She came here to be beaten, they all did. One by one they filed into Dimple's space, offering up their blotchy pale skin, quivering and eager, as though the splitting of their flesh would absolve them of their sins. That was the long and the short of it.
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Dimple chuckled at their pun, and the girl looked over, cautiously pleased. Dimple slid the girl a glance, corners of their mouth turning downward as a rod of thin polished wood twirled idly, though expertly, between their fingers.
The girl looked away, fearful. Excited. Heaving a sigh, Dimple pushed themself up from the wall upon which they had been leaning and began to pace the room, ignoring the girl completely, though her soft pants of anticipation created a stocatto backdrop to Dimple's thoughts.
All of Dimple's clients came to them. Though they received referrals from their contact within the Agency for Anti-Racism, Dimple refused to set foot inside any of their premises. The local chapter seemed to be on the level, though the Community Information Network funneled in endless horror stories from chapters in other areas.
It was not lost on Dimple that the Agency for Anti-Racism clung to that 'Racism' bit for all it was worth.
Sex work was an accepted medium for moving through ones biases, though the work was often more of a safety pin holding a veneer of repair together than actual work on the part of the client. A bunch of pale people getting their lower bits wet while their backs were split open in some weird perverted kinky homage to their ancestors' past misdeeds. Dimple shook their head slightly.
Dimple cared little for their clients’ reasoning. The people who made their way through Dimple's door were vetted, prepped, and knew that at any moment Dimple could and would remove them with little to no effort, or remorse.
This knowledge only seemed to titillate Dimple's clients more.
Dimple had rules. They only saw clients in their space. They made sure to have at least two supports present outside the room (Dimple was capable, though learned their lesson on support the hard way) in case things got out of hand. For this reason and others, clients paid upfront before arriving for their sessions.
In addition, Dimple refused to do penetration of any kind. People thought this was because of the mess -- those people had never seen a room at the end of one of Dimple's sessions. There was plenty of mess. Dimple didn't do penetration for their own reasons. Not that any reason was necessary. They didn’t do aftercare, and Dimple's clients knew that the only aftercare they would get would be the cleaning of their mess.
After each session, regardless of how pristine the client and room remained, Dimple demanded everything be cleaned from top to bottom. Excepting Dimple themself of course. Dimple refused to allow clients to touch them. Instead, the clients were to use the time spent cleaning the space and themselves, to think about what brought them to the room that day. And to contemplate and identify why they kept coming back.
Dimple knew some clients used the time to disassociate, others to brood and misplace blame as part of their personal shame or rage kink. Some however, earnestly used the time to think. Those clients took extra special care to leave evidence that they were learning and healing. Dimple felt a grudging sort of care for those clients.
In addition to the high fees each client was obligated to pay on top of the fee collected by the Agency, some of Dimple's clients occasionally showed their appreciation by placing little gifts of flowers and fruits, relics, and pieces of art around the room as they cleaned. Dimple only accepted fruits and flowers purchased from indigenous peoples, and Dimple's clients brought the relics and art pieces from familial estates, attics, and treasuries, each piece stolen from cultures not their own.
Dimple ensured their clients knew *precisely* where Dimple and Dimple's people were stolen from, and thanks to the Agency, their clients knew *precisely* or as precisely as could be, who their ancestors had stolen. Part of the Agency's mission was connecting those who harmed with those who were harmed. It was a good idea in theory, though in practice....well.
The girl's whimpers grew louder. Vaguely aware that Dimple had been staring at a hand carved wooden statue of an Orisa they had received as tribute from a client, Dimple paused for a moment, then continued to move about the room. Rod twirling leisurely between their fingers, tension growing taut in the center of the room.
This girl would never dream of bringing in a relic, Dimple knew. The heir to previously landed gentry, the girl and her family managed to do very well for themselves in their many rented homes, filled to the brim with artifacts from several cultures, not only the ones which created Dimple. This was the girl's fifth visit, each time she left herself and the room far from pristine, each time she received the consequences for that action.
Dimple was hard pressed to tell whether the girl did it on purpose, or if she really was utterly useless at cleaning. Either way, making her wait was part and parcel of her punishment. Fifth visit, four times the room was left in subpar condition, ten minutes for each...well. The girl knew.
Dimple settled into a chair beside a large obsidian bust of a full figured, delightfully shaped Orisa. They leaned the rod against the leg of the chair and raised their other hand to caress the curves of the statue. Dimple felt the girl's eyes on them. Heard the whimpers turn to whines. This girl was not used to being denied.
Initially Dimple presumed the girl was looking for an edgy way to rebel against her colonizing parents...a little temper tantrum before settling comfortably into rich, previously landed former gentry life. Now Dimple wasn't so sure.
Each time Dimple pushed the girl further and further, made the sessions that much messier, and still the girl kept coming back. Dimple had little care for why, though it did make them feel curious, or rather, cautious. Most clients were not to be trusted and this girl was no exception.
When the whines turned to cries tinged with anguish, Dimple waited a few more beats then looked up.
The girl's eyes were fixed on them and Dimple was certain the girl had been riveted by Dimple's every movement, swiveling on the rope which held her tethered to the ceiling, big toe stretched to reach the floor and pivot, to keep Dimple in her sights.
Each moment without acknowledgement a stroke to the girl's core, priming her so when Dimple's gaze lifted negligently to hers and surveyed the girl with bored dissatisfaction, it was as a dam being loosed, and the girl cried out, weeping gustily at her release.
Dimple lowered their gaze once more before lifting their eyes while they rose to their feet, grasping the rod as they stood. Moving slowly toward the center of the room, Dimple surveyed the girl weeping and shaking before them.
Coming to stand before her, Dimple lifted a finger to the girl's chin and eyed her coolly.
"Now then," Dimple crooned, "shall we begin?"
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