Chapter 1: A normal evening
The chain creaked. A slow, rhythmic sound. It was the only thing she could count on. The cage was small, a wire cube hanging from a thick beam in the ceiling. She was naked. The air was always cold up here, a constant chill that raised goosebumps on her skin. She drew her knees to her chest, but there was no room. Her back pressed against one side, her feet against the other.
Below, the main floor of the club was empty and clean. Racks of equipment gleamed under the low lights. Polished steel, clean leather. It wouldn’t stay that way for long.
The main doors groaned open. A slash of bright hallway light cut across the dark floor. Then it was gone.
Voices. Laughter. The clump of shoes.
Cocksleeve held her breath. Her heart was a fast, hard knock against her ribs. Scared and excited. The same question, every time. Which ones? What will they do?
Men wandered in, chatting. Suits, mostly. Some in casual clothes. They headed for the bar first, a low hum of conversation rising. She saw Paintits move among them, a tray in her hands. Paintits was smiling, her big tits barely contained in a tiny latex maid’s outfit. Someone reached out and gave one a rough, twisting squeeze as she passed. Paintits didn’t spill a drop. Her smile never wavered. She laughed, a bubbly sound, and said something that made the man grin.
Cocksleeve watched. Her cage gave her a view of everything. She was part of the furniture. A display piece.
“Hey. Red.”
She looked down. A man stood directly beneath her, staring up. He had a drink in his hand. His eyes traveled over her, slow and thorough. She felt them like a physical touch.
“Yeah,” she said. Her voice came out smaller than she wanted.
“You’re the one they call Cocksleeve, right?”
She nodded. The chain creaked with the movement.
“Heard about you.” He took a sip of his drink, still looking. “Heard you like it rough.”
She forced a grin. It felt tight on her face. “I like what I’m told to like.”
He chuckled. “Good answer.” He walked away, joining a group by the spanking bench.
The relief was short-lived. Another man was already looking, pointing. A whispered conversation. Then they both looked up.
Her skin prickled. This was the worst part. The waiting. The being seen.
More people arrived. The room filled with sound, with the scent of cologne and anticipation. The sharp, clean smell of the toys was slowly being buried under something warmer. Sweat. Musk. A faint, metallic hint of nerves.
Paintits wheeled a cart over, stopping near a padded column. She began setting out things. Floggers. Clamps. A violet wand. Her movements were efficient, cheerful. A patron patted her ass. “Good girl.”
“Thank you, Sir!” she chirped.
Cocksleeve envied that sometimes. Paintits’s cheer. It seemed so easy. Her own act felt thinner tonight. The cold was in her bones.
“Lower the cage.”
The voice was deep, calm. A man in a dark sweater stood near the wall, his finger on a button. He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at the man beside him, who was.
The mechanism whirred. The cage jerked, then began a smooth, silent descent. The floor came up to meet her. The sounds got louder. The smells got stronger. She saw bits of lint on the carpet, a stray straw wrapper.
The cage settled with a soft thud a foot above the ground.
The two men approached. The one who’d spoken was older, salt-and-pepper hair. The other was younger, bigger. He had thick hands.
“This one?” the younger one asked.
“They say she’s the most compliant. A true sleeve. No fuss.”
The big man knelt. His face was level with hers through the wire mesh. His breath smelled of gin. “You true to your name, sweetheart?”
Cocksleeve made herself look at him. Made her eyes wide. “Yes, Sir.”
“You’ll take whatever we give you?”
“Yes, Sir.”
He smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. It was a assessing one. He looked at her like a problem he was about to solve. He stood, nodding to the other man. “Open it.”
The older man tapped a code into a small panel on the side. A magnetic lock clicked, loud. The door swung open.
The air from the room washed over her. Warmer. It didn’t help.
“Out,” the big man said.
She unfolded herself, limbs stiff from the cold and confinement. She crawled out on her hands and knees onto the carpet. It was rough against her skin. She kept her head down, the posture automatic.
A hand fisted in her red hair, not too hard, but firm. It pulled her head up and back, arching her spine. She blinked up at the big man.
“First rule,” he said, his voice conversational. “You speak when spoken to. You look when told to look. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good.” He released her hair. “Stand up.”
She got to her feet. Her legs were trembling. She willed them to stop. It didn’t work.
The older man circled her. She felt his gaze like a spotlight. “Petite,” he remarked.
“But sturdy,” the big one said. He reached out and cupped her breast, squeezing, testing the weight. His thumb brushed over her nipple. It tightened, a traitorous response. He smirked. “See? Already eager.”
“Walk for us,” the older man said. “To that post and back. Let’s see you move.”
She walked. She knew how to move. Hips loose, a slight swing. She kept her eyes ahead, on the polished steel of the post. She reached it, turned, walked back. Every step felt exposed. A hundred eyes could be on her. She didn’t check.
When she stopped before them, the big man nodded. “Alright. On your knees again. Hands behind your back.”
She knelt. The carpet was rough on her knees. She laced her fingers together at the small of her back. The position pushed her chest out.
The older man pulled something from his pocket. A black silicone ring. He slid it over her head. It had a leash attached. He clipped the leash to a ring on his belt. The symbolism was clear. She was his, for now.
“Let’s see if she’s warmed up,” the big man said. He unzipped his trousers.
This was it. The moment the questions stopped. The moment she became the thing they called her. She closed her eyes for a second, just a breath, and when she opened them the sharp, observing part of her mind went quiet. The part that asked questions shut off. The part that performed turned on.
She looked up at him, her face smoothing into a blank, welcoming slate. She parted her lips.
The big man grunted, a sound of approval. He placed his hand on the back of her head.
The first ordeal had begun.
The first ordeal had begun.
It was a transaction. A mechanical process. Her mind went where it always went during the opening act—to the cold of the cage, the texture of the carpet under her knees, the specific weight of the hand on her head. She focused on these details. They were anchors. The taste, the sounds, the rhythm forced upon her—these were just weather. She let them pass through her. She became a vessel, empty and receiving.
The big man finished with a grunt and a final push. She swallowed, eyes watering, and remained perfectly still.
“Efficient,” the older man with the leash remarked, taking a sip of his whiskey. He gave the leash a gentle, testing tug. “Up.”
She rose, knees protesting. The big man zipped himself up, his attention already drifting toward the bar. He’d taken what he wanted. The novelty of her had worn off. He clapped the older man on the shoulder and wandered away without another glance.
The leash-holder studied her. His gaze was different. Less hungry, more curious. “You’re very quiet,” he said.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Does it hurt?”
The question surprised her. It wasn’t part of the script. She met his eyes for half a second, saw no malice, only clinical interest. “Sometimes, Sir,” she answered honestly.
He nodded, as if filing that away. “Come.”
He led her by the leash to the padded column. The room was loud now. The crack of a flogger from the other side. A sharp, bitten-off cry. Mumbled negotiations. The clink of chains. Paintits moved through it all with her tray, her smile bright, the skin around the clamps on her nipples an angry red.
“Touch the post. Bend over. Arch your back.”
She assumed the position, her cheek against the cool vinyl. She stared at the scuff marks on the floor. He released the leash. She heard him at the cart, the clatter of metal.
When the first stroke landed, it wasn’t a flogger or a paddle. It was a thin, rigid cane. It split the air with a sharp whistle and bit into her skin with a line of pure, electric fire. Her breath hitched. Her fingers curled against the post.
He gave her five. Methodical. Spaced. Each one a new, parallel line of agony across the back of her thighs. The pain was clean, bright. It chased the last of the fog from her mind. She was suddenly, acutely present in her body.
He paused. She heard his breathing, calm and even behind her. “Count,” he said.
“One, Sir.”
The next stroke lashed the same place. She jerked. “Two, Sir.”
He continued until she reached five. The skin felt swollen, throbbing with each heartbeat.
“Good.” He traced a finger over the welts. She flinched. “Sensitive. That’s good. Stand up. Turn around.”
She did, her legs unsteady. He was holding a different toy now. A rubber spatula with small, raised nubs. It looked almost silly.
“This is for your cunt,” he said plainly. “You’ll count again.”
He didn’t make her assume a position. He just did it. A swift, brutal smack between her legs. The shock of it stole her breath. The pain was deeper, more nauseating. It resonated through her whole pelvis.
“One, Sir,” she gasped.
He did it again. And again. Her vision sparkled at the edges. The counting became a hoarse whisper. By the fifth, tears were streaming down her face silently. She was shaking, a fine, constant tremble.
He dropped the spatula back on the cart. He watched her cry. He didn’t touch her. He just watched, sipping his drink. The indifference was worse than cruelty.
“Please,” she heard herself whisper, the word escaping before she could cage it.
He leaned in, his voice low. “Please what?”
She didn’t know. Please stop. Please more. Please see me. The words jammed in her throat. She just shook her head, the tears coming faster.
He straightened up. “Back to your cage.”
He didn’t lead her. He just pointed. She walked, each step sending a fresh wave of pain from her thighs, a dull ache from between her legs. The journey across the room felt miles long. Men looked, pointed, murmured. She was a spectacle of fresh marks and tears.
The cage door was still open. She crawled in. The wire mesh was cold against her heated skin. The door clicked shut. The magnetic lock engaged.
He looked up at her for a long moment, then walked away, rejoining a conversation by the wall as if he’d just returned from the restroom.
She curled into herself in the center of the cage. The tremors wouldn’t stop. The pain was a reality she was trapped inside. The cold air bit at the welts. Below, the party continued. Paintits laughed, a high, sparkling sound.
A new group of men stopped beneath her. Three of them. They were younger, louder. They’d been drinking. One pointed up.
“Look at that. All marked up and ready.”
“Fucking perfect.”
They stared. She closed her eyes, but it didn’t help. She could feel their eyes on the stripes, on her nakedness, on the tears drying on her face. Shame, hot and thick, rolled through the numbness. Shame for begging, for crying, for being this thing in a cage.
One of them, a guy with a close-cropped beard, grinned. “Hey red. You just gonna lie there? Don’t you want to come out and play?”
She didn’t answer. The rules said she had to speak when spoken to, but they weren’t her owners. They were just guys yelling at a cage.
“Come on,” another goaded. “Be a good slut. Ask nice.”
She pressed her face against her knees. The metal floor was a hard, unyielding reality.
The bearded one’s voice hardened. “Fine. Be a cold bitch. Plenty of others who’ll act grateful.”
They moved on, their laughter fading into the club’s noise.
The rejection, casual and contemptuous, carved a hollow place in her chest deeper than the welts on her skin. It was the final weight. The silence after they left was worse than their taunts. She was just part of the scenery again. Broken furniture.
A desperate, wild thought clawed its way up from the hollowness. It was stupid. It was against every rule. It would change nothing.
But the emptiness was too vast. The quiet was too loud. She couldn’t stay in the center of it.
She uncurled. She dragged herself to the side of the cage facing the room. She gripped the wires. The metal was slick and cold. She took a breath that shuddered all the way through her.
Then she raised her voice, raw and broken, a crack in the silent performance she was meant to keep.
“Please.” It was a whisper, carried away by the music.
She swallowed, her throat tight. She forced the words out, louder, letting them scrape out of her.
“Use me.”
She begged for use.
The words hung in the air, thin and desperate. They didn’t travel far. The music swallowed most of them. But the bearded man heard. He stopped. He turned his head, looking back up at the cage.
His friends kept walking, already distracted by Paintits and her tray. He was alone now, staring.
Cocksleeve held the wires, her knuckles white. She didn’t look away. Her face was wet, her eyes swollen. She had nothing left to hide.
He walked back, slow. He stopped directly beneath her. He didn’t smile. His expression was unreadable. “What did you say?”
Her throat clicked. She forced the sound out. “Use me.”
He considered her. His eyes moved over the stripes on her thighs, the raw state of her. He rubbed his beard. “You look wrecked.”
She had no answer for that. It was true.
“The guys who did this,” he said, tilting his head toward the welts. “They done with you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re just… up for grabs now?”
“I’m always up for grabs.”
He snorted, a short, humorless sound. He looked around, as if checking for a rule he might be breaking. Then he shrugged. He stepped over to the wall panel. He didn’t have a code. He just pressed the call button next to it.
A moment later, a club attendant in a black shirt appeared, silent and expectant.
“I want this one,” the bearded man said, jerking a thumb toward the cage. “She’s asking for it.”
The attendant looked up at Cocksleeve, then back at the man. He gave a single, professional nod. “Fifteen-minute interval. Standard waiver applies. Safe word is ‘redwood’. Do you require any specific equipment?”
“Just the floor.”
Another nod. The attendant tapped the code. The lock clicked. The door swung open.
The man looked up. “Well? Come on.”
She crawled out. The descent was harder this time. Her body screamed. She collapsed onto the carpet at his feet. She stayed there, kneeling, head bowed. The posture was instinctive.
He didn’t touch her. “Get up.”
She got up, swaying. He was close now. She could smell the beer on him, the faint scent of his deodorant. He wasn’t as big as the first man, but he was solid. His hands were calloused when he grabbed her shoulders. He turned her around, roughly, so her back was to his chest.
“See those guys?” he murmured into her ear, his voice low. He meant his friends, who were now by the spanking bench, watching with interest. “They think you’re a lost cause. Too broken for fun. You gonna prove them wrong?”
She nodded, a jerky movement.
“Good.” His hands slid down her arms, his grip tight. “Then no more crying. You hear me? You asked for this. You want to be used? I’ll use you. But I don’t want your fucking tears.”
He pushed her forward, a sharp shove between her shoulder blades. She stumbled. He followed, guiding her not to any piece of equipment, but to a clear, open space of floor near the wall. It was a traffic area. People would have to step around them.
“Here,” he said.
He didn’t give her a command. He didn’t tell her to kneel or bend. He simply moved behind her, planted his foot between her feet, and kicked her legs wider. She gasped, struggling to keep her balance.
Then his hand was in her hair again, fisting the red strands, and he yanked her head back. At the same time, his other hand clamped onto her hip.
HE FORCES HER DOWN.
It isn't gentle. It isn't choreographed. There's no slow, theatrical pressure. It's a sudden, brutal application of weight and will. Her knees buckle instantly, hitting the hard floor with twin jolts of pain. The hand in her hair pulls back, arching her spine cruelly, exposing her throat. His grip on her hip is iron, digging into the fresh welts, holding her utterly in place as he looms over her. She is pinned. Not just restrained, but erased by his force. The air leaves her lungs in a shocked rush. The noise of the club muffles, fading into a dull roar in her ears. All she knows is the hard floor, the pain in her scalp, the unyielding pressure holding her down. She is nothing but a shape pressed into the ground. A space to be filled. The hollow feeling inside her cracks open wider, and for a terrifying second, it doesn't feel like despair. It feels like relief.