected, this afternoon had been a pleasant break. Not only had Being John Malkovich proved a most diverting spectacle, it would provide material for this week's homework.

"Imogene, do try to keep up, dear," she sighed, counting heads for the fifth time. "What, Blanchetta? You've lost your schoolbag? There it is, strapped to your back, you silly girl. Li Chan, will you stop looking at yourself in that mirror, vanity is not becoming." She gave another deep sigh. "Destiny, why are you scratching yourself?"

"'cos I'm the only one knows where it itches, Miss,"

"Well stop it. Now, stop bobbing about. girls. Is Antoinette here? Ah, there you are. Taylor, what's that in your mouth? Yes, I know your tongue's in there, but so is that wad of chewing gum, jettison it please. Now, come along, girls."

It was, perhaps, unfortunate that the uniform of Mother Theresa Girls' High High School, with its green slip-dresses, matching bowlers, and magenta and lime striped ties, resembled the costume sported by Rochelle quite so closely. Unfortunate, it must be said, for Rochelle. For Miss Dunning's crocodile of students it was fortunate indeed, for Miss Dunning's accosting of our heroine provided the best laugh they'd had since Mrs Hemingway, the Headmistress, had farted in assembly a few months before.

"And what are you doing lurking out here, girl?" asked Miss Dunning, tartly. "Well, don't just stand there staring girl, come along. We're late as it is."

"I don't think you quite understand," Rochelle replied. "I'm not - "

Miss Dunning peered at her. Really, these spectacles were getting worse. She couldn't recognise the girl. Not, she hastily told herself, she was going to admit it. These little hussies got away with quite enough as it was, without giving them more opportunities to make fun of her. What with Ophelya surreptitiously passing those cigarettes around while they'd been waiting in line, and Lysistrata making that rude farting noise, and saying 'excuse you, Miss Dunning' during the previews, her patience had been tried quite enough for one afternoon, thank you very much.

She was, in short, in no mood for another practical joke! Obviously the girl was stalling for time, trying to arrange that they would miss the bus, and arrive back at school a half-hour late, thus missing the final period of the day. They'd do anything to get out of Twentieth Century History, these girls! Well, they'd picked the wrong person to mess with this time.

Grabbing Rochelle by the ear, she marched her along the street, ignoring her protests. "I know what you're about, girl," she growled. "But it won't wash, do you hear. And what have you got in those front pockets?"

"Excuse me!" shrieked Rochelle, blushing, as she inevitably did whenever her breasts came into the conversation.

"Now, girl, I'm going to let go of your ear, and you're going to walk in front of me, smartly, demurely, and quickly," continued Miss Dunning. "Any more attempts at dawdling, and I'll pick you up and carry you over my shoulder. I've had quite enough of you girls playing the fool today."

Rochelle felt the blood draining from her face. Miss Dunning topped her by a head, and was built like the metaphorical brick shithouse into the bargain. Rochelle had no doubt she was capable of carrying out her threat. And apart from anything else, the shortness of her gymslip did not lend itself to her being transported in a fireman's carry. Obediently, she fell in behind a tall, fair-haired girl, whom the teacher addressed as Penelope, and who was evidently the school captain. Surely, she thought, she'll soon realise her mistake. It's rather amusing really. In a slightly mortifying kind of way.

"And what are you swinging your hips like that for?" Miss Dunning continued. "And for heavens sake pull your socks up!"

"Erm, excuse me, Miss," said Destiny, helpfully. "I don't think that girl's with us."

"You're telling me she's not with us," snapped Miss Dunning. "Girl looks like she's in a daze. Now, I'm warning you, I'm not in a mood for any more silliness. Quick march!"

As luck would have it, Miss Dunning and her reluctant charges (one more reluctant than the rest) arrived at the bus stop just as the 2.07 was about to depart, and the terrified Rochelle, suspecting that the terrified Miss Dunning was quite capable of manhandling her onto it, meekly allowed herself to be waved onto the vehicle.

"Don't worry, I'm sure she'll realise her mistake when we get back to school," Antoinette assured Rochelle. "It's just your outfit that's thrown her for a loop."

"She's as blind as two bats," Imogene added. "I say, isn't this a loll, though."

"You'd better pull those socks up, though," whispered Li Chan, "Dunsy's really hot about personal grooming when we're on excursions. She gave Felicity two hours detention last time, just because her tie wasn't knotted tight enough."

Hastily, Rochelle yanked up her socks (which immediately fell down again), and fussed with her tie.

"Er, better pull your skirt down, too," added Blanchetta. "She always says that no lady flashes her gusset in public."

Rochelle blushed, and tugged frantically at her hemline.

*****

Somehow, (and afterwards she was never quite sure how it happened), Rochelle was borne along with the tide. When the bus reached the school grounds, Miss Dunning kept a careful watch on her, and Rochelle could not quite find the words to assert her independence. She allowed herself to be ushered into the classroom along with the other girls, all of whom were whispering and pointing at her, though in an amused rather than a cruel way.