 |
|||
|
|
The door of the private dance room had a sign prominently hanging on it which stated in bold letters, “THIS ROOM UNDER VIDEO SURVEILLANCE. NO SEXUAL CONTACT OF ANY KIND PERMITTED. VIOLATORS WILL BE REMOVED FROM THE LANDING STRIP.”
The room itself was small—just an armless chair with a very tiny area right in front of it to dance. Doing so was difficult. It didn’t help that Carl—he wouldn’t tell her his last name, so she was stuck with “sir”—kept yanking on her leash and forcing her to press up against him. He was disgustingly sweaty.
Her clothes, scant as they were, came off in a blur. She couldn’t even keep track of which items were taken off by her and which ripped off by Carl. She supposed she’d figure it out later by which items were ruined.
Carl seemed to enjoy slapping her—especially her breasts and ass—and tweaking her nipples. At one point, he yanked her face to within inches of his and cupped her right butt cheek as she was forced to bend toward him. She flinched from his sour breath, but he held her firm by the clasp of the leash.
“You know the best part of this? I can tell you hate this. You think you’re too good for this, that you’re better than me. I don’t know what’s forcing you to do this, but I’m glad for it.”
She felt tears welling up in her eyes. He was right. She’d never thought she’d find herself in this position. She was educated. She was good at her job. She had no need for this. But not what, she thought. Who. But she mentally chastised herself, But the “who” is you. Your own actions brought this on. Don isn’t making you do anything you don’t deserve. If you’d get over yourself, if you’d stop it with your superior attitude, if you’d just do a simple thing like write a letter the way you’ve been instructed to, you wouldn’t be stuck here.
But other than that, Carl was right. She did think she was too good for this, and she did think she was better than him. She knew it was wrong, and she knew it was only going to cause her problems, but she couldn’t help it. Maybe—just maybe—punishments like this would help teach her her proper place.
As the thoughts finished forming, Carl let go of her leash—causing her to stumble backward—at the same time as he pinched her right nipple. The pain flashed through her and released her tears. For a second she didn’t realize that her dance was done until Carl barked at her, “Well? Yer done. Get out of here.”
She quickly gathered up her outfit, and stumbled out of the room, tears flowing freely as she fled toward the back room. As she passed the cashier’s window, the woman there—a heavy African-American lady—yelled out to her, “Hey, forgettin’ something?”
Lauren hadn’t quite figured out the woman’s status compared to her own. She wasn’t a dancer, but she also wasn’t a man. She erred on the side of caution. “What do you mean, Miss Brown?”
“Twenty dollars from your private dance.”
“Oh, I was told to give that dance for free. I didn’t get paid.”
“Free for him. Not free for you.”
“Well I . . . I already gave you all my tips. I don’t have any extra money on me obviously. Can you take it out of the tips I’ve given you?”
She harrumphed. “They’re not your tips until the end of the night. I’ll mark it in your ledger as a debt. Means it’ll cost you $25 out of your tips at the end of the night.”
That seemed so unfair, but Lauren didn’t know how to argue with her about it. “Okay. Thank you, Miss Brown.”
|
|
|