He too writes back immediately, which makes me think they are possibly in the same room, watching together as my rage blooms.
What ring? he writes.
Furiously, I pull my rubber skin from the shopping bag and unfurl it, thrashing it through the air a few times before scrunching it down and pointing my toe, ready to roll it on.
Tanya reappears at the door. ‘No, no, I don’t think so!’ she says. ‘Rubber is kind of extreme for our Carl.’
‘I think he’ll like it,’ I say. ‘It’s my new body.’ I shove a foot in.
‘No, Amelia, I’m serious—this is a very specific fetish that not everyone is into.’
‘And we are here to explore new things together,’ I say.
‘No, no, no.’ She grabs the bag from Marquis and digs through it. ‘Here, this is much better.’ She throws the fishnet body stocking and leotard at me. Then her eyes widen as she pulls the horse mask out. ‘Why would you even?’ She holds it up so that the horse head is in line with her own. ‘Kink is not a farce.’ She shakes the head at me.
‘For your information, I know that,’ I say.
‘There are subtleties at play here, and you need to be very respectful and very unassuming.’
‘Of course,’ I say, looking at the horse mask.
I try to pull the fishnet body stocking on gracefully, but it’s difficult when I’m being watched like this. I look at the mottled skin on my thighs, like uncooked hams stuffed within the netting of the itchy nylon. I pull the leotard over the top, which cinches me in, and I wonder if people are more attracted to those who have been concertinaed down. The leotard is shorter than it should be for the length of my torso, which makes it rise up between my labial folds.
‘Come on,’ Tanya says. ‘Let’s get you started.’
She walks off, and I quickly shove the rest of my things into the bag before shuffling after her, my stockinged feet sliding across the tiles as I try to catch up.
‘Wait, wait,’ I say, and as she turns to me I feel the full force of her impatience. ‘How do I look?’ I ask, raising my hands and turning slightly to the side.
‘Very kinky,’ she says, swinging open the door to the playroom.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The room has the general atmosphere of a building site. There is an abundance of loose chains in piles, and to the back is a platform that has been draped in a sheet of plastic. On one side there’s a massage table and a swing attached to the ceiling with cables, and in buckets against the wall are ropes, clips, metal parts, rubber rings and offcuts. I hadn’t seen this room in the tour earlier.
Tanya is matter-of-fact and efficient. ‘Both of you are consenting adults engaging in a play scenario. It’s not rocket science; just trust the training and go with it.’ Concern flashes across her face momentarily. ‘Are you taking this in?’
Judy was right: this is all a bit full on.
‘I’m going to watch from the back.’ She points to a low-hanging security camera.
‘Does that go online?’
‘Only on Tuesdays. Look, don’t overthink it, and don’t let him take charge. We can talk about anything else that comes up in the debriefing after.’
‘Can I have a minute to myself before he comes in?’
‘Yes—but just remember, you’re not alone, and the first time is always a bit awkward.’ She pauses. ‘I guess I should also tell you that Carl used to work for the defence force, so it’s important not to make any loud noises around him.’
She takes a step towards the door then stops. ‘Actually, that last bit is pretty important: don’t let anything bang or fall near him. Do you want to write it on your hand so you remember?’
‘No, I’ve got it,’ I say, massaging my temples.
She leaves, and I am not sure what to do, so I walk around the room, stretching my neck from side to side and rolling my shoulders to warm them up.
There’s a knock at the door, so I race to the platform and crouch down in what I think is a sexually suggestive pose because my torso is lower than my hips. It’s a runners’ crouch before the gun goes off, but because the platform has been draped in a plastic drop sheet it’s slippery, and my stocking-clad feet slide backwards. My lower spine begins to twinge and I am scrambling to hold my position as a middle-aged man walks in.
‘Are you ready for me?’ Carl asks. ‘It’s just that I usually set a timer for the session and we’re already three and a half minutes in.’ He taps his watch and rocks back on his heels.
Carl is dressed in a checked shirt tucked into chinos. He has a thick brown belt around his waist that has been fastened with a brushed silver buckle that digs into his paunch. His grey hair has clearly been recently cut because I can see the tan line from where the ends of it used to reach. I would say he’s in his early fifties, but has a managerial air, which ages him.
‘Look at me,’ I say, in a voice that is quite frankly so dominant that I almost jerk into a forward roll. I am startled by my commitment. This must be how method actors work: just fully inhabit the role, no questions asked.
I twist around until I’m crouched on the stage like a sexual gargoyle, but I’m still slipping in minute inches across the stage. I’m not sure if I have the thigh strength to lunge up, in a kind of martial arts jump, so instead, I keep sliding until I am on my stomach, looking up at him.
‘Bring that chair into the middle of the room and sit on it,’ I say, which is difficult because all my weight is resting on my abdomen.
Carl strolls
