Chapter 155: Road Trip
The drive had been a silent ballet of tension. Margot, humming along to some jazzy number on the radio, wore a sleek black dress that hugged her curves, the fabric whispering as she moved. The small bell on her piercing was a faint, constant chime beneath her clothes. Rupert, in his chinos and sweater, felt like a patient being transported to an unknown procedure.
The club, an unassuming converted warehouse on the industrial outskirts, gave nothing away. A single red bulb glowed above a black door.
“You’re coming in,” Margot had said, her hand squeezing his knee. “To watch. To learn.”
A host, a man with a shaved head and a fitted suit, greeted them at the entrance. His eyes flicked over Rupert with practiced appraisal. “Slave Blue, I presume. Madam.”
“He’s all yours,” Margot smiled, kissing Rupert’s cheek. Her perfume, usually comforting, now smelled like betrayal. “Be good for the host.”
The host led him away, down a corridor lit with crimson LEDs, the bass thrum of music vibrating through the floor. In a stark, tiled room, he was instructed to strip. The air was cool on his skin. He folded his clothes, the mundane act feeling surreal. The plastic cage, as always, was a stark declaration of his state.
The blue leather hood was produced, the same one from Julia’s. He pulled it on, the world narrowing to the eyeholes and mouth slit. His breath became louder, hotter inside.
“This way.”
He was led through a labyrinth of corridors, past curtained doorways from which moans and slaps and laughter escaped. The club was a living organism of desire, and he was a neutered specimen being paraded through its veins.
They stopped at a heavy curtain. The host pulled it aside. “Your booth.”
It was a small, raised platform, walled on three sides by dark glass, open to the room beyond. In that room, under a single spotlight, sat a large bed with a shiny, black PVC-covered mattress that gleamed like a still, dark pool. Facing it, in a semi-circle, were two tiers of banked seats, currently empty. It was a stage. A theatre. And he was in the private box.
“Wait here,” the host said, and left.
Rupert stood, staring through the glass. The silence in his booth was absolute, soundproofed. He could see out, but no one, he presumed, could see in. He was a ghost.
The door to the main room opened. Margot entered, alone. She walked to the center of the PVC bed, her heels clicking sharply. She looked up, seemingly directly at his booth, and smiled. She knew he was there. She reached under her skirt, and with a deliberate slowness, peeled off her underwear. She tossed them aside, then lay back on the mattress, the shiny material crinkling beneath her. She arranged herself, knees up and spread, an open exhibit. The small gold bell glinted in the spotlight. She idly tapped it with a finger, producing a tiny, clear ting. A signal. For him. For someone.
A door on the opposite side opened...