[Writing exercise; include words: violet, perforated, hatred, flesh, vastness]

“First, we’re going to take our sterile needles and pierce the flesh with each one, making a perforated line along the pattern of our design…”

He lofted a brow as he observed the small gathering of fetishists who were at the club to attend a Play Piercing Workshop.

“Sir, are you here for the class? If you are, you’re rather late…”

The instructor strode toward him, all 5'11" of her. He stared at her stilettos as she came to stand in front of him, then his brown shiny eyes met her piercing greens.

“I’m here to meet with Mistress…uhh…” Ah bollocks, he’d forgotten the play name his friend used. Brown eyes closed to aid his thought process.

The instructor chuckled. “Oh you poor luvie. She’s not going to like that at all. Come on, I’ll show you to Mistress Yasmin’s Waiting Room. She might have you stand in the corner for forgetting her name.”

Yasmin? That name seemed far from the warm-hearted Jocelyn — Josie — he’d known for years. He followed the willowy blonde, stepping into the room she indicated. He smirked as she called behind him, “Good Luck luvie,” and closed the door.

Everything in the room was violet. It didn’t strike him as particularly pleasant nor soothing, but then he was fairly certain it wasn’t supposed to be. The monochrome scheme was probably in place to keep the focus upon the service carried out and minimise distraction of the surroundings.

From another door his friend emerged. Except she wasn’t Josie. She was dressed in a way he’d never seen her: corset, garters, knee-high boots, hair teased wildly, sleeve-length gloves, sparkling rings and necklaces and hoop earrings. Her make-up made her look fierce. If she hadn’t been smiling at him and grabbing his shoulders to pull him into a warm embrace, he may have been slightly intimidated.

“David, I’m s—”
“Shhh don’t —”

He crushed her to him, squeezing her tightly and burying his face in her hair.

“Just let me hold you for a moment.”

He heard her take a breath and hold it as if she might start to cry. A real hatred for the sorrow was building within him; he felt himself drowning in a mixture of both emotions. He kissed her temple quickly as if that specific place was the turn-off valve to stem all feelings. He drew back, his hands sliding down to hold hers a moment.

He gave her his best grin and admired her. “Look at you. Mistress Yasmin…indeed.”

Josie winked and then mocked him sternly, “Who gave you permission to speak, you bundle of pubic hair…”

Both of David’s brows shot up and he shook his head. A small laugh, the first that had emerged in a week, slipped from his mouth and into the room, momentarily betraying the code of his devastated state. What, am I not supposed to laugh, his mind questioned. Hell fucking no.

“Don’t knock it til you’ve tried it…”

“Didn’t that expression go out in the 70s — or is that the average age of your clientèle?”

“Many of Yasmin’s worshippers,” she paused and crossed her arms while he smirked further, “Indicate a release of stress and a happier outlook on life.”

“BDSM play turned cosmic guru? Look out Deepak…”

She punched him in the shoulder, let out a sigh and replied softly. “There’s a vastness to this world of pain, David. We’re all just trying to make it through, you know.”