(6) Murder Victim

      I’ve never told this story because I didn’t want to admit to being so reckless and unprofessional.  I did everything wrong in this session and put myself in great danger.  It was crazy, the sort of spectacularly bad judgement that, if displayed by one of my dungeon co-workers, would make me think that they were not cut out for this business and should not be allowed to do sessions in the dungeon at all. 

         I expect to receive criticism.

        It was the winter things were getting serious with the Mathematician.  Probably December 2012.   I was on call at the Studio when the Russian manager called me to tell me that I had a session.  A submissive session, meaning that I would be the submissive. 

        “Do I know him?  What does he want?”  I asked.

        “I know him.  He is good client.  Good tip,” she said.

        I refreshed my makeup and jumped in a cab.  There was no traffic.  I was there in 20 minutes. 

          “He’s waiting for you.  You can go in.”

           “Should I go talk to him?  What do I bring in?  What should I wear?”

         “You are fine as you are.  He does some bondage.  Little breath play.”  She looked at me and said, very deliberately: “I know him.  He’s fine.”

         And with that, I went in.  Sight unseen.

        I’m not going to spend the rest of the story enumerating the things I did wrong and explaining what a wise professional should have done instead.  All of that would detract from the narrative of the experience, which is what I really want to write about. 

         It was very dark in the room–he’d turned down the lights.   The client was a huge Asian man.   Huge is not an exaggeration; he was built like a Sumo wrestler.  He was wearing a dark suit (it had to have been custom made) and a bright white shirt.  He had long black hair in a braid, a short beard, and small, round glasses with gold wire frames.   I couldn’t tell his age.  40s, maybe.

         I introduced myself and asked him what he had in mind.  He told me to undress and sit on the bondage bed.  He was going to tie my legs together at the knees.

          I tried to read his energy and emotional state, but I wasn’t getting anything.  He was very calm.  He seemed sober, lucid.  He didn’t want to talk, didn’t have any questions for me.

         I stripped down to my bra and underpants and sat down on the bed.  I told him that my underwear stayed on and that there was no touching allowed between my legs. 

          He nodded.

         “Then what?  Are you going to hit me with something?”  He hadn’t brought any equipment that I could see, aside from the rope, but I had an eye on his leather belt.  

         He said that he would not hit me. 

         Then I let him kneel in front of me and tie my legs together above the knees.  I was glad that it was the knees and not the ankles, because it made my crotch less accessible.  

         What’s he going to do?  What’s he up to?  I asked myself.  I was curious.  I didn’t see where it was going, but I wasn’t scared.  I should have been scared, but I wasn’t.  

           He lifted up my ankles and put them down on the bed.  Now I was lying down, on my back. 

            Uh-oh, I thought.  The little lightbulb went off above my head.  I figured out what he was going to do: he was going to climb on top of me and try to snuggle or dry-hump my leg or something gross like that.  

           No.  Nothing so pedestrian.

            While he was standing over me, looking down into my face, he took both hands, wrapped them around my neck, and started to squeeze. 

           I didn’t freak out.  To this day, I wonder why I didn’t freak out.  I didn’t panic, didn’t try to pull his hands away.

           I didn’t resist.

            It’s a game.  It’s part of the session, I told myself.  He’ll let go in a minute.  Wait for it. 

           Famous last words, right?   Famous last words.  If I’d been capable of speaking them.  Which I wasn’t. 

            You have more than a minute before you pass out.  It’s only been a few seconds, I told myself. 

          (but then, in the back of my mind: how long can you afford to wait?)

            He let go and stood back up straight.  

            I didn’t whoop in breath or start coughing.  I didn’t try to get up.  I took deep breaths through my nose.  

           “You’re good,” he said.  Then he started strangling me again.  Longer, this time.  His hands were huge and very strong.  I could feel my heart start to pound, the way it does when you’re holding your breath under water, and my face started to feel numb. 

            What if he doesn’t let go this time?

             He will.  He knows what he’s doing.  He’ll let go.

             But what if he DOESN’T?  Are you going to just let this guy kill you?

           He’ll let go, I told myself. 

             And he did.

             This time, I did whoop in air.   It hurt my throat. 

            I still didn’t call it off.   When he did it again, I was ready.

           That was the session: I was playing chicken with this man.  I was playing chicken with a complete stranger in a dungeon.  I was playing chicken with my life. 

             I saw spots.  I saw stars.  The blood rushing in my ears.

            I could really die here.  By accident, even, I thought. 

            He let go.

            I knew it, I thought.  I wonder if I was smiling.  He took a step back from the table and I rolled over onto my side, coughing.  My throat hurt, my windpipe hurt. 

            What does this person want?  I wondered.  What’s the point?  Does he want me to freak or cry?  Does he want me to have fun?  Or is his enjoyment not contingent on my reaction at all?

            He’d finally relaxed a little bit.  He had a small smile on his face.  

              He pulled a chair away from the wall and gestured for me to sit.

            I finally spoke: “I can’t do an hour of this.  It’s too much.”

           “Just a little more.  This is the last part,” he said, softly.

           “Let me finish getting my breath.”

           He waited.  Still calm.  

           I hopped off the bed and walked awkwardly over to the wooden chair.  I could only take tiny steps because of the way my legs were tied. 

           I had a seat.  Now I was looking at myself in the huge black mirror. 

            He tied my wrists to the spokes on the back.  I let him do it.  I knew he was going to.

            I was telling myself that it was just a game and he’d done this a million times before and I wasn’t in any real danger.  After all, if he wanted to kill me, I’d be dead by now.  

        Why did I tell myself that?   Was it some bullshit coping mechanism my brain was coming up with, a line of bullshit to deal with the real danger of the situation?  Why was I composed under all that pressure, that situation?  It was like when I took that beating from the Attorney, the worst beating of my life, when I safed out: I didn’t freak, I didn’t cry.  

          Is there something wrong with how I’m made up, that I wasn’t more scared than I was?  

          Is there something wrong with how I’m made up, that put me in that situation to begin with?

          Why did I sit in that chair?

           One more round.  Let’s cruise, big fella.

          I knew it was coming, and took a big breath of air before he cut it off, like I was a swimmer making a dive. 

           Down we went.

           You have about ninety seconds before you black out.  Less if you’re exerting yourself.  

           Ninety seconds is a long time to look at yourself in the mirror and think about what a stupid way to die this would be.  I mean, shit.  He could put my body under the bondage bed and walk out the dungeon door and be halfway to the airport before anyone even notices that I haven’t left the room yet.  I pictured the other girls in the locker room down the hall.  They’d give me a Darwin Award for this one, for sure. 

           What does he want?  I thought.

           He wants a dead girl.  

           I relaxed into it, still telling myself that everything was going to be fine.  My head was pounding.   The pressure behind my eyeballs.  

            He let go.

            That was it.  We were done.  The tension in the room evaporated.  The spell was broken.  His energy changed entirely.

             I collapsed back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling, wheezing.  He pulled out another chair and had a seat.  Then he pulled a handsome gold cigarette case out of his pocket.  He opened it and offered me one.

             “No, thanks,” I said.  

              “That was good.  You’re very good,” he said.  Whatever the fuck that meant.  

               Now he could talk.  I don’t remember most of what he said, but he did mention coming from Hong Kong.  Something about Obama.  Yup, just the usual post-session chit-chat.  

               He gave me $600, asked to use the restroom, and left.

               The rope was good rope.  We cleaned it with bleach and then added it to the collection.

               “Session okay, Margo?” the manager asked me.  “Did he take care of you?”

              What was I going to say?  That she should have fucking told me that the guy was going to choke me out?  Did she know that he was going to do that?  Did she tell me that he was a “good client” so that I wouldn’t panic?  Because I might be a masochist and a little batshit crazy, but if she told me on the telephone that a client wanted to choke me out,  I would not have hopped in a cab. 

            I went home.  

            I only told one other person.  I didn’t know how to tell anyone.  How do you explain that a client choked you, and you let it happen?  That I did a sub session without explicit negotiation?  What do you say?  How can I explain what happened in that room?  Was it really all that bad?  He left me safe and sound, didn’t he?  Not even a bruise. 

             I told Dahlia one day.  She had a bit of a morbid side.  

           “Wow, that sounds crazy,” she said.  Her eyes lit up.  “You must have felt like a murder victim.”
          


5 thoughts on “(6) Murder Victim”

  1. There is so much poor reasoning in this I don’t know where to start.

    ” I could really die here. By accident, even, I thought.”

    Quite.

    “You have more than a minute before you pass out. It’s only been a few seconds, I told myself.”

    How can this be true when so many different variables are involved? Quite apart from the physiological differences between individuals, there are your own physiological unknowns.

    Depending on these, you could have suffered a cardiac arrest or a stroke, or your ‘normal’ safe time for doing this could have been overturned by some contingency you weren’t even aware of – hunger, fatigue, alcohol, stress from RL, or some hidden and hitherto non-fatal weakness in your cardiovascular system, or your windpipe.

    There is no failsafe mathematical formula for how long you can go. Too many unquantified variables.

    “What does this person want?”

    He wanted to get as close to killing you as he could. He will probably end up doing it for real.

    “I was telling myself that it was just a game and he’d done this a million times before and I wasn’t in any real danger.”

    This is NOT reassuring. Quite the opposite. The more times he does it, the greater the probability that something will go wrong. Do the stats. Suppose the chances of it being ok are 99% or 0.99. Multiply 0.99 by itself a few thousand times, and the probability of something going wrong increases to an unacceptable level.

  2. …but I’m not here to criticize you or to tell you the bleeding obvious.

    The people I have a problem with are those who own and run the place.

    Do they have ressuscitation equipment in case of a cardiac arrest (either client or worker)?

    Is anyone trained in first aid?

    Do they know where the nearest hospital is, and would they call the ambulance in an emergency, or would they try to save their own skins, and the business?

    Do they know the first thing about their duty of care from the point of view of health and safety?

    Have they taken out insurance in case one of the girls gets killed on the job so that her loved ones/dependents would get some kind of compensation?

    Do they give a shit? Or, if the worst had happened, would they have just put you in the nearest dumpster and hoped for the best?

    An alternative, politically-aware title for this might be “The Commodification of Labour – an Extreme Case History”.

    1. No.

      Not that I know of. I can do CPR myself, but nobody knew that.

      They’d call an ambulance. Probably. If they could, though, they’d get the injured person off the property first.

      Nope.

      HA HA HA HA HA HA

      No shits given. Not if it affects their pocketbook.

      All of your points are taken. I’ve had this conversation with a few of the mistresses who work in the dungeons around Midtown. The consensus is that someone will die in a dungeon one day. Nobody is doing anything to prevent it–that it hasn’t happened yet is mostly due to luck. A guy at the Studio lost a testicle (this was before my time, but I talked to the woman who did it) and they dumped him outside the ER with it and drove off.

      Thanks for reading.

  3. Margo, sometimes I think you have a death wish.

    Other times I just think you want to be the old lady in rest home remembering how she never refused a challenge and how she burned the candle all the way. How she wrung every last measure out of this life, and spit in the devil’s eye.

    That’s fine. I get it. But you have to be lucky every time, and the devil only has to be lucky once. He gets lucky enough anyway, why give him lay ups?

    Still, if I’m in that same rest home, I”m gonna want to hear every last story.

  4. Yikes!

    “Little breath play. I know him. He’s fine.”
    Actually, the Russian’s description seems accurate. But, wow! Her word is a thin thread to hang your safety on.

    Sorry to hear that a man lost a testicle at the studio. Oops! (I am assuming that it was unintentional)

    I occasionally heard stories from dommes about other dommes injuring clients. I was never sure how to take it — was it badmouthing a competitor? was it a theatrical tall tale told to heighten my sense of fear? The worst was that someone used water that was too hot in an enema, necessitating a short hospital stay and some months of recovery. Back in the early 90s, one domme told me of a domme who would arrange ‘forced bi’ sessions and not insist on the use of condoms because ‘What difference does it make, they are all perverts anyway.’ Of course, it’s up to the man to look out for his own safety, but still . . .

    One of the things that makes me think the professional S&M scene is a little piece of hell is that when we are there, we are all in it alone.

    John

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.