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Copyright © 1997 Trevor Mendham.
All rights reserved and reproduction without written permission expressly prohibited.
Bound
I sense you as you walk through the main doors,
exchanging the cold darkness of the street for the sweaty,
humid shadows of the club. It is still early yet "The Rock"
is already full, people pressed most tightly together by the
bar. On the dance floor there is a little more space and
bodies grind in the strobing lights. The music blares so
loudly that it is almost impossible to hear anyone speak.
That does not matter to the club's customers. Few come
to this place for conversation.
Some, like you, wear the full costume, smooth leather and
shiny steel. They come to be seen, to flaunt what they have.
Others, less sure of themselves, come to watch, to dream. A
few, a very few, will leave here together. They will play out
their fantasies, wallow in pain and discipline, believing
themselves to be living to the extreme. Their games are
childish, a mere shadow of the real thing that they will never
know.
You know. As do I.
Ignoring the bar, ignoring the music, you walk through
the crowds directly towards the back of the club. Your
presence is strong and a path clears for you with no words
spoken. Some give you glances, admiring and desirous, but
none dare catch your eye. There would be no point, you have
moved far beyond their sphere.
[End of this extract. The full story was published in Nasty Piece of Work #4,
July 1997]
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