else. Or maybe that was just her quirky glamour tricking me. I couldn’t tell how old she was either. Something told me early thirties. She had a poise rare among women of my and Gina’s age.
‘I’m Nichi,’ I smiled back, ‘and this is Gina.’ Gina looked at Sapphire warily.
‘So,’ I pressed on, ‘Sapphire . . . that’s an unusual name. Siren-like!’
‘Oh,’ she laughed blithely. ‘It’s not my real name. It’s my domme name.’
Domme name? I could see that she had caught the consternation cross my face. ‘Domme. As in dominatrix. I sexually dominate men for a living.’
‘Ahhh!’ I replied, dropping my intonation so as not to sound too clueless. I knew what dominatrixes, er, no, what was the plural? – dominatrices – I knew what dominatrices did. For a very tidy sum they tied up overweight businessmen who fantasised about being punished for their capitalist sins, didn’t they?
‘How do you find it?’ I asked casually. I wasn’t particularly interested in the mechanics. Besides, she must get sick of being asked inane questions by giggling men and women desperate for lascivious detail.
‘Beats working in an office all day. And for The Man.’ She gave me another, more effusive smile. It was the smile of a cream-fed cat. I couldn’t decide whether I found her pretty or not. I found her something else, but I couldn’t put my finger on what.
Gina eyed Sapphire suspiciously. I could tell that she didn’t think too much of her. Having seen that I seemed relaxed, she made her excuses and slipped away. But I stayed. I was intrigued.
‘I used to work in the spa industry, you see,’ she explained. ‘In Paris. Serving a lot of very prissy, spoilt women all day long. I’m an excellent service provider so one day I figured there had to be a more lucrative way of making money out of the fact that I enjoy indulging people.’
Service provider. That was an odd way to put it. Weren’t dominatrices usually duped man-haters, or women that had been abused by demonic father figures as little girls?
‘That’s interesting.’ I replied. ‘I thought you had to enjoy beating up men to be a dominatrix.’
‘Oh, well, don’t get me wrong – the beating comes later. I’m not a natural sadist, though. It’s really more about mind games. I mean, I do tie them up, spank them, use CBT on them . . .’
‘CBT?’ I asked. The only CBT I knew was cognitive behavioural therapy, the technique the eating disorder clinic had used to try to get me to believe I wasn’t fat when I weighed less than six stone.
‘Cock and ball torture,’ Sapphire said. ‘Basically, tying pretty ribbons around their private parts. Or clipping on weights. Just makes the area more sensitive.’
‘So you touch them?’
‘Only minimally. Usually not with my hands. With a cane or a crop or something. She glanced down. ‘Or my shoe. And you? What do you do?’ she enquired.
‘Oh, I’m a journalist. Well, I’m trying to be a journalist. I’ve been interning but the magazine I was working for couldn’t pay me so I’m probably going to temp again.’ I could have lied but she’d only ask me what publication I worked for. And besides, you never knew who you were going to meet at one of these parties, and what contacts they might have. It paid to be honest.
‘Where do you temp?’
‘At a hospital. As a medical secretary. It’s an odd use of my degree, but at least it’s helping people.’
She smiled, nodded, lit a cigarette. Then said, ‘You have a great figure, you know.’ She gestured to my chest.
‘Oh, well, no, I don’t.’ I blushed. ‘A decent rack is just one of the perks of not being skinny.’ I could see that she was pretty lean herself, with a small bosom. ‘But I’m comfortable in my own skin,’ I continued. ‘Sex appeal doesn’t have much to do with dress size. I learned that the hard way.’
She stared at me thoughtfully, as if totting something up to herself. But she didn’t ask me
‘I’m Nichi,’ I smiled back, ‘and this is Gina.’ Gina looked at Sapphire warily.
‘So,’ I pressed on, ‘Sapphire . . . that’s an unusual name. Siren-like!’
‘Oh,’ she laughed blithely. ‘It’s not my real name. It’s my domme name.’
Domme name? I could see that she had caught the consternation cross my face. ‘Domme. As in dominatrix. I sexually dominate men for a living.’
‘Ahhh!’ I replied, dropping my intonation so as not to sound too clueless. I knew what dominatrixes, er, no, what was the plural? – dominatrices – I knew what dominatrices did. For a very tidy sum they tied up overweight businessmen who fantasised about being punished for their capitalist sins, didn’t they?
‘How do you find it?’ I asked casually. I wasn’t particularly interested in the mechanics. Besides, she must get sick of being asked inane questions by giggling men and women desperate for lascivious detail.
‘Beats working in an office all day. And for The Man.’ She gave me another, more effusive smile. It was the smile of a cream-fed cat. I couldn’t decide whether I found her pretty or not. I found her something else, but I couldn’t put my finger on what.
Gina eyed Sapphire suspiciously. I could tell that she didn’t think too much of her. Having seen that I seemed relaxed, she made her excuses and slipped away. But I stayed. I was intrigued.
‘I used to work in the spa industry, you see,’ she explained. ‘In Paris. Serving a lot of very prissy, spoilt women all day long. I’m an excellent service provider so one day I figured there had to be a more lucrative way of making money out of the fact that I enjoy indulging people.’
Service provider. That was an odd way to put it. Weren’t dominatrices usually duped man-haters, or women that had been abused by demonic father figures as little girls?
‘That’s interesting.’ I replied. ‘I thought you had to enjoy beating up men to be a dominatrix.’
‘Oh, well, don’t get me wrong – the beating comes later. I’m not a natural sadist, though. It’s really more about mind games. I mean, I do tie them up, spank them, use CBT on them . . .’
‘CBT?’ I asked. The only CBT I knew was cognitive behavioural therapy, the technique the eating disorder clinic had used to try to get me to believe I wasn’t fat when I weighed less than six stone.
‘Cock and ball torture,’ Sapphire said. ‘Basically, tying pretty ribbons around their private parts. Or clipping on weights. Just makes the area more sensitive.’
‘So you touch them?’
‘Only minimally. Usually not with my hands. With a cane or a crop or something. She glanced down. ‘Or my shoe. And you? What do you do?’ she enquired.
‘Oh, I’m a journalist. Well, I’m trying to be a journalist. I’ve been interning but the magazine I was working for couldn’t pay me so I’m probably going to temp again.’ I could have lied but she’d only ask me what publication I worked for. And besides, you never knew who you were going to meet at one of these parties, and what contacts they might have. It paid to be honest.
‘Where do you temp?’
‘At a hospital. As a medical secretary. It’s an odd use of my degree, but at least it’s helping people.’
She smiled, nodded, lit a cigarette. Then said, ‘You have a great figure, you know.’ She gestured to my chest.
‘Oh, well, no, I don’t.’ I blushed. ‘A decent rack is just one of the perks of not being skinny.’ I could see that she was pretty lean herself, with a small bosom. ‘But I’m comfortable in my own skin,’ I continued. ‘Sex appeal doesn’t have much to do with dress size. I learned that the hard way.’
She stared at me thoughtfully, as if totting something up to herself. But she didn’t ask me
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