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xmag.com : August 2001 : Darklady


My back slammed against the wall as his hand tightened around my throat. My prom dress hung in black tatters around my trembling body as he pressed his full weight against me, holding me firm. "You're going to put out for me tonight, aren't you, bitch?"

It was a hot evening and I was flushed not only from the temperature but also from excitement. I nodded and spoke the only word that would come to me: "Yes." I repeated the word, feeling him press closer, filled with desire for me. I gasped the word again and again. Because I wanted to say it.

Earlier in the evening we had stood in the lobby, holding hands and gazing awkwardly and adoringly at one another in classic "prom picture" fashion while a cheerful collared slave snapped digital photos of us. Then we had cuddled and cooed over one another, holding hands and making pleasant small-talk as we promenaded down the long central hall of Ascension (www.Ascension-Dungeon.net), showing off the daring dress I had purchased years before for the senior prom I had never attended. The flowing lines of the flared chiffon skirt and the spider-weblike lace over the plunging satin bodice were fragile, delicate, and doomed.

We passed a nude woman screaming in delight as hot red wax was poured over her exposed flesh and continued walking toward the large meeting room at the end of the hall.

"As I continue to redefine and redesign myself,
I find new power in old symbols."

Once there, we stood close, surrounded by other couples, each lost in their own dramatic moments. Wrapped in one another's arms and lost in one another's eyes, we spoke softly and occasionally glanced at those around us. Then the Keeper of the Darklady leaned his handsome head forward and asked, "Are you ready?"

After my nod, he gripped a weakened panel in the back of my dress and pulled until the resisting satin and lace fabrics gave way loudly. The force knocked me temporarily off balance, a combination of his strong hands and the shifting web of fabric keeping me upright. Then began an intense dance of passion and destruction as he tore away the increasingly tattered garment like wrapping paper concealing a coveted prize, until I was panting before him, my dress hanging in strings and strips from my shoulders and hips.

To further honor the academic significance of my transforming and transformational attire, my Keeper directed me into a small room containing two student desks and a chalkboard. Once there, he directed me to lie across one of the desks and then administered a mild caning to my ass and the backs of my legs. When satisfied with his work, he pushed me to my knees where, surrounded by a pool of black fabric and with his fingers firmly entwined in my hair, I serviced him through the unzipped folds of his black pleated trousers. Shortly thereafter, I found my back against the wall while I was asked the eternal prom-night question. Would that all dates were so honest and so mutually consensual.

As I continue to redefine and redesign myself, I find new power in old symbols. Clothing, perhaps especially for women, often represents important stages and rites of passage in our lives. I am no longer the pre-Goth-era girl who originally purchased and wore the antique black satin and lace "Elvira"-style prom dress. Today I can choose not only whether or not to eschew the pastel colors of conventional fashion but also of conventional thinking, living and loving. I am free to create my own meaningful rituals, honestly identify the things that have value to me and remain true to them while following my path of responsible
self-discovery.


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