Leather and Hyde: Expectations, Realizations

Leather and Hyde

Occasions
Expectations, Realizations
by Debra Hyde

Rituals of Readiness

Master's instructions came in a mid-week email, telling me how to prepare myself for a weekend outing. It was routine, really: wear your long hair up, bring the red collar, the leash, and the yellow crotch chain.

Master had a special treat. "You get to wear underwear today," he informed me. I haven't worn undergarments in his presence since he claimed me.

Of course, the yellow crotch chain, that rather ugly system of plastic links and bulging locks that humbles my figure and hobbles my freedom. I knew to expect the yellow crotch chain.

More was to come, it turns out. When we met, Master had a special treat. "You get to wear underwear today," he informed me. I haven't worn undergarments in his presence since he claimed me and, unlike the yellow crotch chain, this tidbit was completely unexpected. As he placed a pair of leather undies in my hands, I immediately noticed they were weighted. Baffled and questioning, I slipped them on.

To enlighten me, Master slipped something else on: the control button on the remote in his pocket. The panties got me humming.

More followed. The yellow chain went in place, around my waist, between my legs, competing with the leather panties for space. As Master locked the chain in place, an acquaintance's recent comments came to mind. He had greeted me with "Well, hello, Deb-With-The-Yellow-Chain" at a post-wedding play party this past spring, and, when I asked him what he meant by that, he simply stated, "I've never seen you without it." True enough, I realized that only a few leather folk remember me in my pre-Master, pre-yellow chain days.

The red collar followed. Leather cuffs would go in place later, in Boston. For now, being handcuffed in the car would be enough.

For some reason which escapes me now, I looked into the back seat and saw a small photo album sitting there.

"Oh, no," I bemoaned politely. "Not a photo album."

Master smiled wickedly. "Oh yes, a photo album."

He secured it to my yellow chain. I would carry the album and its contents with me for the duration of the day. He would have the privilege of showing its contents -- a full complement of me in all kinds of naked, compromising positions -- at his whim and discretion. I had the uncomfortable joy of suffering in embarrassment as he showed everyone from close friends to total strangers. I suffered the hardest and thrilled the greatest when he showed the album to a professional scene photographer right out in the open on Tremont Street.

At "The Flea"

Tremont Street. Go to Boston. Take the Copley Square exit off of I-95, meander through the theater district, and eventually you'll find yourself there, looking for the Cyclorama Building when the Fetish Fair Fleamarket happens twice a year. Under its high glass ceilings, natural light streaming downward, seventy vendors come to display their wares. In crowds so tight that elbow room is only a dream, a good 1,500 people come to shop, schmooze, and socialize.

My clothes hinted at fetish: a mild corset top with a fleur-de-lis diaper pattern, a black mini-skirt, four inch platform shoes which felt like hooves.

"The Flea" might not rival a Black Rose or Folsom Street event in size or scope but it's our own piece of perversion here in New England.

There, you'll find most every conceivable toy and most every manner of toy lover. You'll see seriously dressed leathermen, young new-to-fetish folk (think vinyl, Parade-of-Shoes boots), and lots of folks dressed in average Joe street clothes. Don't let the man on the street clothes fool you, though. Master wore his typical well-pressed but very vanilla clothes and he was among the few who bought a PES Power Box with butt plug and "sparkler" attachments. Shiver.

My clothes hinted at fetish: a mild corset top with a fleur-de-lis diaper pattern, a black mini-skirt, four inch platform shoes which felt like hooves. I needn't accessorize, though. Except for a classy Italian vinyl shoulder bag for hauling purchases, Master took care of the rest: collar, leash, cuffs, and the clipped-on photo album. If anyone doubted Master's proclivities, they needed only to look at me.

I had hoped and expected to schmooze, network a bit among the small press publishers and selected vendors, perhaps hand out a few business cards. Master, however, had other plans. We headed first for The Noose's table and he examined the PES equipment and questioned the vendors about every little aspect of every attachment. I politely whined and even complained about the object of his desire, this new-fangled, high-powered TENS unit, but Master simply grinned and teased me about all the possibilities that might lay ahead of me. I politely shut my mouth.

And then flinched.

The control button went into gear again and so did I. Worse yet, Master invited one of The Noose vendors to place a hand on my skirt and check out his vibrating toy. Namely, me.

Diminished Expectations

Funny, but as we walked from booth to booth, as I clip-clopped along in my platform shoes, as I struggled to keep narrow the distance between Master and my leashed self, my personal goals slowly evaporated. Keeping near him slowly took precedence, so subtly overtaking me that I was unaware of the transition.

Master was, though, and he upped the ante. As we finished perusing the first row of booths, he turned me around, drew my arms behind my back, and clipped the cuffs to the yellow chain that rested under my skirt. I was all the more his captive tag-along.

Even then, I remained clueless of my shift in headspace, too busy to notice. I struggled to stay close to Master, bound as I was, in the crowded crush of people. The occasional "Where's the photo album?" order created an instant embarrassment, sometimes strong enough to qualify as humiliation.

Events like The Flea offer me a number of all-too-brief, mini-reunions and remind me how many friends I have, how many circles of connection exist for me.

Even little diversions -- like my humorous apologies to friends over my inability to greet them with hugs -- kept me from realizing that my personal agenda had evaporated in favor of Master's intentions.

Hours later, I finally realized that I hadn't accomplished anything I set out to do that day. When I mentioned it to Master much later in the evening, he smiled slightly and said, "I know. You didn't ask to look at anything all afternoon. You just kept following."

Egads. A way to cure my shopping compulsion.

More than Play

The Flea, however, is more than just a chance for Master to meld me. It's a gathering of community, of neighborhoods large and small; celebratory, fun. All are important facets that I shouldn't ignore or downplay as I recount my recent adventure to you. Events like The Flea offer me a number of all-too-brief, mini-reunions and remind me how many friends I have, how many circles of connection exist for me. Reunions renew my spirit and gladden me. They remind me of how far I've come in retooling and enriching my life.

My first flea wasn't all that long ago, perhaps all of two years past. I had only a few real-life BDSM friends, local and from the Compuserve forum I hang out in. Generous folks, they invited me to tag along. Even more generously, they patiently tolerated my kid-in-the-candy-store excitement as I scouted out and selected whatever leather toys captivated my interest. Wisely, they brought me into a larger group of friends -- contacts who, until that point, had been on-line acquaintances at best. The face-to-face socializing that followed galvanized my life, moved me from partial isolation into a greater realm, expanding it from the private to the public. It seems a little weighty to call it a pivotal moment, but it was and it propelled me forward.

I suspect my first experience at The Flea is rather typical for anyone who's working to integrate BDSM into life. While I was fortunate to have a convenient path for broadening my horizons, I still could've easily connected up with the leather/fetish scene if I hadn't. A simple stop at any one of several tables where BDSM organizations promote themselves, handing out literature and invites, would've done it. And who knows, if time and circumstances ever afford me the luxury of looking beyond my own leather neighborhood, I probably will do just that.

Each Time's a Memory

I know I love The Flea because of the memories I bring away from it each time I attend it. Certainly, stepping out into the leather public via The Flea has lasting meaning to me. Certainly, Master commandeering my headspace will likely have a long-term charm to it, much like the previous summer's visit. Then, after scraping enough money together, I had bought and donned a Paul C corset, so happy to finally have a corset that fits my small-breasted torso that I wore it out of Boston on the T.

No one blinked an eye at fully-leather me. At least, that is, until the college crowd dwindled, stop by stop, to nothing. Then, it was just us, Master and I, and a "field trip" of two adults and several kids.

The kid was curious not because I looked frightening or threatening. My leather and long hair meant one thing to him: Xena, Warrior Princess. I'm surprised his parents didn't ask me if I did birthday parties.

One boy kept glancing my way at rail's end and I smiled gently back, hoping he'd realize I wasn't some leather monster who'd haunt his dreams or hide under his bed.

Turns out, I needn't have worried. One glimpse in Master's car window spoke volumes. The kid was curious not because I looked frightening or threatening. He was curious because my leather and long hair meant one thing to him: Xena, Warrior Princess.

I'm surprised his parents didn't ask me if I did birthday parties.

Well, I don't. Not yet anyway. And if I ever do, I suppose I'll need to advertise. Who knows: I might start with a table at The Flea. After all, experience has shown me that it's better a place than many to see where an adventure can take me.

About the Author

Debra Hyde is a mostly submissive switch who lives in New England with her husband, two children, three cats, and a dog. She says she is "well-owned and well-loved" by a very special Master, and shares a unique triangle with him and her somewhat submissive husband.

"When England Calls," one of Debra's short stories, graces the pages of the recently published Mammoth Book of Historical Erotica. She is currently working on a number of others, as well as the Great American Leather Novel. Her BDSM work has been previously published on the Internet by Leather Online and Section 12, but Leather and Hyde was her first regular column, originally hosted by About.com's BDSM site and relocated here with her kind permission.

Debra also maintains a personal Weblog called Pursed Lips and can be reached at 75222.2150@compuserve.com... but no junk mail or "Wannas," please.