Chapter 5: The Party
The text from Fiona arrived a few days later. My house. Friday. 8pm. Terry will send the address. . On Friday evening, the other girl was introduced only as Lina, a stunning Eurasian in her late twenties, and they were both handed identical, backless crimson dresses that clung like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination and fishnet hold ups. Sarah had her black stripper heels.
Terry & Fiona’s Mayfair townhouse was a stark, modern contrast to the club’s louche velvet. At precisely eight, a procession of blacked-out SUVs purred to the curb. The front door opened, and a group of dangerous-looking Russians entered the stark white foyer.
Gregor, obviously the boss, led them. He was a thick-necked man in an impeccably tailored suit, his cold eyes scanning the room like a predator. His personal bodyguard, a monolithic brute with knuckle-dusted hands, flanked him a step behind. Behind them flowed half a dozen associates: four sharp-eyed men and two severe, impeccably dressed women, their collective presence emitting an acrid cloud of expensive cologne and cold violence.
Terry and Fiona moved forward to greet them, their usual authority tempered by practiced deference. “Gregor. Welcome,” Fiona said, her smile razor-thin. “Drinks are in the main room.” Terry shook Gregor’s hand, a brief, tense gesture, before both hosts began circulating, directing the new guests. Eddie, meanwhile, watched from a shadowed archway, his posture rigid, his eyes tracking every movement.
Sarah stood with Lina near a vast steel fireplace, trying to make her spine melt into the wall. Gregor’s gaze passed over Lina and settled on her. He detoured, stopping before her. His eyes traveled from her face, down the plunge of her crimson dress, to her black heels.
He said nothing, just let his gaze linger for a brutal, appraising second before moving on to accept a crystal tumbler of vodka. Fiona then appeared with two silver trays, handing one to Sarah and one to Lina. “Pass these,” she instructed, her voice low and final. “Do not speak to them. Just serve.”
The tray was heavy with chilled champagne flutes. Sarah moved into the crowd, the bubbles in the glasses trembling with each step. The Russian men’s eyes followed her, their conversation dropping into husky, guttural tones. She caught words she didn’t understand, but their meaning was clear in the way they leered at her chest, her hips, the swing of her hair.
A heavy-set man with a scar through his eyebrow reached for a glass, his fingers deliberately brushing against her knuckles. “Khorosho,” he muttered to his companion, his eyes locked on the deep V of her dress. She felt their stares like physical touches, crawling over her skin. Another, younger man said something sharp, and a short burst of laughter followed, all of them looking at Lina’s ass as she bent slightly to offer a drink.
As Sarah moved through the room, a hand, thick and ringed, smacked her lightly on the rear. She jerked forward, champagne sloshing. “Izvinite,” a voice grunted behind her, not sorry at all. She turned to see Gregor’s bodyguard, his face a blank wall, taking a flute. His other hand lingered on her hip, giving a slight, possessive squeeze before he turned back to his boss.
They were decorations, living furniture. The conversations, now in more heated Russian, flowed around them as if they weren’t there, except for the occasional pinch or grope.
Terry cleared his throat, silencing the room with a sharp clap of his hands. “Gentlemen, ladies, welcome—please, enjoy the hospitality,” he said, his speech mercifully brief before he nodded once at Fiona. With that signal, Eddie materialized, his large hands guiding Sarah and Lina by their elbows toward the stark, clinical kitchen.
“Everything off but the stockings and heels,” Fiona commanded, her voice devoid of inflection as she followed them in. The crimson dresses pooled on the polished concrete floor. Standing there in only black stockings, lace suspenders, and her high heels, Sarah felt the cold air raise goosebumps on her bare skin, a profound vulnerability that was both terrifying and, shamefully, electric. Fiona handed them fresh trays of vodka shots. “Back out. No speaking.”
They re-entered the living room to a volley of crude cheers and sharp whistles. A young Russian with slicked-back hair reached, not for the drink, but to grope Sarah’s bare breast, his fingers pinching her nipple hard. “Krasivaya,” he grunted to his friend, who slapped Lina’s arse as she passed. They served in silence, their bodies offered as part of the decor, while the conversations about money and territory resumed over their heads. Gregor watched, sipping his drink, then pointed at Sarah and uttered a single, comment to his bodyguard.
Gregor watched, sipping his drink, then pointed at Sarah and uttered a single, terse comment to his bodyguard. The brute’s lips curled into a faint, cold smirk as he nodded, his eyes never leaving her.
Flustered by the intense scrutiny, Sarah nervously forgot Fiona’s strict command. She tried to engage them, offering a tremulous smile to Gregor as she approached with the tray. "More vodka?" she asked, her voice too bright, too present in the heavy room.
Gregor’s cold eyes flicked to her face, then past her shoulder. He said nothing, but a low, gruff laugh escaped his bodyguard. From across the room, Fiona’s voice sliced through the murmur like a shard of glass. "Sarah. Kitchen. Now."
All conversation ceased. The Russians watched, amused, as Sarah flinched and turned. Fiona stood rigid in the kitchen doorway, her expression lethal. Sarah’s heels clicked loudly on the polished floor as she crossed the living room exposed, every gaze a brand upon her naked skin.
Once in the stark white kitchen, Fiona closed the door with a soft, final click. "You were told not to speak," she said, her voice a dangerous whisper. "You do not for conversation. You are furniture."
Before Sarah could form an apology, Fiona snatched her large handbag from the counter. She pulled out a heavy, stainless steel ring gag, its broad O-shape gleaming under the downlights. "Open your mouth," Fiona commanded, her tone leaving no room for hesitation.
Sarah obeyed, a cold dread pooling in her stomach. The cold, unyielding metal ring pushed past her teeth, and Fiona swiftly buckled the straps at the back of her head. The gag forced her jaw wide open, her tongue lying helpless in the bottom of the ring.
Fiona turned to a drawer, pulling it open to reveal an array of small, wooden clothes pegs. She selected one. "Stick your tongue out. Through the ring," she ordered.
Tears of humiliation pricked Sarah’s eyes as she complied, extruding her tongue through the cold metal circle. Fiona placed the peg squarely on the pink flesh and let it shut. A sharp, biting pain bloomed, making Sarah gasp against the gag.
Fiona examined her work with a critical, dispassionate eye. She then took two more pegs, leaned in, and attached them to Sarah’s erect, tightened nipples. Each pinch was a bright burst of hurt, a sensation that twisted towards arousal deep within her.
Without a word, Fiona’s hand then moved lower. Her fingers parted Sarah’s labia, cool against the sensitive flesh, and clipped two final pegs to her protrouding lips. The sharp, stinging grip on her most private flesh made Sarah’s whole body shudder.
"There," Fiona said softly, wiping her fingers on a towel. "Now you can be gawped at without the risk of speaking, and suitably degrading." She pointed to the door. "Back to the living room."
Sarah stood frozen, clothed only in her stockings, heels, and this new harness of humiliation. Reluctance warred with a deep, programmed obedience. Swallowing back a sob made impossible by the gag, she turned.
She pushed the door open and stepped back into the den of watching men. The reaction was instant. A wave of loud, crude laughter and exclamations in Russian swept the room. Every eye locked onto her: the ring gag, the peg on her pinned-out tongue, the clamps on her nipples and pussy.
Gregor leaned forward in his chair, his drink forgotten, a wide, genuine smile spreading across his face. He pointed at her with his glass, saying something that made his entire entourage roar with approval. The bodyguard’s earlier smirk had transformed into a look of open, hungry appreciation.
Lina, still holding her tray, stared with wide, pitying eyes. Sarah walked forward, her face burning, the bite of the pegs a constant, degrading reminder with every step. She was no longer just a naked woman; she was a furnished joke, a decorated plaything.
The crude laughter subsided into a low hum of conversation as Sarah continued her task, the metallic click of the ring gag a constant, mortifying counterpoint to the clink of glasses. Her tray grew lighter, then heavy again, in a cycle of servitude as she moved among them, each pass inviting a fresh violation—a hard tweak to a nipple peg that made her gasp against the steel, a rough pinch to her inner thigh, a dismissive slap to her arse that echoed in the room. One of the severe Russian women, her eyes like chips of flint, reached down as Sarah passed her a drink gave the peg on her labia a sharp, twisting yank, a bolt of pain so sharp it forced tears to spill silently down Sarah’s cheeks.
Terry, watching Gregor’s amused approval, finally gestured toward a set of double doors. “Shall we?” he said, his voice a study in forced casualness. Gregor nodded, pushing his chair back, and the two men disappeared into the adjoining study, leaving the raucous energy of the main room behind.
Fiona appeared at Sarah’s elbow, her whisper a blade. “You. With the tray. Follow them. Stand by the table. Do not move. Do not make a sound.” Sarah obeyed, the pegs biting with every step as she followed Fiona into the quieter, book-lined room. The air was cooler here, smelling of leather and old paper. Gregor and Terry were already seated at a long, polished table spread with documents.
Sarah took her position against the wall, the loaded tray heavy in her hands. Gregor’s bodyguard closed the door behind them and leaned against the doorframe, his massive arms crossed, string impassively at her gagged mouth and pegged flesh. The men talked in low, serious tones, points and figures exchanged in a language she didn’t understand, their fingers tracing lines on dense legal pages. She was a statue, a piece of obscene furniture holding drinks.
Their discussion stretched, tense and granular. Sarah’s arms began to ache from holding the tray steady. Her jaw screamed from being forced open, her tongue dry and useless against the cold metal. The pegs on her nipples had settled into a dull, throbbing ache, but the ones on her lips pulsed with a sharper, more intimate sting. She focused on the grain of the wooden table, on a small flaw in the polish, anything to escape the humiliation of standing there, utterly exposed and silently screaming.
Finally, Gregor gave a short, definitive nod. He picked up a heavy fountain pen, unscrewed the cap, and scrawled his signature across the bottom of several documents with a flourish. Terry did the same, a tight smile of relief on his face. Gregor leaned back, steepling his fingers, and looked past Terry directly at Sarah. He said something in Russian to his bodyguard, who chuckled.
“A toast,” Terry translated, though the request was clear. Gregor held out two fingers, indicating two glasses from her tray. Sarah stepped forward, her stockings whispering on the hardwood. She tilted the tray, her movements careful and precise, and Gregor took both crystal tumblers of vodka. He handed one to Terry, kept the other for himself.
He raised his glass, his cold eyes fixed on Sarah’s leaking cunt. “To fruitful partnership,” he said in heavily accented English. They drank, the liquid disappearing in one practised toss. Then, without breaking his gaze from her, Gregor placed his empty glass back on her tray. He reached out, not for the second glass Terry was returning, but for the wooden peg clipped to Sarah’s lower lips. He gave it a gentle tug.