Chapter 4: The Next Assignment
The week passed in a fugue state. Marcus went to work, attended meetings, typed emails, and all the while the leather collar sat against his skin, a secret circumference of heat. It chafed slightly by Thursday, a raw whisper beneath his starched shirt. He found himself touching his neck during video calls, a absent gesture that felt like checking for a pulse.
Valeria’s text came Friday at noon. An address in a gentrified warehouse district, a time, three words: Bring the collar.
He arrived at seven-thirty, the sky a deep indigo. The apartment was on the top floor of a converted factory. He pressed the buzzer, heard laughter echoing from within before the lock clicked open.
Stepping inside was like entering a different climate. The space was vast, lit by the warm glow of oversized paper lanterns and countless candles. Polished concrete floors reflected the light. The air was thick with the scent of spiced perfume, cigars, and expensive alcohol. Low, rhythmic music pulsed through hidden speakers.
A dozen people mingled in small groups. He recognized Ingrid and Lars standing by a suspended fireplace, Ingrid in a sheath of emerald green, Lars in a black turtleneck. There were others: a man with a salt-and-pepper beard holding forth about architecture, a woman with a severe silver bob laughing too loudly. Everyone looked polished, effortless, powerful.
Valeria found him immediately, materializing from near a driftwood bar. She wore crimson, a dress that clung to every curve and seemed to drink the light. “You’re late,” she said, her smile not reaching her eyes.
“I’m… it’s seven-thirty.”
“I said be ready at seven-thirty. You’re not ready.” She took his hand, her grip firm, and led him past the clusters of guests who glanced over with mild, curious disinterest. They entered a spare bedroom off the main hall, lit by a single lamp. His clothes from the previous job—the chinos, the sweater—were folded on a bare wooden chair.
“Strip. Everything but the collar. Then put this on.” She tossed him a small bundle of black fabric.
It was an apron. Just a black linen apron, the kind a serious home cook might wear. It had a single tie for the neck and two for the waist. Nothing else.
He undressed, his fingers clumsy. The cool air raised goosebumps on his skin. He tied the apron on. It covered his front from chest to mid-thigh, his back completely exposed. He felt more naked than if he’d worn nothing at all.
“Better,” Valeria said, circling him. She adjusted the neck-tie, her knuckles brushing his throat. “You are service tonight. You are atmosphere. You are a useful object. Speak only if asked a direct question. Your answers are ‘Yes, ma’am,’ ‘Yes, sir,’ or ‘My apologies.’ Keep your eyes down unless instructed to look up. Your purpose is to facilitate their pleasure. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good boy. Follow me.”
She led him back to the main room, now noticeably fuller. A few more eyes tracked him. A woman with a dark, glossy ponytail smirked into her drink.
Valeria picked up a silver tray from the bar. On it were six coupes of champagne, bubbling pale gold. She placed it in his hands. “Start with this. Offer. Kneel to present it. Let them take. If they touch you, let them. If they want more than a drink, you provide it.”
The tray trembled in his hands. The liquid shivered.
His first target was the man with the beard, deep in conversation with a younger couple. Marcus approached, sank to one knee on the hard concrete, and raised the tray. The conversation didn’t pause.
“...so the entire load-bearing concept was just fraudulent,” the bearded man said, plucking a glass without looking. The woman took one next, her fingers brushing his. No acknowledgment.
He moved through the room. A knot of tension settled in his shoulders, awaiting the inevitable break in the facade. It came from Ingrid’s circle.
“Ah, the help arrives,” Ingrid said, her voice cutting through the music. She took a glass, then looked down at him. “Lars, darling, you remember our sommelier?”
Lars’s cool gaze swept over him. “Vaguely.”
A new woman stood with them, tall and willowy with fox-like features and a sharp smile. “Oh, I’ve heard about this,” she said. Her name was Sasha, Marcus would learn. She didn’t take a drink. “Ingrid said you have a talented tongue. Is it true?”
Marcus kept his eyes on the tray. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Prove it. My heels are killing me.”
She stepped forward, out of her sparkling stiletto, and placed a bare foot on the edge of his silver tray. Her toes were painted a blood red. The arch was high, the skin soft. “Clean it. The whole thing. It’s been in that damn shoe all night.”
Laughter rippled through the immediate group. Marcus felt the heat of a dozen stares. He lowered the tray, setting it on the floor, and took her foot in his hands. It was warm, slight. He bent his head and touched his tongue to her instep. The taste was salt, leather, and bitter cosmetic.
“Like a puppy,” Sasha sighed, sipping from Ingrid’s champagne glass.
He licked, from heel to toe, methodical. He heard the click of a phone camera, but didn’t look up.
“Alright, enough of that,” a man’s voice said. It belonged to a broad-shouldered friend of Lars, whose name was Karl. Karl’s hand was in Marcus’s hair before he could react, pulling his head back from Sasha’s foot. “We know what his mouth’s good for. Let’s not waste it on pedicures.”
The dynamic shifted, solidifying. Karl unzipped his trousers. The room didn’t go silent; the music played on, conversations simply lowered to a intrigued murmur, faces turning to watch the sport.
“Come on, party favor,” Karl said, his tone jovial, as if coaxing a child to try a new food. He guided Marcus’s head forward.
There was no slow build this time. The expectation was clear, the script written. Marcus opened his mouth. The act was practiced now, a grotesque skill. He focused on the mechanics: breathing through his nose, relaxing his throat. The guests watched, some with detached fascination, some with open arousal. A man in horn-rimmed glasses adjusted his own trousers.
Valeria’s voice came from somewhere behind him, calm and instructive. “Use your hands, Marcus. Show Karl you’re grateful for the attention.”
Marcus brought his hands up, unsure, then placed them on Karl’s hips. The action felt collaborative, participatory, and the humiliation of that consent lanced through him. Karl grunted approvingly.
When Karl finished, pushing him away with a soft pat on the cheek, there was no respite. Another man, the one in the glasses, was already there, belt unbuckled. “My turn,” he said simply.
Marcus was passed between them for what felt like an hour, kneeling on the hard floor, his jaw aching, his body vibrating with a shame so deep it had crossed into a kind of serene abyss. He was a fixture, like the ice bucket or the vintage record player spinning in the corner. At one point, Valeria stood before him, one high heel planted on his thigh, the other hovering near his lips. He kissed the arch of her foot obediently as he serviced a guest named Thomas. She smiled down, filming the contortion with her phone, her expression one of proprietary pride.
The party began to ebb. Couples drifted into the shadows of the large balcony or back toward the bedrooms. Marcus, discarded, knelt by the empty bar, the apron stained, his body trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline.
Valeria found him there. She crouched, bringing her face level with his. She smelt of smoke and victory. “You did very well. You made me a lot of money tonight.” She wiped a smudge from his cheek with her thumb. “These people pay a premium for… authentic experiences. And you are nothing if not authentic.”
She stood, pulling him up by his elbow. His legs were numb. In the spare bedroom, she handed him his clothes. “Get dressed. I’ll transfer your share.”
As he pulled on his sweater, hiding the collar once more, she leaned against the doorframe, scrolling through her phone. She turned the screen toward him.
It was a high-definition video. Him, on his knees, eyes wide and tearful, between Karl and the man in glasses. His face was unmistakable, his desperation graphically clear. The audio caught Karl’s voice: “You’re a natural born cocksucker, you know that?”
Marcus’s blood turned to ice.
“This,” Valeria said softly, “is your new resume. This, and the photos from Lars and Ingrid’s. This is what you are now. You have a real job, Marcus, but this is your truth. And truth has value.” She put the phone away. “I’ll be in touch about your next assignment. The money will be in your account by morning. Now go home. Get some sleep.”
He walked out of the apartment, down the freight elevator, into the alley. The cold night air was a physical shock. He leaned against the rough brick wall, dry heaving, but nothing came up. His phone buzzed in his pocket. A banking alert. A deposit. More money than he made in two weeks at the office.
He stared at the number. Then he looked up at the glowing windows of the top floor, where the shapes of people still moved against the light. He wasn’t one of them. He was something they used. And the worst part, the part that coiled in his gut like a sleeping serpent, was the terrifying,不可否认的 realization that a part of him wanted to go back up there right now.
He pushed off the wall and walked to his car, the money a weight in his account, the video a heavier weight in his mind. The collar was the only thing that felt real.