Chapter 9: Performance Review
Time had lost all meaning.
For Michal, it was measured only in the relentless, overlapping waves of sensation. The phantom tongues never ceased. They were a constant, maddening presence, a hellish pleasure so profound it had long since scorched away any coherent thought. She existed in a shivering, sweating limbo, her body perpetually arched, toes curled, fingers gripping nothing. The leather cuffs had worn raw, tender patches on her wrists and ankles. The black satin beneath her was permanently stained, a dark map of her endless torment.
The door clicked.
The sound, sharp and foreign, cut through the humid symphony of her gasps. Footsteps approached the bed. She couldn’t turn her head. She could only stare at the ceiling, her vision blurry, her mouth open in a silent, continuous ‘O’ of ecstasy.
Voo’s face moved into her line of sight. He looked different. Clean-shaven, dressed in dark, sleek clothes. He surveyed her with the detached interest of a sculptor examining a piece of weathered stone. He reached down and touched her forehead, pushing back a strand of sweat-soaked hair.
“Still with me, my love?” he murmured.
A weak, guttural sound escaped her throat. It wasn’t a word. It was the vibration of a overtuned string.
“Good.” He leaned close, his lips near her ear. “I’ve made a small adjustment. A little control. Listen closely.”
He held up his hand, the ring glinting. “Your truth is now this: when I snap my fingers, the sensations pause. They freeze. You feel nothing. When I snap them again, they resume, right where they left off. Do you understand?”
Her brain, sludge-filled and overstimulated, fumbled with the concept. Nothing? The idea was more terrifying than the endless feeling. The feeling was all she was.
He didn’t wait for a response. He snapped his fingers.
The world dropped out from under her.
It was a vacuum. A void. The searing, blissful torture on her clit, in her cunt, in her ass, on her nipples—it vanished. The orgasms, which had been a continuous, rolling earthquake through her nervous system, ceased. She was plunged into a silence of the senses so absolute it was a roar in her ears.
She gasped, a raw, scraping intake of breath. Her body, held taut for so long, went limp. She sagged against the restraints, trembling violently from the sudden absence. The silence was agonizing. It was a yawning, empty chasm where her self used to be. She felt hollowed out, bereft. Cold.
“More,” she whimpered, the word a cracked, desperate plea.
Voo smiled, a slow, cruel stretching of his lips. “Not yet.”
He moved to the cuffs, unbuckling them with efficient motions. Her limbs fell to the bed, heavy and useless as dead things. He pulled her upright. She couldn’t support her own weight. He held her, his hands gripping her under her arms, her head lolling against his chest. He was humming softly.
He half-carried, half-dragged her to the ensuite bathroom. The light was blinding. He propped her against the tiled wall and turned on the shower, testing the temperature with his hand before guiding her under the spray. The water was lukewarm, but to her hypersensitive skin it felt like needles. She flinched, but had no strength to resist. He washed her with a rough loofah, scrubbing away the layers of sweat and dried fluids. He was methodical, impersonal, like cleaning a car. He washed her hair, his fingers digging into her scalp.
He turned her, facing her away from him, bending her over the vanity. She saw her reflection in the mirror—a hollow-eyed creature, lips swollen, skin pale and marked with red lines from the cuffs. He parted her cheeks and wiped her clean there too, his touch clinical. She was a thing being prepared.
He dressed her. Simple black lingerie, a lace bra that barely contained her heavy breasts, their pierced nipples pressing obscenely against the fabric. A thong. A short, silky black dress that ended high on her thighs. He smoothed the fabric down her sides.
“You look presentable,” he said, almost to himself. “A bit used, but that’s the point.”
He led her out of the bedroom, through the silent house, and into the garage. He put her in the passenger seat of his car, buckling her in like a child. She stared blankly through the windshield as the city lights slid by, a smear of color and motion that meant nothing. The emptiness inside her was a growing terror. She needed the feeling back. She needed to cum. She needed him.
The drink. The thought cut through the fog. It had been… how long? Her internal clock was shattered, but a deep, biological craving was beginning to twist in her gut, separate from the need for sensation. She needed what he gave her every twelve hours. Her mouth watered foully.
The car stopped in a dim alley behind a nondescript building with a neon sign buzzing a deep, bloody red: The Velvet Den. Bass thumped through the walls, a low, visceral vibration she felt in her teeth. Voo came around, opened her door, and pulled her out. Her legs buckled. He held her up, an arm around her waist, his fingers digging into her hip.
“Listen,” he whispered into her hair as they approached a unmarked metal door. “You will do whatever I say. You will do whatever anyone I give you to says. You will fuck, you will suck, you will take it all. You will be the perfect little slut. And if you hesitate, if you show a moment of reluctance, I will snap my fingers. And you will go back to the silence. Do you understand the silence, Michal? The big, fucking nothing?”
She shuddered, a full-body convulsion of dread. “Y-yes.”
“Good girl.”
He knocked—a pattern. The door swung inward, and noise and heat and smell vomited out into the alley. Cigar smoke, cheap perfume, spilled liquor, and underneath it all, the ripe, salty tang of sex. A massive bouncer with a shaved head nodded at Voo and stepped aside.
The Velvet Den was a cavern of shadows and veiled light. Velvet curtains in burgundy and black partitioned off booths and corners, but did little to muffle the sounds: low moans, wet slaps, guttural laughter. Neon signs advertising obscure liquors buzzed and flickered, casting a sickly glow over the scene. A bar ran along one wall, where people dressed in fetish wear or sleek evening clothes mingled, their eyes dark and hungry. In the center of the room was a sunken pit with padded mats and poles. Currently, a couple was entangled there, the woman riding the man, her head thrown back in a silent cry.
All conversation near the door died as Voo guided Michal inside. Eyes turned. They saw a beautiful, broken woman, barely able to stand, her gaze vacant with need. They saw Voo’s possessive grip. They understood the merchandise.
Voo led her to a large, circular booth in a relatively open area. He sat, pulling her down beside him. She slumped against the velvet, her body trembling. The bass pounded through the seat. A waiter approached, a young man with pierced eyebrows. He looked at Michal, his eyes lingering on the outline of her nipples against the lace.
“Chivas Regal. Neat,” Voo said, not looking at him. The waiter nodded and left.
Voo turned to Michal. He took her chin, forcing her to look at him. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated. “You’re horny, aren’t you? All that silence… it must be awful. Let’s fix that.”
He leaned close, his breath hot on her ear. “Get ready.”
The command hit her like a live wire.
It was instantaneous. A tidal wave of raw, mind-shattering need flooded her system, drowning the hollow terror. Her cunt clenched, empty and aching, and a rush of slick heat gushed from her, soaking through the thin silk of her dress and thong instantly. Her pierced nipples hardened into painfully sensitive peaks, rubbing against the bra lace, sending little jolts straight to her core. A low, desperate whine escaped her lips.
But there was no release. The orgasm that should have ridden the crest of this wave was held back, a dammed river of pleasure with no outlet. The phantom tongues were silent. Only the brutal, unsated hunger remained, amplified a hundredfold.
“Please,” she slurred, her hands fluttering to her own thighs, digging into the flesh.
“Not yet,” Voo said, sipping his Scotch when it arrived. He surveyed the room. His gaze landed on a group of three men and two women in a nearby booth. They were already watching, their expressions a mix of curiosity and blatant lust. Voo raised his glass slightly in invitation.
They came over. Introductions were mumbled, names forgotten as soon as they were spoken. All eyes were on Michal. She was squirming now, her hips making small, involuntary circles on the velvet seat. A sheen of sweat gleamed on her collarbone.
“She seems… eager,” one of the men said, a tall guy with a goatee. He reached out and ran a finger along her bare arm. The touch was electric. She flinched, her need spiking.
“She is,” Voo said smoothly. “She’s here to play. She’ll do anything you want. Anything at all.”
The woman with dark, sharp eyebrows leaned forward. “Anything?”
“Anything.”
The group exchanged glances, a silent agreement passing between them. The other woman, blonde and predatory, spoke. “Stand up.”
Michal looked at Voo. He gave a minute nod. She tried to stand, her legs wobbling. The goateed man grabbed her arm, steadying her. His other hand cupped her ass, squeezing hard. The contact made her gasp. Her cunt wept another hot stream of juice.
“Look at that,” the blonde murmured, nodding at the dark, wet patch spreading on the silk between Michal’s thighs. “She’s dripping.”
The second man, broader, with thick hands, stepped in front of her. He unbuckled his belt. “Let’s see if that mouth works as well as that cunt looks like it does.”
Michal hesitated. A flicker of something—shame, a ghost of her old self—passed through her glazed eyes. She looked at Voo.
He snapped his fingers.