The club smelled of rust, and nervous sweat. The bass from the main floor thumped through the walls, a rhythmic heartbeat that vibrated in the soles of my feet. I wasn't allowed to stop or look around. Steve—no, The Handler tonight—guided me with a firm hand on the back of my neck, steering me away from the bar and toward a heavy steel door at the back.
?The room beyond was dimmer, hotter, and quieter, save for the sounds of heavy breathing and the creak of strained leather.
?"Here," Steve grunted, pointing to a dark corner.
?Suspended from the ceiling by heavy chains was a leather sling. It looked medieval. It looked terrifying.
?"Get in."
?I stripped with shaking hands, the cool air of the dank room hitting my skin before I climbed into the leather cradle. It was designed to support me but leave me completely accessible. Steve strapped my ankles into the stirrups and cuffed my wrists to the overhead bars. I was splayed open, suspended in the air, helpless.
?"You stay here," Steve whispered, leaning in close. "You take whoever comes. You don't say no. You are furniture."
?He stepped back into the shadows, and the waiting began.
?The First Visitor
He didn't speak. He smelled of menthol cigarettes and rain. He stepped out of the gloom, a large, looming shape. I flinched as he ran a rough hand down my chest, the leather straps biting into my skin. When he took me, it was with a brutal efficiency. There was no romance, only friction and demand. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to dissociate, to float away from the reality of being used by a stranger. But my body betrayed me. The sheer exposure, the absolute lack of control, sent a jolt of electricity straight to my groin. To my horror, I felt myself hardening against my will, a traitorous reaction to my own degradation.
?The Second Visitor
The first man left me breathless and aching, but there was no recovery time. The second man stepped up immediately. He was smaller, wiry, with hands that felt hot and clammy against my hips. The rhythm changed, becoming faster, more frantic. I was sweating profusely now, my skin slick, sliding against the leather. The heat in the room was stifling. As he used me, I felt a wave of dizziness. The shame was suffocating, yet the rush of endorphins was undeniable. I was nothing more than a hole to him, a piece of equipment, and that reality pushed me over the edge into a terrifying, mindless high.
?The Call
Suddenly, a chirpy, electronic melody cut through the heavy, groaning air of the room. It was absurdly cheerful.
?Steve stepped out of the shadows, his face illuminated by the glow of his phone screen. He looked at me, a cruel smile playing on his lips, and held a finger to his mouth.
?"Hello, love!" Steve answered, his voice booming in the small space as he hit the speaker button.
?"Hi Steve!" My mom’s voice, tinny and bright, echoed off the dungeon walls. "I was just checking in. I know he’s not great with heavy lifting, I hope he’s not slowing you down?"
?I froze. I was hanging naked in a sling, slick with sweat and the evidence of two men, trembling with adrenaline, while my mother chatted about garage work. The cognitive dissonance made the room spin.
?"Not at all," Steve said, walking closer to me. He reached out and slapped my thigh—hard. I bit my lip to stop a scream, turning it into a sharp, jagged intake of breath. "He's working very hard, actually. Putting his back into it. He's sweating buckets."
?"Oh, bless him," she laughed. "Well, don't work him too hard."
?"I promise I'll have him home in time for tea," Steve said, his eyes dead and cold as he stared at my erection. "He'll be exhausted, but satisfied, I think."
?"Thanks, Steve. You're a star."
?The Third Visitor
The call ended, but the terror didn't. Before I could process the conversation, the third man moved in. The humiliation of hearing my mother’s voice while I was displayed like this broke something inside me. I stopped fighting completely. I went limp in the straps, letting my head loll back. This man was heavy, his weight pressing the air out of my lungs. I felt the wet warmth of his sweat dripping onto my back, mixing with my own, and then the slick, hot sensation of fluids coating my skin as he finished. I was covered in the heat of the room, a mess of bodily fluids and shame. I was drowning in it, and God help me, I was soaring. The fear of Steve, the presence of Mom on the phone, the relentless use—it all fused into a white-hot peak of arousal.
?The Fourth Visitor
By the time the fourth man approached, I was delirious. I barely felt the transition. I was just a vessel, open and available. The room smelled of musk and sex. I felt the slickness on my skin, the undeniable evidence of what had happened to me running down my thighs. The fourth man was rougher, sensing my exhaustion and taking advantage of it. He drove into me with a finality that shook the chains holding me up. I cried out, a raw, broken sound that was half-sob, half-moan. I was completely degraded, covered in the filth of strangers, owned by the neighbor, and I had never felt more terrifyingly alive. |
