Fashion Victim · Part 1 (1/2)
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[Author's note: I wrote this in honor of a real-life leather domme who has worked in the fashion industry. I do not vouch for all the details of how fashion shows work.
If there are any errors, they are in my mind. The dining "box" is something I've actually seen, in a restaurant that was designed to evoke
Renaissance England. I've just put that to good use here.]
Duarte fingered the rim of his wine glass nervously. Even though he sat in his favorite restaurant, he was uncomfortable. That was because was not sitting in the booth up front where he usually held court. Instead, he was parked in Lana's special dining box. It was a free-standling wooden box about seven feet high, just big enough to hold the dining table for two that Duarte, for the moment, occupied all by himself. Even though it was coming up on 2 a.m., Lana was late, as usual.
She certainly knew how to milk an entrance. And, no doubt, a man.
The dining box was situated at almost the exact center of this high class restaurant in the heart of Amsterdam. Apparently, or so the rumors went, Lana had rented it in perpetuity from the restaurant owners. It sat unused for weeks at a time, but when Lana wanted to dine out in privacy, this was her destination. The rumors also hinted that the box was mostly used in the wee early morning hours, when the rest of the restaurant was closed.
Duarte was not happy to be on Lana's turf. He liked doing business deals in his office, or at his booth in the restaurant. But this was necessary. He needed what Lana could provide, so when she told him where they would meet, he had hesitated only a moment. He only hoped things would go smoothly.
They'd made many business deals over the years, but theirs was a distant and entirely professional relationship. Frankly, he admitted to himself, the woman scared him a bit, alluring as she was. Well, there was no helping it. He needed what she had, and he would do what he always did: Go and get it.
Duarte was pondering his approach when he heard — even through the wood walls of the dining box — the sharp click-clack of female heels. It was Lana, of course. A waiter opened the dining box's door and she swept into the little space — literally, for she was in her signature, heavy, black leather overcoat, all buttoned and zippered and strapped in.
The coat brushed the floor and crashed into things at her side, but amazingly she left nothing askew in her wake as she walked in. A real Earth Mother, Duarte thought to himself. Gaea, maybe!
Duarte, what's your pleasure?" the famous leather clothing designer began, as the waiter helped her shed the coat. He hung it on a hook in a small closet on one wall as she sat down.
"Madame,"
Duarte began forthrightly and firmly, "I want to buy as many units of your
TLC Catsuit as you can supply, as soon as possible. One hundred and fifty units would be a good…."
no, you silly man," Lana laughed. "I meant, what are you drinking?"
good. This is a fine Chablis. I have them keep it in stock here for me, you know."
Lana turned to the waiter. He was permanently assigned to her dining box, and he knew almost before she ordered what she wanted. But he waited, patiently. "The '77 Pinot Noir for me, Charles. And you can skip the menus. I don't think we'll be dining tonight."
"Very good, Ma'am," Charles said, smoothly cocking an eye at Duarte, who nodded faintly in agreement. Charles left so quickly and quietly it was as if he'd beamed out of the box. Lana locked eyes on Duarte. They surveyed each other in an instant.
Duarte was in his mid-30s, suave if a bit rogue-ish in appearance. He wore an Armani suit, grey, with a white shirt and pale blue tie. His ample head of hair was coarse and very black. He was swarthy but clean-shaven. He presented sharp, angular features, which usually served him well in business negotiations.
Not this time, however. For Lana had an intensity in her eyes that was hard to match. It made Duarte sweat ever so slightly at his hairline. He could fill the perspiration and it made him even more nervous.
Lana had been around long enough that she clearly had to be pushing 60. But she looked
35. A testament to clean living, or at least an exciting, invigorating life. Her red hair spilled over her high, Oriental style standup collar. Tiny diamond ear studs twinkled in the candle light. Her ruby red lips were glossy with dreams.
Free of her heavy but protective coat, Lana presented herself in her usual leathers. She was two-toned tonight. Her glove-soft catsuit was black, but there was a thin, high-waisted, contoured vest of emerald green leather riding over her top.
Her over-the-knee boots in green leather to match the vest made a soft squeak as she crossed her legs to one side of the table, precisely where Duarte would be able to see the pointed toes and skyscraper heels, at the ready like the sharp weapons they clearly could become. She noted that brief gaze, which he quickly brought back up.
Lana now peeled off her wrist-length gloves — also in emerald green, fairly slapping them onto the table. Almost in the same motion, her hand grabbed the wine glass that Charles — magically reappearing, silently and without notice — had just placed in front of her. She looked at the ceiling of the little box as she brought the wine glass to her lips.
"Tell me, Duarte, do you think the Canadians really are going to restrict our exports, or do you…?"
Quite unlike his usual, assured self, he interrupted her. "I really don't know, Lana, and I don't care. My business will survive either way. Besides, I'm here know why you're here," Lana said, a faint look of disdain on her lip.
"But you could at least be polite."
sorry," Duarte said. "But I've got to have as much of that outfit as you can manufacture. And quickly. I've a Russian customer who……"
"Now it's my turn to interrupt," Lana said, cutting him off. There was a pause as she sipped more wine, smiling in an aside as Charles poured more into the glass. The waiter again de-materialized and she took up again. "Duarte, the sad, simple fact is, you can't have 150 units. No one can. Those outfits are expensive, complex and very painstakingly made, and for good reason."
His mind's eye opening, Duarte remembered what he had seen at Lana's latest show just hours before and halfway across town. After presenting her usual array of startling, mostly leather-based fashions on the runway, she'd ended the showing with something that was startling even by Amsterdam standards.
Out to the catwalk, as camera strobes flashed, came a small troupe of identically dressed models. They were covered in black leather. Completely covered. They glided onto the catwalk in lock-step motion, floor-length capes of leathery darkness swirling as they moved. All in all, ten models hit the ramp.
Emerging from the high, stand-up collar of each model's black leather cape was a matching orb that could have been a human head, except that it was entirely featureless.
No apparent seams or orifices of any kind could be seen on the spotless, fine-grained, creamy black leather of the hood.
Quickly, the crowd realized that these models were maneuvering without an apparent air supply.
Legs, arms and torsos were hidden under the floor-length capes. The models thus looked almost non-organic, more like computer-graphic flowers, or at least some object other than a human. As they twirled in unison, light glanced off their shiny, soft, aromatic armor (Lana, as usual, had pumped the scent of leather into the air of the room, to help further the mood). Fusion chords pounded, and the catwalk floodlights pulsed in rapid rhythm.
The models twirled, their capes following them around. After a couple of minutes, the first model twisted its upper body violently but smoothly. The leather cape
— ponderous looking but evidently quite light-weight, perhaps with hidden breakaway fastenings — flew open, falling first off one shoulder and then the other. The succeeding nine models performed the same maneuver, until all were standing on the catwalk, a pile of soft black leather at each of their feet.
With precision and in complete unison, the apparently sightless leathermodels kicked their floored capes, turned 90 degrees to one side and stood at military attention, legs spread apart
Capes now removed, the wide-eyed audience could now observe that the models wore black leather catsuits, but of an unusual design. As the models began a new synchronized dance, the visual details sank in.
To begin with, the suits seemed entirely of one piece. The hoods — themselves without apparent seams — were integral to the suits, and the entire suit showed no seams of any kind.
The seamlessness extended to the soles of the feet, which pranced in delicately rounded toes and five-inch square heels that flared slightly at bottom. These likewise seemed an integral part of the catsuit, without zippers or laces, and yet they hugged calves and thighs in tight curves of leather.
The second oddity was that the catsuits were armless. Nor could arms be seen under the material. It was as if the models were all double-amputees!
And now that their precise forms could be made out in the tight-fitting catsuits, it was clear that the models were all of female shape, and all of nearly identical height and figure.
All this the audience drank in as the force of ten stood at attention. After perhaps five seconds, the dance began anew, as Lana's leathermodels weaved among themselves, twirling and kicking their legs high into the air to the syncopated beat of more jazz fusion.
Duarte was stunned. The models danced, and threw themselves around but without arms to balance or air to breathe. Yet they remained poised and synchronized as they continued to sashay the catwalk, turning on their heels as if they'd been doing it blindly that way forever.
The models presented the typical feminine catwalker of long legs and slim figures, save for one feature: Their torsos seemed slightly top heavy. Their breasts were somewhat larger than the waifish sort found on most catwalks, but that didn't explain all of it.
Duarte guessed that, under the catsuits, the arms of the models were folded in some kind of reverse prayer postion across their upper backs. Perhaps their arms were even crossed, each pulled up over the opposing shoulder.
With padding to even out the lumpiness, that might explain the overall impression of a slightly top-heavy torso. It would also explain the larger than average breasts: Arms bound in back, the chest and breasts would be thrust outward. But he had to admit that he couldn't see any outline of arms whatsoever. Could they all be double-amputees? Of course that seemed impossible.
In any event, the sum total effect was both subtle and startling. These creatures were human-shaped, but minus arms and defects of any kind. In their sameness they seemed artificial and utterly roboticized, completely objectified.
Duarte was still not sure of the engineering involved here. But he knew Lana well enough to know that she would play by the rules. Of course, she was very good at coming up with new rules.
In any case, Duarte like the rest of the audience was electrified. Yet he kept his professional acumen in the forefont. As applause pounded in his head, he thought calmly about a buyer he had in mind. The man was a Russian, a direct seller who often provided fetishwear to wealthy customers worldwide with tastes running towards domination and bondage.
Surely
Lana — even despite her very kinky reputation — did not have that in mind when she devised these garments. But she wouldn't care. If the price was right, she would sell.
Or so
Duarte imagined. His thoughts came unusual (for her) staccatto speed.
because each and every of these garments had to be meticulously measured and cut and fit. It took many, many hours. There is, in fact, a secret new process involved. I couldn't make 150 of these outfits in the rest of my natural lifetime. Nor can anyone else make them at all.
"You see, Duarte, I've hit upon several new techniques in leather pattern-making and construction. It use low-power lasers and some new thermoadhesives and some other things I can't discuss. Basically, my process allows me to meld pieces of leather together seamlessly, and to re-open the material the same way.
"Thus, no need for zippers or other fasteners. Nothing wrong with the old fasteners — in fact they can be downright attractive. But in this case, I've used my new method to create not only a perfectly fitted garment, but a perfectly smooth garment that cannot be removed except at my shop and with my special equipment.
It fits so perfectly that even a surgeon's scalpel might not be able to safely cut away the material without drawing blood."
Duarte cleared his throat theatrically. "Such an amazing garment. Without visible seams. So, without your help, no way to get in!"
Lana added helpfully, "out!"
"Yes,"
he said, dismissively. "But moreover: No orifices of any kind, not for sight or mouth or nostril. How do your models breathe through solid, sealed leather? How do they dance such intricate dances without seeing, and in such precision, without the balance their arms can provide? And where are their arms?
Behind their backs?"
"Yes to that last question. If medical science allowed us to safely yet temporarily remove arms, I would have preferred the sweet purity of that. But we've only
21st Century technology, so I had to improvise. Thus, the arms of my catsuited models I have bound in a reverse prayer position, elbows together, forearms running up the backbone to almost the next. That way they remain very nearly out of sight.
"Well, that was how I did it, except for several of the models who had trouble getting their arms into that very stringent configuration. For them I made do with a double hammerlock and some clever padding and strapping. The males, in particular, had trouble getting their arms high enough in back to make the illusion of armlessness completely effective."
"MEN?!"
Duarte fairly yelled it. "All those models were the same size and shape.
They were feminine in every way!"
poor Duarte!" Lana said, playfully spinning up the gold ringlets that dangled on her wrist. "A gullible observer, for now, of my illusions! Yes, three of those ten models were males. Special males. Males who are in my personal stable of slaves. Who are extremely adept at bending to my will — really, really bending, in this case!"
Slaves!
Duarte had heard that Lana was a dominatrix with submissive playmates, but he didn't know the extent of it. She continued: "All the models had to train rigorously for weeks to achieve the effects yo
Fashion Victim · Part 1 (1/2)
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