[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!
"So, 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, no, you silly man," Lana laughed. "I meant, what are you drinking?"
"I'm 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 to .... ."
"I know why you're here," Lana said, a faint look of disdain on her lip. "But you could at least be polite."
"I'm 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 back to the present, and the little dining box, as Lana continued speaking at 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!"
"Or," 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!"
"Ah, 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 you saw in the show. They had to know the catwalk down to the last inch -- although we also had a secret signaling system I'll tell you about. The models had to practice balancing themselves in the dark and with their arms restrained, while in tall heels.
"They also went through long hours of yoga practice and we helped them with muscle relaxants and other treatments. Of course, I had to make individual adjustments, and tuck all the men in, if you know what I mean.
"Some of them had to diet, and then be fitted with very tight corsets to make up the difference. You see, for the sake of this set piece and going forward in our private activity, I demanded that my leathermodels look as nearly alike as possible -- that is, at least from the outside of their catsuits.
"We have been able to make them look so much alike when suited up that only a tiny painted number on the bottom of one of their boot heels will let us identify each of them with complete assurance. Although," she laughed mysteriously, "we also have that secret signaling system!"
Duarte sniffed again. "Well, I see that only a slave and not a hired model would go through all that for one show. However, one thing bothers me: There is no way even with all that training, even without clever staging and electronic tricks, that a blindfolded model could move in such precise fashion, in step with nine others. No way!"
Now it was Lana's turn to act dismissive. "You underestimate the will of the human mind, Duarte. Or maybe you do understand, but wish not to admit it. Many things are possible, given sufficient time to test and perfect, and given limitless discipline, respect, self-actualization and the urge to achieve. Hindu monks can stop their hearts, after all.
"But while this is interesting, it's not getting our business done, so let's cut to the chase, and then we can relax that much sooner. There are three reasons you cannot have the units you seek.
"One, you seek them for profit, and I will not sell these suits for profit. They are special. They were at the end of my show for a reason. For display, but not for release from my private collection.
"Two, as I said earlier, I could not possibly make enough of these suits, even if I did care to sell them. The work is laborious and precise, and no amount of money would be just recompense.
"Three, and this is the biggest reason of all: THE SUITS ARE NOT DISTINCT FROM THEIR WEARERS. Where the suit goes, so goes the wearer. The leather catsuit and the wearer ARE the unit."
Duarte's eyebrows fairly vibrated. "What? What do you mean!?"
"I mean that a couple of ways. The suits are custom-fitted for an individual as they are made. But more important, it is my strong philosophical conviction that these leather catsuits belong to each of my leathermodels -- and my leathermodels belong to ME. And I will continue to possess them. Always and forever.
"I know what you're thinking: Some dominatrices do sell their slaves, sometimes with the slave's consent, but I'm not one of them. Just not my style or urge."
Duarte looked lost. "I...I don't understand. You mean to say... ? But...!"
Lana laughed, with a trace of wickedness at the edge of her smile. "Oh don't be so cryptic, Duarte! I know all about you. You're a powerful, influential and self-assured man in public, but I can sense a serious submissive from five klicks away. And you and I are a lot closer than that. I've heard stories about you, around the shops and on the street. I've even overheard conversations, some of them your own. And I checked into a few things.
"I have no doubt that your Russian buyer is real and would like to own these catsuits. But I also have no doubt that you could not help but approach me after the show. You asking to speak to me in private, about what you called an urgent matter: that summed up all my theories.
"But you don't have to tell me about yourself except to admit that these leather catsuits have evoked more than a professional interest in you. You want one of these suits to keep, not to sell to a client. The only mystery I had to resolve was whether the suit was for some playmate of yours ... or for yourself."
Duarte glared. "How dare you?! I've a mind to get up and leave right now. No one insults Duarte the way you..."
"Hush now, my poor, hopeless, transparent, closet submissive of a man! You can leave this private room at any time. And you will leave. The only question is whether you will leave of your own volition, in anger, or under my terms, in happiness and anticipation of a great exciting change. You know all about me, too, don't you? In fact you know rather more about me than vice versa, and yet I understand you better than you do me.
"So let me lay it out for you, and then you can answer one simple question.
"I have ten leathermodels. Ten male or female slaves, playmates or lovers or both, who have accepted me as their total, ultimate Madonna and dominatrix, ten who accepted my offer to create for each of them a highly personal copy of this very special catsuit. A suit which, with my new manufacturing techniques, completely encases and objectifies the person who wears it. And I do mean completely.
"As you now understood, the suit once donned is utterly inescapable. Even if the wearer's arms were free, and their fingers and hands not tightly mitted inside unseamed and heavily padded leather, there would be no zippers for them to worry, or straps for them to try to flex or wriggle out of. Once on, the suit stays on, until I open it again with my special photochemical sealing technique.
"The result is that this suit is like a skin. A complete, self-contained universe. No chaffing points, no loose air spaces. It's extremely comfortable. Buttery soft. And completely and permanently sealed, until I undo my techno-magic."
Duarte began, "But they obviously must breathe! How...?"
"I said hush, didn't I" Lana smiled and took another sip of wine. "This is the one concession in the suit's otherwise total enclosure. There are two things you cannot see. The first is that I came up with a way to use a separate electrochemical process to make microscopic perforations in leather without weakening it.
"These are holes so tiny they cannot be seen and yet they are large enough to pass air molecules. Thousands of these holes can fill a square centimeter and yet look and feel like ordinary leather to the naked eye.
"I could include these perforations over the hood's eye cavities, too, and perhaps in future editions I will, but for now I just don't, ah, see the need for my leather-encapsulated slaves to keep their sight.
"For now, the invisible, microscopic vent holes form a small oval over the mouth of each wearer. I should note that the hood of this special catsuit contains a built in padded leather gag of rather significant size. It has a hollow tube in it, however, so air can be passed.
"There is also an osmotic filter in the tube that prevents any liquid from escaping, so the wearer is still forced to swallow his or her saliva. Thus the suit stays clean and dry, while my leathermodels are able to get just enough air, although they must practice long hours before they are able to exert themselves at the level you saw without becoming faint.
"Another set of my microscopic vents -- patent pending! -- is positioned over each nostril, for additional airflow.
"I should note that the hood is carefully fitted to perfectly match each wearer's head. Also, the inner leather lining of the hood over these points carries a gas-permeable adhesive, so that the hood will not inflate or deflate no matter how hard the wearer breathes.
"There is another option on this suit: In the design of the lining I took care to run a number of lines made of thin, flexible but noncollapsible hollow plastic tubing. Two of these tubes can be cemented temporarily into the wearer's nostrils down into the esophagus, to provide a liquid feeding line.
"Two other tubes can be used to collect urine and deliver a slow enema. Both male and female suits contain built-in butt plugs through which the enema tube passes. The female unit also has a built-in dildo through which the urine tube passes. The male unit, of course, requires a catheter insert.
"All these tubes route to the crotch, where they are cemented to the skin of the suit. There, also, the suit can be selectively unseamed using my new electronic sealing technique whenever the body needs waste treatment or fresh water or liquid nutrient.
"In this fashion, my leatherslave can be kept in the suit for many hours, or even several days and perhaps a week or more.
"You may also be interested to know that the suit's inner leather lining also contains numerous electrode contact points, which are fed by a system of fine wires in the suit lining to a flat little receiver unit in the small of the back. This unit is a battery-transformer that is wirelessly controlled and which can transmit TENS-type electroshocks to the various electrodes in the suit.
"These electrodes I can activate at low settings to massage tired muscles, or at higher settings either for discipline or for sending function commands to the slave. You know: For example: Two short shocks to the left tit means turn left and stop. So this doubles as our signaling system!
"I'll let you imagine where the rest of the electrodes are emplaced, except to say there's even one built into the integral gag, for those times when more severe discipline needs to be administered.
"Now, my friend Duarte, we come to the reason we are here tonight in my special dining box. The reason I openly acknowledge, and the reason you fear to admit.
"For it happens that while I have ten leathermodels who are now fitted to wear my new Model TLC Total Encasement Leather Catsuit, I happen to have enough material and appropriate leather hides on hand for eleven such suits. The last suit remains half built and unassigned. I am offering you a one-time opportunity to join my stable of slaves and to be custom-fitted as my eleventh leatherslave.
"I do not demand or expect that you will live with me on a full-time basis. You could expect to serve me directly on at least a weekly schedule, at my pleasure. Thus you would have to arrange your work so that you could drop everything on an instant's notice should I command your presence.
"You would be required to make yourself available for service for periods ranging from one evening to up to four weeks at a time, continuously, with no prior notice. I happen to know you are a man of means for whom this shouldn't be problem.
"We would have many unusual, intense and exciting adventures in leather bondage and discipline.
"Often but not always, I would encase you in your special seamless and armless leather catsuit. I would care for you and see that no lasting harm comes to you, but I would practice severe leather discipline upon you, and to obey me completely. There would be great pain, and also great pleasure. There would be others with whom you might also be obliged to serve, or even to help me dominate. Often, as when you're in your catsuit, you would be utterly objectified -- no longer a person, but my personal plaything.
"While you would be serving my needs, based on what I have surmised, you would also be serving your own unmet desires.
"For I am a sensual, sensitive and caring dominatrix. I make you this offer because you are the right material, and because in certain ways physical and intellectual and emotional, I fancy you. But It's also true that I fancy tearing you down from time to time, depersonalizing you and making you nothing more than an instrument for my own perverse and erotic pleasures. A slave not only in my home, my bedroom and my dungeon, but also a leatherbound slave who will follow behind me on your leash to the opera, to the clubs, the park or wherever I choose to go.
"I can assure you that -- despite the ordeals that will test you -- your own rewards would be extremely great in terms of physical sensations that are life-affirming and awakening. Because, even though I'm in complete control, it would still be a two-way relationship, and a fantastic slave cannot be all about doing work.
"Between my calls on you, you will if you prefer be allowed to keep your money, your reputation and everything else about your current life that you care about. You can even keep your anonymity, if you prefer, with respect to our relationship. But I will take your will. Actually, you may convince yourself that you wish to willingly hand over control to me. Perhaps with a bit of prodding, but nonetheless!
"So how about it, Duarte? Will you become my eleventh leatherslave? Will you let me dress you as a one of my leathermodels and teach you to become an object that performs on future catwalks, that walks blindly at my side, that gladly accepts what punishments and pleasures that I care to administer to it?
"My only requirement is that you answer yes or no within the next 60 seconds."
Silence ensued until 50 eternal and tense seconds later, a nearly speechless Duarte croaked out a whisper: "Yes, Lana, I accept your offer."
"That's wonderful. Only from now on, to you, I am Maitresse Lana, even in polite company. Do you understand, slave?"
Another hoarse whisper: "Yes."
"Fine. Now, you must stay here and I must be off. Two of my leather femme collies will arrive within an hour to dress you in your first leather slave costume. You will be hooded, gagged, and leashed, and you will follow them to a limousine that will bring you to my villa, where I will be ready to begin with you.
"Please do take time while you wait to make any phone calls in order to settle your affairs for the next week, for I will need to occupy all that time with your initial training. Oh, and of course we'll also immediately fit you for your TLC Total Encasement Leather Catsuit. You will be Total Encasement Leather Slave Number Eleven. Eleven, for short. Such a lucky number, for such a very lucky man!"
She pulled on her emerald leather gloves and pressed her right index finger hard over his lips. "Our wonderful and mutually rewarding years in the business world now gives way to an even greater and much more pleasurable and exciting relationship. I have watched you and thought about this for a long time, now, and if you reflect upon it, I think you will finally recognize that you have, too.
"The deal is done, but your ordeal is just beginning. Number Eleven, reflect upon your good fortune and the sweet misery of your fate, forevermore."
She kissed Number Eleven's flushed, perspiring forehead, and then Charles the waiter arrived to escort her from the dining box. The man in the box felt hard, moist stirrings in his soul. He panted continuously for the next hour, and for much of the rest of his life.
THE END
23.05.06
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