One Door Opens, Another Closes · Part 1

One Door Opens, Another Closes · Part 1 (1/2)
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…The twenty dollar cab fare I had been left to use delivered me near enough to the address that I had been given just this day, the cab dropping me off two city blocks short of my final destination, after the driver asked me twice on the way if I was sure this was the right address. I told him it was (hoping I had memorized it correctly) and paid my fare with the bill I had stashed in my high heel, telling him he could keep the change. I wouldn't need it where I was going, my manner of dress and lacking pocketbook likely telling him I was a purchased commodity, and his cab merely the most practical method of delivery this particular time.

He seemed happy enough to be on his way to his next fare with this misconception, although one could argue he was more right than he knew. As I walked up the street and in the direction his cab was pointed I felt like a castaway being dumped off on some deserted island and left to fend for myself, even before the roar of the cab's defective exhaust announced it's rapid departure. The man turned to look at me as he sped past, my scant dress likely backlit by the few working security lights, his expression one of apathy despite my exposure… He had other things that he must do, and so did I.

…One door closes, and another opens…

…I found myself walking up that dirty sidewalk in the industrial part of town, all alone on this warm early evening. I was dressed in a too-small black spandex club minidress that left nothing to the imagination, it's scant fabric pulled taunt and hinting at the naked flesh beneath as it teasingly raked my moving buds to semi erect status. Along with my slutty dress I also wore a cheap pair of heels, as well as a huge pair of sunglasses to further conceal my identity, although none of it was expected to survive this ordeal intact.

Everything I was to exclusively wear had been left for me, hours earlier, in my room as if part of an erotic Halloween costume, as was a large trash bag for the proper clothes I had worn earlier that day, to include my pocketbook and phone; both were forbidden where I was going. I had picked up the paid-for room key at the front desk of that awful little motel not two hours earlier, the front desk man looking me up and down and likely wondering what somebody like me was doing here.

I had seen that look before, but had little time to dwell on it as I had just enough time to take care of the essentials and change costumes once again, from one of implied respectability, to that of overt sexuality. My room's key was to be locked inside along with the trash bag containing my things, and further committing me once that door had closed behind me.

…One door closes, and another opens…

It was unlikely that anybody would have recognized me in this strange city on my short cab ride from the cheap motel dressed as I was, nor on the short walk to my destination in this abandoned seedy area; the click, click, click of my cheap stilettos on the litter strewn sidewalk announcing to eyes felt and not seen that I was someplace I most certainly didn't belong. My instructions had been clear though, and violating them unthinkable, as were the consequences.

Anonymity, it was the one constant in this crazy life of mine, wondering for not the first time how someone as educated as I had gotten myself into this seedy state of affairs.

I could have ignored the email to my private account when it had come, leaving this double life of mine behind, but the man who had issued those electronic orders to me knew that I wouldn't, the consequences for that little act of mutiny far reaching. I was therefore, in a way, free to choose my fate, but with a single practical option that enriched that particular man at my expense, the word blackmail never mentioned, but clearly implied.

It was this illusion of freedom, and the complimentary illusion of mock resistance on my part, that made this such a complicated arrangement, one that I'm sure a psychologist could have made a career out of studying. I was also "forced" to keep myself in prime physical shape for my extracurricular activities, with a critical eye towards my weight and endurance, almost like a dancer's, but for routines not ordinarily suited to the big stage and a well dressed gentry.

There are however exceptions to any rule…

I knew I had never been to this particular place before, but several just like it on my many "business trips" throughout the world. My brief daydreaming introspection however came to an abrupt halt as I found myself standing before the door I had been instructed to find, with the ever present butterflies of doubt and desire working their unique forms of magic. This was now "show time" though, best to get my game face on and let the games begin.

The door was covered in festive green wrapping paper as I had been told it would, confirming at least that I was in the right place; my relief at finding it quite rational, if one were to bear in mind the irreversible method of my delivery. One also didn't have to be clairvoyant to know that it would only be green just long enough to find out what lay waiting for me behind it. I had watched that particular movie (Behind The Green Door) some time ago for an art class, groundbreaking for its day, but positively tame and artsy as compared to what likely lay in store for me behind this door.

The man who had arranged all this had a certain ironic flare in the things he did, although these days more for the pleasure of others and not necessarily himself, except of course vicariously as he likely watched the hidden camera films he made of these events afterwards. I was ever mindful of those recordings and who could potentially see them, ensuring I did as commanded, lest they find themselves in the wrong hands and expose the rather nice false other life I had managed to build for myself.

I was one of the keys to that man's success, and he to my husband's in a devil's bargain, although how exactly that had managed to happen is a separate story in and of itself.

That man above all else was a master of manipulation, I had to reluctantly give him that, and I would do anything to keep my secret past from my husband and our present circle of friends, as he well knew. This was the primary reason why I found myself wearing almost nothing while delivering myself to an alley in the early evening on the bad side of a strange town, without so much as return cab fare to a room I was now locked out of if something went wrong.

It however wasn't the only reason, as that manipulative man knew that I got something from this treatment, in direct contradiction to what one would suspect by the respectable way I now ordinarily lived and dressed on a daily basis. That was the thrill of it, in an odd sort of way, no one would suspect, nor dare to accuse one like myself of being "that" woman. As added insurance against that though was a certain level of promised anonymity, because if I were ever discovered and outed the game would end for both of us. That anonymity allowed me to become "that'' woman, playing a part that I couldn't dare otherwise to sate those dark desires that I sometimes wished I didn't have, for the rougher aspects of life…

I knocked on the door as instructed, then went to my knees on the fortunately clean entry mat, bowing my head and clasping my hands behind my back in the most classic of submissive poses. That man had taught me this pose over a decade earlier as the only proper way to greet one's betters; I was excited by the sheer kink of it, back when I had been a naïve college student, working my way through school as a sometimes escort.

…Back then escort meant just that, a dinner and dancing date that I got paid for, from a legitimate agency, with a for real payroll check, with anything else that occurred, or may occur, left between consenting adults. That particular man was both charming and wealthy, and I, twenty-something and single, wondering what it would be like with a worldly older man just one time; college boys and their self centered ninety seconds of high energy passion literally anticlimactic, at least in comparison to that man.

It turned out instead to be many, many times, after I had left the agency at his insistence, that man teaching me a lot about myself, and the sometimes dark and exotic ways of the world as a bonus. It was one hundred percent consensual, and exciting as hell, but to one watching from the outside it surely wouldn't have appeared that way.

I was still grateful for the education that he (and later on his wealthy friends, that I had been graciously lent out to) had provided back in the day. There was almost no apparent limit to their lust-filled creative kink, nor my submissive appetite for it, once properly bound up and helpless. Nor was there a limit to their generosity afterwards, although explaining that away left my friends and family with the carefully crafted misconception that I was a better than average card player at the casino. I did play, but just to keep up appearances, losing more times than I won "almost" always, just like everybody else.

It had been a great many steps, from a simple bathrobe sash with which to bind my wrists experimentally behind my back that first time, to kneeling on this particular welcome mat, dressed in almost nothing so far from my very nice home. There had been a natural progression to such things, each of us for a time, thinking we were getting the better of the other. Once bound, or even forcefully pinned and held tight, something kinky and hungry deep inside of me came fully alive, giving myself fully over to those dark thoughts that man had planted in my mind, inspiring me to both do, and allow, things that no rational woman should wish…

The door didn't open at once, and I was forced to kneel humbly in wait, every background sound seemingly amplified, as was my vulnerability. I even heard a distant police siren, reminding me that crime was likely nearby, and stalking. Was this the right place? I was forced to wonder irrationally, despite the green door before me. Or was I instead by design gifting myself to some stranger, forced to then endure some "for-real" extended horror, possibly even filmed for the entertainment of that man and his friends before he, or they, did away with me for good? Would my very last role ever be that of a one time snuff movie "star," never to reappear anywhere again once my usefulness came into question, except of course on film?

It occurred to me that this would be a perfect way for him to have me do away with myself… once I became a liability to him (or aged out of desirability, despite my best efforts at the gym); his alibi, and that of his associates, easily arranged for ahead of time. Would he then get a copy of that film for himself, I further wondered darkly, if for nothing more than to ensure the deed had been properly, and permanently done?

…Such irrational thoughts helped to put me in the proper frame of mind for what was to come, and playing into those fears a sack was eventually placed over my head from behind as I squealed in surprise. Handcuffs were next, my stealthy captor not yet speaking a word as I continued to kneel in place while passively submitting.

"I think you may be lost darling, or perhaps snooping around someplace you don't belong" a familiar voice hissed. "In either event you are to join our little party tonight, it shall of course be amusing to see if you survive the ordeal," the voice further threatened.

I knew that voice (and the hollowness of his threats in the real world) but the sack and his method of capture told me he wasn't alone, and if I knew what was good for me I had better remain in character when he brought me through that door. There were, after all, all kinds of ordeals, and I knew that once I had delivered myself that I would be participating in them one way or the other, no matter my thoughts on the matter. That was the exciting part for me, the lack of control such ordeals promised. That man also knew my physical and emotional limits, such intimate knowledge both comforting… and at times terrifying, as limits, for some, are things to be tested and explored.

…One door opens, and another closes…

I was roughly stood up by my arms and marched through the door, two sets of hands roughly guiding me as if to reinforce the futility of any resistance on my part, as if running away handcuffed, and in cheap heels, and with a sack over one's head was any kind of an option. I heard the clink of cocktail glasses and the murmur of distant conversations penetrate my hood, perhaps in another room the well dressed guests were already having their drinks and being attended by a fawning staff, just as I might have been myself in my other more normal life.

Such fawning and genteel etiquette was in stark contrast to what lay in store for me, but that was the whole idea, in a macabre sort of way. This for me was a study in contrasts, them finely dressed in their expensive foreign suits and designer dresses (yes, ladies who were corporate power players themselves sometimes attended these events) all interacting in strict adherence to every nuance of cultural etiquette for such a gathering, despite this likely being nothing more than a nicely decorated warehouse this time.

The guests and not the location were the draw for these events, as was the entertainment; it was a time to underground network and be seen in that environment as somebody who was ‘up and coming’. ‘That man’ who had sold me into this life the proverbial kingmaker, just there to direct sometimes darkly motivated talent to where it could best be utilized. I, and others, were the entertainment, there as nothing more than human distractions and conversation pieces, or perhaps even to demonstrate one's lack of human empathy, when necessary.

…Once I had been set on display in a rented out art gallery, my nude body helplessly painted and pinned to a giant painted background canvas and hung on the wall in an equally large frame, painted as if I were a human sized butterfly. That night I was to watch both the covert glances, and the more overt stares of the masked partygoers as they strolled by and enjoyed my painted and naked living art display. There was no hiding my respiration, heartbeat, and eye blinks, nor my slight muscular adjustments as I hung on display; that in fact was the whole idea, on display and "suffering" for their amusement.

Another darker time I had been chained to a massive iron framed medieval chandelier laying face down, it equipped with over a dozen thick candles of different colors set into specially made candle holders. Attached to those were troughs to redirect their hot multicolored melting wax over the course of the night to drip and run all over my naked flesh, instead of the well dressed and honored guests dining below (at an ancient looking great feasting table). Once I had been helplessly spread eagled and chained to that medieval looking contraption, both it, and I, had been hoisted high above the dining table as nothing more than a human chandelier. I had been placed on display where I could watch the guests from above enjoy their gourmet dishes as I became partially encased in hot wax, both for their visual, and audio entertainment, hardly silent in my suffering.

A great deal more happened on that particular night, but more on that later…

…Back to the present though.

I eventually found myself in a room, by the sound of it someplace off of the main area, but such was hard to tell with a sack over one's head, perhaps this some loading dock office. The building was an old warehouse on the outside, probably rented out for just this event, but possibly owned by my host, or even one of his associates for all I knew. Would the interior still be just as industrial, or was this building just as deceptive on the outside as I was?

I expected to be stripped of my clothing first, and here I got a surprise, as instead my wrists were uncuffed and fitted with what felt like my suspension cuffs. I was intimately familiar with these particular cuffs, they felt well worn and broken in almost like a pair of favorite shoes (I had an identical set hidden at home with which to condition myself). I had spent countless hours in them before, both hanging on display in one form or another as that man's well dressed guests networked, and solo at home with my own set to work on my endurance in my private workout routines.

…I had been introduced to suspension by that man years earlier; I was eager to try any new kink back then, truly getting off on the totality of such helpless hanging submission. Back then I could only just last long enough to do the deed while hanging from a spreader bar by my wrists (my legs often locked around him and cheating the relentless pull of gravity) but now my endurance could be measured in hours if things were properly and safely set.

One Door Opens, Another Closes · Part 1 (1/2)
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