I tell her, "we scored."
WELCOME TO THE CHATEAU
(published as HOT NIGHTS IN AN S/M CLUB)
I'm sitting in an uptown bar, sipping a beer, stoking up for Chateau 19 again. I'm not the kind of guy who wants to arrive totally sober. The Chateau is New York's first on-premises S&M club, whips and leather for sale at the door. I have to stay sober for the cab and lubricate for the club. I can manage it.
There's a guy behind me who looks familiar but the coincidence is too weird to register at first. I keep watching, though, and the third beer clarifies. Last time I saw him he was running, literally, to save his ass. A hand over each hot red cheek. He was the star of the party that night, a good-looking guy with dark fuzzy hair and a trim body that was constantly shedding its jeans so that somebody or other could abuse it somehow. The Chateau has been open for a year but last Thursday was my first night there and he was just about the first thing I saw, aside from Robin tied to the ladder. He was in the back room, lying naked on his back in the dim semi-darkness, with the spike heel of Denise's boot turning slow circles in his mouth.
A crowd had gathered standing four-deep on the soft grey carpet and on the mats in the raised recessed cubicles that give the place the look of a cavern at twilight. The only sounds in the room came from deep in his throat and from Denise, who kept telling him to eat it, asshole. "Suck it, you stinking piece of shit." It was Denise who taught me the first maxim of S&M —that a slave must not be pushed beyond his capacity for consent. But that was later. Now she was just an attractive black woman whose boot had somehow become the object of this guy's cooing adoration. It seemed silly and none too interesting. I wondered if it was staged. I went outside the main room.
To Robin tied to the ladder. When I later spoke to Robin he told me that it was not really pain he was into, it was costumes. Sometimes he was slave, sometimes master but always he was costumed. He had even named himself after his favorite getup, Boy Wonder. Now all he wore was a leather hood over his head and a prodigious length of rope. His cock peered out from the coils like a small pink mouse. Somebody had scrawled ASSHOLE over his chubby middle-aged chest and there were esoteric doodlings along his big pot belly.
Robin was bound so tightly because he happens to be a sort of amateur escape artist who prides himself in wriggling free whenever he can. Tonight that was impossible. Behind him, a fat woman lightly whipped his ass with a riding crop while a middle-aged man looked on. He introduced himself to me as Robin's protector. They were not lovers but had been good friends for quite a while and he made it his business to see that none of the more excitable dominant types pushed his friend beyond his limited taste for torture.
On the floor, the heel-sucker had emerged and now a stringy-haired platinum blonde transvestite was tying him to the ladder and whipping his ass with abandon. It was action the crowd was after and they surged forward, one of them too close. "Back off, slut," said the transvestite and the slut—a little man in dark glasses—did as he was told, the crowd moving politely along with him.
But soon there was a second interruption. A fat woman stepped out of the crowd and claimed that the heel-sucker belonged to her and that the blonde had a hell of a nerve fucking with him without permission. They argued and shook crop handles at each other while the heel-sucker moaned and clung to the ladder. Finally the transvestite backed off—hell, the woman had fifty pounds on him—and she took over. The heel-sucker didn't seem to care that she made his ass extra red for his infidelity. It was hard to tell if he even knew he'd changed mistresses.
It was ten o'clock or so and the smallish suite of basement-level rooms that houses the swing club Night Moves every night but Tuesday and Thursday—when it transforms into Chateau 19—was filling rapidly. Over at the cloakroom a girl with a burn-ravaged chest was taking entrance money—$7.50 for men and $2.50 for women, two free drinks included—and hanging furs and parkas, while a big black bouncer stamped the patrons' hands in Day-Glo ink. Down at the bar a crazed Italian girl was searching for someone who evidently had stolen her whip. Beside her the transvestite was making new connections. Back inside the caverns Denise was whipping a guy's prick with a small clapper-paddle. "They say it don't hurt," she grinned, "that it just makes noise. That depends on how you use it."
There was a lineup for the bathroom out in the hall. The rumor was that some golden-shower freak had been in there with another guy for ages and they were blocking up traffic. Standing there I listened to the music, mostly old disco but sprinkled with odd songs with wry lyrics and song titles that mirrored the collective psyche. "Big Girls Don't Cry," "You Can't Always Get What You Want," "Our Love Is Insane," "Surrender To Me." For the first time I was really listening to the lyrics to "Bobbie's Girl" ("What a faithful, thankful girl I'll be.") I shifted my weight and stepped on the guy behind me. Getting into the mood of the thing I turned and glared at him. He smiled.
Inside the john I took my time and wrote down a few notes. But the beers were making me impatient for a little havoc of my own. What I really wanted to do was what I usually want to do in a bar where there are attractive women around. And for the most part the women here were quite handsome. Wildly outnumbered by men of course—and worse—nearly all dominant types.
If I have a type myself, I guess that so am I.
I wondered if you could dominate a dominant. Talk about your long shots.
All the same that's what I decided to go for. I walked out to the main floor and started some serious scrutinizing. It wasn't long before one of them got to me. She was standing next to some big college boy and the two of them were watching another guy get his ass flayed over on the whipping horse.
One nice thing about coming on dominant at the Chateau is you don't have to worry about much competition from the other guys. If you pretend they simply aren't there that usually suits them fine. So I walked over and listened for a while until I got her line. She was involved in a critical appraisal of the show over on the horse. She smelled wonderful. Up close she looked wonderful too—dark thick hair and pale skin, a deep husky voice, a fine sleek throat and a thin tight body, proudly worn. Of course I could have done without the whip.
A few quick questions about style and finesse did the introductory work and she turned away from the college guy to explore my own possibilities. I'd already learned that a lot of the women here were pros—mistresses for hire—so it seemed wise to smokescreen a little until I could find out about her. But that wasn't possible. She went right for the throat.
"And what are you into?"
"I'm a writer."
"That's not what I mean."
"I know that's not what you mean."
I told her my name. She avoided mentioning hers. I was wearing a thin black 1950s-vintage silk tie and she took it in her hands and twisted it.
"You know what I'd like to do?" she said. "I'd like to take this tie and string you up with it. Would you like that?"
I figured it was a good time to declare myself.
"Actually I had stringing you up in mind."
The surprise had her at a momentary disadvantage. It was a start, at least.
She laughed. "With me it doesn't work that way," she said.
"You should be flexible."
She took my nipple between her fingers and started to flirt with it slightly. I reached up for hers. "Oh, no," she said. "You can't do what I do."
"Okay." I grabbed her ass instead.
"I don't think I should be talking to you," she said.
"Why not?" I kissed her. She kissed me back.
"I think you may be dangerous," she said. Sure. Next to her I was about as dangerous as a pilot fish swimming round a shark. She turned to the guy who was still standing behind her, presumably watching all this.
"Ready?" He nodded. She turned back to me. "I have a client," she said.
"You're a pro, huh?"
"Completely."
"Another time, then."
"I don't think so." She smiled and kiss
ed me again. "I doubt it."
"You're weakening."
Another kiss and she was gone, her slave following close behind. Suddenly I was swept into the crowd again. Something was up. I moved along with them to the area cordoned off for the horse. And there on the floor was the heel-sucker again, naked and writhing and moaning while two women belabored him with riding crops. One of them was his fat mistress and the other was a short slim Germanic girl with glasses who is probably the most diabolically resourceful Pain Queen since maybe use Koch. A few moments later he was howling and on the run, cheeks in hand and making for the bar.
Which is where we came in.
Tuesdays are slower at the Chateau. Some of the regulars like it better without the crowd of "tourists," as they call the horde of voyeurs and scene-spotters who show up Thursdays. The eroticism is lazier without the crowds, without the heat of their quietly impassioned bodies. All there is to do is talk, so that's what I do.
To a foot fetishist who tells me how he is always faithful to one pair of feet at a time. Even if, as in the present instance, those feet belong to a woman who belongs to another man. The couple took him to see SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER and made him sit on the floor throughout the movie so he could worship her shoes. He knew each shoe intimately and was keenly aware of which needed special care. It was too bad but a pair of her shoes had died recently. She made him bury them and say a few words. Now he brings flowers to their grave regularly.
To Denise, the pretty black dominatrix from East Harlem who is the only full-time mistress on the Chateau payroll. Denise's particular province is the narrow cavern to the back of the club. She stands at the entrance to make sure no drinks or cigarettes get inside, supervises its entrails to see that nobody gets carried away. Having come to this scene only a few months before and being involved with a guy who has never been here and would no more allow her to humiliate him than he would eat cinders, she is critical of power-tripping mistresses and masters who do this less for sexual current than for strange-brew ego kicks or ordinary cruelty.
It's a fine distinction, but I watch her make it.
"Crawl!" she says to a shy young man she has just finished whipping. "Crawl the length of the fucking room and back to me, you stinking piece of shit!" He begins to whimper in confusion. He is not into that. There are too many people around watching. Denise caresses his head and tells him he's a bad slave—he will have to come back to her another time for instruction. She backs off, and it's just what he wants to hear. It lets him off the hook and promises games to come. "Yes, mistress," he murmurs and hitches up his jeans. Denise apparently is a mistress with a heart.
To Sir George, the Chateau's official Fantasy Counselor, a good-natured giant in leather vest open across his beefy chest, with silver MASTER belt buckle, walrus stature, receding hairline. George is chief custodian of the general peace, believing firmly in every man's right to his own desires so long as nobody gets hurt who doesn't want to be. He has two personal slaves of his own, a male and a female. There was another female once but he dismissed her so she could get married.
I watch him twist mercilessly at his slave girl's nipples while she makes a bad attempt to jerk him off in time to the music. She has a terrible sense of rhythm. Meantime he talks about his private "Fantasy Fulfillment" service, a kind of berserkers' FANTASY ISLAND.
Recently, a client came to him with a notion to be eaten by cannibals. Sir George and his staff set up a "kidnap" and then a "roast" and finally seasoned the guy with baby powder and bit at him until the customer came in a hot slash of masticatory delight. "We'd have used real salt and pepper," says George, "but the guy specified that he wanted baby powder. Tasted miserable."
I ask him who the woman was I had put the move on last Thursday. "Oh, that's Margot," he says. "She's here all the time."
Only so briefly tonight that she's out the door with another client before I have a chance to accost her. I walk around a bit but the girls are few and mostly fat and ugly and because of the cold, Denise has kept her clothes on all evening. Denise may have the best tits in town and I found out last Thursday that she doesn't mind my handling them now and then. But I do miss the crowd. There's a bracing wildness to a good crowd. As for this Margot person, I know I'm wooing ectoplasm. But I'll be back again Thursday.
There is blood in the air from the beginning. Something out there vaguely vibratory in the atmosphere.
"Lotta lezzies tonight," someone says and I do see a lot of women huddled in close pairs. Also more gay men and drag queens than had been around before. Turning from the bar with beer in hand I stare down at the bald speckled head of a tiny old man with clear blue eyes and bulbous nose. There are a lot of old men too. Some have brought their wives.
By nine Denise is already naked. George is late arriving. There is no sign of Mistress Margot so I decide to try my luck elsewhere. The women are good tonight. I walk over to a thin dark girl peering over the crowd from the third step on the ladder. She is dressed in sheer black bra and panties, black garters and black stockings.
"Looking for somebody?" I ask. I run my hands over her bare arms and shoulders toward her breasts—preliminaries being pretty useless here. But the breasts evade me. She looks amused.
"You don't seem very submissive to me," she says.
"I'm not."
"Good try," she says.
I move on into the back room. I push my way through a lot of silent chinless young men to where a woman sits naked astride a dwarf while a bearded man pokes his dick at her from behind. She's directing all the action but it's the first straight sex I've seen at the Chateau in three consecutive visits. She tells the guy to take her dog-style while she sucks at the dwarf's limp cock drifting out through his fly. When that pales and the dwarf is up a little she sits on him again and sucks off the bearded man while an old man directly to my left strokes her tits. The dwarf seems distracted and shy and when another scene starts in a cubicle behind us he's the first to notice.
A woman and two male slaves have arrived. One of the men is naked and the other wears a little black-and-white serving maid's costume. His hands are tied behind him and a red rubber ball in his mouth gives him color. The naked guy wears a dog collar and the woman is holding his leash. While the crowd herds from one threesome to the next and vies for position she attaches the leash to the collar and pushes the man to his knees in front of the serving maid. Then she pushes the maid down on his back onto the mat. He's naked under the frilly skirts. The dwarf's cock looked more significant. All the same she moves the naked man's head down over it and tells him to suck while she swats his ass with a paddle. I guess he's not so good at it because the harder he sucks the more she paddles. "Slut," she calls him, "scumbag!" and the crowd laughs and I sense that the evening is off and running.
Outside the little SS girl from last Thursday—"Short Power," George calls her—has a man bare-assed over the horse and is showing off with the crop, stroking and then whipping the insides of both thighs as high up into the soft tender joints as humanly possible without hitting cock or scrotum by mistake. She's so good that each stroke jolts him to his knees and she has to reposition him again.
Sir George has arrived with his ex-girlfriend—an ex-hooker, ex-addict from Brooklyn—who arrives already high and jangly and proceeds to disintegrate entirely. She wants screwdrivers and sends George out to a package store for vodka. A few minutes later she has a bad case of the lurches. All night long I see her slashing her way through a crowd or hear her screaming that she wants out of this joint, she wants to go someplace she can dance, always moving at a rate just below a run and balanced just above a fall. George just brings her the vodka and lets her run amok. Inevitably, she hits the floor a few times and I bring one of them to George's attention.
"She's all right," he says. "What can I tell you? She's my first girlfriend."
"Oh, from the old days," I say.
He gives me an odd blank stare.
"From a year and a half ago," he says.
> I let it go. "Pretty girl," I say. And she is.
Down on the floor the horse is busy again, this time with a couple of transvestites posing and playing cutesy with a paddle. The crowd isn't buying and begins to drift away, bored. Just as I'm about to join them a girl steps forward and stops me cold. To say she is beautiful is like saying Jerry Lee Lewis plays piano. But it's the hunting knife in her hand that's the real attention-grabber.
"Is that thing real?" someone behind me says.
But the transvestites aren't worried. Maybe they're stupid or maybe they know her. Anyhow, they laugh while she strokes their necks and thighs with the blade and pokes around beneath their skirts. The crowd pours back in again, wide-eyed. Once I have dismissed the potential for massacre I take a better look at her. Black sheath dress, cut low and tight and sleeveless, a black pillbox hat with a thin black veil to the bridge of her nose, a fine nose, a perfect nose and above it, dark eyes that gleam and flay and clout, below it a mouth bred in gentility and fed on the blood of wolverines. A trim tight body in serious showdown with the black sheath dress. Altogether stunning. She holds up the knife.
"No blade," she says to someone in the crowd. "Only the point is sharp. Quite sharp."
So be it. I move over to her. "Who are you?" I ask her and take her arm. Feels good. She turns to speak to someone.
"Who the fuck are you?" I say again and I'm probably being far too impetuous because without turning from her conversation or removing her arm she pushes the knife into the pit of my stomach and holds it there. It's sharp, all right. If I take a breath I am going to have to pay for it dearly or else move away.
I gather she doesn't want to talk to me. I move away.
Into the caverns. Where Denise is twisting some guy's cock and balls until the whole package looks fit to burst. When she lets up, she says it feels like maybe there is blood on her hands but it's too damn dark to see.