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FREEDOM: Class Warfare
Part Twelve
An Interlude: The Grand Opening
By Razor7826 (Copyright 2009)
Thoughts? Encouragement? Hate? Email me at Razor7826@hotmail.com. I’m always interested in hearing from my readers. Any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental, as is the case for all of my stories. It is intended for the eyes of legal adults only, and in no way reflects my views.
“It beats working the corner.”
-Amanda Holmes, brothel owner
*
The brothel was completed in less than two months time, built as cheaply as possible with the financier’s unusual requests. At its very core, it was an extensive modification of a long deserted factory on the city’s far north side, roughly twenty miles south of Seven Saints High School.
It’s proximity to the hometown was far from coincidental. Everybody in the school’s constituent towns openly cursed the visitors, but deep down many appreciated the economic upside of the students’ failure. It was their own faults, after all, and at least some good could come from their foolishness.
A cheap facade was placed around the old warehouse to hide its shattered glass, peeling paint, and chipped brick. Its structural support was important, but its history was most certainly not. It would be the site of countless stories yet to be created, and nobody would care about what came before.
Just inside the entrance was the foyer. It branched up a flight of stairs to the main lounge, and beyond that to private rooms on the third floor. To each side of the foyer were event areas. One was a stadium with seating on each side of a central arena, for any competitions that would be played with slaves’ bodies. The other contained a large amphitheater, each seat facing a theatrical stage.
The second floor lounge was little more than an elaborate strip club. There was a bar, a catwalk, and sixteen cages strewn about between tables. However, the back of the stage, hidden from view until needed, were devices to create shows far more interesting than the average gentlemen’s club. Bondage crosses, wooden horses, whips and chains—everything necessary for countless nights of sadism and masochism. Instead of paying the dancers for feigned affection, the patrons would pay for the right to abuse.
On the third floor was the great hall and private rooms. It existed almost exclusively for wish fulfillment. Slave fantasies of any kind were supported and encouraged, with each room designed with a different theme or fetish in mind. Bondage chambers, mental institutes, classrooms, hospitals, rooms for every kink that was common enough to be profitable. However, not all fantasies are bite sized morsels, and the great hall was for exactly those kinds of special events.
On the bottom floor, beyond three security doors, was the dungeon. There were more than enough rooms to hold each of the slaves individually, covering a wide array of sizes from only a few square meters to what appeared to be full-studio or suite apartments.
Elizabeth Monseto’s first desire was to shove all of them in as tiny boxes as possible and to keep them there forever, but her friends and colleagues persuaded her to do otherwise. A high-standard of living would be a much better carrot, they said, and they hoped that the constant appeal of a better life would be enough to get the slaves to do anything.
For some, it would be enough. For others, nothing could dominate their spirits.
With few exceptions, the cells were complete living quarters. Each had a bed, a bathroom with a shower, and personal amenities and outfits custom to its occupant. However, not all of the cells afforded a nice standard of living.
There more than enough punishment cells to hold the slaves. Seventeen were simple and barren cells. If the slave deserved a mat to sleep on, they would be given one. If not, they would spend the night on the hard and cold bumpy floor. In the smaller rooms, the slaves would not even have enough room to fully lie down.
At the far end of the dungeon was a selection of torture chambers. All three held varying assortments of cruel devices to fulfill the owners’ sadism and slaves’ nightmares. Racks, saw horses, and worse were positioned as centerpieces, but there were enough hooks and latches around the perimeter to restrain any extra boys and girls that needed to be punished.
Newly built offices, sleeping quarters, and storage remained hidden behind the main building. Maintenance of a functioning business requires many basic services, and the advice of Lily Walters helped them foresee the problems to come. There were janitorial supplies to keep the place clean, to be used by whatever slave was deemed fitting for the task. Accounting too could be performed by any slaves interested in earning their keep via a non-physical role.
It was the Seven Saints Brothel, where dreams and nightmares would become reality.
*
All of the owners from Rowan Prep sat at the main table of the great hall, their faces illuminated by the flicker of candelabras. Elizabeth claimed the head of the table. Will sat across from her. A great feast sat before them, funded by a single night’s pay of Judy Goodheart’s prostitution.
The underside of the table was even more crowded. Kneeling between the legs of most of the guests were the slaves of Seven Saints, sucking and licking at whatever was forced before them.
It was the last time they would all be together. Within the coming weeks, many of the owners would leave for college. Some would return, but others would move on with their lives, regarding the brothel as only a steady source of income. Still more would grow to view the entire slave business as amoral.
At least they had a choice. For the boys and girls of Seven Saints High School, their lives as slaves and whores were still only beginning. Few yet understood the fiendish roles they would be forced to play.
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