Constant 3, Chapter 6-4: Darius' Girl

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Here's Chapter 6-4, for Constant members and above. I don't consider this scene quite ready yet, there' s a few more tweaks I want to make to it, including fleshing out that shared backstory a bit, and reworking the idle philosophising. Nevertheless, enjoy!

And again, happy holidays.

Four: Darius’ Girl

“Hey, just so we’re clear. I won that fight, yeah?”

            The room was quiet, and we were alone. Soft lighting and crimson velvet and chintzy wallpaper gave serious brothel backroom vibes, though at least a classy one.

            I sat on a cushioned stool at a well-lit mirror. Surrounded by a cluster of cosmetics, a bottle of beer waited, beading sweat. There’d been bubbly on offer, cocktails and hard booze, and pills too. But all I wanted was a beer. Dmytro said most of the girls that came back here wanted something a little stronger. To take the edge of what came next, he said. But all I wanted was a beer. It went down nice and cold after the fight.

            I watched him in the mirror. He sat a good distance away, on an intricately carved divan dwarfed beneath his bulk, and away from the door, knowing I wouldn’t make a run for it. Next to him, sumptuous clothes bulged from a row of closets, and lingerie glimmered on recessed shelves. Further back in the room, ominous strips of leather and steel curled and glinted.

            Dmytro passed his hand over his neck, nodded. “Yes.”

            The expanse of products spread out in front of me. I prodded a tube of lipstick, so the chromed bullet toppled. “So, how does he like his girls?”

            He considered the question. “Glass lips,” Dmytro said. “Darius likes shine.”

            I took a swig of beer and returned it to its crown of vials, tubes and pots. “Your boss is a fucking pervert.”

            “This I know.” Dmytro shrugged. His neck was dark with bruising, and he massaged his knee as he sat near the entrance to the room. “But he is boss.”

            “He is boss?” I mimicked his voice, girlish lilt mocking his ponderous tones. “Look, we have coming to America! Can we be canning it with fucking accent, please?”

            He winced, though amusement flickered in his eyes. “Is my English not good?”

            “Fuck sake, Dim, we’re alone, you left the goons outside. Cut the gentle giant foreigner act, yeah? Last I heard, you went off abroad to Cambridge or something.”

            “Oxford, actually,” he said, nose wrinkling with distaste at mention of the other place. His accent was suddenly sharp and clear as glass, with a trace of that uniquely British upper-crust arrogance. “Merton college. I read History.” He tilted his head slightly, appraising me. “Who are you, exactly?”

            “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” I shook my head, winced. “Ow. Jesus, think you could’ve gone easier on me?”

            He tapped the bruise at his neck. “Ahem?”

            “You’re literally twice my size.” I fluttered my eyes at him in the mirror. “I’m just a weak and helpless girl.”

            “Clearly.”

            He observed silently as I got to work on my face. I sat there in sports bra and basic cotton panties, both black. My near nakedness didn’t bother me. Sat like this with any other guy, my gut would’ve been jumping somersault. But not with Dim. I don’t know why. Maybe because he’d once been the closest thing I’d ever known to a brother. This guy, once upon a time, he’d been like family. I first met him back in those confused teenage years under Sakura’s tutelage. We’d trained together, fought each other for her approbation, for her love. When we were old enough, she put us to work—sometimes together. I took on the more subtle work, and he was the muscle. We’d saved each other’s asses more than once, though the balance skewed in my favour on that one. He still owed me a favour or two. Mostly, though, this guy knew me—or at least, he knew that version of me, the old me—as well as anyone.

            But he didn’t know me now, and though he watched curiously it was entirely without recognition. That kind of hurt, in a way, which was stupid. These past months had all been about convincing the world I was a young girl, and for someone like Dmytro to not see through my disguise was an obvious win. But it was also a reminder of how far I’ve strayed from who I once was. I felt that, somewhere deep down in my belly.

            After cleansing, I started with a little priming. No doubt he’s seen his fair share of pretty little things pass through this room, other girls sitting at this very spot painting themselves for his boss’s enjoyment. The way he watched me struck me as odd: intently, but sliding away when I’d catch his eye, only to be drawn back moments later under a veil of forced indifference. His attention was a little disconcerting. Not weird or uncomfortable—I wasn’t getting pervy vibes from him—it was more that he seemed interested in what I was doing and how I did it, and didn’t want me to catch him watching. Frankly, standing where he was, I wouldn’t have been nearly as considerate. I’d have stared at the sexy bitch sat in her underwear and made it clear what I was thinking. But not Dmytro. He was cut of classier stuff, I guess. Though to be honest, back in the day, I used to wonder whether he was gay or something. I mean, how else to explain him not being turned on by the sight of me, sitting half-naked under flattering lights?

            Although, hell, I did look rough. Purpling bruises made a Rorschach test of my side, where I’d hit the wall. Forearms, too. No short sleeves for Cindy for the foreseeable future. And God, I ached—but fuck if it wasn’t a good ache. I felt—rooted—in my body in a way I hadn’t in weeks, comfortable inhabiting my own skin. A mild headache, sure but still buzzing from the exhilaration of the fight, and calm within the pleasant lethargy of adrenaline aftermath. I kept pausing and grinning without meaning to. Fuck me, but I was happy, really happy. I hadn’t seen this guy in years.

            “Why are you smiling?”

            I contemplated the makeup wipe in my hand, dark with foundation. “Because I kicked you ass.”

            “You keep reminding me of this. It is—childish.”

            “Yeah, sorry.” I tossed the wipes, the skimmed across the array of options, settling on a small pot with a hint golden lid. Unscrewing it, a faint scent of lavender. “It’s just a pretty big deal for me.” I held the pot up for him. “Know what this is?”

            “Moisturiser.”

            A little surprised, I nodded. I then held up a pink-frosted tube. “And this?”

            “Primer.”

            “Jesus. You know this shit better than I do.” The white cream felt cool against my skin. “Less than a year ago, I knew fuck all about this shit, yeah? And all this stuff—and I mean all of it, the clothes, the makeup, even these gorgeous tits—it’s all a bit… new to me, let’s just say.”

            “You appear as confident and beautiful as any woman I’ve seen sat in that same seat. More so, perhaps, than many.”

            A little spot of red that had nothing to do with blusher appeared in my cheeks.

            “Yeah, well, let’s just say I’m a work in progress. But our little fight there? It was a—reminder, let’s just say—of who I used to be, and….”

            He nodded. “You miss this person.”

            With a gentle squeeze, the tube released a bead of silky, translucent gel, catching the light with a faint sheen. Fixing my eyes to his as I dabbed and spread the primer across my face, I grimaced. “You have no fucking idea.”

            “You speak as though you know me,” he said. “You do not.”

            And of course, I wanted to say, yes, yes I do know you, and you know me, and there’ve been nights when I’ve sat alone and wondered where you were and what you’d gotten up to, you and Sophiya and Emma, all of you, the only family I’d known until Sakura cast me out. Times when my fingers hovered over the keyboard with a cryptic message typed and ready to post to the old message board, seeking you and the others out—messages I never posted, no matter how drunk or lonely. I’d left that life behind, buried the old me, and didn’t miss it, couldn’t return to it. Yet sat there under Dmytro’s watchful eye, I wondered whether I’d given up too much. Especially as the life of David Saunders inevitably led to—

            “You must hurry,” Dmytro said.

            “Yeah, yeah.” I put the primer to one side, polished off my beer, put the bottle to one side too. Then, I started on my makeup proper. He watched in silence. I worked quickly and with confidence. Under his observant gaze, I marvelled at my own skill. The boy he’d once known knew nothing about priming and painting, curling and contouring. There was something more than curiosity in Dmytro’s gaze, but it wasn’t lust. I must’ve been a puzzle for him, one he couldn’t solve.

            I played it up a bit, pushed out my chest. There was something very boudoir, French postcard sexy about the way I sat, sleek legs crossed at the knee under soft lights at the mirror. After all, there’s something inexplicably alluring about watching a woman put on her makeup, the sweep of the brush, the pencil at the lips, the swipe of a wand. The ritual of beauty, narcissism directed outwards: not for me, these shiny lips and bold eyes, but for his male gaze. Self-care that drew attention to the self. If I’d learned anything these past few months, it was that femininity was a constant performance for both the audience within and the audience without.

             “Like what you see?” Our eyes met in the mirror. I flashed a wide smile at him, lips plumped and plum-coloured, with a sheen like plastic.

            He raised an eyebrow, and judging by the bulge in his trousers, the way he crossed his legs, yeah, he liked. Maybe I’d misjudged him.

            “Adequate,” he said.

            “Gee, thanks.” I blew out my cheeks in mock annoyance. “I’d like to see you do better.” Then, smiling a little, I barefoot padded over to him. “Why don’t pucker up, see how you like it?” Uncapping a lip gloss, I wielded it like a weapon. “Bet you’d look great with a little shine of your own.”

            He flinched back, then frowned. “Why did you throw the fight?” he asked.

            I held one finger to my lips in cute moue of confusion. “Did I?”

            “You told me to grab your hair.”

            “And you fucking threw me into the wall, you jerk.” I jabbed the tip of the lip gloss wand at him. “Not cool.” Then I lathered on another layer, watching him all the while, and pursed my lips.

            He considered my words. “I controlled the toss,” he said. “Perhaps I misjudged. I apologise.”

            “How gallant.”

            “Have you finished?”

            I clicked the lip gloss shut, tossed it to him. He caught it gingerly, held the tube as though he might catch something from it. “My face? Yeah, I think so.”

            He pointed to the empty beer bottle on the counter. “Another?”

            I drew an imaginary circle around my face with an index finger. “And ruin all this?”

            He shrugged.

            “Right. Let’s get this over with.” Taking a deep breath, I warily approached the clothes on display. The stockings were as delicate as a dream beneath my touch. My hand passed over the hanging shreds off lingerie. I grabbed two pieces at random and held them up. The first was a gorgeous bodysuit in red, boned and nipped in at the waist, tulle panels and soft mesh decorated with intricately swirls; the other, a jumble of black satin straps and gold-plated fastenings resolving into some kind of body harness.

            Fuck. I didn’t want to wear any of this shit. I imagined prancing past those guys waiting outside, and my throat tightened. I’d worn stuff adjacent to this before—for men, and felt their touch along cinched-in curves. But not like this.

            I took a deep breath, held both pieces up for Dmytro and forced a sickly smile. “What do you think?”

            He considered both options entirely too seriously. He scratched at his nose, contemplated the harness, then the bodysuit, and then slowly shook his head. “No.”

            I rolled my eyes. “Like I need fashion advice from a guy who’s been wearing the same shirt for thirty years.”

            “I like this shirt.” He gently traced the lettering, finger resting against the jagged end of the trailing ‘m’. “They were epic. This shirt is a classic.”

            “Sure is, buddy.” I passed my touch across the dizzying array of fabrics and styles. “Tell you what. Let’s swap. I’ll wear the t-shirt, and you squeeze into this.” I tossed him the harness. He caught and clutched it tightly. His cheeks reddened; he appeared flustered. Judging by the ongoing swelling in his pants, the thought of me in lingerie was getting him all excited.

            With some care, he lay the harness to one side. He stood, towering over me now. “Please,” he said. “Darius is waiting.”

            “Yeah, no shit. Tell me, if you’d won that fight, what would you have done?”

            “My men, they would have wanted you back in club. Gag you, put you in a cage, or leave you tied to a post, something like that.”

            “Yeah.” A shudder passed through me. “That one kid, Jez? He would’ve liked that.”

            “He is—difficult, that one,” Dmytro admitted. “There is a lot of anger in him, and sadness, too. Tragedy.” He smiled wanly. “Like all of us, orphans of the past.”

            For a moment, I remembered him as he once was, as we’d both been: children, under a strange woman’s care. He’d been taken in first and resented my ‘adoption’ into the family. The first night, he reminded me of the pecking order. He beat the living shit out of me. Five years older and bigger, I was an easy target. Six months later, it was a different story and the memory of the first time standing over him, fists bloodied against his face, brought with it complex feelings of elation and guilt that swirled with unexpected intensity in my belly.

            I shook my head to dispel the image. “And you? What would you have done?”

            “Bring you back here,” he said. “Prepare you for Darius.”

            “Then let’s just say you won, okay?” Up close, I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze. “You won, so pick what I wear for your fucking pervert of a boss.”

            “But I didn’t win.”

            “Yeah, but let’s pretend.” I smiled. “Or if that doesn’t work for you, imagine you’re me, okay?”
            He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t follow.”
            “Imagine,” I said, “You’re a sexy little firecracker of a girl, okay? Small and curvy with long blonde hair.” With one hand, I indicated the curves and hair in question. “You’ve got big boobs and a tight ass, but gosh, you’re ever so confused as to what to wear. You’re—nervous, scared even; but you’ve got to do this thing, right, wear the thing to impress some man even though inside, your guts are tied up in a knot and you want to throw up and it’s taking everything you’ve got to just not pack it all in and run away.”

            Sympathy shone in his eyes, but also excitement. “You might not like what I choose.”

            “That’s why I want you to imagine yourself in my place,” I said, and gentle held one finger to his broad chest. “Keep those kinky instincts in check. I mean, it’s not like you’d want to wear any of this shit, right?”

            He said nothing.

            “Just be kind, okay? And don’t overdo it.”

            “And you’ll wear whatever I choose? Like a doll?”

            I nodded.

            “Why?”

            “Because—” I smiled weakly. “Let’s just say I trust you, okay? So: go on, go nuts.”

            He licked his lips, and for the first time that night, Dmitrios smiled—smiled like he used too, when we were young.

            “You should go to the toilet whilst you can,” he said. “Meanwhile, I will put something together for you to wear.” And then he was off. Nonplussed, I watched him as he moved around the room quickly and with confidence began to select items. Then I took his advice and went for a piss. Sitting there, I tried to avoid thinking about what the hell I was doing. What the hell did he mean by “whilst you can”—and who the fuck says ‘whilst’, anyway? With a sigh, I wiped myself clean, hiked up my panties and trudged back to him.

            A small pile of clothes waited. “Here,” he said. His cheeks were a little flushed, and his eyes bright.

            I looked at his selection. Then I looked up at him. “Really?”

            “Absolutely,” he said.
            There was a harness—choker, single strip of leather and cuffs—and a gag, too.

            “I don’t want to wear that,” I said.

            “You said—”

            “I know what I said,” I snapped. I took a deep breath. “But I don’t want to wear that. The rest of this—I don’t like it, but fine, if this is what it takes to get me through that door, if this is what Darius wants. But—” and here, I nodded at the other items. “That, I—” I swallowed nervously. “I don’t know if I can. Before—a few times—I’ve worn stuff like this, but only once have I been, you know, tied up and—I nearly had a panic attack, you know? And…” I was rambling. I closed my eyes and took a shuddering breath.

            Then and there, I made my decision. That decision was to do whatever he asked. Submitting to him like this was—difficult. Maybe it had something to do with those weeks at the Clinic. I don’t know. But for whatever reason, I felt I could trust him.

            “This is new to you, isn’t it? You really aren’t like the other girls we get down here.”

            “You mean, girls who can kick your ass?” A dry laugh escaped. “Yeah. No shit. But, yes, this is new to me. But that doesn’t matter. I need to speak to Darius, and if this is the price of admission – then fine, fuck it. I trust you. I’ll wear it.”

            “You trust me?”

            “I do.”

            He looked at me curiously. “Why?”
            “Because—” Twenty years ago, we were comrades. Because you’d been there when I needed you and real friendship is a constant unchanged by the passage of time or separation of space. That even though you no longer recognize me, I know you to be a good person. And finally, because I kicked your ass and if there’s a single thing I know about you, this means you’ll feel honour bound to whatever promise I extract from you.

            But those weren’t things you could just say, not after so long apart, and especially not when your friend no longer knew you. Instead, I said, “Because I just do, okay? So, if you think—this—is necessary, I’ll wear it.”

            “I believe it is necessary,” he said.

            He helped me dress. He was attentive, very careful with the delicate fabrics, but not pervy, he didn’t try and cop a feel or anything. I started to talk—to babble, really, covering up my anxiety. “You must be wondering all kind of things about me,” I said, stripping off my sports bra and swapping the basic panties for the lacy thong he passed me. With a wiggle it disappeared up my ass crack. “You must be wondering but you haven’t really asked. How I seem to know stuff about you, or how familiar I’ve been. Comfortable, even. Enough to let you pick out my clothes, for instance. And dress me. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? In the fight, you must’ve picked up on it, after all there can be something very intimate about a fight, don’t you think, and after you first came after me, after you flipped the pool table, it was different, wasn’t it? You surprised me at first, you did, I didn’t think you’d be so eager to hit a girl. You’ve changed. And so fast! You’ve definitely gotten faster. You nearly had me a few times. But I was faster still, and that kind of surprised me, too. Then we circled the table. And I got a read on you, got a feel for you—just like old times. And after that, you’d feint and I saw it coming, and you rushed me, and I saw it coming too. But this—this, I didn’t see coming.”

            Was he listening, did I even say the things I thought I said? A curious detachment came over me as he dressed me in these fetishistic clothes. I didn’t feel entirely in control of my own body, as though its movements were directed from a distance, fully under the guidance of my friend.

            With his help, I carefully wiggled into the body stocking that ran from neck to crotch, and along both arms to my hand, leaving the fingers uncovered. It’s a miracle nothing tore. It sealed at the crotch, some kind of electrostatic strip closing like a stitched wound at the passing of a finger. Barely a seam remained. A faint tingle passed through me and the whole outfit tightened until it fit like a second skin—not just stretchy but contracting to perfectly cleave to my figure without any sag of droop. This was especially noticeable around my breasts, where it fit tighter than anywhere else. I’d heard the girls at work talk about stuff like this, expensive smart fashions that resized to the owner’s specification. I squirmed with the unfamiliar sensation, the air cool as it breathed across my veiled skin.

            Dmytro then approached with the next item. I eyed the leather corset nervously.

            “Why did I throw the fight?” I continued, raising my arms as he wrapped the garment around my waist. It was quite short—more waspie or waist-cincher than a corset proper—but fiercely boned and shaped. “I respect you too much to throw a fight, it’s an insult. And it kind of killed me to do it, goes against everything I was taught, you know, never give in, right?

            “But those guys out there, I saw they respected you, too. More than that, there was loyalty there and no way there were going to let some scrawny little bitch take their guy down. Throwing that fight seemed less of an insult than forcing you to intervene with your own men.

            “And it’s funny, in away. Because I’ve just come back from a couple weeks away, been to this place and I guess I did a lot of thinking there, that place changed me, more than I realised, maybe. On the way out, I hurt this guy, see? Really hurt him and he had it coming, he deserved what I did to him but—thing is—I enjoyed the hurting. I took pleasure in hurting him. And… that’s not healthy, it’s not normal. I’m fucked up, is what I’m saying. Maybe more than I ever realised. And—I don’t know—maybe a couple of weeks ago, I wouldn’t have thrown this fight, couldn’t have done it, stepping back like that wouldn’t have been in me. Those guys out there, their loyalty—I would’ve gone ‘fuck it’ and probably gotten myself killed.

            “Though it’s not quite fair, is it? I mean, if I was a guy and took you down, that would’ve been fine, don’t you think? An honourable win, and your men would’ve back off. But tossing me into a wall: that’s just perfectly fine, isn’t it? Like I had it coming, right, bitches should know their place.

            “Still, it doesn’t seem fair to me. I had that fight, it was mine to win and you know it and yet here we are, as far as everyone out there is concerned you won, and so you get to play dress up with your little doll. And isn’t it just typical, right, my success becomes yours, and Christ if it isn’t just like at the office, my effort on a project, or clever idea and next thing I know, some guy’s taken the credit and mansplaining my idea back to me like he’s some fucking genius. And—”

            With a sharp tug, Dmytro pulled the laces at the back tight. I gasped, the air momentarily forced from my lungs. My flank burned, briefly. His hands hovered lightly at my flank. They felt huge against my reduced waist.

            “Christ, that’s tight, careful with the bruises, yeah? and fuck—look at me—you have any idea what this feels like? Can you imagine? What it feels like, for a girl? To be trussed up and displayed like this? Feeling so—vulnerable?”

            “No.”

            “Yeah, of course not, giant bastard like you.”

            “Indeed.”

            A scrap of black leather passing for an abbreviated skirt followed, and then a pair of stockings to attach to the corset’s dangling garters. Once skirt and stockings were done, he held up the final item. The choker went around my neck. It wasn’t so tight as to restrict breathing, but the pressure at my throat was a constant reminder of its presence. A gilded D-ring at the back held one end of strip of black leather, descending between my shoulder blades. At the other end, a pair of wrist cuffs, cold grey steel and soft velvet against the skin. A thin gold chain linked them together, delicate-looking but sturdy enough to restrain the kind of girl who finds herself bound this way. He pulled a thin belt tight around my cinched in waist, and to this hooked the chain between both cuffs.

            Now Dmytro licked his lips and watched me with some concern. There was a spot of red in each cheek, and he was clearly excited by the bound bundle of girlhood in front of him. My hands remained free, though not for much longer. When he went to take me by the wrist, I pulled back.

            “You said you trusted me.”
            “I….” Beneath the unyielding gentle pressure of the choker, my throat went dry. I pressed the palm of one hand against his broad chest, as though to push him away. But then I left it there. I felt the muscle beneath the faded t-shirt, and the beating of his heart. I looked up at him and forced a weak smile. “I do. I’m used to taking care of myself. Always have. But this—” I shivered, felt the second skin of the bodysuit, the rapid rise and fall of my flattened tits—“I’m putting myself in your hands, Dim. Will you take care of me, if this goes wrong?”

            “You beat me fairly,” he said. “I promised to escort you safely through to the boss and back out again. I am a man of my word.”

            Oh, Dmytro, it’s good to know some things never change. I say this bearing boobs and with a cunt over my cock, painted and decorated as an exercise in decorative humiliation for his boss—yet I believed him; he’d get me out of here, if needs be.

            I nodded, dropped my hands, held them behind my back. A moment later, his heavy hand, surprisingly gentle in their touch, closed the cuffs around my wrist. They clicked shut. With the sound, a shiver raced up my spine. I gave a little tug and felt it at my throat. There was a little give to either side of my hips, but not much. Almost instantly, I felt a slight strain in my shoulders and arms. The shortness of the strap between neck and waist urged me to push my chest outwards. I tested the chain and heard its delicate song. There was a sudden itch at my nose. Instinctively, I went to scratch it and felt my movement restrained and swallowed nervously.

            Then he revealed the final item: a ball gag.

            “No,” I said.

            He sighed, as though expecting the protest. “You must.”

            “I’m here to talk to the bastard,” I said.

            “Darius does the speaking. You listen.”

            “Does Darius gag his male visitors, too?”

            Dmytro winced. “No.”

            “Just the girls, then?”

            He shrugged. “If he wishes to hear you speak, I will remove the gag.”

            I glared at him, heart pounding in my chest. Entering this place, I expected to breeze through and meet Darius, lay out my case and cash in the favours owed me. This was a high price to pay, just for a fucking meeting. And if I conceded this—what might he demand afterwards?

            “This isn’t fair,” I said.

            He cocked his head to one side. “Fair? What is—‘fair’?  You use that word so lightly as though there is some natural force for balance. You won a fight against me, and therefore believe it is only just that you proceed unhindered. Just! What justice can there be in these empyrean depths other than the decrees of its god? You speak of justice and fairness with no knowledge of who or what lies beyond that door. There is no ‘fair’ here—or elsewhere. I have done terrible things in my life, and there has been no justice, no cosmic impulse towards balance. Or if there has been, it played out on a scale beyond my perception. A cosmic scale, a divine stage against which our little roles are insignificant. If you are here, then you, too have likely done some terrible things. These clothes, this bondage, perhaps this is ‘fair’ only set beyond your limited understanding.”

            It was, by far, the single longest speech I’d ever heard him give. “If you shove that thing in my mouth,” I said, “Can you promise to shut the fuck up with the moral philosophy?”

            He grinned, a little bashfully I thought. “With pleasure.”
            “Get on with it, then.”

            His tone turned serious. “Do you have a cold, mouth ulcers—any piercings—or false teeth?”

            “What? No.”

            “Have you worn one of these before?”

            I thought back to the Clinic, and the cold, metal bit forced back between my lips. I scowled. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”

            “I make no judgment. Many of the girls, and some of the men, encountered here, they have a more than passing familiarity with such devices,” he said. “But then, the girls I bring through to the boss generally aren’t able to best me in a fight.” He though for a moment and then conceded the point. “I do not know what kind of girl you are.”

            My laugh felt febrile, brittle with anxiety, as I poked at the dangling ball with a finger. “Yeah, you and me both, buddy.” There was a heavy, quiet moment between us, and then I sighed. “The jury’s still out on that one. Fuck it. Get on with it.”

            “Good.” Moving carefully around me, he brought the ball to my lips. “Open now,” he said, “yes, a little wider, please,” and I did as he told. A strange shiver of submissiveness ran through me, opening for him like that.  I thought of kneeling between Dan’s open legs. I thought of dropping to my knees for Chad. He held the ball to my mouth—frowned and shook his head—left and returned with another, slightly smaller. With care, he pushed the ball into my mouth. It slotted in well enough, slipping in behind my teeth. Her lifted my braid and secured the gag, the leather smooth against my jawline. The straps drew tight around my head. With a click the straps locked shut. Another shiver passed through me and suddenly I wanted this this off, tried to tell him to take it off, get it out—the gag did little to muffle volume, but each word was garbled nonsense—and I groaned with fear and frustration. I reached for the strap, to rip it off—the chain at my waist snapped taut—I felt a sharp tug at my neck and waist—and panic swelled.

            “Look at me,” he said.

            I looked at him. Gentle brown eyes flecked with green insisted on my attention.

            “Concentrate on whatever brought you here,” he said.

            I reached for the certainty of purpose that brought me here. I tried a deep, calming breath. The ball stuffing my mouth made that impossible. Spit bubbled and a trickle of saliva escaped the corner of my mouth and wet my chin. Shame filled me, and with it fear spiked my chest. Darkness roiled at the edge of my vision. Embarrassment seized me, my chest, I couldn’t breathe, I yanked again at the chains and moaned into the ball as the room began to tilt.

            “Look at me!” His voice was sharp, insistent, and his hands heavy at my shoulders.. Dmytro crouched, met me at eye level. “You trust me, yes?” he asked and when I didn’t respond, his grip on my shoulder tightened. “Answer me.”

            Indignant anger flared: how, I wanted to ask. But the moment was enough: panic retreated, and my breathing calmed. I nodded.

            “Good.”

            Dmytro finished by adjusting the fit. The gag felt snug but not painful. The ball parting my lips was a dull matte black, silicone and perforated to allow for air. My lips formed a O around the gag, red and wet. I didn’t like it, not one bit. I prodded the ball with my tongue, but it didn’t move. It was a good fit, not large enough to strain the jaw but it wasn’t going anyway, either. Drool gathered at the corners of my mouth. I tried to slurp some of it back and swallowed, only to feel saliva slowly gather again. An echo of the panic of the day of the photoshoot at the Clinic overtook me. Once again, my hands jerked uselessly at my waist. The chain held firm and jangled merrily. I felt a terrible instinct to reach for the gag; but this time, I controlled the instinct and suppressed the urge. A shallower breath, this time, and gradually I returned to myself.

            “Now,” Dmytro said, “that’s better.”

            I glared at him.

            “You talk too much.”

            I could’ve strangled the bastard, but my hands were tied. I grimaced around the gag. More saliva gathered and I felt the first dribble escape my slips. I flushed red with the humiliation, the anger of being made to drool helplessly like a fucking child.

            Dmytro reached for a cloth, and gently wiped my chin, careful to not ruin my meticulously applied makeup. “It is a curious thing,” he said contemplatively, as he guided me towards a waiting pair of shoes. They were proper stripper footwear, clear platform heels.  The kind of thing I’d expect some leggy bimbo to wear, strutting her stuff on stage. That I was the leggy blonde bimbo, bound and gag, did little to improve my mood.

            “These complaints of yours, your reluctance—it is unusual, here. The girls and—yes, even the occasional man—who find themselves here, in this room: for many, it is their desire, an escape or singular need made real.” His hand enveloped my shoulder to steady me. Gingerly, I stepped into the shoes. Then, he helped me sit and knelt at my feet, heavy fingers surprisingly nimble with delicate buckles. “You asked me to imagine what it would be like to be—how did you put it?—small and curvy? To be forced to dress as some—again, what were you words?—yes, pervert’s fantasy.” He smiled, a little sadly. “It is true that I can only imagine this reality. Perhaps for you, the reality is entirely too… real. For some, it is their most desperate yearning.”

            With those shoes on, I was as hobbled as if he’d tied a ball and chain to my ankle, dressed me in some tight and unyielding hobble skirt. “In classical western belief,” he continued, “the Empyrean was the highest level of heaven. The home of the stars, a repository of fire, the source of souls. For Christians, it became the very dwelling place of God.” His hand guided me back to the mirror. My steps were unsteady. I’d gotten pretty damned good at navigating in heels, I thought, but these things were beyond the pale. I could walk—just about—but only slowly and unsteadily, and having my hands tied behind my back didn’t make it any easier.

            “Keep this in mind,” Dmytro said. “This place, it is Darius’ chthonic paradise, his divine realm. He is—as a god, here. Do not anger him. Here by his sufferance, you are a supplicant; an acolyte dressed to his specification.”

            With a jangle of the chain, I pulled back and looked up at him, arched eyebrows conveying curiosity, I hoped, because my garbled ‘Daah—ee-us?’ was barely coherent.

            “He is… a man more sinned against than sinning,” he said, eyes distant. “If he is chief of sinners, he is the chief of suffers, also.” He smiled. “I hope you can forgive a man of habitual violence indulging in some educated references.”

            I rolled my eyes.

            “Darius is—different, has become something—new, and terrifying. His sacrifice was great, remains great—I don’t fully understand it—but he is a man I have known for a very long time and what lies beyond that door is both him, and not him. He is changed.”

            He looked at me directly. “I do not know who you are, or how you seem to know things you should not. Forgive the presumption, but it seems to me that perhaps, you too do not entirely know who you are. There have been women, like you, who have come here and despised submitting to Darius’ demands, who have—like you—seethed with the perceived indignity and degradation of these clothes, these tools.” He lightly touched my shoulder and the body stocking beneath it, the strap between my shoulders. “Strong women—and men—who have struggled to accept that there is strength in submission. Yet the penitent kneeling before the divine is wise, not weak. I admire your strength, your willingness to submit to Darius’s demands.”

            We stood before a full-length mirror, and I saw myself fully for the first time. The mesh body was tight yet giving, a long-sleeved, high-necked second skin in black fabric shot through with silver threading that glimmered with every movement. I’d never worn anything like this. My stomach clenched tightly under its delicate embrace. I wanted to wriggle and squirm, my own touch—or Dmytro’s—every subtle shift a sensual caress sending a shiver up the spine. My tits seemed unnaturally large, compressed as they were by the tight material, and clearly visible beneath the dark veiling, nipples fat and protruding, and I blushed for embarrassment. Over this, the short underbust corset, dark purple boning and violet patterns cinching my waist, though not too tightly in deference to the night’s fight. Those dark bruises were mostly hidden beneath the body stocking or corset, though they’d throbbed angrily as he drew the laces tighter. Now, the pain subsided as a constant dull ache. The tiny skirt barely cleared my ass and left garter tabs clearly visible, cute decorative bows a colourful contrast against the slender crescent of pale thigh, holding gorgeous black stockings with deep lace welts in purple. Then, those staggeringly tall heels, clear platforms swirling with some viscous fluid that swirled with every moment, slowly sparkling with silver flashes. And finally, of course, the choker at the neck, the cuffs at the wrists; and the ball gag, slick with spit, shiny between parted lips.

            I stood stunned at the sheer lasciviousness of my own reflection. I was—carnal, raw feminine sexuality, packaged and bound. And I felt—humiliated and afraid and aroused—shamefully so, growing wet at the crotch at the sight of the girl in the mirror. And that girl was me, and how the fuck had this happened?

            An unexpected click snapped me out of my contemplation. Dmytro took advantage of my distraction to attach a leash to my collar. He gave a little tug, pulling me off balance. A hint of a grin twitched his lips.

            The gag muffled my protest. “No leash,” I tried to say, “I’m not a fucking dog,” but the ball behind my lips reduced the words to sloppy vowels and wet consonants: “No ee-sh—ot ah ug-ig og!” and his grin simply grew. I jerked back in a clatter of heels, swayed dangerously off-balance, felt a surge of anger and fear.

            Without a word, but eyes sparkling with humour, Dmytro passed me the handle of the leash. I held my own lead in a light grip behind my back. “Here.” Then, he offered me his arm, the very image of a gallant gentleman. “My lady?”

            With an exhalation of annoyance, I twitched my arms uselessly.

            He laughed and took me by the elbow. “Let’s not keep Darius waiting any longer, shall we?”