One of the many perks of working at a sex shop is receiving interesting calls, especially when the caller goes off on inappropriately juicy anecdotal tangents. This was the position that I found myself in one morning during a particularly uneventful shift. The conversation had started off regularly enough, with a soft-voiced man calling the store to ask about our selection of wetlook dresses, which resemble slick plastic and often conjure up images of a dominatrix. After describing a number of skimpy little numbers held together by small metal clasps, I learned that this outfit was not meant for your run of the mill sexy romp.
He revealed that he would be attending a party of sorts with his mistress, populated by other slaves and masters. Over the course of the night, according to her wishes, he would wear different outfits to mark its progression. Over time the clothing would increasingly expose more of him, and mark his degradation from class to sleaze. He would start out the night as a plaything and end it imprisoned like a bird in a golden cage, completely vulnerable to those around him.
He would begin the party wearing a dress that left something to the imagination, followed by a confectionary maid outfit, which he had described as more of a dessert than a dress, with puffy layers of pink crinoline over a translucent tube top. The outfits to follow would get increasingly more revealing until they entered a zone that he called pure slut. The night would culminate with him bound to a cross, stripped bare and ripe to be pluck by any partygoer with an appetite.
After asking me multiple questions about my own opinions on the matter, he chose a black, clinging little number, quite short, that hung off both shoulders with long sleeves, to start off the evening. But he expressed the desire to wear a chain around the waist that could attach to both sleeves, which his mistress could hold and guide him with. Next he would move on to the maid outfit, which he divulged in breathy tones, all but begged for someone to lift up the layers of crinoline and play with the goods beneath.
He explained that his mistress enjoyed having her slaves dressed in extremely femme attire, bordering on sissy femme, which was, by his definition, too femme to be for anything but lustful consumption. It’s the kind of lingerie that no one would choose to wear of their own volition, because its sheer impracticality and discomfort exist in the realm of Lady Gaga-esque abstract fashion. It’s also clothing that his mistress would never don. In fact, he divulged, when she first laid eyes on the sumptuous maid ensemble she said, “Pull the trigger. Put a gun to my head and pull the trigger.” She would prefer death on the spot rather than suffer the humiliation of having been witnessed in a garb of that calibre. According to his mistress, “Any judge in the world who saw this outfit would surely condone rape,” he relayed, laughing awkwardly. As unfortunate as that comment was, it painted a pretty alluring picture.
The next dress on the roster for the evening was the first we had discussed, with the clasps up the front and the thighs, which was to be a theme of sorts. Then the last outfit, serving as the final round of visual foreplay, had the same clasp element running up the entire left side of the dress, but it was sleeveless with a collar and clasps along the left shoulder. It definitely brought to mind a Goth geisha, with a dot of black lipstick on chalky white lips, paired with an ebony parasol. When I described that dress to him I could tell he liked the notion right away since it could easily be unclasped, leaving him bared to his audience. He told me that his mistress wished to undress him in about 30 seconds, and wondered if the clasps on the dress would allow for it. I tried my best to describe the hook clasps, and how it might take about a minute or so, but if she did it with a flourish it could still be fast and hot. I mean, the thing practically screamed easy access.
Sensing that he might get a better idea of the garment’s advantages and disadvantages in person I told him that we could place a dress on hold for him. But he quickly explained that he would not be in charge of the decision making process, his mistress would. His only job was to research which pieces to show her online, the rest was up to her. He spoke of her in reverential tones, like some sort of goddess who can’t be questioned. “It must be nice to have someone make those sort of decisions for you,” I said, half joking, half serious, and half curious at what he might say about it. I imagined it kind of like having a naughty dress code enforced by a stern and titillating head mistress. “It has its ups and downs,” he said, laughing a little.
He explained that his mistress took a special interest in making sure that her playthings wore special undergarments during their escapades with others. For instance, his underwear had a built-in anal condom which protected the wearer but not those indulging. It also made it unnecessary to supervise her slaves to ensure that they were engaging in safe sex. It sounded like an ingenious system to me. But for the unlucky gentlemen who took a risk after others had plugged away, “It’s like a game of Russian roulette,” he said. Pulling the trigger could quite literally be a fatal move.