Chapter 11: The Seedy Bar
The folded banknote behind the mirror became a totem. A week of silent recovery passed, a week of protein shakes and cold showers and kneeling, my body healing while my mind floated in a suspended void. The antibiotics did their work; the soreness faded to memory. The emptiness did not.
When my Master’s command finally came, it was with a new, colder texture.
"The world believes you are a student. You will briefly re-enter that world, and demonstrate how thoroughly you belong to me outside these walls. Dress in the garment laid on your bed. Go to the address I transmit. Sit at the counter. Wait."
The garment was a cheap, synthetic black dress. It was shockingly short, straining across my hips and chest. It came with no underwear. A thin, faux-leather collar clasped around my throat. I looked like a crude parody of myself, a nightclub fantasy. The address was a pub in a nondescript, grimy part of the city, miles from the gleaming towers of my old life.
The taxi dropped me off. The neon sign flickered “The Hope & Anchor,” the ‘p’ dark. The smell hit me first: stale beer, vinegar, ancient grease, and underneath it, the sour tang of unwashed bodies and bleach. My heels clicked on cracked linoleum. Every head at the scarred wooden bar turned. I felt their eyes like physical hands, scraping over the bare length of my thighs, the tight pull of the fabric over my nipples.
Sit at the counter.
I slid onto a sticky wooden stool. The bartender, a weary-looking woman with tired eyes, gave me a slow once-over. “What can I get you?”
“Whiskey. Neat.” My voice sounded foreign, too quiet for the rumble of the jukebox playing a mournful country song.
As she poured, a man shifted on the stool to my right. He was big, with a thick neck covered in blurred, amateur tattoos. His denim jacket smelled of motor oil and old sweat. He let his gaze travel over me, slow and possessive.
“You lost, little girl?” he grunted. His voice was gravel in a tin.
I shook my head, taking a burning sip of the whiskey. My hand was perfectly steady. The numbness was back, a blessed insulator.
Let him touch you. Let him know what you are.
The man’s hand, heavy and calloused, landed on my thigh. His fingers dug into the soft flesh above my knee. He squeezed, a testing, painful grip. I didn’t flinch. I looked straight ahead at the rows of bottles.
He leaned in, his breath hot and sour with beer. “You looking for someone?”
I nodded, still not looking at him.
“Who? Your boyfriend?”
I turned my head then, meeting his small, dark eyes. I let the words my Master had planted in my mouth fall out, flat and clean. “I’m looking for a new Master.”
The change in his face was immediate. The casual leer vanished, replaced by a sharp, predatory focus. His grip on my thigh tightened. “Is that right?” He scanned me anew, the collar, the dress, the utter lack of pretense. A slow, ugly smile split his stubbled face. “Then you found him. Fuck me. A real one.”
He stood up, his bulk casting a shadow over me. He dropped a few coins on the bar, never taking his eyes off me. He grabbed my wrist, his fingers easily encircling it, and pulled me off the stool. “Back room. Now.”
No one looked up. The bartender wiped a glass. The jukebox switched songs. I was being led away like a dog, and it was as unremarkable as taking out the trash.
The back room was a storage closet, really. Crates of empty bottles, a mop in a foul bucket, a single bare bulb swinging from a wire. It stank of damp and mildew. He kicked the door shut with his boot, the sound final. He turned me to face him, backing me against a cold cinderblock wall.
“What’s your name, slave?”
“Sara.” It was the truth. It meant nothing here.
“Sara,” he repeated, mocking the refinement of it. “You fucking serious about this? You belong to me in here?”
“Yes.”
He laughed, a short, harsh bark. “Prove it. On your knees. Get my cock out.”
I sank to the dirty concrete floor, bits of grit pressing into my skin. My hands went to his belt buckle, fumbling with the thick leather. He hit the back of my head, not hard, but a sharp, stinging slap. “Don’t use your fucking hands. Use your mouth.”
I leaned forward, my nose pressing into the coarse denim. I found the metal button with my teeth, working it open. The zip tasted of grease. I pulled it down with my teeth, then nuzzled the rough fabric of his boxers aside. He was already thick and half-hard, springing free. He smelled powerfully of unwashed skin and male musk.
“Suck it. And look at me while you do it.”
I opened my mouth, taking the head inside. The taste was salty, earthy. I looked up, meeting his gaze as I sank down, taking more of him. His eyes were blazing with triumph and a kind of bewildered lust. He fisted a hand in my hair.
“Christ, you’re actually doing it,” he breathed. He began to fuck my face, not with skill, but with a greedy, jarring rhythm. The head of his cock bumped the back of my throat. I relaxed, letting him in, letting him use the depth. My own arousal was a distant, chemical reaction, a faint hum overshadowed by the gritty reality of kneeling on a pub floor, choking.
“You like that, you posh bitch?” he grunted, pistoning harder. “You like sucking a working man’s dick?”
I couldn’t answer. My eyes watered. He used my hair like a handle, driving himself deeper. “Gonna come in your throat. Swallow every drop. That’s what you’re for, ain’t it?”
His rhythm shattered. He shoved in to the hilt, holding me there, my nose buried in his pubic hair. A thick, pulsing release flooded my throat. I swallowed convulsively, the salty-bitter flavor making my stomach clench. He held me there until he was soft, then pulled out with a wet sound.
He zipped himself up, looking down at me with a dazed expression. “Stand up.”
I stood, my knees aching. He grabbed the neckline of my cheap dress and yanked, tearing it down the front. The fabric gave way with a ripping sigh, leaving me bare-breasted in the dank light. He palmed a breast, squeezing hard, pinching the nipple.
“Turn around. Hands on the wall.”
I faced the cinderblocks, placing my palms flat against the cold, rough surface. He pushed the torn remnants of the dress up over my hips, baring my ass completely.
“No underwear. Fuck me. You were looking for it.” He spat onto his fingers, then rubbed the moisture roughly over my entrance. “This what you want? Huh? You want a stranger to fuck you in a closet?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He positioned himself and pushed. He was bigger than he’d felt in my mouth, a blunt, burning invasion. The spit was nowhere near enough. I bit my lip, my forehead resting against the wall, as he forced his way inside the tight, unprepared channel. A low, pained gasp escaped me.
“Tight little slut,” he moaned, grabbing my hips and settling into a brutal, grinding rhythm. Each thrust was a rough sawing motion, friction burning. I could hear the wet, slapping sound of our bodies, the crunch of grit under his boots. He fucked me with a single-minded, animal focus, his breath grunting in my ear. This was nothing like the calculated degradations of the dinner or the clinical exam. This was raw, impersonal use. It was vulgar. It was perfect.
“Take it, you fucking whore,” he growled, slamming into me. His pace quickened, becoming frantic. “Gonna fill this cunt up. Mark it.”
With a final, shuddering thrust, he buried himself and came, a hot gush deep inside me. He stayed there for a moment, his weight heavy on my back, panting.
He pulled out, and I felt the immediate, sickening trickle of his release down my inner thighs. He stepped back, zipping up.
“Get your stuff,” he said, his voice already shifting back to normal, the moment of power receding. He sounded almost embarrassed.
I gathered the torn front of my dress, holding it together as best I could. My legs were weak, my core throbbing with a raw, abraded ache. He opened the door, the noise of the pub bleeding back in.
“Thanks for the drink,” he muttered, not looking at me, and walked out, disappearing into the crowd.
I stood alone in the closet, the scent of him and sex clinging to me. I adjusted the torn fabric, knowing it was hopeless. I walked back through the pub, exposed, wetness cooling on my skin. No one met my eye now. I was used goods, invisible again.
Outside, the cold air was a shock. My Master’s voice whispered in my ear, the first sound from him since I’d entered.
“A satisfactory demonstration. A car is two blocks east. Return. Sleep in the hall tonight. You smell of common labor. Let it linger.”
I walked, the torn dress fluttering, the city’s indifference a blanket. The commonness of it, the sheer lack of ceremony, was the final, searing brand. I wasn’t a prized artifact here. I was a pub slattern, a quick fuck in a storage room. And in that ultimate anonymity, I felt my old self finally, completely, die. The car’s door opened as I approached. I slid inside, the warm leather a stark contrast to the chill on my skin and the cooling mess between my legs. I was going home. The word had lost all meaning. There was only the next command, and the hollow, beautiful freedom of having nothing left to lose.
The car’s smell was familiar, lemon-polish and stale air, a capsule returning me from one reality to another. I stared at my reflection in the darkened window, a pale smear against the passing city lights. The torn dress gaped, showing a crescent of breast, the skin there already darkening with bruises from the man's rough hands. I felt his come leaking out of me, a cold secret against the leather seat. There was no disgust. Only a hollow, beautiful freedom.
My earpiece remained silent until the apartment door clicked shut behind me. Then, his voice, analytical. "You will not shower. You will stand in the center of the living room for one hour. You will hold the position. We will assess the lingering effects of your evening."
The position was a stress pose, arms extended straight out, knees slightly bent. The ache in my thighs from the bar’s concrete floor deepened into a trembling burn. The dried crust on my skin tightened. I counted my breaths, watching the minute hand crawl on the clock across the room. My own scent, layered with the man’s and the pub’s grime, rose in the heated air.
At the hour’s mark, his command was swift. "The dress is ruined. Remove it. Fold it. Place it on the altar." I obeyed, the cheap fabric feeling like a discarded skin. Naked, smeared, I placed the torn bundle beside the framed photo of my grandparents. The juxtaposition should have shattered me. It merely registered.
"Your performance was adequate in its vulgarity," his voice resumed. "But it lacked consequence. The anonymity was a gift. Your punishment was private. This was an oversight. We will correct it now. Dress in the running gear in the hallway. You have ninety seconds."
The gear was minimalist: skin-tight black shorts, a thin, semi-transparent sports bra, running shoes. No underwear. It was clothing designed for public view, for vigorous motion. It hid nothing. My hair was to be in a high ponytail. "You will run a specific route. You will not deviate. You will not stop. The route ends at construction site fourteen, the Dockside Revitalization project. Your final instruction awaits you there."
The night air was a chill slap. It was past midnight, but the city was never empty. I began to run, my muscles protesting then settling into a rhythm. The route took me from my glossy neighborhood into the fringe districts, past late-night cafes and shuttered shops. The eyes of a group of men on a corner followed me, their low whistles cutting through my headphones. My breath fogged in the air. The sports bra did little to contain the bounce of my breasts; each footfall made the soreness between my legs echo.
I ran along the river, the path poorly lit. A cyclist passed, his headlamp illuminating me for a fleeting second. "Nice night for it!" he called, his tone laced with a sleazy appreciation. I kept going, the map in my mind courtesy of the earpiece. The warehouses loomed, then the fences of the construction site. A gate was unlocked. I slipped through.
Site fourteen was a skeletal giant, a lattice of steel beams and concrete floors open to the sky on three levels. Portable halogen lights on towers bathed the area in a stark, shadowless glare. The night crew was gone. The site was silent except for the hum of generators and the distant moan of a foghorn on the Thames.
"Stop at the center of the ground floor, by the primary concrete pour."
I walked into the vast, open space, gravel crunching under my shoes. The air smelled of wet cement and diesel. In the very center, a metal pole, perhaps a remnant of surveying equipment, stood upright from a block of hardened concrete.
"Remove your shoes. Remove your shorts and bra. Fold them. Place them at the base of the pole."
Naked again, in the unforgiving industrial light. The chill was deeper here, raising goosebumps over every inch of my skin. My nipples tightened into hard, aching points.
"Kneel before the pole. Take the cable ties from the ground to your left. Secure your left wrist to the pole. Then your right."
The heavy-duty plastic ties were there, as predicted. I threaded one around the cold metal and my wrist, pulling it tight with my teeth until it locked, the sharp edge biting into my skin. I repeated the process with the other hand. I was kneeling, arms raised and bound at chest level, utterly exposed in the center of the cavernous, brightly lit space.
"Now, we wait. The site foreman is a friend. His day crew begins arriving at five-thirty AM. They will see you. They will know you are here for them. You are not to speak. You are not to close your eyes. You will receive the public punishment your vulgarity deserved."
The minutes bled into hours. The cold seeped into my bones, a deep, penetrating ache. My knees ground into the rough gravel. The cable ties chafed, a burning band around each wrist. Every sound—a scuttling rat, the creak of metal—jerked my heart into my throat. I was a statue on display in an empty museum, waiting for the doors to open.
The first truck arrived just as the sky began to lighten to a dirty grey. Doors slammed. Voices, rough and heavy with morning fatigue, carried across the site. Then, a curse. "The fuck is that?"
Boots crunched on gravel. I kept my eyes open, as ordered, staring straight ahead at a graffiti-covered cement mixer. A man in a hardhat and high-visibility jacket stepped into my sightline. He was maybe fifty, his face lined and weary. He stopped dead, his coffee thermos halfway to his mouth.
"Well, I'll be damned," he breathed, not to me, but to the men gathering behind him. "Boss said we might get a morning show. Didn't believe the cunt."
More men filtered in, a circle of perhaps fifteen forming around me at a distance. Their reactions were a rough symphony: stunned silence, low whistles, crude laughter. The smell of their cigarettes and packed lunches mixed with the industrial air.
"Can she talk?" a younger man asked, his voice tight.
"Don't know, don't care," the foreman said. He took a step closer, his boots stopping just inches from my knee. He leaned down, his breath smelling of tobacco and cheap coffee. "You here for us, love?" I remained silent, my gaze fixed ahead. He grinned, missing a tooth. "Reckon that's a yes."
He straightened up and addressed his crew. "Jobs still need doing. But breaks are yours. You lot drew straws last Friday. Reggie, you're up first. Keep it tidy. And someone get a photo for the lads on the second shift."
A burly man with immense shoulders peeled off from the group. He set his lunchbox down carefully, his eyes never leaving my body. He unzipped his coveralls to the waist, pushed them down over his hips. He wasn't fully hard, but he was thick, ruddy and heavy in his hand as he stroked himself to readiness.
He walked over, the gravel shifting under his boots. He didn't say a word. He simply grabbed a handful of my ponytail and wrenched my head back, exposing my throat. His other hand guided his cock to my lips. "Open up, you freezing bitch."
I opened my mouth. He pushed in, not slow, not fast, just a relentless, filling pressure. He fucked my mouth with a workman's steady, deep strokes, his pubic hair rough against my nose. I could hear the men around us, joking, placing bets. "Come on Reg, gonna take all day?" "She ain't gonna bite, mate, get on with it!"
Reggie’s rhythm hitched. He shoved in deep, his balls tightening against my chin. A hot, salty gush hit the back of my throat. He held it there, pulsing, then pulled out, wiping the tip on my cheek. "Cheers," he grunted, and stepped back to pull up his coveralls.
The foreman tossed him a small, clear bottle of hand sanitizer. The men laughed.
The next one was already approaching as Reggie walked away. This one, named Liam according to the catcalls, was younger, wiry, and already fully erect. He ignored my face entirely. He came around behind me, his hands gripping my hips. He spat once, twice, onto his palm, then rubbed it between my ass cheeks. The spittle was a cold shock.
"Yeah, this'll do," he muttered. He positioned the head of his cock at my anus, still sore from the clinical speculum and the charity auction winner. He placed a hand between my shoulder blades and pushed me forward, straining my bound wrists, while he leaned his weight into me.
The breach was a white-hot tear. I cried out, the sound muffled against my own arm. He didn't stop. He pressed inward, a brutal, burning invasion until he was fully sheathed. He let out a shaky, pleased sigh. "Fucking hell, that's tight. Like a vice."
He set a punishing pace, his hips slamming into me, each thrust jolting my entire body against the unforgiving metal pole. The cable ties sawed into my wrists. The men were quieter now, watching, the only sounds the grunts of the man using me and the wet, rhythmic slap of flesh. He lasted longer than Reggie, his fingers digging bruises into my hips. "Gonna come in your ass, you public slag," he gasped, and did just that, flooding the raw channel before pulling out with a soft, wet pop.
I hung from my wrists, trembling uncontrollably, tears of pain and cold drying on my face. The flood of his release leaked down the inside of my thigh. The foreman looked at his watch. "Break's over in five. Anyone else?"
A third man, older, with a thoughtful expression, stepped forward. "I'll just have a go at the front, quick-like."
He knelt before me. He didn't touch me otherwise. He simply put his mouth on my cunt, his tongue lashing my clit with a startling, expert precision. It was the first touch that wasn't purely violent, and the shock of it, the unwanted, acute pleasure, was its own violation. I moaned, a traitorous sound. The men hooted. He worked me with his tongue and fingers, coaxing a raw, shuddering orgasm from my frozen, abused body in under a minute.
As the pulses faded, he stood, wiping his mouth. "Sweet," he said, and walked away.
A whistle blew. "Right! Show's over. Back to work, you animals." The foreman came forward one last time. He used a box cutter to slice through the cable ties. My arms dropped like dead weights, agony flaring in my shoulders. "Boss says you can find your own way back. Clothes are there." He gestured to the neat pile. "Don't come back."
I dressed slowly, every movement torture. The fabric of the shorts and bra felt like sandpaper on my abraded skin. I did not look at the men now hauling steel and shouting over machinery. I walked, a stiff, broken gait, out of the light and into the grey London morning. The public punishment was complete. I was a story they would tell forever, a piece of site lore. I was nothing. The freedom was total. The path ahead was a silent street leading nowhere and everywhere, and I began to walk it, one painful step at a time.