New Story!

Here is chapter one of a new story, sort of a spiritual successor to Bound to be A Bimbo. No title yet, so feel free to offer suggestions!

When Carmen arrived at The Collar Club for the first time, she thought it looked like a scene being prepped for a murder. Black plastic covered the floor and walls, which were painted black already, and few lights hung in the rafters. The workers who milled about used spotlights to illuminate their work areas. The screech of wood being cut filled the belly of the bar, drawing attention from some of the other vendors behind the bar, running lines for soft drinks.

Opening a bar was difficult enough. Opening a bar that catered to the sort of clientele Carmen and her partners expected to entertain was another matter entirely. That fact brought her to the club before the date’s open, and that her frustrated. There was much to do before The Collar Club opened its doors to the public, not the least of which was finding her newest submissive.

If the rubber platform boots didn’t give it away, the long latex gloves and the firm expression set on Carmen’s face should have been enough to let everyone who saw her know that she was in charge. The carpenters and electricians working to bring the bar up to code saw Carmen enter and work ceased. Eyes trailed her across the main floor of the bar, where every man admired the surety of Carmen’s stride, the lean look of her legs in black latex, the corset with red piping that cinched her waist, and the mane of silken dark hair that fell over her shoulders. She felt that stare but knew that these were weak men. Most were, in her experience. A few hours alone with her, they would break and grovel and beg, but none of these men was likely to inspire the kind of devotion she desired.

Elektra was in the office, one of the few places in the building not crowded with workers. She was holding her head in her hands, elbows propped on the table, pushing her electric red hair back while she stared down at her laptop.

“Good morning,” Carmen said, removing her long coat. It hung alongside a fur wrap that complimented Elektra’s attire. She looked like she might be giving riding lessons, but the jodhpurs were leather and the boots possessed wicked-looking spikes.

“I’ll be glad when we don’t have to say those words anymore. Any luck with codes?”

“I’m meeting him in a few minutes.” Carmen found the coffee Elektra had warmed up in an espresso maker that looked more expensive than most of the furniture in the office. “Gift?” she asked as she poured a cup.

“What? Oh yes, the espresso machine. A tribute from Danny.”

“He’s a sweetie. Still at home?”

“He’s being domestic today.” The two women shared a grin. That could mean any number of things, all deliciously naughty.

“You’re lucky.”

“So are you, hon,” Elektra added. “I know how you felt about Will. He was special. But you did the right thing by letting him go.”

Carmen settled into an overstuffed chair angled across from Elektra’s desk. “You ever notice how the right thing to do feels like shit most of the time?”

“Car, considering the lives we lead, I try not to get too down in the mouth. A few hours from now I’ll be home with my feet on Danny’s back until I decide he needs to rub my feet. Not exactly the worst fate. You’ll find someone else. Once we get this place open, you’ll have your pick.”

Carmen pursed her lips and nodded. While Elektra was right, of course, the idea of not having a submissive on a chain opening night made her stomach roil. She was a queen, dammit, and what was a queen without a subject or two?

A carpenter, wearing a hard hat and google to obscure his features, gave a terse knock and stuck his head just inside the door. “Pardon me, ladies, there’s some guy from the fire marshall here?”

“That’s me,” Carmen groaned, and rose elegantly from the chair.

“Knock ‘em dead,” Elektra ginned, returning her attention to the email inbox rapidly filling with new messages.

Despite her extreme heels, Carmen walked swiftly, and the carpenter struggled to keep up, not that she paid much attention. Carmen had her eyes on the slender young man in a gray jacket, pushing his black-rimmed glasses up his nose. It would have been stereotypical, but there was a brightness to the young man’s eyes Carmen caught right away. When he saw Carmen, he took an extra breath, something else Carmen noted. She let her very red lips widen into a smile and gave the man her hand in greeting.

“Carmen Nyte.”

“Elliot. Weston. Is Nyte really your last name?”

There was a joking quality to Weston Carmen liked. Not teasing, only pleasantly surprised by the absurdity of the world around him.

“Once I became an adult and realize I could pick any name I liked, I did.”

“That’s fair,” he chuckled. “And fitting.”

He was doing his best not to stare at her, but Carmen saw the way his eyes kept flitting to her body. Good, she thought. That would make negotiations go more easily.

“So, what do you want to see first?”

“Why don’t you give me the tour and I’ll let you know if I need to poke around more.”

Smart, Carmen thought. That gave him a modicum of power in the situation, and the exchange of power was something Carmen considered quite a lot. She gave this power to him. For now.

The Collar Club would provide a playground and meeting place for those interested in the more exotic world of bondage and discipline. Carmen and Elektra were two of five resident Mistresses who had pooled some money to make the kind of place worthy of spending time. Aside from the main room, which was a dance floor and bar, with a stage hidden by deep red curtains that opened and closed with the push of a button. There were doors on either side of the stage. The door on the left would lead on to the offices, where Elliot gave Elektra a wave while she pored over her laptop screen, and storage areas for beer, liquor, and what limited food they would offer.

Once Weston had his look around the offices, food prep, and storage areas, he followed Carmen back into the man room and down the hallway right of the stage. Unlike its mirror passage, this one was lined with four doors on either side. The hall was painted black, the white tile floor reflecting the red light from the fixtures above.

“Sets a mood,” Weston mused and opened one of the doors.

The room was twelve by twelve, with a pole in the center. There were cuffs and chains affixed to the pole. A padded bench with similar restraints sat close by. Cushions were littered about the carpeted floor.

“As far as scenes go, this is pretty vanilla. If you have any questions, I’d be happy to answer them.” Carmen grinned.

Weston turned to face her. His cheeks were flushed. All power exchanges ebb and flow. Carmen felt the inspector’s authority begin to wane as Weston pieced together some of the activities that might take place in a room like this. And the latex-clad body of his companion and her surety suggested she knew plenty.

“How many people occupy these rooms when the door is closed?”

“No more than three or four. These are private rooms. We have the stage for people who want to put on a show.”

“They engage in sex acts on the stage?” he asked. He cleared his throat, eyes on Carmen’s. His were a very pretty blue, she noted. Hers were dark and Elliot Weston could feel himself staring into those dark orbs and ore his gaze away.

“Nothing like that. Not only is public sex illegal, but it’s also one of the least interesting things you can do in front of a crowd. Come,” she said.

Carmen led Weston to another of the private rooms, this one painted pink, with a big wardrobe pressed against one wall and a vanity pushed against another. There was a great big bed, too, with comfortable blankets of pink and white piled on top. Weston noted the cuffs attached to the bedposts.

“If I may wax poetic about my passions, Mr. Weston, or can I call you Elliot?”

“Elliot’s fine,” he replied, though his eyes were on the details of the room.

“What happens on stage, Elliot, is that someone with a bit of expertise does their best to place their submissive in a state of pure euphoria while we watch. Not sex, not simple, dull penetration, but the use of words and touch, and maybe a toy or two, to make the submissive achieve their full potential of pleasure. And as a person. The relationship between sub and Dom should be among the most intimate.”

“It sounds like you know your business,” he said. His voice had shifted from one of surprise and a hint of wonder to the cool tone of bureaucracy. “I don’t see any violations. I’ll get the report submitted and you should have your permits in a few days. Word of warning, the liquor board is tougher than I am.”

“Thank you, Elliot. And I don’t think you’re so tough.” She smiled at him again, and he caught a flash of white teeth beneath her vibrant red lips. “You’re actually very sweet.”

Carmen returned to Elektra’s office. She’d abandoned the laptop for the moment and had unzipped her thigh-high boot, scratching her foot with the business end of a pencil.

“Let the subs get a look at that,” Carmen teased, resuming her seat by the desk. She folded her hands beneath the swell of her breasts, gleaming thanks to the rubber she wore. They looked pretty great outside the latex, too, she believed.

“Plenty of foot fetishists in the world that would pay for the pencil,” Elektra laughed. “Any problems.”

“No,” Carmen said, her eyes staring off into some middle distance. “No,” she repeated, “but the inspector was cute. For a normie.”

“You and I both know there is no such thing as normal. If you like him, give him a call. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Carmen nodded and chewed pensively on the end of her pinky nail. With all puzzles, one needed a place to begin. And for all Carmen’s experience, she didn’t know nearly enough about Elliot Weston to find the tattered corner she could get her nails under to peel away his veneer.

While Carmen pondered a problem like Elliot, his own thoughts were flashing through his mind at a dizzying speed. Breath came quick and his heartbeat quick and loud in his ears. He willed himself to take longer and slower breaths, gripping the wheel of his pick-up like he might be suddenly thrown from the cab. That room…

Elliot was still a young man. He managed to land his gig with the Fire Marshall thanks to some nepotism and the fact that he’d attended college, which was something in a small town like Wilmont. The fact that someone wanted to open up some kind of BDSM club in town was ruffling some feathers, but the place was near the county line, which made it convenient for two other counties. The latex-draped owner might have lucked into the location, but Elliot suspected she was a smart woman. And certainly strong. His body reacted to that strength almost immediately.

And then she showed him the room. The place that looked so much like his fantasies.

He had a two-bedroom home he bought early, fresh out of college and not long after landing the marshall job. It was in a rural part of town, as if Wilmont had hubs of civilization, but it was off the beaten path enough that he rarely saw anyone he didn’t expect.

“No one comes to my door on accident,” he told a friend at work.

While he might never have consciously considered how remote his house was when he bought it, being such a good deal after all. But there was no question he reaped the benefits of that isolation and was able to entertain the parts of himself that no other soul was allowed to see. Once the sun went down and the curtains were closed, Elliot poured himself a glass of wine, put on some music or a television show that would help amplify his gentler mood, and he would adorn himself with feminine clothing.

He rarely wore shorts in the summer, at least not if he expected to be seen. For over two years, Elliot had been shaving his legs. Along with a liberal application of lotion when it was appropriate, his legs were smooth, and supple in a way that was unmistakably feminine. He still had dark, coarse hair covering his arms. His chest and stomach were kept smooth, any part of him that could be kept shaved and supple without alerting coworkers to his perversion. There had been a few close calls, situations where he might reveal his unexpectedly smooth body, but those had been avoided so far. He never wore women’s clothes in public. Tempting fate was not part of Elliot Weston’s modus operandi. He understood that his desires were unusual, and would, in fact, result in him losing part of his conservative family if they ever found out. The one thing being a fire marshall taught Elliot was how often the unexpected happened. And he would not be some corpse on a slab, panties cut off him by a sour-faced morgue attendant while his shame was revealed for all the world.

“We found him in panties,” the imagined attendant would say, laughing to his friends. “What a freak,” this imagined employee would say. “What a fairy.”

“Not here,” he told no one.

Here, in his domain, he allowed himself the freedom denied in every other part of his life. Panties were slid up his creamy thighs and settled into place. A matching bra sans padding, hose and a dress completed the uniform and left Elliot to curl onto his sofa and turn on the latest Netflix drama to catch his attention. At least this way he felt more himself. Sinking into the overstuffed cushions, the brush of his stockinged legs creating both a sense of comfort and of arousal. When his thoughts turned back to his time with the seductive Carmen Nyte, that arousal fanned into a more insistent fire.

He drew the length of the black dress he wore up his thighs and rubbed his growing erection through the panties and hose. It wasn’t an unfamiliar occurrence, but sliding down the back of the couch to lie on his back, meeting his firm hand with his hips, it was a wash of pink and white he thought of. What must happen in that room in the hall of The Collar Club. He closed his eyes, stroking himself under his clothing with greater need, mouth parting, tongue darting over lips colored by lipstick. He thought of Carmen standing over him, telling him what a feeble man he made, and then turning him around, lifting his ass while she lubricated a strapon.

He popped quick, staining his panties with warm, sticky seed. There was a flush of shame, as there always was when he pleasured himself while dressed as a girl, but also a hollow curiosity, a question unanswered. He only wished he possessed the bravery to pursue that curiosity, but he knew he’d never go back to The Collar Club. That was for people who were free. And Elliot was a prisoner of his own life, of his own body in so many ways. And so, he cleaned himself up and settled into a new pair of panties, the hose abandoned now, and returned to his television show and the wine. After only a couple of hours, he could barely feel the hollowness inside him.