Prologue

London, 2003

Kitty

Writing was exhausting. You wouldn’t have known it by looking at the blank _Word 98_ document, staring back defiantly with its incessant blinking cursor. 

I just wanted to write perfect, erudite, insightful prose. That wasn’t so much to ask for, was it? 

The keyboard compressed under the weight of my face as I slumped forward onto it, no doubt causing a snake of symbols to rattle across the screen. My decline may have been a touch dramatic, but I had very much reached my capacity for care. So, with a pencil in my left hand, and without looking, I scrawled the word ‘fuck’ in large letters onto the notepad lying next to my head. 

There was something uniquely soul-destroying about living, sleeping, and doing all my work in the same tiny room. My self-imposed cell was a post-apocalypse of clothes, tea-mugs, and books scattered across every surface save the radiator, which was reserved for our cat, Fishy. I liked to think my room messy rather than filthy, given it didn’t reek just then. 

My room resided in a flat, which was itself situated within a nondescript block near Borough Market. I shared it with my friends, each of whom, like myself, was a different flavour of postgraduate. We were all also queer. 

We’d found each other during our late teens and early twenties through mutual friends, attending the same university, or by way of late-night assignations. At some point, our little chosen-family came to the conclusion that living together would mean we didn’t have to deal with homophobic bullshit at home as well as everywhere else. 

Over time, we had become quite close.

I supposed that’s how they noticed my sullen demeanour of late. Collectively and individually they had said I needed to take time off. That with perspective, I might actually be able to write. But it was impossible to pull myself away. I needed to sit there until I forced the chapter out onto the page in irrefutable language and logic. 

Out of the three of them, Jane was the only one who could actually draw my attention away from my work. I had a crush on her when we first met, but eventually we fell into a comfortable friendship. She was seeing Tara, who lived with us too. Tara made Jane happy. And seeing Jane happy… Well, that made me happy too. 

“Oh dear,” Jane leaned dramatically against my bedroom door, which she had opened without knocking, “Looks like my flatmate has discorporated.” 

She wore a sardonic grin as well as a breathtaking strapless red dress that hugged her chest and waist until it flared around her mid-thigh. Her golden ’going out’ make-up sparkled on her light-brown complexion and her cropped shiny-black hair fell across one side of her heart-shaped face. I was struck by the vision, but also the ceiling light refracting off her black vinyl boots. 

“The cause of death is no doubt linked to her tragic lack of a social life,” she continued in the serious tone of the medical doctor she was studying to be.

“Poor thing,” she sighed, “Only survived by her long-suffering opus.” 

“Sorry, Dr. Watson,” I grumbled, having shifted my head to rest on my forearms rather than the keyboard, “I think you’ll find the killer was the long-suffering opus all along.”

I wafted the profaned notepad, “The clue was the supposed suicide note.” 

“I clearly need to save you from your murderous thesis,” Jane concluded, “So, you’re now officially coming out with me and Tara.”

As she made her decree, Jane wrapped a thick leather collar around her neck as casually as she might have put on a gold necklace. Buckled in place, I could see it featured a large steel ring dangling from the front of it.

“That’s a new look for you.”

“Do you like it?” she cocked her hips cheekily, “We got the collar and boots at a garden-sale down the street, and a whole bunch of other leather stuff too.”

“You got all that from a garden-sale?”

Yeah, at Mrs. Jenkins’.”

“Mrs. Jenkins was selling all that?” I considered in my prejudice I may have misjudged the cheerful, but otherwise conservative-seeming, grandmother.

“Fuck yeah!” Jane grinned, “She’s clearly amazing and I will grill her all about it over tea sometime very soon.” 

“We got two collars, these boots, and a leash,” Jane counted out their haul on her fingers.

“I didn’t know you were into BDSM?” I tried to ask casually, still reeling. 

“Oh, I’m not,” Jane answered easily, before musing “Or maybe I’m not.” 

She shook her head absentmindedly, “But Tara and I like getting dressed up and I’m such an exhibitionist, so…” 

She paused and turned to me. 

“We’re going out, and so are you.”

“Well, I would love to b…”

“No arguments,” Jane interrupted, “I’m serious Kitty, you have got to get out of this room. Doctor’s orders. You’re beginning to pickle.”

I tried to formulate a graceful decline, but it was impossible under such scrutiny. And it wasn’t like I was getting a damn thing written. 

“Where are we going?” I gave in.

Jane squee’d. 

Was that a word? 

That sound of joy and excitement which really couldn’t be described as anything other than an audible, ’squee’?

“Great!” Jane clapped in delight and skipped to my closet, “We’re going to a place called Loose Lips.”

She opened the door and began to sift through clothes.

“It’s a kinky club for women and queer people Tara found on UseNet,” Jane tested the fabric of a pair of trousers.

“God, Kitty!” she exasperated, shoving her way through the piles, “Don’t you have anything that isn’t a t-shirt, jeans, or tracksuit bottoms?”

I shrugged. I was still trying to process we were going to a BDSM club. My imagination ran rampant.

“Tara said there’s a dress code,” Jane navigated the tangle of my wardrobe, “It’s nothing too serious, but they don’t want people walking in off the street in regular clothes, so it has to be kinky or at least all black.”

Jane pulled out my one and only dress. It was indeed black, somewhat slinky, and low cut. I’d reluctantly bought it years prior for a graduation, and only broke it out for events that absolutely required me to look ’proper.’

“Oh, no!” I insisted, “I don’t think…”

“It’s perfect,” Jane ignored me, “You have a pair of courts that go with this, and you can wear the other collar we bought today.”

I tried to stammer a protest, but Jane was already rummaging loudly in the bottom of the closet for my one pair of lady-shoes.

I sighed, resigning to my fate. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to go out with Jane. I thought. 

It had been a long time since I’d gone anywhere.

With her, or anyone else for that matter.

Having uncovered the heels, Jane skipped to the bedroom door and called out to Tara to bring the other collar, some black eyeliner, and dark lipstick. 

“Now wait!” I rallied, “I don’t wear make-up.” 

Jane lay out the dress on the bed, turned to me, and pouted. 

Shit.

Her jutting lip and creased brow were my Kryptonite. 

“I know, Kitty,” she said softly, “But, you don’t do a lot of things. Like take breaks, go outside, or have fun.” 

She stepped closer, “If you don’t want to wear the dress, make-up, or shoes, that’s okay…” 

She stopped in front of me, “But I think it might be fun if you tried.” 

“Kitty, please,” she asked sincerely, “I think you’ll like it and I really want to spend some time with you.”

“Fuck…” I crumbled.

She squee’d again and bounded to the bedroom door, “Bring the eyeshadow and blush too!”

Jane turned back to me and grinned even broader. I glowered, which made her smirk and I couldn’t help laugh, easing some of the tension in my shoulders. 

Tara joined us with the requested make-up and collar. She was wearing a baggy black t-shirt and black jeans, complemented by a thick black belt with a simple bronze buckle, all sharply contrasting her pale pink countenance. It was odd to see her out of her usual uniform of smartly ironed shirt tucked into pressed trousers with a pair of Oxfords. Her hair looked recently razored, probably with the clippers she’d bought after yet another hairdresser refused to cut it as short as she liked it. 

Tara was an engineering postgrad, rarely not seen pencilling detailed technical charts. I wondered if that was why she was so deft with the make-up she liberally applied to my face. Checking the results in the mirror, it wasn’t nearly as garish as I imagined it was whilst it was slathered on. I might have even liked it, if it was on someone else.

Jane brushed, teased, and sprayed the half of my hair that wasn’t shaved and hung it forward in a semi-bob over my right eye down to just above my collarbone. It irritated the hell out of me immediately. 

How did people walk around like this all day?

How did they get anything done?

Or achieve depth-perception?

“Stop fidgeting,” Jane slapped my hand as I batted the hair out of my face like a cat, “and get changed.”

Whilst I did as instructed, Jane poofed up strands of her own side parting, so it similarly fell over one eye. I wondered if the look might be a trend I’d missed through my complete lack of following what was supposed to be fashion.

I dragged on the knee-length dress, which slipped and clung in what felt like the right places at least. The collar Tara handed me was similar to the one Jane was wearing. I buckled the leather around my neck like a belt, tottered onto the heels, and stood in all my finery to the delight of Jane and amused approval of Tara. I tried not to grumble as Jane lent me a fancy overcoat, which offered protection against the chill Autumn evening in a way the dress alone most certainly would not. 

The minicab Tara called dropped us off in Old Street, on a short road featuring a bustling pub and a sedate corner restaurant between two storefronts. In the car, Tara explained that the club was in the basement of a tattoo parlour, which sounded dubious at best.

As we found the shop with a colourful sign above the door that read ’Roadhouse’ in buzzing fluorescent letters, Tara recalled the instructions were to go in and continue to the back. It felt quite clandestine and I wondered if it was all some elaborate trap to capture kinky queers. 

“Tell me again about this place?” I worried, as Jane opened the jangling door. 

“It’s a BDSM club for women and queer people… so no straight men, I guess?” Tara said vaguely.

She seemed to notice my trepidation, “But I read they are very newbie-friendly.” 

I wasn’t sure that helped as we walked into the dimly lit and apparently abandoned tattoo parlour. The small storefront featured a pair of dentist chairs facing each other at opposite ends of the room. Next to each sat an adjustable lamp and a small trolly of miscellaneous metal and small cups. A whiff of disinfectant permeated the space and paintings of queers in suggestive poses lined the walls. The short counter opposite the chairs featured a piece of curled A4 taped to the side reading ’Loose Lips this way,’ accompanied by an arrow crudely drawn to point in the direction of an empty doorway at the back of the shop.  

“We’re back here!” a disembodied voice called from the doorway as if on cue. 

Jane led the way through it into a musty back-room turned makeshift club entrance. A trestle table, hosting a clutter of papers, a small tin box, and assorted pens, was set in front of a rolling clothes-rail and two people dressed in all black. One of the pair beckoned us over enthusiastically. 

“Hi there!” she beamed.

We walked up and were greeted again in a London accent I couldn’t quite place, “I’m Penny. Welcome to Loose Lips.”

I noted Penny’s red hair was cut asymmetrically, but unlike mine and Jane’s, the long part did not fall into her face, but was rather pinned across her forehead and curled behind one ear. She had big blue eyes, light freckles across the bridge of her nose, and a bright pink-glossed smile. As we got closer, I noticed her tight black vinyl dress was zipped down to form a deep V over her chest. I tried not to stare all too obviously at the cleft of her ample breasts peeking between the teeth of the zip. 

“Hi there, it’s our first time,” Jane enthused.

Fresh meat!” Penny cheered. 

I think I blushed. 

I couldn’t remember the last time I had actually blushed. 

Penny continued with a hearty, “Then welcome!” and shuffled papers in our direction. 

“These are the rules. It’s important you read through them, especially since you’re new. And when you’re done, just step over to darling Ally here, who’ll take your money and coats.” 

We each took a piece of photocopied paper entitled ’Loose Lips House Rules.’

“And if you need anything at all, you can ask me. I’ll be up here a while longer and then I’ll be roaming around the club with the other dungeon monitors.” 

I looked up at her mention of ’dungeon monitors,’ who sounded both terrifying and intriguing at the same time. Turning my attention back to the page, I was glad to see the rules emphasised in no uncertain terms that consent was the number one, and most critical, maxim within the club. All the other directives elaborated on that point, such as you couldn’t touch someone, engage them in play, or even pick up their toys without permission. There were instructions on how to clean communal equipment after use, as well as policy for how bodily fluids, including blood, should be dealt with. I worried what could possibly be happening in the basement we were about to descend into.

“… and if you want to change, there’s a room just there,” Penny was pointing to a door behind us when I tuned back into the conversation. 

“No, thank you, we changed before we got here,” Jane said excitedly as she paid our entrance fees, “As long as you think we meet the dress code?”

Jane had taken off her coat and was doing a little spin for Penny and Ally, who looked on appreciatively.

“Oh, you’re just darling,” Penny enthused before remembering Tara and I, “I mean, you all are.”

“Please feel free to hand your coats to Ally here,” Penny recovered, “and when you’re ready, just head on downstairs.” 

I took off my coat and handed it to presumably Ally, who was a shorter butch woman with a shaved head wearing an arrangement of straps as a harness, a pair of leather shorts, and little else. Once I was free of the coat, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was quite exposed, standing in the odd antechamber, its imposing staircase leading down to a literal basement ’dungeon’ beneath.