Freedom Through Rejection

Story

Prologue: 2:13am today.

Sara felt the ropes dig into her slightly as she stood almost naked on the stage at a club she hadn't known existed until an hour ago. She wriggled. Not because she like the feeling but because she needed to be certain that the ropes covered her pussy and nipples. She was otherwise naked. They were her only clothes. And when the curtain went up she had no idea what would happen if they saw how dripping wet she was - how hard her nipples had become. She had five minutes until the curtain went up. She thought back over the last six, crazy hours. She was no longer the girl she had been when she closed the door on her apartment at 20:00. And she had a feeling she was going to change a whole lot more in the next couple of hours too. What a ride.

Chapter 1: 19:34 yesterday

She slid the lip gloss onto her scarlet lips with a smooth motion which told a tale of experience and care. She noticed the care. That was ... unusual. This was a second date - nothing special in that. She had been on many second dates. They weren't something that raised her expectations anymore. She could bring him home for sex, sure. No one cared about that anymore on a first date, let alone a second. And he was kind of hot. She hadn't slept with him last week after a first date. It wasn't that she didn't like him. It was just that sex was ... well ... ok. How long had it been? She didn't know! Fuck! She had no idea how long it had been since she last had a cock inside her and ... wait! She didn't care. She didn't miss it. She must be growing up. Maybe this is what being old is like?

But look at how she carefully made sure the gloss was just right. She had caught herself really caring how she looked. And that must mean he was ... more than a second date? She felt a flutter. Where? In her heart? No. In her panties? No. It was in her pelvis. Hmmm. She didn't remember ever having had that. Maybe she would bring him home.

She smiled to herself as she checked her phone. Message from him. She smiled. She felt the flutter. She opened the message. She swore.

Chapter 2: 20:04 yesterday.

There was a mirror in the elevator in her apartment building. She looked at herself in it. She smirked. Whatever fucking lame excuse that was to cancel, it was going to be his loss. If he'd called a couple of hours earlier she wouldn't have bothered getting dressed up and she's be on the sofa watching shit on Netflix by now. She would be eating ice cream in her usual three flavours: vanilla, chocolate and regret. She would masturbate to some lesbian porn, and go to sleep too late, too drunk, too fat and too empty. Fuck that. She looked amazing. Her long brown hair curled over her bare shoulders in a way you only really see in movies. Jesus it bounced as she walked like a shampoo ad. It never did that. Her skin was just the right shade of tanned. Her dress was not sleazy, but it was trying very hard to be. But a dress that classy would never pull off sleazy. It allowed her to wear that one bra that was both sexy and supportive and didnt show - even to the careful eye - that her panties had been chosen to be seen later. In fact Ifly didnt show them at all. Anyone that wondered, would come to the conclusion she wasn't wearing any at all. They'd be wrong. But she would love the error because she'd know how it affected them. And she could tease. Oh god. She rarely looked this good. And so there was no way in gods fucking Earth she was wasting it. She was going out. She was going to flirt. She was going to show that no hoper, one date arsehole that he'd fucked up. She had nowhere to go. She had no one to go there with. But this was her town. This was her night. And you don't eat ice cream looking this hot. It would melt.

Chapter 3: 20:36 yesterday

She had walked into town with a confidence that she wasn't used to. She had never felt so ... attractive? That was true, but there was more to this. Available? Possibly, but that had negative connotations which weren't resonating with her. Powerful? Yes, that was it. Powerful. She was feeling an energy, rooted in her sexuality and her femininity that, for the first time in her life, she felt as a power. She thought of those executive toys - plasma balls. The energy glowing from the orb in the middle landing anywhere on the surface until you touched it. When you touched it, all the energy focused on your finger, and you almost glowed. That was her. Tonight. This town - her town - was buzzing with a sexual energy that didn't know where to go. And, in deciding to go out, she had put her finger to the glass. All that energy was focused on her. And she was glowing.

Like the dress, this was new. Unfamiliar, but exciting. She felt the glow reflecting off people as she passed them. Their eyes followed her. Men and women alike couldn't not look at her. Yesterday she would have been shy and dropped her shoulders as she walked past. Today, she stood taller, walked sexier, smiled and felt the bounce of her hair advertise her conditioner just as the sway of her hips advertised her arousal. Yes, she was aroused. Cracklingly, electrically aroused. So aroused that one body couldn't contain it, and it rubbed off on everyone she passed. She was a source of sexual energy tonight.

She walked past the bar she was supposed to meet him in. She gave the bar the finger as she walked past as if the building itself was complicit in her rejection. She imagined that the lights above the door flickered as she did so, but that couldn't have happened. But she let the fantasy grow in her mind. She walked past three more. They were all familiar - they weren't expensive, and she wasn't rich, so she drank in them a lot. But tonight she was rich, and she wanted to inhabit somewhere more fitting.

She saw "Rencontrez" across the street. It was newish. Opened last year. Famously too expensive to go to often. Or even at all. Infamous for being a pickup joint for very expensive escorts, and for making girls who were not very expensive escorts feel like VERY cheap ones. If she went in there, one of two things would happen. Most likely she would be seen for what she was, ridiculed and bitched out in 5 minutes. If she could pull it off, she'd be approached by a rich, sweaty financier who would offer her money for sex. Either way, she wouldn't be doing this feeling justice. This power couldn't be bought, and couldn't be ridiculed. So she hesitated. Until a voice in her head said, "Sara, this power cannot be bought and cannot be ridiculed". Her voice? Maybe. Her words - yes, the very ones she had just thought. But also not hers. The validation gave her strength, and, confident of some third outcome, she went to open the bar door, which subserviently opened itself. She walked in.

It was marinated in class. Everything was perfect. The furniture looked unplanned in that way that only a great deal of planning, and expense, can achieve. There was no tacky chrome or gold. The music didn't split your eardrums, but it managed the atmosphere in a way that allowed each booth, each pair of seats at the bar and each small group on the dance floor to exist in its own bubble, able to connect and interact as if they were in complete solitude, but still feel "out". As soon as she walked past the lobby, eyes glanced at her and glanced away. For the first time that night, she wasn't sure if that was dismissive. She had entered a world in which this quiet sizzle was normal. And she realised that she had no idea if it was enough. There was a dingle seat at the bar. She walked over to it and sat down. She looked for the cocktail menu, but it wasn't there. A bartender came over to her, and she asked for one. He smiled. Was that condescension? Amusement? Bitchiness? He touched her hand and said, "The menu is all in here," tapping his head. "You can have anything."

"What would you recommend?" She said, hoping that her voice didn't wobble as much as her confidence was wobbling. She felt foreign. And this first encounter with this world was make-or-break. She knew people were watching her. A new face that had to be assessed as opportunity or threat. The bartender looked her up and down.

"You're new here. New experiences need new experiences. I'll make you something you have never heard of, and you'll love it. I promise. If you hate it, it's free. If you love it, it's free."

He looked her up and down. And... in and out. He was looking inside her. Not just assessing what she looked like, but who she was. And he gave the impression of comparing that to some internal recipe book, matching her to her cocktail in a way that a wand maker might choose a wand for a wizard. It was two way. The person had to like the cocktail, but the cocktail had to like the person too. She felt.. spiritually undressed. Wow. She liked that.

She watched, fascinated, as he put together a cocktail that looked more like he was assembling a nuclear weapon. She tried to count the ingredients, but couldn't. He worked like an artist, sculpting something beautiful, completely unaware of the world round him. What he built looked stunning. The glass was half-frosted and half clear. There was salt, or sugar, or both around the rim. It was so fine it could have been cocaine. The layer of ice made a noise like a Tibetan bell and the drink itself was almost colourless, almost cloudy and almost sparkling. It begged to be sipped. It had a personality. It was a bit like looking in a mirror. Sara sipped it. Holy shit. That wasn't a drink. It was a potion. It ran down her throat and every centimetre of its journey was marked by a new interaction with her sizzling state. It fed on her energy, and multiplied it, and gave it back. It spoke to her. It reassured her that all this was real. This was her world now, and she was meant to be here. She felt the truth of "can't be bought or ridiculed" for the first time, and she audibly signed.

The bartender smiled. He cocked his head to one side, silently checking that his work was done. He didn't need to. He saw it was.

"What is that called?" Sara asked.

"It has no name yet," he replied. "It is new. It is yours. You will know its name when it decides it wants you to know it. Please tell me when it does. That is the only payment I need."

"Thank you," Sara mumbled, not sure if those words could ever express the true gratitude for what he had done. The words hit the air with a humility that shouldn't be comfortable in this place. But it was. This was a kind of worship. And this was the temple to do it in. The bartender smiled and moved on to another customer. Sara felt jealous that he was gone, but the drink reassured her that he would be back.

Her eyes looked round the place. Inevitably they were drawn to the bartender's work for the next customer and she watched him produce another cocktail so equally beautiful, but so entirely different. HE slid it across to the girl who had ordered it. She was alone too. At the bar, looking beautiful but ... new. She looked at the drink as it went to her lips. What lips! What a figure. What a face.

Holy shit - it was her. That girl. She remembered the night in a nightclub in Berlin 2 years ago. She had danced with a girl, moved with her, looked into her eyes, kissed her, kissed her again, and again. She had gone to the bar, writing her number on Sara's arm and never came back. Sara had looked at the number, and the sweat of a long night had caused it to blur. She had tried every combination that it might have been the next day, but it was never the girl. And that was in Berlin. So she had gone. For ever. She had cried about that; that wasn't like her. Must have been too much to drink. But the girl had been the subject of several fantasies since. And she was there now. No less perfect than she had been in the fantasies.

Sara watched her take her sip of her drink. She watched the magic fill her. She watched her straighten, look in awe at the drink, then the bartender. She watched how she didn't have to pay for the drink, and how the girl - what the fuck was her name? - became at home in this place. Sara liked that. She liked that she wasn't the only novice here, and that she had, perhaps, a partner to share the experience with. The girl looked over, her gaze quizzically lingering, searching for the confirmation of the glimpse of recognition that was written on her eyes. It didn't come. She looked away.

Her gaze was indeed away, but not to a vague place. She had looked very deliberately at something, and Sara's eyes followed the gaze, for want of anything better to look at. She was taking another sip of the still-unnamed cocktail as her eyes met the man the other girl - her name was on the tip of Sara's tongue - had been looking at. The sip hit her chakras at the same time was the beauty of this man hit her eyes. The combination was electric. He was beautiful. Sexy. Smoking lay sexy. Chiselled. Olive-skinned. Black haired. Grey eyed. Wealthy. Classy. Fit. Single. Probably. No ring at least. His suit was Italian. Hand made. It fitted him like the bartender had made it for him. Maybe he had. Sara smiled. He was looking at his drink with the awe that Sara and Francesca - that was it! Francesca - had recognised in themselves. But it wasn't new to him. It was still awesome, but he had had this before., He was a regular here. He fitted in.

Sara took another sip and it told her to move. She walked round the bar and sidled up to the man. She said, "Hello" in a voice that wanted to sound slutty and available, but this bar wouldn't allow that, so it came out classy. But still available. Sara heard it echo in the room and she wondered how that could be when she notice Francesca on the other side of the man. It wasn't an echo. It was her saying "Hello" at exactly the same moment in exactly the same tone. The man, who was used to being approached, woudn't have reacted if only one of them had spoken. But the weird stereo of the synchronicity woke him up and he looked at them, Sara first, Francesca second.

"Did you plan that?" He said, almost scoffing. Girls tried all sorts of tricks on him, and he was bored of it. He didn't want an escort. He didn't need one. But if this was a trick it was a new one, and he had to admire innovation.

"No," said both girls in unison, and all three of them laughed. The ice silently broke. In that laugh it was clear that they were speaking the truth, that neither was an escort and that they didn't know each other. Although they did - Francesca looked at Sara and said her name. Sara's pelvis burned again.

Chapter 4: 21:30 yesterday

The three of them sat at the bar in one of the bubbles that made this place special. The rest of the bar was there, but they didn't notice. And the bar didn't notice them. Some of the escorts did, because the new girls were making progress where they had failed. The bitching had already started. But it didn't make it through the protection of the bubble, and none of the three of them noticed. The conversation was easy. Slightly flirtatious maybe, but not overtly so. Subconsciously, all three of them had worked out the possible endgames here - three people go home alone, one person goes home and a couple (3 possible combinations) go home together, or they go home as a threesome - but none of them could clearly see how they were to get from here to there. It was too complicated. And the cocktails were working. They all just enjoyed the moment. The moments. There were a lot of them. They talked, and flirted and skirted the issue that they all knew needed resolution. Time didn't matter. Nothing mattered, really. It was free and it was fun. And the energies between them sparkled effortlessly.

Then, after a particularly distracting laugh, there was a moment of silence. It was filled with contentment and there was a beautiful shared expectation, but no tension. Sara had started imagining her preferred option when the man said, quietly enough that they could barely hear him, but loudly enough that the music and noise of the bar may as well have stopped altogether, "I don't do threesomes". Sara and Francesca looked at each other. Francesca was as disappointed as Sara was. Her preferred outcome had been the same, obviously. Fuck. How does one handle this?

Francesca spoke first. "That's ... " she looked at Sara to judge her reaction. "That's a shame," she risked.

Sara's face relaxed. "It is a great shame," she said. Her relief that Francesca still wanted her was palpable, but the just a position of relief with frustration that she had to somehow choose, or be chosen. Oh god. How? How could this go forwards?

"You can both walk away now," he said. "You should, really. You will have a fabulous evening together, and probably much more."

"But....?" said Sara.

"But there might be an even more interesting way to spend the evening."

The girls both waited. There was only three possible outcomes here surely? A choice had to be made, and then that was it. One evening ruined. One in ecstasy. Nevertheless, he wasn't kidding. He had a fourth option. It had to be better than the other three, given that the best one was already off the table.

Francesca broke the suspense. "What are you imagining?" She said.

"I propose a competition," said the man calmly.

What the fuck? A competition? The arrogance of the suggestion! That they should compete to see which of them is "good enough" for him? OK so this rich guy must have a sense of entitlement, but Sara had never understood what that actually meant before. Fucking hell. How dare he? Who the fuck was he to treat her and Francesca like that? Like prizes to be won?

And as her brain ranted internally, she heard her own voice saying, "What are the rules?" Her brain and her body had different plans. And her body was winning.

Chapter 5: 21:55 yesterday.

"It's easy," he said. "I will find out which of you wanted me more. The one that wants me more, gets me. If it turns out you want each other more than me, you walk away together.

"I will set you a series of tasks. Each time a task is set, you decide to play or pass. Play means you do the task. Pass means you walk away. If you both pass, you walk away hand in hand for a night of passion that pornographers could only dream of. If one of you plays and succeeds, but the other doesn't, the competition is decided. If you both pay and succeed, we have another round. Simple?"

The girls let this sink in. It was brilliantly designed. They had to submit to his game or lose him. But losing wasn't losing if they both lost together. It felt arrogant. It felt he was taking control off them, and in a way he was. But they were also entirely in control. It wasn't anywhere near as demeaning as it sounded. They could submit to his will - Sara felt a spasm in her vagina as she thought the word "submit" - but he wasn't demanding it. Yet he was. Oh fuck. Sara realised she was wet. And he hadn't even touched her. Not physically, anyway.

The girls looked at each other and knew that they were going to say yes. They didn't even need to nod. Again in unison they said, "What's the first task?"

All three laughed at the repeated synchronicity of thought.

"You are both so beautifully dressed that since the moment you walked in, I have been trying to work out if you are wearing panties. And, to our credit, I still have no idea. For either of you. An I pride myself on being able to tell. So this cannot continue. We cannot begin until I know."

"So.... ", said Sara, ridiculously pleased that the reflection int he elevator hadn't been lying to her.

"So I need you to tell me and then prove it. I am going to count to three. When I hit three, you will either show me that you're note wearing panties, or, if you are, take them off and put them on the bar."

Sara gasped. Francesca gasped. "Here?" They both said.

"Yes. Here," he replied and, without giving them chance to think, "1 - 2 - 3."

Sara didn't know what to do. If she did nothing that was passing. She would have to walk away alone. But fuck. Here? She had to take her panties off here? They would be wet. He would... know. Shit. Everyone would know. She had to act. She saw Francesca lifting her skirt to reveal her beautiful, naked pussy. His attention was on Francesca, so her hesitation hadn't cost her. By the time he was looking at her, her skirt was round her hips as she tried to remove the panties without showing the whole bar how aroused she was. The panties slid down her bare legs and over her shoes. They were clearly wet. She blushed and put them on the bar in front of him. She pulled her skirt back down and sat back on the stool her new nakedness thrilling her. She thought of Francesca's naked pussy too. Oh my god he has us. He ha us both exactly where he wants us. And we are in the game now. Fuuuuuck.

"Fifteen all," he said.

Chapter 6: 22:30 yesterday

The man hadn't moved her panties from the bar. What was it now? Half an hour? The bartender had passed them countless times and, if he had noticed, he had shown no signs of having done so. Francesca had kept looking at them. Not obviously. Like she couldn't help herself. It looked like a guilty pleasure. Or maybe she was worried that showing interest in Sara would somehow weaken her game. Sara liked that. It was a weakness she might be able to exploit later. She waited until Francesca was looking at her then moved on the bar stool as if to say, "I'm so horny, but must hide it." She was pleased with the quality of bluff. If Francesca knew she was horny, and wanted her, it would distract her from the main prize and she might mess up. And anyway, if that didn't work, the gentle pressure of her inner thighs squeezing her swollen vulva was worth doing anyway. Win-win again.

"Round 2," the man announced during a moment of pause in an otherwise joyously frivolous conversation. Immediately the girls' attitudes changed. The game was back on again, and they were suddenly competitors again, not flirtatious strangers.

"You will both go to the dance floor and dance. You will, within 5 minutes, pick another girl and you will make out with her on the dance floor. The making out will be... heavy. I will expect to see your hands on her breasts, her ass and eventually up her dress too. You only pass if, by the end, your knuckles have been hidden by the hem of her dress."

They didn't have time to gasp. "Go," he said.

They both jerked forwards, not wanting any sign of hesitation to give an opportunity to call failure. They headed to the dance floor. Sara was quite confident on this one. It was faster that she would work normally, but the outcome was not unfamiliar to her on her wilder nights. But ... which girl? Most were dancing with someone already. Some of them gorgeous. God she would like to have picked the redhead in the green dress, but she was ... with ... a man who was doing his very best to connect her with her fertility fetish. No chance. There was a couple of others who were just not her type. She could. But she would enjoy it, and wasn't the type to use people. The clock was ticking. Three minutes had already gone. She hadn't found anyone, but - thank god - neither had Francesca. She was wondering round as wildly looking for someone, anyone, to kiss.

Four minutes. The one girl who might have played along had just gone to be sick. Four minutes thirty. Shit. She was going to lose. Francesca ... was going to lose too. She was still alone. They both looked at the man who was looking at his watch and finishing his drink. He looked ready to leave. Fuuuuuuuuck. He put his hand up with five fingers. Each second he counted down to the deadline. Four. Three. Two. Oh god. Where was Francesca, had she found someone?

Just before the last finger dropped, Sara's room went dark as a pair of beautifully tasting, soft, voluptuous lips met hers and kissed her. She kissed back. There was no pause for niceties. Their tongues wrapped around each other and they were kissing like they'd known each other for years, but not seen each other for months. It had that level of passion. It had that lost-familiarity that only heightened the thrill. She had kissed this girl before. Oh god. The penny dropped. She had been outplayed by Francesca who had kept them both in the game by choosing her. She felt her hands move to her breast. The kiss stopped momentarily.

"You'd better fucking grope me too, because I haven't kept us both in this game for nothing," she chuckled, as she continued to molest her in the most beautifully public way she had ever been molested.

They made out. They touched each other. They squeezed each other. They got lost in each other. The rest of the room disappeared in the passion. They forgot this was a game. They forgot to check if he was still there - this could be a break of the spirit of the rules after all - they forgot to... shit they forgot to slide their hand up each other's skirts.

"Knuckles!" Shouted Sara and immediately both girls slid their hands to the other's thigh and up the dress they knew was hiding nothing but femininity. Sara felt Francescas fingers touch her lips - had she meant to go that far or was it the hurry? Oh god she was wet and Francesca had felt it now. Well two can play at that game. She slid her hand further up Francescas thigh and her finger could her pussy, discovered it was as wet if not wetter than her own and her finger slide inside effortlessly. Both girls pulled their hands out, instinctively licked their fingers and tasted the other. They turned to the place the man had been sitting, both expecting and empty bar stool and maybe a note. He was still there. Smouldering, not smiling. Poker faced. Not unhappy. Not displeased. But impenetrable.

"Thirty all," he mouthed silently.

Chapter 7:22:45 yesterday

They made their way back to the stools on either side of him. Each had to adjust her dress as they walked, because the knuckles rule had exposed them in a way that really wouldn't be feasible to allow to last. The bubbles in the bar had burst. They had become the centre of attention. All eyes were on them. The straight men were almost audibly salivating. Many of them were hard. Of those that were, very few tried to hide it and some, inevitably tried the opposite. The gay men were in awe of the energy and the spectacle they had just seen. At least one of them questioned his sexuality silently. The lesbian and bisexual girls were smiling - they had just been given permission to be more open and they were planning how they would be able to be more like that. The only groups in the bar who were not pleased were the straight girls and the escorts. Their evenings had just been overshadowed in a way that they would struggle to complete with. The focus that the bar could offer was finite, and Sara and Francesca had just tipped the zero-sum game in their favour.

The got onto their stools, took a sip of their drinks and looked at him. He snapped his fingers to the bartender who brought over a silver tray with two leather buckled straps, adorned in silver - solid silver, Sara thought - and with, halfway along the or length, a silver ring. These were collars. That most subtle and visible sign of willing submission. And next to them, on the tray, was a small pure-white card on which was written, in beautiful gold calligraphy, "Round 3".

Sara and Francesca knew what to do, and it seemed natural. They each took a collar and put it to their neck. They fastened the buckle, adjusted the fit so that they felt the tension was Goldilocks - just right. They turned to him expecting to hear that the job was done. They heard no score.

They stopped. There must be more, but what was it? They asked him but his remained silent, as if he hadn't heard them. Sara's mind started to whirr. She was not completely with it - the sexual buzz and the personalised cocktails were making her brain slow. Or at least, focused on something else. Thinking was not natural. It was an effort. She closed her eyes and felt the pressure of the collar on her neck. What more could she do. The collar... it meant submission. And she had put it on. So ... Oh ok - he needed more. He needed a greater sign of submission. Everyone was watching. Everyone wanted her or Francesca or both of them, but they were his tonight. They had to be simply his. Unequivocally his. She got off her stool and knelt at his feet. The whole bar gasped. This woman - so powerful and with such presence she could control the whole place, had just knelt. More she had just put her hands behind her back and bowed her head.

Francesca saw what she had done and immediately saw how right it was. If she didn'T act quickly, she might have lost, so she dropped to her knees so fast her knees hurt and she cried out. She also adopted the position.

Still there was no score.

Time passed - god knows how much. The tension built. Phones were out. Pictures being taken, but he still made no move. Sara thought again. She had to remain subservient, but she needed a clue, so, without raising her head, she raised her eyes. And, only because she was kneeling, she saw under his jacket, attached to his belt, a chain.

It was folded up so you couldn't tell how long it was. It was also silver. It was robust. It had, at one end, a small open padlock with a key in it. She started to reach up and his eyes darted to her. She stopped.

"Sir, may I...?" She asked.

"Yes you may," he said as if he didn't care.

She reached out and took the padlock. Immediately the chain unfurled and fell to the floor. One end was indeed attached to his belt. The other end had - wait.... Two padlocks. Both with keys. She took them. This was a test. She knew it. But what were the fucking rules? She started to move one of the padlocks to her neck to attach it. Then stopped. That would be... selfish. It had to be his choice. Not hers. If she chose, she would rule herself out. Oh god.

Then she got it. She took them first padlock and attached it to Francesca's collar. And the second she then attached to her own. She put her hands behind her back and as she bowed her head she risked looking at him and oh sweet Jesus he was smiling. But still gave no score.

She cast her eyes towards Francesca. She was desperate to know what to do. Francesca had kept her in the game. Maybe she had some idea of... She stopped. Francesca's padlock was still unlocked and the key was still in it. Hers must be the same.  She reached to her neck, locked the padlock and withdrew the key. She did the same for Francesca, who allowed it to happen, but didn't move. She slowly, without raising her head or risking eye contact, held the keys out for him, and waited. He took them. A long time seemed to pass as he weighted up the situation.

"Deuce," he said.

Chapter 8: 23:59 yesterday

The last hour had been the strangest and most erotic of Sara's life. The first 10 or 15 minutes she had been kneeling on the floor f a very expensive bar, her hands behind her back, chained by the neck to a stranger. She was wearing a dress. Full stop. Well OK - a dress and a collar. Some jewellery. Make up. But that was is. And everyone knew. They had seen. Her panties were still on the bar. No one had talked to her since she knelt, but everyone - it seemed like the whole world - had come and talked to him. And while they had conversed, they had all completely and utterly ignored her and the other girl chained with her. Well, outwardly they had, at least. But she knew - she felt - that the reason they had come to talk to him was because of them. He had tamed these creatures of quiveringly palpable sexuality, and they had chosen to kneel at his feet. Sara could not believe how arousing being ignored could be. But she believed it now, and the dampness of her inner thighs proved it.

He had finished his drink and suddenly stood. The chains jerked on their necks and they had had to stand too. Which they did. It had been entirely subconscious to keep her hands behind her back while she stood; the servility was infusing her mind to that level by now. But when she had become upright she was in a dilemma. The hem of her skirt needed pulling down. Did it? She wasn't sure. She became aware that every time she stood up in skirt or a dress she automatically adjusted the hem. But to do it now would mean moving her hands from the position behind her back that proved she was, at least for now, his. And that felt wrong. But so did not adjusting her dress. She focused her attention on her thighs, trying to understand how exposed she was after the slightly awkward manoeuvre that she had had to undertake to stand without the help of her hands. Definitely her upper thigh were exposed. She thought she could feel the hem on the lower curve of her buttocks, but it was higher at the front. She tried really hard to think, but she could not tell if her pussy was exposed or not. She looked at those who were looking at her, trying to get some clue. Nothing. Some were looking. Some weren't. She almost had to glue her hands to her back to overcome the urge to check. It took effort. She was panting. She actually had to grit her teeth. She looked at Francesca. Her dress was about a millimetre from showing how wet she was. She looked again. She focused on herself again. It was desperate. The not knowing. The not being able to do anything about it without risking losing the game. The shame. The arousal. The... fuck... her pelvis twitched. Although she had been touched for only 2 or 3 seconds by Francesca on the dance floor, her vagina had just admitted it was planning an orgasm. And a huge one. She sighed. Or gasped. Or both. She wasn't sure. She stood up straight. They might as well see what they can. She wanted them to.

After standing he had begun walking. There was no warning other than a slight tension on the chain. Sara, still with her arms behind her as if her hands were stitched to the small of her back, walked with him. What choice did she have. As she walked she became sure she was exposed. The air cooled her wetness as it flowed over her, and the speed of his gait meant the hem rose higher still. He had headed for the exit, but then took a sudden left to the restroom. Oh god. The men's rest room. They had to follow him in and stand beside him as he pissed into a urinal. They looked at the floor. The room was almost full of other men. Some smiled. Some ignored. Some stared. One smacked Francesca's arse and said, "You luck bastard" to the man, but his poker face didn't shift. He let it pass. Sara tried to imagine if she would have been offended by such an intrusion, or if it would have given her vagina the permission it was seeking to cum. She didn't know. She hoped she wouldn't have to find out.

He zipped up and washed his hands. He dried them carefully and walked to the door. They, of course, followed. She heard the mutters of admiration and arousal that they left in their wake like a speedboat crossing a warm, placid shoreline somewhere near Monaco. He left the restroom and turned to the exit. The door opened again on its own and they were out into the cold night air.

Sara tried to walk in a way that allowed her dress to give in to gravity, and she may have managed it a little. Again, she wasn't sure. The uncertainty of her exposure was almost worse than if she had been fully naked. At least she would have known then. In her heels she struggled to keep up with him, but never fell. He was masterful. His pace was such that she never felt safe, but always was. Her hands were still as fixed as if they had been tied with rope. There was no rope. He had tied them with his will.

They walked without any obvious sense of a destination. It was like he was taking a stroll in the night air to clear his head after a long day at work. No one would have given him a second glance. Except they did. Everyone did. Every single pair of eyes looked at Sara and Francesca as they passed. Some were dumbstruck. Others found an animal passion that caused guttural noises, mysogynistic whistles, Tourette-like utterances of sexual fantasy. Some people let them pass. Others followed. She lost count of the number of times someone tried to touch her. It was then - and only then - that he said anything, and the flatness o this tone as he simply repeated, "No. They are mine," was enough to make even the drunkest of them back off. By the time he had said this for the tenth or eleventh time, Sara would have done anything for him. She would have let him do anything to her. She wasn't just owned. She was protected. And something in her melted into that. At that moment he could have nailed her to a tree and had his friends line up to do whatever they wished and she would have happily given in to it. She felt happy. And so, so fucking horny.

Chapter 9: 01:10 today

They had walked for an hour. Or more. Sara's head was so full of serotonin and dopamine, probably oxytocin too, she had no concept of time. The only thing she felt was a haze of pleasure, and the deepest desire she had ever felt to have an orgasm. There was a beautiful stab of denial. A beautiful pull on her right arm to let her hand wander to her clit and ... she was thinking stroke it, but a touch would have been enough. The focus it took to control that urge and leave her arm behind her back was itself electrically arousing. It filled her mind. It was no-contact edging. She had to bite her lip. She had to control her breathing. She had to close her eyes. She had to walk with her legs very slightly further apart than she was used to. She could feel her heart. She could feel her pelvis. She could feel everything. She could feel the chain go slack.

He had stopped. Here eyes had been shut, but she knew. And she stopped too. Francesca was beside her, and that was a shock, because the whole universe had been inside her head for the last 30 minutes. Francesca was obviously in the same state. Knowing that didn't help.

He knocked at a plain door. A panel opened to the right of the door and a fingerprint scanner slid out on some mechanism. He placed his finger on it and the door swung open. It was as slow as a bank vault door in a heist movie. And as smooth. He walked into a corridor. It was nondescript. Clean. Looked after. But ... residential? Was this his place? The door closed behind them and they walked down the corridor. A second door opened at the end, and Sara had no idea what this was. Except that it was exclusive. It was elegant without effort. Not a self-conscious elegance. Just ... old money elegant. Like a prince wearing jeans. It looks dressed down, but you know they still cost as much as your car.

There were some coat hooks inside the inner door, but not quite coat hooks. They were rings, not pegs. Sara had not seen anything like them before. She was just about persuading her brain to ask what they were when she found out. He unclipped their chains from his belt and clipped them onto the rings.

"Wait here," he said. "You are safe. I promise. I need to give someone some instructions."

He turned to another door and as his hand reached for the handle he stopped and looked at them. Sara saw, for the first time, the slightest shadow of desire.

"If you say, at any time, the word 'Stop' three times in succession, it will stop. Nod if you understand."

Sara nodded, but her mind shouted, "What? What will stop? Not pain. I don't want pain." But she did want everything else. And so she made an effort - and although a simple task, it required effort to become conscious in this states - to remember the safe word.

Then they waited.

They didn't dare speak to each other. They gave each other a look which reassured them that the other was OK. But then they kept their heads bowed and their hands behind their backs.

And waited.

Chapter 11: 01:30 today.

Nothing happened for town minutes or so, then they waited door that he had si appeared through opened again. Through it came a woman a few years older than Sara, but still young and exceptionally beautiful. She was wearing a silk one pice dress that hung off her perfectly-proportioned body like gossamer on the wind. It was pale green, silvery, shimmering. It was not a dress that would have tolerated underwear without giving it away. And it didn't give any away. She was all so wearing a collar. She had diamond earrings that sparkled in the light, almost distracting attention from her eyes. She unclipped them and led them through another door which was so well camouflaged in the wall that Sara's brain hadn't worked out what was happening when it opened. She led them through like she was walking two Afghan hounds. They followed. The lump in Saras throat got even bigger.

"I have been asked to remind you," she said, in such a mellow and seductive voice that Sara and Francesca felt they could look up for the first time since they knelt int he bar earlier, "that you both have a safe word. Please nod if you are confident you know how to use it."

They nodded.

"Now, understanding that this time, and this time only, saying the safe word will not stop proceedings, say it out loud so I can be sure you know it."

The two of them said in unison, "Stop stop stop."

"Thank you. If you say that again, this will stop. But for now I will carry out my instructions. Nod if you agree."

They nodded again.

She smiled and attached their chains to the wall. She caught the look in Sara's eye. She whispered, "I have been permitted to reassure you that none of what lies ahead will involve pain." Sara sighed in relief and thanked her. Now she could relax and let it (whatever it was going to be) happen.

The woman went to Sara first. She slid the shoulder straps from her shoulders and her dress fell to the floor. Sara gasped at her sudden complete nakedness. Well. She had the collar on. And shoes. But ... well... they hardly counted. The woman did the same to Francesca.

Sara looked her up and down. She had longed for this sight since the club in Berlin. And sweet Jesus it didn't disappoint. She was ... inexplicably beautiful naked. Her skin was a continuous colour uninterrupted by anything as crude as a tan line. Her neck was smooth and slightly plump where her thyroid embraced her larynx. Her collar bones were like French Curves and her shoulders and arms screamed femininity. Her breasts were smooth and symmetrical. Her areloae still slightly puffy and her nipples, betraying that she had never been pregnant, were small and pink and so hard. Her belly was flat. Her waist sloped out into her hips at that perfect angle that meant her pussy was framed in the ellipse. And her pussy was glistening. It was swollen. The labia minora were obviously ready, and her pierced clit glinted in the light of the room. The was perfectly smoothly shaved. She looked like a goddess.

Sara came to her senses, and looked at Francesca's face to find her own body was being scrutinised in the same level of detail that she had just afforded Francesca, and she suddenly became aware again of her nakedness.

All this time, the woman busied herself in the corner of the room with something they couldn't see.

She walked over to Sara. Whatever was happening was happening to her first. She looked at her and smiled. The smile was distracting. So distracting that the first awareness Sara had that a remote vibrator was being put inside her, was as it slid upwards into her. She gasped. The touch was almost enough. She breathed. She controlled herself. She wanted to cum more than anything in the world, but not yet. Not alone. She wanted him there. She bit her tongue.

She watched as Francesca received the same type of toy in the same skilled manner. She squeezed her pelvic floor. It wasn't on. Yet. But it wouldn't be there if it was to stay turned off. Sara breathed a broken breath.

The woman turned away again and came back bearing a pure white rope.  It was soft. Magicians' rope probably. She tied a beautiful artistic knot round Saras neck, not at all tightly. Sara could see it in the mirror on the wall behind them. She them wove the rope round her front, between her legs, to her back, stopping and starting, interweaving it with itself, and in the mirror she slowly watched as the rope became something that resembled the skimpiest of swimsuits. It covered everything that it should, and nothing else. You could see almost all of her breasts, but nothing of her areolae or nipples. You could see the skin that lay between her labia majora and her groin, but nothing of her labia themselves, nor anything more intimate.

The girl went to her back and adjusted the tension. It was tight enough that if she moved in a particular way it felt like masturbating. But if she was still, it felt like wearing silk panties. It was artwork.

She watched the same process being carried out on Francesca, and when she had finished, it was like they were two swimsuit models in a very expensive swimsuit catalogue. They were both trying not to move in a way that made their orgasm denial worse.

The woman took them through another door and stood them in front of two St Andrews Crosses which faced a red, velvet curtain which lined the wall of a long, narrow room. She cuffed them to the crosses with leather buckled straps. There were lights above them. Stage lights. Oh God. That was a stage curtain. She looked at the clock on the backstage wall. It was 2:13am.

Chapter 12: 02:15 today

The woman stood between them and the curtains. She looked each of them up and down, and checked that her handiwork was perfect. She looked at the anticipation in their eyes. That was perfect too. She looked at their bodies. Perfect as well.

"I have been asked to explain the rules," she said. "Well... the rule."

She paused to allow them time to find some semblance of focus amid the arousal.

"It is really rather simple. There is one rule. Do not orgasm."

Sara's eyes widened. She had never played an impossible game before, but she was about to. She couldn't win. The woman, who had looked at both their faces, smiled.

"Do not worry, girls," she said. "You are both going to break that rule. But the one of you that breaks it first, loses."

She paused to allow time for them to consider the rule, their strategy, and to give them time to say the Safeway re if they wished. Neither did. She left the stage, and, for a moment, nothing happened at all.

That moment lasted a lot longer than it did. Sara looked at the curtain, trying to visualise what or who was on the other side. She tested the security of the straps. They were strong. She allowed her focus of attention to follow the ropes which barely covered her. Her nipples were still hidden. Oh god she shouldn't have thought about them. The rope was pressing them and when she breathed too deeply, it moved against them in a way that made half her brain want to breathe like she had just surfaced after being underwater for 30 minutes, and the other half not breathe at all. Her attention followed the rope downwards. She was sure she was still covered - the woman would have adjusted her ropes if she wasn't - but she felt totally exposed. The ropes came together at her vulva and, while complete covered, her clit nestled between two of them coming together. Suddenly that was all she could think about. She was skating and that was enough to act like a tiny vibrator on her clit. She couldn't win.

Vibrator - her attention moved to that. It wasn't huge. She could feel it if she thought about it, but not if she didn't. She thought about it. She could feel it was shaped with a forwards curve inside her to press her G-spot and a forward curve outside her to press the base of her clit. It was still off. She would have lost already if it had been on. She thought lof victory and loss. She hoped Francesca was in the same state she was in, because that was the only way she might win.

A whirring noise.

The lights came up.

The curtain started to open. So fucking slowly. Oh god make it go faster.

As it opened the lights in the auditorium, which were already up, shined in her eyes. They were dazzling. She could see three of four silhouetted heads in the front row. Not all male. There were other rows, completely indistinct. There was a back wall, only discernible by the green glow of a fire exit sign and it was perhaps 8 rows away. But she couldn't tell how many of the seats were taken. Was this a ticketed event? Invitation? Who gets to see this? To see me, she thought? Suddenly she had never felt more naked.

She tried not to move. Even the slightest movement caused her nipples and clit to scream, "Yes! More!" It seemed the more she tried to stay still the more her hips wanted to move themselves. She started to sweat with the effort.

Then, almost imperceptibly, she felt the vibrator turn on. It was only the vaginal section, and the buzz was so slight, she wasn't sure if it was her own muscles. She gasped and heard Francesca gasp at the same moment. OK it was fair game at least. They had the same controls.

She dropped her head as her hips insisted on moving slightly forwards as if there was a cock in front of her to rub. As they moved forwards the rope V that nestled her clit tightened very slightly on it. It was ecstasy. For a brief moment she thought, "Fuck the game. I need that now." And she almost gave in. But she was a stubborn and competitive girl and her consciousness made her bite her tongue, focus on something else, and she managed to become still again. She panted. Breathed deeply. Looked at Francesca who was trying to get her consciousness out of her body too. And failing.

The vibrator got more intense. She tried to distract herself with bare facts. She had no idea how intense it could get, but she had to label it somehow. If she could make it intellectually interesting, then perhaps the erotic interest could be controlled. She decided to call this Level 3. That would help. She didn't know what 10 would feel like, but she could cope with Level 3. She pulled her weight off her feet and onto the straps at her wrist. IT allowed her to open her legs a little and take the pressure off the ropes. And breathe a moment.

The breath became a gasp as the vibrator both hit level 5 inside her, and the G-spot massager started to rotate. She dropped her head. She closed her eyes. The pleasure of that was all she could think about. Oh god it was exquisite. She had to have this thing inside her forever. She moved her ships forward and backwards like the rope was a lover and she was riding him. And oh god what a lover. She was going to...

No... she can't. She froze. She thought about level 5. She bit her tongue. She looked at a patch of loose paintwork on the wall. She looked at Francesca. No that was a bad idea - too hot. She found a blank spot on the stage floor that had literally nothing remarkable about it. She would focus on that.

She moaned out loud as the vibrator inside her hit level 7. Worse - the clit curve had started to push in and out on the base of her clit and something in the vaginal section had started moving up and down the shaft of the thing, and it felt like she was being fucked. Oh god she needed to be fucked. She needed a cock inside her to fill her and ram her body into a bed or a wall or this bloody beautiful cross and just take her like nothing else mattered.

Her eyes clenched tight shut as she tried one last effort to push the orgasm away. She bit her tongue and thought maybe she was tasting blood. But her hips had started to move backwards and forwards now, rubbing her clit in the notch in the ropes. She couldn't stop it now, could she?

One thought came to her - to orgasm in a room full of people? Watched. Scored, even? That was horrific. Embarrassing. Wasn't it?

The thought of was enough to buy her a few more seconds.

The vibrator got stronger. Level 12 at least. She had only imagined 10 levels. Probably level 13 now.

Level 13 was unlucky for Sara, because that sensation was the point she knew she could not hold back. Her muscles relaxed first, allowing the pleasure to do what it would. Her breathing got more. She was moaning so loud that they could probably hear in the first bar. She rubbed her clit frantically against the beautiful rope and, just as she was accepting defeat, she heard Francesca cum.

She had never seen or had an orgasm like it. She had won. And she could give in.

She squeezed her legs together, moved her hips on the ropes and the budding started in her toes, working up her legs. Her whole pelvis started to spasm. She was dripping through the ropes. She felt her vagina grasp the vibrator tight as her throat closed over. She felt her face redden and then she entered another world of pleasure. She had no idea how loud her gasps and moans were, because her spirit was in another place. She saw colours in her vision. She heard music. There was wave upon wave of indescribable ecstasy.

Those watching saw her legs collapse and her body supported entirely by the wrist straps. Her legs were shaking and weak. There were tears streaming down her mascara-smeared cheeks and her body, gradually, became limp as her mind surfed in the sea of pleasure for several minutes more. She had no idea where she was. Or even who she was. It was absolute bliss.

Epilogue: 03:00 today

It was some minutes before her soul rejoined her body. To start with her kept her eyes shut as she enjoyed the last waves of physical pleasure leave her. But gradually she felt the pull on her wrists and she realised she should stand. Her legs didn't want to, but she managed to get them in a position where, with some effort, they would precariously support her weight, like those of a newborn fawn.

As she opened her eyes, the first gaze was towards Franscesa, who was still barely conscious. Oh god she was beautiful. The orgasm she had just had - was it even just an orgasm? - was inextricably linked to her. She felt like a lover.

She remembered the audience. She looked at the fourth wall and they were still there. As she made eye contact they started to applaud. OK it was the applause of a small room - only maybe 15 people - but they meant it. The house lights came up. He was there, in the front row, holding the remote control. And he was surrounded by people similarly beautiful and effortlessly wealthy, all of whom obviously loved her.

She remembered the rope. Mentally she checked every centimetre of it and, as far as she could tell, she was still covered. The vibrator was - oh shit she was grateful for this - off.

The woman came up to them both. Francesca had stood too. She unbuckled them and helped them carefully step off the plinth the crosses were on. The applause continued. She held out silk dressing gowns for them, and they put them on. She tied them at the front. She walked round the back and with a single, mystifying movement, tweaked the ropes, which immediately fell to the ground. Sara felt her nakedness under the silk and adored it. The vibrators, once the rope had fallen, fell too and hit the ground with a wet slap. Sara and Francesca and the audience laughed at the comedic indignity of that, but the applause continued.

Sara smiled. She had won, she thought, but wasn't totally sure.

As the applause died down the man from the bar turned to the audience and brought it to a halt.

He turned back to the girls on the stage and spoke.

"Miss Sara leads by one game to love. First set."