In the smokelight, you are invisible. The crowd murmurs around you, the air thick with sexual excitement. Anticipatory whispers slip between friends, and kisses are covertly exchanged by lovers sharing plush sofas. And you’re almost not-there, sinking into a black leather chair, a good single malt cupped in one trembling hand. If it weren’t for the bluesy vibrations rumbling in electric currents through your veins, you’d hardly know whether or not you exist. But you do. And you’re mine. And you’re ready, aren’t you, my darling?

You watch the red velvet curtain for any sign of movement. A rustle, there? Are we starting? No, it was nothing. Just your imagination, my love. And what an active imagination you have.

In the smokelight, you are invisible, but you see all. In one darkened corner, a young, fit blonde and her lover are working one another up for the festivities. The light is low, but you can see his hand on her pale breast, her immaculately polished fingernails sliding through his hair. He groans low, and she yanks his head back, revealing a black leather collar, a glinting O-ring. Hooking one finger through the ring, she tugs downward sharply. He disappears obediently under the table, and she rakes a hand through her long flaxen tresses, moaning softly as she grinds her pelvis against her submissive little slut’s face. Yes, my love… in the smokelight, you are invisible. And the show is about to begin.

You check your distinctive Girard-Perregaux timepiece. Two minutes to midnight. Nothing too expensive for you, is there? From cufflinks to shoes, you’ve the finest in everything. All the better, my darling. The higher the throne, the further you fall. That’s what the late show’s all about.

The show starts at midnight. The witching hour, they call it. But you’ve long since been bewitched, haven’t you? Poor, pliable little boy. Your hand moves instinctively to the hot patch of flesh on your right buttock. The brand of my initials is beginning to heal, but you feel it burn now, as you always do, when you intuit that I’m near. You didn’t expect it to hurt that much, did you? Refreshing to hear how even a little painslut can be made to howl properly when a burning iron is applied to tender places. And now you’re mine forever. Sitting in the chair I’ve assigned you, wearing my mark, waiting like a good obedient boy for the late show to begin.

The Late Show at Jezebel’s. You’ve heard my other submissives whisper about it, but you haven’t been invited before, have you, my sweet? And you’ve silently endured the hot lick of jealousy when I’ve clipped the other boys to my leash and allowed them to accompany me to the late show. They all come home changed somehow, don’t they? More sweetly obedient, more contentedly chaste. And you’ve been yearning to tag along, too, but you haven’t complained, and I’ve noticed how good you’ve been. Your Mistress sees all, and you’re being rewarded for your patience now. It’s finally your turn.

You sip your scotch pensively, wondering what awaits you. Your surroundings are not unfamiliar, as you’ve been to this burlesque house before… Jezebel’s is the venue at which most of my performances take place, and you’ve seen a pretty few. You’ve looked up adoringly with hundreds of other men as I’ve bumped and sizzled my way through a variety of complex, fantastical routines exquisitely designed to tease and torture. A coy glance over one smooth porcelain shoulder, a falling glittery garment, a blue-eyed wink through my curtain of fiery red hair. Give a bit and take it away. That’s my specialty. And you’ve felt your pathetic little cock strain against its restraints, felt your cheeks burning as you see me cast the flirtatious glance that you’ve so often mistaken for affection at strange men and women. You’ve seen my shows, and through my performances, you’ve come to realize that you’re no better, no more important to me than the thousands of others who have stared enraptured at my sinuous body, captivated by my wicked sensuality.

You’re no better than any of them, but you do worship me properly. Believe me, I knew what I was doing when I ensnared you. I saw your potential, your raw need to be owned and objectified. And I worked cleverly at chipping away your defenses, didn’t I? Small orders at first, seemingly innocuous requests. Get me a drink, darling. I’m parched. Rub my feet, would you? They’re absolutely aching from my pointe class. Be a dear and pick up my dry cleaning, and do have some dinner on the table when I get home from rehearsal. I know I’ll be famished. A steak, please, and bloody. You do know how I like my meat raw. 

And later, the requests that sounded more like orders. I’d like a back massage, boy. And then you can rub the lotion into my legs after I shower if you please me well enough. And out in public, at the nightclub: Darling, go tell that gentleman in the Savile Row suit that I’d like to make his acquaintance. He looks to be more a man than you could ever hope to be, doesn’t he? And at home: Here, I’ve a list of errands I’d like for you to run. Don’t forget to pick up that leather collar from Northbound Leather while you’re out. Oh, and speaking of leather… I’ve been craving a pair of those retro-look white leather Christian Louboutin heels. Go purchase them for me, darling, and be quick about it. I’ve got a date tonight.

And before you knew it, you were doing things you’d sworn you’d never do… things that made you feel sick, things that offended your sense of decency and your self-respect. And sometimes you did them with people you didn’t like, or with my other lovers, or people you’d never even met… all because I’d requested it of you. I knew from the moment I met you that you wanted to be devoured, and I’ve had a lovely time making a meal of you. You’ve enjoyed every perverse moment of it, you filthy boy.

And now you’re here, and you don’t know what to expect. But you’ve seen my other shows, and you think you have some idea what you’re in for. Au contraire, silly thing. You may have seen my burlesques, but you’ve never been to the Late Show before, and believe me, my pet, it’s a beast of an entirely different nature.

But you want this, don’t you? You’ve worked hard to get here. The strips of flesh left on your back throb as you remember the agreement we made. Forty lashes in exchange for a trip to Jezebel’s. The biblical irony of it hasn’t escaped you, has it, darling? We’re mixing testaments, but semantics be damned. I take my pleasure as I find it. Your back is still hot from the beating, isn’t it? The bits of ground glass I rubbed into the crop’s keeper have gotten under your skin and I don’t imagine the lemon juice I finished you off with helped soothe the irritation. How clearly it speaks of Mother Nature’s sadism that the juice causes excruciating pain, yet also has antiseptic qualities that will help you heal more quickly so that I can bloody you once again. You sobbed like a child for some time after I’d finished with you. I could hear you from the next room… Please do take some comfort in knowing that I rode my lover to orgasm with your cries of anguish ringing in my ears.

The red velvet curtain rustles again, and this time it’s not a false alarm. The lights fade down on your surroundings, and a spot of warm yellow light rises at the curtain’s centre. The crowd quiets, leaning forward in anticipation. The blonde Mistress in the corner releases her submissive from her thigh-vise grip and tugs him sharply by the collar to a kneeling position by her feet. He curls up around her ankles obediently, sighing with pleasure, his face shining with her glorious cunt-juices. Lucky boy.

And you wait, as you’ve been so well trained to do, my darling. The silence is oppressive, the atmosphere steamy with the promise of wicked entertainment. Your scotch is cold in your hand, beads of sweat gathering on the outside, trickling between your fingers. As the band slides into a sensuous riff, you wonder deliciously if the show will be worth the forty lashes. Of course it will. Perhaps you’ll even be a featured performer.

A moment of absolute still, the air thick with delicious anticipation…

                                                                     … the curtain parts ever so slightly…                                            

                                                                                                                        … And then…