It could be somewhere quiet but public. Where you would stand out - a coffee shop in a
book shop perhaps where you would be an anachronism, a little lost and slutty as
others finish their Christmas shopping.
You would wear what you were instructed to wear, clothes that would be inappropriate
for the weather and that might turn a head. Jeans, tights, a blouse cut a little low
and short on the sleeve so that the skin on your arms would goosebump when you slipped
your coat off, heels that cause you to stumble.
You would remove the coat and sit, ordering the drink that you had been instructed to
order. You might have been instructed to slip to the bathroom after five minutes to
remove the jeans and swap them for a short skirt, confirming who you are and making me
smile. Perhaps some others in the shop might notice. Perhaps not.
After ten minutes you would go to the bathroom as instructed again, this time removing
the tights, returning to looks from customers of amused bewilderment at why on earth
you would be losing your tights in the middle of winter in a bookshop. The suppressed
giggle, the muttering. That soft stroke of humiliation as you wait, anticipating what
is to follow. The whispered chuckles of those watching you, you wondering which I am.
You blush a little, conscious you are wet, embarrassed that this whole charade is
arousing.
As you sit down at your drink again, you notice a slip of paper and a twenty pound
note, the paper with a hotel name and a room number on it, both placed on top of an
envelope marked "open on arrival". You finish your drink hurriedly and gather your
things, carrying your coat as instructed - not certain why you are following the
instructions of someone you don't know, but feeling that you should. Part of the play.
At reception heads turn as you walk in, stumbling on heels that are too high, your
legs and arms clearly cold. You enquire at the desk and a small oriental woman smiles
and says "ah yes, Jess? You are expected" and a swipe key is handed to you.
You head for the lifts, the staff trying not to chuckle as you totter. You feel
stupid, embarrassed. Did the words on the envelope mean open on arrival at the hotel
or at the room? You have to choose and you choose outside the room.
You read:
"You are probably in the corridor.
Remove your heels.
Remove your brassiere.
Take the plastic sack that you were instructed to bring from your bag.
Coat, heels, jeans, tights and bra in the sack.
Unbutton the top two buttons on your blouse, enter the room, drop the bag and close
the door."
You tremble, fingers fiddling with the buttons, then slip the card in the reader, your
fingertips cold on the door as you push it open.
The low lights of the room are soft on your eyes and you can feel the texture of the
carpet under your feet. You take uncertain steps forward and drop the bag, turning
around to close the door.
"Wait there," the voice is clear, not harsh, but hard.
