The Initiation

The trio of ****-Myra, Bela and ****-Donna escort Elena, the outline of her body visible as she slinks into the cavernous room in her diaphanous dress. She glances at the row of slaves lined left and right, their black latex garments shimmering in the dim candlelight. She squints as she tries to make out the figures in the room, wondering if she’d catch sight of ****-Jess and her companions.

She spies a nude woman resting on a throne, her face obscured by a party mask. Pairs of slaves in ceremonial dress flank her as well; their faces similarly hidden. Paintings of angels and demons and succubi adorn the walls. The atmosphere strikes her as surreal, like the erotic meanderings of a madman, or something out of Dante.

For a moment the woman’s short blonde locks remind her of someone familiar. A family friend, perhaps? A co-worker? 

The idea of someone close to her being part of this…group makes her shudder. She shrugs it off. It’s bad enough that she’s caught up in this, but the thought of someone else being pulled into this sick game as well makes her stomach churn.

“****-Donna.” The masked woman shoots a look at her charge. “Look time, no see.”

“I apologize for being late, Mistress.” She bows. “New York traffic.”

“It is I who should apologize. I wish I could’ve given advance knowledge. But no matter. Is she ready?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

The masked woman motions Elena forward.

“Who, me?” The intern hesitates.

“Don’t be shy, ****.”

Elena awkwardly walks toward her, feeling self-conscious She glances at ****-Donna and Myra, as if to ask their opinion of the situation. ****-Donna nods affirmatively at her.

“Don’t look at them, ****. Look at me.”

“Yes, Ms…Misses…”

The woman chuckles heartily.

“You haven’t changed much, have you?”

The use of the personal pronoun catches Elena off guard. How does this woman know her, from work? Maybe school? She hopes her unease doesn’t show.

“Sit down.” Mistress pats her knee. “Do you know why you’re here?”

The intern shakes her head.

“No matter.”

Elena’s eyes glaze over.

“Because you’re special. Ever since I first saw you…”

The intern furrows her brow.

“Don’t worry your pretty head about it.” Mistress cuts her off. “Anyway, I didn’t bring you down here to socialize. Kiss my knee.”

Not wanting to displease her, Elena complies. She plants smooches up and down Mistress’s thigh, mimicking ****-Donna in an attempt to impress. Mistress pats her head, not unlike a proud parent, or a teacher singling out her pet.

“I see ****-Donna has taught you well.” Mistress winks at her lieutenant.
****-Donna winks back.

“I want you to see something, ****.”

Mistress guides her hands over her stomach. Elena instinctively recognizes the imprint of initials. Apparently a B or a G, but she can’t be sure.

“****-Donna has one too.” Mistress acknowledges by way of explanation. “And soon you’ll have one as well. But that is not important. What is important is that we’re a family of sorts. Like a sorority or a fraternity. A very sick fraternity. There’s drinking, and dancing, and screwing. At the core there are certain values we bind us as brothers and sisters. Loyalty. Honor. Sacrifice. But there’s more to it than that.”

Elena furrows her brow.

“There are those in the community that who feel we are…useful. We go places they can’t go, do things they can’t do. In a sense we are like a service provider. But the services we provide are much more sensitive than hot dogs and burgers or broadband or T1. Are you familiar with Adam Smith?”

Elena shakes her head.

“Adam Smith once wrote of the Invisible Hand, a kind of unseen **** directing the free market. Much like the divine clockmaker…Think of us as the Invisible Hand, ****. And on behalf of all of us here, welcome to the family.”

With a flick of the wrist, Mistress motions her guards forward. They restrain her extremities as a third **** comes forward, brandishing some kind of spear. As the figure comes into focus, Elena realizes it something worse…a brand iron.

“Save your energy.” Mistress commands her as she lets out a shrill scream. “On second thought, I think it would be better if we’d have one of our guests do the honors. ****-Donna?”

The blonde steps forward and receives the iron from the masked ****. Her face is placid as she burns the initials into Elena’s stomach, remembering her own agony as she was marked several years before.

“You’ll receive instructions shortly.” Mistress reminds her. “In the meantime, rest up. You’ll need it.”

The intern passes out.

She comes to on a bed of silk, gazing at the initials on her midsection. K.L.? Who’s K.L?

She glances at a sheet of notepaper lying on the nightstand next to her. On closer inspection, it appears to be a list of cities. Chicago. Paris. London. Moscow, and they go on and on.

‘PICK ONE, ANY ONE.’ The cursive script above it reads.

Which one should she choose?