Author's Note: All characters are over 18 and fictional. Please read the others before attempting this chapter. This story is a slow burn set in a dystopian world; happily ever afters are questionable, slavery is the norm, and our lovely protagonist will have things go from bad to worse to as worse as it can get. You've been warned.
This chapter contains: slavery, reluctance, brief f/f, impact play, humiliation, positional bondage, and punishments.
All rights retained by SimplySilver. Please do not copy without permission except for personal reading.
Chapter: Taking Bets
Slaton drags me into the foyer of The House by the collar at my throat. While I'm not fighting him, my feet reluctantly follow him back to the stairwell, and then down to the back dressing rooms. Girls are scurrying about in various states of undress; Dream sits in the middle issuing orders.
The Nightmare looks up as Slate brings me to him, raising an eyebrow of annoyance. "There wasn't anything better you could have put her in?"
Slaton's eyes narrow in return. "This is an improvement."
Clicking his tongue, Devon looks at his list. "Any preferences, sugar?"
"Make her anonymous," Slate answers. "No one beyond us should know she's here."
Dream's narrowed eyes flick up from the list, considering that request as his pen taps the page. "Anonymous?" he questions, leaning his head on his hand. "King's banned her from the Basement's hands until she's to me. You know the rule...."
"That won't be an issue."
Pursing his lips, Dream stares Slate down for an uncomfortable minute. "Alan. Take the girl and put her in the red room. Do
not
leave her unattended, sugar."
"Sure," the young man seems to materialize out of nowhere; his leash clips to the ring as Slaton's finger vacates it and then I'm tugged after him.
Tugged into a room down a long hallway and then Alan closes the door behind him. I stand a few steps back, mindful that I'm bound to him but not wanting to share the space any closer than I have to. He doesn't push the boundary, giving me the full lead to move as he puts his back to the door.
"Just stay there. We'll get you dressed soon as they finish."
I hold my tongue and sit on the floor.
It's not long before there's a knock at the door. Alan opens it, and a furious Dream steps into the room. "Alan, get me the black rack and then finish getting Danielle ready over in blue," he commands. When his associate leaves, I uncurl slowly from the floor and get up.
Dream's badly annoyed by the way he's staring at me. "
You
are more trouble than you're worth," he says softly, an edge entering his tone. "Now. What the fuck did you do that Slate's brought you back here?"
"Nothing! I swear it. I've not been punished once by him!" I answer holding up both hands. "The marks are all Rex's."
"So I heard. But Slaton wants to make you invisible tonight which means you pissed him off, sweetheart..." he states, taking the black rack of clothing from Allen. "Now....How do you do in latex?"
"Not well. Maybe something leather?" I ask.
"Too lavish," he answers, going one hangar at a time. "You're in disgrace. So it's latex, nylon, or cotton. And given his mood, I want you in nylon for easy access so that my pieces aren't destroyed, darlin."
He unhooks the black leotard, sorting its pieces. He helps me form them over my body; not a wrinkle is left as it fits to my skin. Dully shining, the nylon's cut outs expose the valley between my breasts, the curves over my ass. Its lines run down my legs, elongating them to the eye while over accentuating the curve of my hips to the V between my legs. The stockings wind in a spiral over my legs that makes them seem longer as I slip into the black stilettos that give me an additional few inches in height. He adds a layered black dancer's skirt that flares out from my hips.
Then he hands me off to Danny. "Make her invisible."
She turns my eyes gray with contacts. The red of my lips looks fuller than ever; with her contouring, my face shape seems thinner. And whatever foundation she blends turns me half a shade darker, thinning the profile of my nose to the mirror. Then there's the mess of my hair.
What used to be black now reflects a dark red; the waves have been tamed to perfect straight lines. Instead of hanging braided, she's letting them sit free down my back. Even altering my part changes the sharp angle of my jawline to be a little softer.
But before I'm passed back to Slaton, there's one final touch.
"Does she need a mask?" she confirms with Dream, stepping back to stare at me.
"Yes. I want the white upper shield with the red detailing," he orders after a moment. "It'll be sturdy."
I've worn that particular piece before. It's a V shaped shield that hides the upper half of the face and nose. While I can see through it, they won't be able to see my features. I'll be exactly what he wants. Anonymous, but available for use.
The metal band slides into place over my straight locks like a headband. She presses the mask to my face, then slips the band forward an centimeter to lock the mask into place between the band's layers.
Then I'm returned to Slate in the main lobby. I drop a delicate curtsey before him; he nods once in approval before clipping his leash back to my collar and bending down so that we're eye to eye. "Not a word to anyone tonight. Do you understand?"
His tone books no argument from me; I close my lips tight and nod. Then I follow him through the House... and then down the stairs into The Basement.
Through the outer club to the inner private rooms, he leads me and I follow without a word. I keep my eyes locked on his back so that I can move efficiently. The curves of flesh, the swaying bodies and salacious dips of fingers under waistlines flash with the lights. No one dares stop him, though some dare caress and swat as I pass despite his leash. He seems not to mind so long as they don't stop me.
Finally, he takes another turn, scans his card, and opens the door to a blood red room. He tugs me inside, then maneuvers to the far side from the door around the black top central table.
A snap of his fingers, and I sink to sit beside him on the furthest couch from the door. He wraps a hand around my waist, pulling me closer so that my head rests on his chest. The music pounds around us from the outer rooms, but there doesn't seem to be anyone else here yet.
"Stay put," He growls in my ear as the door beeps.
The door opens, and King strolls in, leading his pet Isabelle behind him. She's dressed in red sequence that flows over her like a sheath with sparkling black heels to match... but out of place is the steel chain dog collar that circles her neck. He takes the chaise; she lounges out and rests her head in his lap.
King stares down Slate. "No Marissa?"
"Marissa went to Rex to preserve her behavior," Slate replies bluntly, stroking my hair. "So tonight you'll have to handle someone else."
His eyes narrow. "Are you putting her up then?"
I tense beside him. Beneath that mask, I stare daggers at the other leader as Slate's thumb skims back and forth on my knee soothingly. But I hold to my orders and keep my mouth shut. I dare not move from my place or else I'll take a beating I won't recover from.
"Of course. She's here to be enjoyed after all."
Black enters not soon after with Allie. She's dressed in a series of body chains that run from shoulders to hips and create a shimmering dance between exposing and concealing. He chooses the singular chair; she curls at his feet silently and he rests them across her back.
If Dream were here, I'd be facing the majority of the top five. But with The Basement as his domain, I doubt he'll join this meeting. There's too much going on in a given night for him to spare time, especially during the weekend. But three's a strange number.
King glances at his watch. "Isabelle, darling... fetch the cards."
When the deck is put into his hands, he shuffles it expertly, then deals four hands.
Dream enters moments later as they pick up their hands, but no one accompanies him. Finding the final lone seat, he glances around the table casually. "Evening gentlemen. The normal stakes tonight?" he asks.
"Of course," King answers. "Increments of ten. Seconds. Minutes. Hours corresponding to the chips. All In pays out fifty grand and one hundred hours of time."
"Lovely," Dream answers, picking up his hand and organizing it. "Then I'll put Danielle up for time. I know you enjoy her mouth, King."
It's done so casually. The selling of people as though they're little more than fancy cars to be traded, used and borrowed at will. My heart is in my throat, but the others show no reaction at all. How often does this happen for them to be nonplussed?
"Breathe."
Slate's growl in my ear reminds my lungs to draw in a breath... and relax some of the tension in my back.
Dream's eyes flick our way, but he makes no comment as the first hand is played out with money only. It's a light pot, but they chat over various things as they play. Black takes it with a pair of queens, and then the game begins in earnest.
Money shifts quickly; they play ruthless tactics. Sometimes it is the short bluff, sometimes the long con, but with each manipulating the other, it's impossible to guess who will come away with the spoils.
It's Black who puts up a coin of time first as the betting passes to him. Ten minutes... I swallow thickly as each member calls him in turn... and then he reveals three of a kind.
King folds his hand; Slate does likewise.
There's a snort of annoyance from Dream, who drops his hand flat; a full house. House beats three. He gets ten minutes from each of us.
But better him than Black.
The next round's not much better. King baits Dream into losing five grand, and Slate and Black drop a thousand each before folding out. Then it's Black who scoops a pot against Dream. When the deal comes back around to Dream, he forces them each to drop three time chips in, on top of a cool three grand.
It's a tense betting pool this time; King raises it with the heavyweight drop of an hour chip in of Isabelle's. Black meets him without concern, openly challenging what seems to be an over betting bluff. But Dream mysteriously folds, his eyes narrowed and thoughtful as he rests his head on his hand.
It's hard to read all the signals flying and discern what is true and what is a front.
Slate pets my hair, staring at the cards on the table, then at King. From the tension in his legs, he is not sure whether to call or fold. King's expression hasn't wavered; there's no posture or shift that indicates he's bluffing. But if he calls as Black has and is wrong... he may be the first to fall out of the hand entirely.
Pulling out that hour chip, he considers it as he spins it over his fingers before flicking it into the pile.
