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The latex was cooler than Amy remembered, slick and impossibly smooth as Claudine helped work it up her legs. They’d powdered her skin first—the only way to get the material on without it catching—and now the catsuit clung to every curve like a second skin that cost more than her monthly student loan payment.
“Tighter,” Claudine said, tugging at the back. “You want zero wrinkles. Zero.”
Amy sucked in her stomach, felt the latex constrict around her ribs. In the mirror—the full-length one they’d propped against the wall because the bathroom was too small—she looked like someone else. The catsuit eliminated any softness, turned her into pure geometry. Her fake breasts, which usually looked slightly too perfect under normal clothes, looked deliberately artificial under the latex, and somehow that was the point. Nothing about this was supposed to look natural.
The hood came next. Claudine stretched it carefully over Amy’s face, tucking in the edges, smoothing down the seams. The blonde ponytail—synthetic, bought from a costume shop in midtown—emerged from the crown like punctuation.
“Can you breathe?”
Amy inhaled. The latex had breathing holes at the nostrils and a small opening for her mouth, but it felt claustrophobic anyway, like the material was trying to seal her away from the world. “Yes.”
“Can you see?”
The eye holes were surprisingly generous. “Yes.”
“Then you’re perfect.” Claudine stepped back, admiring her work. “Holy shit, Ames. You look terrifying. In the best way.”
Amy studied her reflection. Claudine was right—she did look terrifying. The hood eliminated all her features, reduced her to mouth and eyes and body. She could be anyone. She could be no one. In full costume, she and Claudine were functionally identical—same height, same build, same aesthetic of control.
That was supposed to be reassuring. It mostly just made her feel erased.
Amy reached up, started to peel the hood back off.
“What are you doing?” Claudine asked.
“I’ll put it on in the car. I can’t—I need to see normally until I get there.” The truth was the hood made everything feel too real, too committed. She needed a few more minutes of being herself.
“Fair enough.” Claudine helped ease it off, careful not to disturb the wig underneath. “Just don’t forget to put it back on before you get out.”
“Gloves,” Claudine said, handing her the elbow-length pieces. “And remember—you’re Faerietrix tonight. You’re in charge. He’s there to please you, not the other way around. If he forgets that, you remind him. That’s the whole point.”
Amy pulled on the gloves. Her hands disappeared into black latex, fingers moving but distant, like they belonged to someone else. “What if he asks about the faerie thing? About whether I’m actually fae?”
“You’re mysterious. You don’t answer directly. Part of your appeal is the ambiguity.” Claudine was checking her phone, probably making sure her actual date was still on schedule. “Honestly, he’s so nervous he probably won’t even ask. He’ll be too busy trying not to embarrass himself.”
The platform Louboutins added another four inches. Amy was 6’1″ now, towering, impossible to ignore. She practiced walking across the tiny apartment—heel to toe, spine straight, the posture of someone who never apologized for taking up space.
“Perfect,” Claudine said. “Okay, raincoat. The car should be here any minute.”
The raincoat was light beige, deliberately unremarkable, the kind of thing that suggested Amy was heading to a normal evening event and not a sex club in full fetish gear. She belted it tight, checked the mirror again. From the neck up, she looked like herself—dark hair under the blonde wig, bare face, the gold necklace her mother had given her for her twenty-first birthday. From the neck down, she was a mystery wrapped in khaki cotton.
“Phone,” Claudine said, handing it over. “Keys. Claudine’s ID—it’s in the wallet. FetLife login is already saved in your browser. Safeword is red. And Ames?”
“Yeah?”
“Have fun. Or at least don’t have a terrible time.” Claudine hugged her, careful not to disturb the raincoat. “Text me when you get there, text me before you go into the room, text me when you’re done. And if anything feels wrong—”
“I know. I leave.” Amy grabbed her small clutch—just big enough for phone, wallet, keys, the latex hood, and the pepper spray she never left home without, even though Claudine said that was paranoid.
Claudine’s phone pinged. “Car’s outside. Black Audi.”
Amy’s stomach flipped. “That’s me.”
“Go be a terrifying sex goddess,” Claudine called as Amy headed down the narrow stairs of their walk-up. “Make that diplomat cry!”
The spring air hit cool against Amy’s face. At the curb sat a matte black Audi A8—sleek, expensive, with tinted windows that made it impossible to see inside. As she approached, she noticed a symbol glowing softly on the windshield: an elegant monogram, an ornate N intertwined with what might have been a flower or a flame. The Netherlust icon.
The driver’s door opened and a man stepped out—older, maybe sixty, wearing a neat black suit and an expression of professional neutrality. He moved to open the back door for her without a word, without the kind of appraisal that usually came from men seeing a woman in latex-adjacent clothing.
“Ms. Benali?” he asked, voice low and courteous.
“Yes.” The lie came easier this time.
“I’m Marcus. Mr. Welter arranged your transportation this evening.” He gestured to the open door. “Please.”
The interior was exactly like Peck must have experienced—leather seats, subtle ambient lighting, that faint floral scent she couldn’t name. And there, etched into the lower left panel of the door: the same Netherlust icon, small and discreet, a reminder of whose car this was.
Marcus closed her door gently, returned to the driver’s seat. The partition between front and back was down, and when he spoke, his voice came through clear and professional.
“We’ll arrive in approximately twenty-five minutes, traffic permitting. There’s water in the console if you’d like. The climate controls are on your right.”
“Thank you.” Amy settled into the seat, grateful for the professionalism, for the lack of commentary or intrusive questions.
The car pulled away from the curb, moving through Morningside Heights with the kind of smooth acceleration that came from German engineering and someone who knew how to drive it. They passed her usual bodega, the bus stop with Bash Lazare’s face smiling from the dance company advertisement, the corner where she usually caught the 1 train down to campus.
Her regular life, getting smaller in the rearview mirror.
Amy pulled out the latex hood, held it in her hands. The material was cool, slightly damp from being folded in the clutch. She should put it on now—become Faerietrix before they arrived, before anyone could see her face clearly.
“Ms. Benali?” Marcus’s voice was gentle, almost apologetic. “If I may—most guests prefer to arrive unmasked. You’re welcome to bring your mask with you, of course, and the staff can assist you in putting it on once you’re inside. But arriving already masked can sometimes… complicate the entrance process.”
Amy’s heart kicked against her ribs. “Complicate how?”
“Identity verification, primarily. The door staff need to match your face to your ID. It’s a security protocol—we take our members’ safety very seriously.”
Fuck. Of course Netherlust would have protocols. Of course there would be rules she didn’t know about, traps built into the deception.
“I need to wear it,” Amy said, trying to keep her voice level. “It’s—it’s part of the experience. For me and my guest. We discussed it.”
“I understand.” Marcus’s tone remained neutral, but she could hear the slight confusion. “However, I should mention that Netherlust’s door staff may ask you to remove it temporarily for verification purposes. It’s standard procedure.”
“They can verify me with my ID.” Amy was stretching the hood over her head now, committed. “The photo matches. Blonde hair, same height. They’ll be able to confirm.”
“Of course.” Marcus didn’t argue, but she could sense his uncertainty. This wasn’t standard. This was a guest doing something unexpected, and he was too professional to push back, but not quite comfortable enough to let it pass without comment.
The hood sealed around her face. Amy tucked the edges, smoothed the seams, felt herself disappear into Faerietrix. Through the eye holes, the city looked slightly different—more distant, filtered through latex and deception.
Marcus glanced at her in the rearview mirror, then quickly away. Professional to the end, but visibly uncomfortable with whatever dynamic was unfolding in his back seat.
They drove in silence through Harlem, past the northern edge of Central Park, down into the Upper East Side where the buildings grew taller and more expensive. Amy watched through tinted windows as the city’s economic geography shifted—bodegas giving way to boutiques, walk-ups to doorman buildings, diversity to the particular homogeneity of extreme wealth.
Her phone buzzed. Claudine: did you get picked up ok? is the car nice?
Amy typed back with gloved fingers: Yes. Very nice. On the way now.
remember – you’re in charge. he follows your lead. you got this
Did she? Amy looked at her reflection in the window—the blonde ponytail, the latex hood, the geometry of control. She looked like someone who had their shit together. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
The lie was so complete it was almost convincing.
They turned onto Fifth Avenue. Museum Mile stretched out to their left—the Met, the Guggenheim, the elegant facades of cultural institutions that defined Manhattan’s relationship with art and money. Across the street, Central Park was a dark mass of trees, lit sporadically by vintage lampposts that made it look like the city had never fully left the nineteenth century.
“We’re approaching the destination,” Marcus said quietly. “Fifth Avenue and 70th Street.”
Amy could see the gates now—wrought iron, partially hidden behind mature trees. The limestone mansion set back from the street, amber gas lamps flanking the entrance. Between the Met down the block and the park across the street, it occupied a position of impossible privilege, a secret hidden in plain sight.
The Audi slowed, turned toward the gates, which opened automatically as they approached. The Netherlust icon on the windshield seemed to glow brighter, some kind of recognition system signaling their arrival.
Marcus pulled up to the entrance, put the car in park. He got out, came around to open Amy’s door.
“Ms. Benali.” He offered his hand to help her out—a gesture of courtesy that felt surreal given that she was a graduate student in borrowed latex pretending to be someone else. “I hope you have a pleasant evening.”
“Thank you, Marcus.”
He nodded, professional to the end, and returned to the driver’s seat. The Audi pulled away, leaving Amy alone on the steps of Netherlust in her beige raincoat and latex hood and six-inch platforms, holding pepper spray and her roommate’s ID.
The mansion doors opened before she could knock.
A young woman stood there—not quite human, Amy realized with a start. Slightly pointed ears, skin that had an opalescent quality like mother-of-pearl, wearing a crisp black uniform. Staff.
“Good evening.” The woman’s voice was pleasant, professionally neutral. “Name?”
“Claudine Benali.” The lie came out smooth, practiced, muffled slightly by the hood. “I’m here to meet—”
“Mr. Welter, yes. He’s already arrived.” The woman glanced at a tablet, then back at Amy. Her expression shifted slightly—not quite disapproval, but a hint of the same confusion Marcus had shown. “You’re masked.”
“Yes.”
“Most guests prefer to mask inside, if at all. For identification purposes—”
“I need to wear it.” Amy kept her voice level, authoritative. Faerietrix’s voice. “Is that a problem?”
“No, of course not.” The woman’s professionalism snapped back into place. “May I see your ID?”
Amy’s heart kicked against her ribs. This was it—the moment where the deception either worked or collapsed. She pulled Claudine’s driver’s license from the wallet, handed it over with steady hands because Faerietrix’s hands didn’t shake.
The woman studied it, looked at Amy’s hooded face, looked back at the ID. The license photo showed Claudine with blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin—all of which matched what was visible through the latex hood. Same general build, same height.
“Beautiful mask,” the woman said finally, handing back the ID.
“Thank you.” Amy winked through the eye holes, committing fully to the performance.
The woman made a note on her tablet. “First time at Netherlust?”
“Yes.”
“Everything okay? You seem nervous.”
Fuck. Amy tried to recalibrate—she wasn’t nervous about the sex, she was nervous about being caught, but how to explain that distinction? “First times are always nerve-wracking. Even when you’re in charge.”
That seemed to satisfy the woman. She smiled slightly, stepped aside. “Of course. Mr. Welter is waiting for you in the Pressure Chamber waiting lounge. I’ll take you there.”
The entrance hall was overwhelming—soaring ceilings, marble floors, that impossible plasterwork that seemed to move when she wasn’t looking directly at it. People clustered in small groups, conversation humming beneath the crystal chandeliers. A woman with actual wings, folded elegantly against her back. A man with horns, laughing at something his companion said.
Sitting in deep chairs in the library bar near the entrance, a tall Black man in an expensive suit sat close to a younger white guy who looked nervous and slightly overwhelmed—the older man’s hand rested possessively on the younger one’s knee in a gesture that was simultaneously protective and predatory. Amy recognized the older man instantly: Bash Lazare, the ballet director and dancer whose face smiled from the bus stop advertisement near her apartment on 110th Street, promoting some downtown dance company’s upcoming season. Seeing him here, in this context, sent a strange jolt through her—proof that Netherlust drew from every corner of the city’s hidden lives, that teachers and diplomats and grad students all ended up in the same place once the sun went down. Wealth and otherness mixed so casually that Amy couldn’t tell which was more foreign.
She wanted to stop, to stare, to process what she was seeing. But the staff member was already moving, leading her through the entrance hall at a brisk pace, and Amy had to follow or risk looking even more out of place.
Down a corridor lined with portraits whose eyes definitely tracked her movement. Past doorways that revealed glimpses of other rooms—a bar with blue flames in the fireplace, a dining area where people ate food she didn’t recognize, a staircase that spiraled up into darkness.
“The Pressure Chamber is on the second floor,” the woman said over her shoulder. “It is a complete sensory experience. For your first time, be prepared—it can be intense. I’m sure you and Mr. Welter have discussed boundaries. Please respect them.”
“We have.” Another lie, smooth as the first.
They climbed stairs, turned down another corridor. This one was quieter, more intimate, with doors spaced farther apart. Each door had a small placard—The Wild Room, The Oubliette, The Mirror Gallery.
And at the end of the hall: The Pressure Chamber.
A man stood outside the door, and Amy’s stomach did something complicated.
Welter was shorter than she’d expected—significantly shorter, maybe 5’4″ to her current 6’1″. The Marni suit was beautiful, eggshell with brown windowpane plaid, probably cost three thousand dollars on its own. But it was also slightly too flash, too fashion-forward, like he was trying to project confidence he didn’t quite feel. His dark hair was carefully styled, his olive skin flushed at the cheekbones, and his hands—
His hands gave him away. They moved restlessly at his sides, touching the doorframe, his jacket, his hair, unable to stay still.
When he saw Amy, his entire face transformed. Relief washed over his features, followed by something that might have been excitement, might have been terror. His eyes widened slightly, taking in her height, the latex visible beneath the raincoat, the blonde ponytail emerging from the hood.
“Faerietrix,” he said, and his accent made the name sound softer, rounder than Claudine had ever made it sound.
“Señor Welter.” Amy stepped forward, extending her gloved hand. The staff member had already melted away, giving them privacy.
Welter took her hand, but instead of shaking it, he brought it to his lips. Kissed the latex-covered knuckles with old-world formality that seemed both genuine and absurd given what they were about to do.
“I am—” He laughed nervously. “I am very nervous. Is that obvious?”
“Very.” Amy pulled her hand back gently. “But that’s all right. First timers are supposed to be nervous.”
“You have done this before, yes? The Pressure Chamber?”
Another lie, but what was one more? “Yes. Have you?”
“No. No, I have never—” He gestured vaguely at the door, at Netherlust, at everything. “Any of this. I read about it online, in the private forums. The descriptions, they were… intriguing. And I thought, perhaps, with someone who knows what she is doing…” He trailed off, looking at her hopefully.
Amy wanted to tell him the truth. Wanted to say I’ve never done this either, I’m wearing my roommate’s latex and her name and I have no idea what’s behind that door. But Faerietrix wouldn’t say that. Faerietrix was competent, in control, exactly what this nervous diplomat needed.
“The rules we discussed,” she said. “They still apply. I’m in charge. You follow my lead. If anything feels wrong, your safeword is—”
“Yellow for slow down, red for stop. I remember.” He smiled, and it transformed his face from anxious to something warmer. “I am good with rules. Following them, I mean. That is perhaps why I am diplomat.”
“Then we’ll get along fine.” Amy reached for the door handle. “Shall we?”
Welter nodded, took a breath, and followed her inside.
The Pressure Chamber was smaller than Amy had imagined—intimate, almost clinical. The walls were padded in some material that absorbed sound, making everything feel muffled, close. In the center of the room sat what looked like a massage table, but next to it hung something else: a suit, if you could call it that. Suspended from a frame, it looked like liquid mercury caught mid-drip, a membrane that seemed to breathe slightly in the room’s air current.
“That is—” Welter stopped, stared. “That is the suit?”
“Yes.” Amy had no idea if that was true, but what else could it be?
A small panel on the wall held controls—dials, buttons, a screen that glowed softly in the dim light. Instructions printed in elegant script:
The Pressure Chamber offers sensation through controlled membrane technology. The practitioner wears the suit; the partner operates the controls. Intensity may be adjusted from gentle to extreme. Remember: consent is continuous. Check in frequently.
Below that, a laminated card with suggested settings: Gentle Wave, Focused Pressure, Full Immersion, Breath Play.
Welter read over her shoulder. His breath smelled like mint, like he’d prepared for this moment with the same care he’d put into his suit.
“You will wear the suit,” he said slowly, confirming. “And I will… control it?”
Amy’s stomach dropped. That wasn’t the arrangement. Claudine had said she’d be in charge, that Welter would be the one surrendering control. But looking at the suit, at the controls, the setup was clear: one person wore it, experienced it; the other person operated it.
She could object. Could insist they’d misunderstood the arrangement. Could pull rank as Faerietrix and demand he be the one in the suit.
But Welter was looking at her with such naked hope, such genuine anticipation, that the words stuck in her throat.
“Is that—” He hesitated. “Is that not what we agreed? I thought, when you said you would be in charge, you meant you would choose how much to feel. How much to endure. That the control comes from surrendering to sensation you have chosen.”
It was a fair interpretation. A sophisticated one, actually. The idea that power came from choosing vulnerability, from deciding what you could handle and then handling it.
Amy looked at the suit, at Welter’s hopeful face, at the door that led back to the hallway and safety and the comfortable lie she’d been living for the past hour.
“Yes,” she heard herself say. “That’s exactly what I meant.”
Welter’s smile was brilliant, relieved. “Then I will be careful. I will watch you very closely, and I will not go too far. You trust me?”
She shouldn’t. She barely knew him. But standing there in her roommate’s identity and borrowed latex, Amy realized she didn’t have much choice.
“Help me with the raincoat,” she said.
He stepped forward eagerly, hands gentle as he unbuttoned it, slipped it off her shoulders. When he saw the full catsuit—the latex that covered her from neck to platform heels—his breath caught audibly.
“You are beautiful,” he said simply. “Like art. Like sculpture.”
“The suit,” Amy said, because accepting compliments would make this too real.
Together, they approached the membrane hanging from its frame. Up close, it looked even stranger—not quite liquid, not quite solid, with a faint iridescence that suggested it wasn’t entirely of this world.
Welter touched it tentatively. His fingers sank slightly into the material, which rippled outward from the contact point like disturbed water.
“It is alive,” he whispered. “Or it feels alive.”
“It’s magic,” Amy said, because what else could it be? “Netherlust specializes in things that shouldn’t be possible.”
She reached out, let her latex-covered fingers meet the membrane. It was cool, slightly yielding, and the moment she made contact, she felt something—a pulse, maybe, or an invitation. The material seemed to recognize her, seemed to want her inside it.
“I will help you,” Welter said. “Tell me what to do.”
And Amy, who had made so many wrong decisions tonight, who had lied her way into a place she didn’t belong, who was about to put her body into the hands of a stranger, took a breath and said:
“Help me out of the latex first. The suit needs skin contact.”
Welter’s hands found the zipper at the back of her catsuit, and slowly—so slowly—began to pull it down.