fire

“You’re not squeamish, are you, Brigit?”

This was not the sentence I wanted to hear. I lifted the coffee cup to my lips to gain a few moments thinking time, noticing with dismay that the cup was shaking slightly. I placed it back down on the saucer and drew a deep breath.

“Not at all.” I hoped I sounded breezy. “Why, what did you have in mind?”

The man in front of me smiled. It was a smile devoid of clues, devoid of any indication of either compassion or malevolence, clues that could light my way and help me make the right decision. I could read nothing in his face. I’d only met him an hour ago, and his sunglasses denied me the possibility of gleaning anything at all from his eyes. I found myself distracted by the reflection of the traffic flashing by on this sunny Saturday morning, vaguely aware that one of the cars held my man, protectively driving laps of Brunswick Street in an effort to keep an eye on the proceedings and thus keep me safe.

From what, I was only beginning to discern, and I leaned into the conversation with equal parts trepidation and fascination. Well, perhaps the former overshadowed the latter, but with a margin growing smaller and smaller.

“Well, Brigit, I thought we’d begin with some flogging.”

Flogging. That sounded acceptable. I could do that.

“Followed by needle play.”

My breath whistled through my throat, but I managed to keep smiling.

“Then we’ll finish with some mummification.”

Oh jesus, oh fuck…..did he just say mummification? Do people DO that?! How? WHY?! Though my shock meant that I wouldn’t attempt to pick up my coffee cup again for quite some time, I knew without doubt that I needed that last question answered. And while I was at it, what the fuck was I doing, pretending my name was Brigit, acting as though chatting about submission and cat o’ nine tails were all part of a normal Saturday morning for me? Around me I could hear snippets of conversation from nearby tables, reassuring in their banality; friends catching up on gossip, planning their weekends, bitching about partners and bosses. And there were we, a twenty year veteran of the fetish scene, and a somewhat startled potential dominatrix, trying not to spill her coffee as she gingerly nudged the door open on a whole new world.

His response to my first email had been friendly, if not particularly warm. “Forgive me my caution,” he’d written, “but you can never be too careful in this scene.” I couldn’t argue there; I was the one with a fake name and a partner keeping watch. “We’ll email for a while, and then, if I find your reasons and your attitude appropriate, I’ll arrange a meeting. If that goes well, we can begin. Does that sound fair?”

It did. It sounded fair, and exciting, and not a little thrilling, and though I could think of ten reasons not to, my fingers moved of their own accord and hit send, send, send. After a month, I became aware that these words weren’t entirely written by me anymore; I knew that Brigit was guiding my hand, spilling my thoughts onto the screen and spiriting them away to a stranger, the hesitation diminishing with each email. To delve into my reasons for this journey was to lay bare my desire, an incredibly intimate dance that I’d never felt able to embrace. Now, in signing my letters with a pseudonym, a name of fire and force, I felt the cloak of her assumed identity wrap around me. The anonymity this provided liberated me with an intensity I found intoxicating. I wrote and wrote.

“You passed the first test,” he’d answered. “You know this journey isn’t about sex…..it’s about power. And yes, about love, strength, honesty. It’s such a pure way to learn about people,” he wrote, “to learn about yourself. I can see you already know that.” Yes, I’d done my research well, grateful to have that recognised.

I rewarded him by unfolding hidden aspects of myself, presenting them to him carefully, yet with increasing candour. I told this man, unknown and unseen, of my time spent inside. How three years spent locked in my own house, bound by invisible and inexplicable fear, had removed me from people to the extent that I stumbled over sentences, felt the words stick in my throat, choked on the now unfamiliar sounds. How three years spent indoors had robbed me of interaction, of connection, of trust. How I was now ready, I thought, to learn about people again, about what they were capable of, desirous of. I didn’t say that I was also ready to learn the same things about myself. I didn’t need to.

I laughed at my lover’s reaction. “You do realise’, he cocked an eyebrow, “that domination is not the typical cure for agoraphobia?”

I understood. Of course, I understood. I even shared some of his concern, but Brigit had helped write a way out of that dark life, and although he thought the darkness it led to might be even more of a concern, he knew better than to interfere.

More coffee. I wished he’d take off his sunglasses. Damn it, why hadn’t I worn mine? I wondered what he was able to read from my eyes, from my demeanour, from my responses. He was testing me just as surely as I was testing him, and I wondered how we were both measuring up. The waitress swivelled up to our table just then, and as she set down my third cup of coffee, she narrowed her blue rimmed eyes and quickly, unexpectedly, winked at me. She was gone before I could react, but it set forth a flurry of questions in my mind. Did she know what I was doing here? Maybe she knew him – he said he liked to do his interviews in this café. Maybe she worked with him….did she look like a dominatrix? Did I?! God, maybe I looked like someone for whom flogging, needle play and mummification was an average afternoon……He didn’t look like that, and he was the acclaimed Master of twenty years standing. He was in his early forties, his sandy hair still damp from his shower, the slim gold ring tapping against his tea cup his only jewellery. He was dressed in requisite black, but his freshly ironed shirt tucked neatly into his jeans seemed almost earnest to me, and the fact he was wearing Converse puzzled me somewhat. I didn’t know what I was expecting – snakeskin boots and a pitchfork? – but what he lacked in physical presence he more than made up for in the words that came out of his mouth.

“If you were to undertake the apprenticeship, you’d need substantial First Aid training. You do realise that?”

I nodded, not liking where this was going at all. I didn’t trust myself to speak.

“Yes,” he murmured gravely, “it’s not unheard of for an inexperienced dominatrix to make a serious mistake.” He took a sip of his tea, and I realised I was leaning forward in my seat, bent towards him. “Let me tell you, there are stories you don’t want to hear”. Did I? I wasn’t sure anymore. He shook his head ruefully, lost in a memory, and I didn’t disturb him. Part of me was still snagged on a word he’d used twenty minutes ago, unable to unhook myself: predators. “There are a lot of predators in this scene; a woman can never be too careful.”

Well, that was why I was here, wasn’t it? To be initiated into this tantalising world by a respected veteran, someone well known, someone…..I wanted to believe the word trustworthy, but it just didn’t taste right. This was as safe as it got, and I knew it.

But I also knew that I wasn’t alone. Brigit smiled at him, and this time I knew it was breezy. She wrote the appointment in her diary, snapped the cover shut, threw it in her bag with a flourish. And when she strutted out of the café, she caught the eye of the waitress.

I don’t know if it was me or Brigit who winked.

© bellmusker 2007

Currently unavailable for purchase



This is the first piece I ever put on Red Bubble, almost three years ago. I was so afraid of showing others my writing that I deleted it twice in the first 24 hours…yet something compelled me to post it again, and a hugely influential part of my writing journey began.

I came back to polish it, make it shine. But this is the writer I was back then and although I wouldn’t do it quite the same now, I’m not going to change it.

This pulled me out of hibernation, & I’ll always read it with a smile.

I love the words that fall between the cracks; where I have to roll my sleeve up, jam my arm down into the darkness, and yank the stories up by their hair.

I write with black coffee, and bare feet.

Both seem to help.

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Comments

  • ©   Elaine van Dyk
    © Elaine van...over 7 years ago

    Wonderful! Couldn’t stop reading it once I started. Needed to know what was going to happen. “………I don’t know if it was me or Brigit who winked.” Loved that ending.

  • bellmusker
    bellmuskerover 7 years ago

    I must admit to feeling a rush of nerves when I saw someone had responded to my story – quickly followed by delight when I read your lovely words. Thank you so much. This is my first posting on this site, so words of support are so encouraging – and very much appreciated!!

  • powaygohome
    powaygohomeover 7 years ago

    Very, very nice, bellmusker. Glad you’re on the site— keep writing. I loved the sense of tension on the surface and beneath the surface simultaneously. That’s a difficult balance to keep across a whole story and you did it quite admirably. Well done!

  • bellmusker
    bellmuskerover 7 years ago

    Thanks so much Adam….comments like yours, and Whirligig’s, make me glad I joined this site and actually put my words out there. I’m really looking forward to spending some time delving into other people’s creations. Still finding my way around at the moment though, but looking forward to further exploration!

  • Damian
    Damianover 7 years ago

    Hi Bellmusker, loved your story :)
    Really well put together and interesting characters. It was a great concept, and I liked the evolution of the character into her false identity as a source of strength.

  • bellmusker
    bellmuskerover 7 years ago

    Thanks Damian – it’s always good to get positive feedback! The concept of identity often finds its way into my writing; it’s a constant fascination for me. I think many of us have a Brigit that we turn to when we feel somewhat out of our depth….at least, I know I do! Again, thanks for your comments.

  • David Spencer
    David Spencerabout 7 years ago

    Lovely writing style… couldn’t help but want more.

  • Lisa  Jewell
    Lisa Jewellabout 7 years ago

    You had me from the first sentence and took me to the edge of my seat…I also have a Brigit in me. Wink…wink..

    Wonderfully written so raw & real, for me the best of writing…

  • jetsta42
    jetsta42about 7 years ago

    damn, i know it’s been said before, but i wish i was the first to tell you how much i loved that last line!! it’s f***ing brilliant…also could kick myself for not having read this before i met you, would have had all these questions to ask…when’s the next meet up???!!!

    Deine Ehrlichkeit zwang mich weiter zu lesen. Deine Welt ist eine in die ich mich gerne sonnen moechte, auch wenn nur fuer ein paar Stunden.

  • bellmusker
    bellmuskerabout 7 years ago

    Posting my stories was such a difficult concept for me in my early days as a Bubbler…..but with support like this, my courage is growing. Thank you thank you!

    Jessica, Danke soviel fur deine wunderwollen Worter – where are the umlauts on this thing?! My German is appallingly rusty, and although I could understand your words, alas, Ich kann nicht auf Deutsch antworten. Ein Tag, hoffe ich….

    I think we’ll have many, many stories to trade at the next meet. Bring on the whiskey!

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