Sneak Peek: Empyrean

From Chapter 6. The next step for David taking matters into his own hands involves meeting an old friend, requiring a visit to The Pit, a heavy-metal club on the outskirts of town, then through a door into Empyrean, an exclusive members-only club beneath it offering kinky pleasures for the wealthy.

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[...]

And—fine, I guess; not my thing but live and let live, and if some girl wants me to tie a collar around her neck and lead her by a leash, then hey, why not? So long as no one tries to slap a collar onto me, right?

            But fucking hell, did it ever hit differently now, and it occurred to me in a way it couldn’t have a year ago that in all those places of kinky fun, it was almost always the girls who ended up tits out with arms tightly bound behind their back, or collared, or hobbled, or gagged for the night. And that’s what I saw in the burning eyes of the men I passed: an intense desire to tie me up and bring me to heel.

            Their look left me entirely too aware of my visible femininity. Anxiety gnawed at my belly. With each step, I felt the presence of breasts and especially of the smoothness between my thighs as never before. By this point I’d only had that goddamn prosthetic vagina for a couple of weeks. And I could see all too clearly etched in the faces of passing men what they thought of my tits and how they hungered for a glimpse of that gap between my legs, yearned to—stuff it full, restrict my autonomy over my own sex, and take control of something I hadn’t even come to terms with myself.

            No wonder I felt on edge, then, torn between anger and fear and—arousal, yes, and it fucking killed me to admit it, but all that naked flesh, those beautiful women, the air heavy with it—with sex—I hadn’t gotten off since coming back from the Clinic and felt almost drunk with need as I scurried through that last room.

            Youthful dancers thrashed about under flashing lights at the feet of caged or staged beauties. Scattered among them, those in bondage: tight corsets and hooded gags, arms bound and tied to those stainless steel chains disappearing into the darkness overhead; or full-body suits, heavy belts restraining them in neat, wiggling packages on raised platforms between the swaying masses.

            There was this one girl though, bent at the waist over a metal pole, neck and wrists in wooden stocks, hands clenching and unclenching uselessly. She tossed her head, long blonde hair swirling about her face, blindfolded. This girl was slender, tits hanging freely and her skin shone under a sheen of sweat. A pair of very high heels thrust her ass up in the air and was all she wore other than a lacy thong, purple and satin shiny. A man, beer in hand, idly smacked her bum, held his hand there for a moment, massaging, smacked her again and walked on. She moaned, glossy lips pursed around some kind of gag. The sound could have been one of pain, or pleasure.

            I stood and stared. My face burned beneath my hoodie, heart hammering in my chest. Looking at her, I felt the phantom memory of tight corsetry and cuffs at my wrist, the ache of my arms bound high behind my back: the Sin-DI photoshoot at the Clinic. With the memory came a visceral sense of humiliation, and suddenly an image of myself in this girl’s position seared itself into my mind. It was so easy: the blonde hair, the full lips; and for a moment it seemed I felt the implacable grip of wooden stocks at my wrist and neck, the heavy weight of pendulous breasts. The vulnerability, the shame—and the excitement; for fuck me if I didn’t suddenly feel an urgent swelling in the crotch—experienced as wetness—and shivered.

            “Beautiful, don’t you think?” spoke a voice at my ear. Distracted by the woman, I failed to notice the man’s approach. He was tall and handsome, with a thin moustache and narrow chin, dressed in what looked like a contemporary adaptation of a Victorian man’s suit, waistcoat and thin chain disappearing into an inner pocket. I felt his other hand hovering at the small of my back—not quite touching—yet still hot. In the other hand, he held a leather collar, midnight black and heavy, steel D-rings sparking under flashing lights. “I have a spare with me tonight,” he said, and indicated an empty stock near the restrained woman. “Perhaps you are curious?”