How to Play: Role-play

For literature lovers and those who like to recreate mental scenarios, the transcript of a Role Play session that takes place one cold winter afternoon in one of the Lux Studio dungeons.

By Deborah Danger

*Fantasy* He thinks he is going for a massage but is kidnapped.

*Description* Role player, cerebral, pain threshold 6/10. Experienced. Age 50 years old. Fetish leather. Wants to play from the beginning.

I open the door. “Do you have an appointment now? An appointment for what?-Massage-.”Please remove your outerwear and leave it on the chair; there will be a previous shower.”

When he returns, wrapped in a towel, I close the door firmly. With swift precision, I guide him against the wall, placing a gloved hand at the base of his neck, “Hands on the wall. Spread your legs”. I secure his wrists with cuffs.

“Massage is the next door. You have entered to Passage. Do you know how to read, what a passage is? It is the space between, is the limbo between heaven and hell, a place where one is no longer where they were, yet not quite where they will be. “Do you know what’s happens when you are dead? You can’t see”. I blindfold him.

”A mistake was made. You chose the wrong door.” I repeat his name in a whisper, an incantation, making him echo the words back to me: “This is Passage.” “Passage, Passage. What happens in Passage?”.

“Are you familiar with Hermann Hesse? Have you read Steppenwolf? Do you know about the Magic Theatre? Welcome to my play.”

“The first thing that happens here is you start to feel the flame, a warm sensation in your ass.” I spank him with my hands and accessories increasing the intensity. I like to make him count with me, first till five, then till eight, and after that till ten. “This is like an exorcism in the opposite sense: I’m the devil, and I want to get in. Feel my hands close to your body, feel my breath on your neck.” I exhale in his ears, one than the other.

My gloved fingertips graze his skin, a teasing touch, before I guide him further into this moment of surrender. There is rhythm in this, in the way my hands move, in the tempo of my voice. I place them behind and in front of his heart, so that he feels my body, he breathes, and I can feel his heart rate. “Feel me, do you feel me?” “Yes, Mistress.” “Can you feel me inside?” I devein his eyes. “Now you can see me, but you can’t touch me.” I raise him a little so he stands on tiptoe. “I’m playing with your body; I’m playing with your mind. Repeat it, more and more.” As he repeats, I take distance, walking in circles around the scene.

A calculated dance of power and relinquishment. A moment of stillness.

Then I press my fingers along his shoulders, tracing deliberate lines down his arms. The air hums with expectation. I remove a glove, letting my skin meet his nipples as I continue my exploration. He remains bound, anchored in place, as I guide his focus inward. “Gratitude is essential. ” He responds with reverence “Thank you, Mistress.” “It is very important to be grateful. Your future depends on your level of courtesy.” I take one paddle in my right hand and I hold him with the left “Thank you, Mistress,” he replies. “Why? All the sentence, complete: “Thank you, Mistress, for your time and your attention.”

I step behind him, adjusting his posture. The next phase begins— a slow, deliberate awakening of sensations across his back, his shoulders, his legs. The color deepens as the body reacts, absorbing each touch, each carefully measured motion.

“Now is the moment when the flame spreads over the rest of your body.  Feel it. Let it spread.” I take off the blindfold. “I flog him with a gentle but persistent flogger, his back first, then his legs, and his back. I blindfold him again ”What’s the color of hell?- Red”. “I want to feel the red flame burning your back. You’re a piece of meat. Turn around. Look at my eyes, look at my pleasure.” We count again, together.

His breath quickens. I place a chair behind him, securing him in place. He listens as I walk, my heels striking the floor in an unbroken rhythm. The sound moves—near, then far, then near again. The music swells. A door opens, then closes. I remove the blindfold, seating myself across from him. It has become a part of the chair, bound, immovable.  My gaze remains steady, unwavering.

A shift in dynamic. My foot rests lightly against his thigh. I tilt my head, considering.

“Let’s play a game. When was your last work meeting?” He hesitates.

A slight pressure increases. “Yesterday, mistress.” “What would your colleagues think if they saw you like this?” I let out a quiet laugh. “Disarmed. Exposed. Do you remember that girl? The one whose story ended poorly? What was her name?” “Sarah.” “She would be laughing now. Not me. Her.”

I glance past him, letting my expression shift, my eyes settling on a point beyond his shoulder. “Do you have a question?”

A pause. “Are we alone, mistress?” I smile. “Do you think, if I push this chair, someone will catch you?” “I don’t know.” I push. He falls onto the mat below. “You are alone with your shadow.” A soft chuckle escapes my lips.

“Are you feeling vulnerable now? In the limbo, the process of transformation begins. Breathe in. Breathe out.” I fasten a collar around his neck, giving a light tug on the chain. Once again, I cover his eyes. “Here, we decide. Do you move forward, or remain? Will you shed your former self, or be reborn anew?”

“How much does a soul weigh?” “21 grams, mistress.” I shake my head. “Again. Full sentence.” “The weight of the soul is 21 grams, mistress.” “I already told you that I want complete sentences.  Now you are a rat and your weight is 21 grams”.

“Come here, rat. Come closer, rat. Do it like rats do, crow like  a rat.” He starts to make little rat noises. “You are ridiculous. Do it better, louder. Don’t stop. Go on; in hell, rats are impaled, do you guess from where?”.

A new test happen, I use a plug to take his measurements. Your destiny is in my hands.”

I look at him with the plug while I put it inside a plastic bag. “I want you to tell me when I’ll come back: the final chapter of Kafka’s Metamorphosis” I leave the room and him thinking.

I play pure binaurals. I take a five-minute break.

When I come back, I say that I am all ears, and he starts telling me about the moment when the beetle dies. “Well done, I’m surprised. I’ve been analysing the measurements  in my laboratory. I want to check now if there is any humanity left in your rat body.”

Then I release him from his prison, I blindfold him again, I put him on the table, adjust his rat paws to the ends, and start to smear him with oil. During the next 20 minutes, he receives a massage. I turn him over. “Do you have any supplication?” I gag him when he is about to talk, and I wrap his body with plastic coil.

I lubricate a banana and start to slide it over his plasticised body, I make a precise cut, close to his genitals, I feel his skin crawl.

I devein his eyes, I smile, I play Hazey Jane from Nick Drake. I devein his eyes, I peel the banana I dance… I release one of his hands.

Slowly, deliberately, I take a bite of my fruit watching as he mirrors my movements.

He is shaking his own banana.

Where do you think we are?”

A pause. A breath. “Heaven, mistress.”