Nightshift by Kiare Ladner

Author:Kiare Ladner [Ladner, Kiare]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan UK

27

Just as in company Sabine and I kissed whereas on our own we didn’t, in company we talked a lot about sex. Yes, you can be a feminist and a sex worker. Yes, being a dominatrix is a bit like being a therapist. Yes, exploring destructive fantasies in sexual play can be empowering. We did it with the other nightshifters, as well as with complete strangers: people we met in pubs, on buses, in markets and at clubs. They bought us drinks, gave us drugs; invitations fell like winnings into our laps.

One time in Camden Market we found a stall selling fetish furniture. I was in a green skirt with a tight purple dragon t-shirt. She was in a knitted minidress, navy with black stars. We wandered among heavily carved beds with ornate hook-and-eye headboards. Sabine ran her hand down a chair that looked like a throne with a hole in the seat. We made silly faces in the shadows cast by a spiky wrought-iron lamp. As we passed a bench contraption that resembled an inclined leg press, I slapped my palm on the cushion.

‘Do you like my work?’ A gaunt man with an emerald goatee and a double-angled nose emerged from a door at the back.

‘Very cool,’ said Sabine.

‘Looking for something special?’

‘Just looking.’

‘How about this?’ He showed us what appeared to be a collection of intricately decorated leather straps and silver buckles.

Sabine ran her fingers over them.

‘My own design. You won’t find it anywhere else.’ He spoke with a slight Polish accent. ‘You want to feel the weight?’

I held out my arms; it weighed more than I’d expected. ‘Hea-vy.’

He quickly took it back. ‘But very comfortable. Want to try it on?’

Once he’d fastened the buckles to my wrists, torso and ankles, I was wearing a swing. He yelled to a woman at the back who hurried over with a stepladder. He lifted me up and attached the harness to a scaffolding bar above our heads. A small crowd had gathered below us. He called to his assistant again and Górecki’s Symphony of Sorrowful Songs swelled through the stall’s speakers. He gave me a little push; I curved back and began to fly.

Though I knew the affecting music was based on words etched into a wall by a Gestapo prisoner, I couldn’t help being moved as I flew through the air in the erotic harness. Was it really less than a year since I’d been wearing a top with a cerise bow that my mother had chosen for me?

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