If they knew each other they gave no sign. Polite detachment was the watchword of the day.

I know that I didn’t recognize a single one of them and that their ornate masks were well crafted and intimidating, giving each of them a presence that lent weight to their anonymity. That made them seem to be forces of nature rather than simple people.

Without saying a word they turned their eyes on me, and even still wearing the robe I felt completely bared and exposed.

A tremble ran through my body and I was taken forward by Ms. Elliot. It wasn’t uncertainty that made me quiver, not fear either. It was anticipation maybe, expectation and an enormous weight of responsibility that lay on my shoulders.

Because I was the entertainment, and I only had to hope that I was up to the task.

Ms. Elliot led me further into the room and wordlessly past them all, over to the end of the table where a small set of stairs led up to the wooden tabletop. She led me up the stairs, holding my hand the whole time until I was standing on the table and towering above them all.

All eyes were on me now, all of them watching the woman who was their entertainment for the night. I was the focus, and the merest thought of it was thrilling to me. To be so fixated on by a crowd such as this was intense and powerful, it sent a tremble run through my body and evaporated whatever lingering doubts I might have had about all of this.

I lay down in the middle of the table on my back, letting Ms. Elliot arrange me until I was perfectly set up. I stared up into the ceiling, where a large mirror was inset to give me a full view of the room.

Ms. Elliot stepped back and swiftly clapped twice at which point a bevy of beautiful women entered holding dishes and cutlery and glassware. They weren’t naked, but their petite maid costumes were skimpy enough that you could practically see every inch of their bodies anyways. They were beautiful and clad in black and white lace, with high chokers that were ribbons around their neck and their hair pulled up into ornately coiffed buns.

These women prepared the table in a flash and disappeared just as quickly, working like a well-oiled machine they were back in a moment and this time they turned their attention to me.

I was naked but they dressed me, draping lace doilies and runners over my skin before placing out the food in an intricate and predecided pattern. There was an almost clinical detachment to their work, and when their fingers did brush my skin it was not with any intention but their job.

That didn’t mean that it didn’t effect me of course.

The instructions I had received were intense and specific and simple: don’t move.

But I wanted to move, as I felt the fingers of these beautiful women on my skin. As I felt the cool and warm kisses of dishes and bare food on my body. As I watched them work on me and step back and saw my body covered in a thousand tiny items of food that were intricate and beautiful in the small and the large picture.

I wanted to react, to appreciate them and what they did. Even to ask with delicate insecurity for them to give me that little bit more, to make me that little bit happier.

But I couldn’t do that. It wasn’t my place.

The patrons moved in after the women departed, taking their seats around the table. From the moment they sat there was a low murmur all around me, conversation taking place in hushed and muted tones.

And they ate from me, but I got the sense in the immediate that they were not here for the food. It was exquisite and I have no doubt delicious, I would expect nothing less from Ms. Elliot, but the food wasn’t the purpose here.

It was me, it was the act of humiliating me. The act of power turning a person into an object, that was what they were paying for.

And I was all in. Having them ignore me, having my body ache for the briefest of touches that they granted to me. Having my very being ache and crave for them to touch me and more.

To take me. To use me.