Employee number two hundred and fifty-six was wearing the most
perculiar outfit she'd ever seen. It probably didn't even count as
an outfit at all. Whatever it was, it was probably in the dreaded
realm of "equipment." It was much more elaborate than anything she'd
been made to wear before, so was almost certainly something the
client himself must have brought with him. After seven months with
the company, she was pretty sure she must have tried on the full
range of in-house costumes by now. Besides, this wasn't their style,
or rather, it wasn't their lowest-common-demoninator lack of it.
She was encased from her collared neck all the way to her toes in a
tight fitting black rubber sack with special sleeve-like compartments
inside it that kept her arms at her sides. Lying down on the floor,
she tried to lift her head up enough to look down at herself. A
leash was dangling down from her collar, the shiny metal chain ending
in a rubber handle that was idly lying on top of her groin. She
gently lowered her head back onto the hard tiles of the floor. Again,
she heard footsteps, and again she felt that terrible surge of
anticipation, dreading what might happen next.
The client strolled in, his eyes lighting up as he towered over her.
Once he was safely inside, the door slammed shut with a deafening
clunk. The sliding doors had evidently been designed by someone
whose main goals were to intimidate people, and to ensure each
transaction went as quickly as possible. "Ah, perfect." The man
looked her up and down. "How do you like your outfit?"
"It's strange." She squirmed around uncomfortably, trying to look
back up at him. "I guess it's kind of interesting, though."
"I want you to be completely honest with me," said the man. "I even
paid extra to have them turn off the CCTV cameras and microphones."
That meant he must have been rich, she realised. She gently lowered
her head back to the floor again, giving her neck muscles a chance
to relax. "OK, then. I'm uncomfortable. I can't move around in
this thing."
"It doesn't look to me like you're trying." The man knelt down and
grabbed her leash. When he stood up again, she saw the chain looming
ominously from his strong hand all the way down to her fragile neck.
It seemed somehow fitting as a representation of their relationship.
In a way, it was more honest than a glimpse of the animalistic fucking
of most clients would have been.
Two hundred and fifty-six squirmed around in her outfit, trying her
best to sit upright. She couldn't. She looked helplessly up at the
man holding her leash.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Whatever you want it to be," she said as she squirmed around. "We're
all just known by our numbers here anyway. I'm number two hundred
and fifty-six. The other woman you were talking to, in the cell
next to me, is number two hundred and fifty-seven. None of us know
each other's real names."
"Don't give me that," said the man. "I told you, no one else can
hear us."
She looked away from him, her voice barely more than a whisper.
"Jane."
"Good," said the man. "Why are you here, Jane?"
Jane spoke in a hushed tone. "Please don't call me that, I'll get
into trouble."
"You'd better be nice to me then," said the man. "Why are you here,
_Jane_?"
"Because you picked me," she replied in between grunts, making another
attempt to sit up. She couldn't hold the position. All the suirming
did was make the chain swing around, reminding her of her place.
Maybe that was the point, she realised.
"Don't give me the script," the man snapped. "Why did you choose
this career? Why aren't you working in some supermarket stacking
shelves?"
"Oh." Jane stopped struggling and lay down, gazing up at the man.
"Because it's the only way I can afford orgasms, I guess."
"Ah, so you're more of a slut than a whore."
"What's the difference?" she asked, still holding his gaze. He
looked sincere, as far as she could tell.
"A whore has sex for money. A slut has sex for its own sake. You're
here because you feel a need to climax."
She averted her eyes from him again. "I guess," she mumbled.
Without warning, the man spat on her face. "Answer me, slut," he
said loudly.
Jane let out a yelp and tried to roll onto her side, but it was
impossible in her cocoon. The man tugged on the leash, keeping her
face close to him, close and vulnerable. "Yes," she finally admitted,
staring straight into the man's eyes. "I let people use me so that
I can buy my own orgasms afterwards."
"So you admit you're a dirty little slut?"
"Yes," she said.
"Say it," demanded the man.
"I'm a slut," she said softly.
"Louder."
"I'm a slut."
"Again!" he ordered.
"I'm a dirty little slut, OK?" Jane was practically shouting now,
suddenly oblivious to whether anyone could hear her in the adjacent
cells. "I crave sex. I want to have orgasms. I _need_ to have
orgasms. Is that what you want me to say? It's true. I need to
be fucked, and I'm frustrated every day that doesn't happen. I'd
like nothing more than to have regular, daily sex with someone. Not
like in this place, but actual sex, where I get to climax. Is that
what you want to hear?" She squirmed around uncomfortably in the
rubber outfit, suddenly feeling an urge to just run away to somewhere
private and cry to herself. She tried to ignore the unwanted emotion.
The man grinned. Jane briefly wondered what he was enjoying the
most, her confession or the fact that she was genuinely trying to
get away from him for the first time. She was starting to realise
that she _really_ didn't want to be where she was, and that she was
helpless, utterly unable to escape her perdicament. He seemed to
be grinning with the knowledge that she'd just had this realisation.
Then again, maybe she was giving him too much credit. "And just
where do you get your orgasms, you worthless slut?"
"Another place like this," she confessed. She made a conscious
effort to calm down. She didn't want to rise to this pervert's bait.
He evidently got off of pushing her buttons. "Where none of the
workers know me. Sometimes I pay one of the women to lick me out,
but usually I can only afford to have my chastity belt removed and
to masturbate by myself."
"So you're a dyke then?" asked the man.
"No!" she replied, a little more forcefully than she'd intended.
The idea repelled her. "It's just those services are always geared
towards men, so I have to make do with what's on offer." If women
like her were sluts, she thought to herself, then so were pretty
much all men. But she didn't say it.
The man knelt down again, then began to slide a strong hand along
her outfit, all the way from her neck, down past her breasts, and
finally to her stomach before sliding it all the way back up again.
Thankfully, she could barely feel him under the thick rubber. It
felt less like being violated than like a stranger brushing past her
in the street. She let her body fall limp again, figuring he probably
wanted her to act like she approved. "What do you think about when
you masturbate, my cheap little whore?"
Jane looked up at him, trying to work out what he wanted to hear.
"Truthfully?"
"Of course." He continued stroking her like some kind of pet.
"I picture myself with a man, and neither of us are wearing a chastity
belt. After working all day, you know, regular jobs, we spend the
evening together bringing each other to orgasm for its own sake. No
money, no cameras, just two adults in love. Like in the olden days."
"Ah, you're old fashioned," replied the man. "You believe that sex
should be a symbol of love." He leaned even closer to her, his face
practically touching hers, and lowered his voice. "So why don't you
get your own key made for your belt?"
"Because it's illegal!" Jane instantly regretted raising her voice,
not for fear of what the client might do so much as her boss. She
made a mental note to dream up some plausible thing to pretend she
had been talking about. Something that was illegal, but that her
employers would approve of.
Only two kinds of people had the key to their own chastity belt: one
kind was those whose job it was to enforce the wearing of them in
the first place, members of the Committee for Helping Authorised
Sexual Transactions in England, or Chaste for short. The other kind
was people who craved sex so much, and were so poor, that they got
an illegal key made because they couldn't afford to have their belts
removed legally as much as they felt they needed it.
She suspected that many of Chaste's members were the kind of people
who wanted illegal keys but couldn't live with the constant fear of
being caught, but she knew it was a job she could never have. Besides
not coming from the kind of conservative background the committee
would approve of, she wasn't the kind of woman who could arrest
people who were only guilty of a victimless crime. She'd heard
rumours of what happened to such people, and she knew she couldn't
live with the guilt of being in any way responsible for it.
He knelt down on top of her, one impeccably dressed leg either side
of her, and slapped her on the cheek. "Answer my question, bitch.
Why don't _you_, a self confessed dirty little slut, want to get a
key that will let you masturbate and fuck whenever you want to?"
She let out another yelp. Slapping the workers was strictly prohibited,
but if he'd paid to have the cameras turned off, it was just her
word against his - and she could take a guess as to who had the most
socially acceptable job and the richest friends.
She tried to pull herself together. "Be-- Because I don't want to
get caught! You-- You know how the government does random checks
of people to make sure they haven't by-- bypassed their chastity
belt's lock. I've heard the stories of what happens to people who
do that. I don't want to be sold into slavery! It's a risk I can't
take." She took a deep breath. "I can't even afford it anyway."
The man hesitated, as if making a difficult decison. When he next
spoke, his voice was lowered. "What if I were to pay for it?" he
asked. "I could ask you to marry me. You'd stay at home, where no
one would perform random checks on you, and every evening I could
fuck your brains out the old fashioned way, using your cunt instead
of your mouth."
"You'd have a key for your own belt too?" asked Jane.
"I already have one," he said softly as he unzipped his trousers.
"Of course, I wore my belt here so your employers wouldn't suspect
anything. They think this is the only orgasm I've had since last
week." He poked his member out of his fly, inches from her face.
She instinctively forced her head up as far as she could manage,
just managing to lick his helmet. He closed his eyes, almost wincing.
"Not yet, my eager little whore," he said.
He lifted her up onto the bed, her head next to him and her rubber
encased feet by the pillows, pointing up to the tiled ceiling. Then
he rolled her onto her front, facing the mattress. The seamless
effect of her costume was lost as a heavy duty zipper faced towards
the ceiling, the metal teeth spanning the length of her back.
She briefly drew her legs up towards the ceiling, trying to get as
comfortable as she could with her toes pressing against the mattress.
Her breasts hurt from the pressure of her own weight, but before she
could protest, he dragged her towards him so her face was dangling
off the edge of the bed, facing the floor tiles.
Standing up straight - the bed was not coincidentally just the right
height for this purpose - the man forcefully grabbed her hair and
positioned her mouth on top of his dick, forcing her to take it in.
She had to stop herself from gagging as he pulled her hair, pushing
her painfully up and down his member. Remembering all the advice
she'd been given, she greedily sucked away, trying her best to please
him.
She tried to ignore the taste of the precum intermingling with her
own saliva as she swallowed as much of it as she could, careful not
to let any drip onto the client's expensive looking shoes. Just as
she was getting the hang of it, he withdrew himself. He grabbed his
member and started rubbing his shaft.
She couldn't look up so she couldn't see the expression on his face,
but it didn't take a member of the committee to work out that he was
about to ejaculate.
"Please, no," she protested, but it was too late.
As his rubbing grew to a climax, he finally spurted his seed up into
her face. She caught as much of it in her mouth as she could, but
she let out a final loud yelp as the rest splashed onto her nose and
chin. She just knew some must have gotten in her hair too, and it
always felt so gross cleaning it off again afterwards. It was so
much harder to ignore the harsh realities of what her job entailed
when she had to clean up in front of a mirror.
She swallowed what she'd managed to catch, barely making it in time
before he slapped her cheek again. "Shut up, bitch!"
Confused at the mixed signals she was geting, she silently tried to
clean up her face with her tongue, trying hard to not even whimper
slightly. For at least the third time that week, she fantasised
about handing in her month's notice. She hated her job, but if she
couldn't afford her own orgasms she'd drive herself insane with
frustration.
She saw the back of the men's impeccebly dressed legs as he made his
way towards the sliding bars. "We're done here!" he yelled.
Jane suddenly reaslised she was crying. How unprofessional.