Her First Submission (Kathryn's Training), страница 1
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HER FIRST SUBMISSION
KATHRYN'S TRAINING #1
Copyright © 2012 by Aya Fukunishi
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First Printing, 2012
A Bangkok Nights Publication
There are clubs just like it in every city in America. Hidden clubs, their locations passed quietly by word of mouth, their entrances closely guarded. If you weren't on the inside you'd never hear about them, never see them even as you walked by. If you weren't vouched for you'd never gain entrance; you'd never notice the doorways, the closed circuit cameras and the discreet, well dressed clients who slipped in and out through the night, often carrying a package under their arm, a costume or a favorite toy. That was the one word most often used to advertise them to potential clientele: discreet.
This club didn't have a name. It didn't need one. All who entered knew what it was, and it maintained its secrecy thanks to the prominent politicians, wealthy businessmen and various movers and shakers who counted themselves among its members; men (and more than a few women) who made sure the eyes of the city never strayed too close to the hidden doorway. If the wrong people discovered what went on inside, the consequences could be dire.
Kathryn gazed up at the hidden camera above the door, waiting for a moment before a buzzer sounded and the latch was released. She stepped through into a dim hallway, pulling the heavy steel door behind her until she heard the lock engage once more, then stood in the half light until her eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness. Every room was like this, from the central bar to the private suites. Darkness ruled in this place where dark deeds were done.
It had been three months since Kathryn had been recruited. Three months of long, late nights. Three months of watching acts that repulsed and intrigued her in equal measure. Three months of serving drinks for the rich and powerful. Three months of watching them play with the tight, taut, latex wrapped bodies of the pretty, doe eyed sub girls who allowed themselves to be used, posed like puppets, humiliated, scolded and fucked like whores. Most of all, though, it had been three months of a steady, more than generous pay check and the promise of an escape from her crushing college debt. The work was often unpleasant, but a bachelor's degree in philosophy in the midst of a recession hadn't left her with a wealth of options.
Kathryn was a serving wench. That was actually her official title, the job description she'd print on her tax return, if she was allowed to file by herself. She'd been recruited by the owner of the club, Stephen, an old poker buddy of her late father. She remembered him vividly from her childhood, an ugly, rat faced man with sallow skin and the look of someone who enjoyed too much rich food, too few vegetables and too little sun. He seemed to arrive in a new sports car each time he visited. He also seemed to have a new girl on his arm each time, and Kathryn had always wondered how he managed to attract such beauties with that unappealing face and slimy personality. It was only recently she'd learned that they were all bought and paid for.
Stephen had caught her at a low point in her life. Eight months out from graduation Kathryn was barely surviving on what little she managed to earn waiting tables at a local strip club. It was depressing work. She paid for her groceries with the greasy, torn and wrinkled dollar bills the local perverts stuffed into the waistband of her skirt as she delivered their Budweiser, all of them no doubt hoping she'd be so grateful for their charity that she'd fall to her knees, wrap her wet, ruby red lips around their cocks and suck them until they sprayed their hot juice across her eager tongue. She could hardly blame them. The tired, used up women on stage - they were far too old to be called girls - were no match for Kathryn's fresh, unsullied beauty. Through every shift she felt their eyes on her young, lithe body.
Stephen had found her on a bleak Saturday night between Christmas and New Year. He'd bumped into her as he was leaving the club, shaking his head with disappointment at the poor quality of the strippers. He didn't recognize her at first, and muttered some insult about how the club was full of nothing but dried out old cunts who belonged in nursing homes.
"Sorry about that," Kathryn had replied, instantly scolding herself for apologizing for anything to do with the shitty, depressing club, as if it were her fault that the women on stage were dredged from the bottom of the barrel. "The pay here sucks. All of the pretty girls work down the street at the Elysium."
That was when Stephen had finally recognized her. Kathryn cringed as she saw realization dawn on that narrow little rat face, as a leering smile broke out and a dry, rasping laugh descended into a coughing fit. She forced a polite smile as he looked her slowly up and down without embarrassment, pausing on her full, firm tits and tight, perky ass.
"Well well, it looks like little Kat has grown up nicely," he said, grazing her side with a nicotine stained finger. "I'd love to see you up on that stage, girl. I bet you have the perverts throwing money at you."
Kathryn shivered beneath his touch, drawing away from those grasping claws. "No, I don't perform. I just serve drinks. I'd love the cash, but I wouldn't dare go up on stage."
The rest of the night had been the most unusual of her young life. Stephen had asked her straight out how much she banked for a night's work, laughed as she gave him a ballpark figure, then offered to quadruple her wage if she'd come to work at his club. She was wary of him, but when her shift ended and she finally escaped the dark, depressing club she found him waiting in the parking lot, smoking a cigar as he leaned against a black Maserati. Kathryn tried to politely extract herself from his company, but he insisted on taking her to his club. "A real gentleman's establishment," he'd said. "A much better class of people than you'll find in this shithole." Kathryn was reluctant, but she couldn't deny she was intrigued by his offer. The money he offered was extraordinary.
Kathryn remained silent on the ride to the club, tensing herself each time the car slowed at an intersection, ready to bolt at any moment. The only thing that kept her from pushing open the door and rolling from the car was the promise of cash. She needed it, and Stephen had it. She was tired of shopping for stale, discounted bread and dented tins of soup. She was tired of avoiding her landlord, sneaking quietly past his door each night to avoid another confrontation, another apology, another empty promise of imminent payment. She was, more than anything, simply tired, and she'd long ago learned that pride wasn't accepted as hard currency.
"I should warn you," said Stephen as he pulled the car into a small, dark parking lot, "there's a good reason I pay such high wages for my servers. This club is unlike any you've ever seen. You might be a little shocked, but just remember that everyone gives their complete consent for what happens here. My girls are very well paid, and they enjoy themselves."
Kathryn nodded, but didn't understand. What kind of strip club is this? She thought she knew every venue in the city, but she'd never even visited this neighborhood. It was in a dark, dangerous part of town, an area that had once been a bustling hub of industry until the recession arrived and scooped the heart from the city. Abandoned store fronts and boarded doors were all that remained, and Kathryn couldn't understand how any club could have remained open without the custom of the local workers.
Her questions were answe
Kathryn couldn't help but stop and stare. The girl was beautiful. Shoulder length straight black hair framed her slender face, her porcelain skin glistening in the strobe with a sheen of sweat. Her expression was blank, and her deep brown eyes looked out passively, focusing on nothing. She was naked but for a pair of black latex panties, and as she turned Kathryn noticed a wide slit cut into the back. Small steel hooks attached to the latex spread her ass cheeks wide, exposing her tight, pink asshole to the small audience of men sitting around the stage, sipping drinks brought to them by bar girls dressed in a variety of fetish gear. Most of the men barely even seemed to notice her, their eyes passing over her nakedness as if she were simply an ornament to be ignored. Even as she shifted on her toes, searching for a comfortable position, few in the audience so much as turned their heads in her direction.
Kathryn began to take in her surroundings. She saw curtains around the edge of the dimly lit room, each set leading to a small private area. Close to the entrance a curtain remained half open, and through it she saw an attractive, well dressed middle aged man reclining on a couch with a flogger in his lap, the red leather strands draped across his knee. Before him stood a stunning blonde girl in a red corset, her bare ass matching the color of her outfit. Kathryn watched as the man stood, slowly walked around the frozen girl and then brought the flogger down on her naked breasts, and flinched in sympathy as the blonde girl squealed. Even at this distance she could see angry, bright pink welts bloom on the girl's skin.
"Did you hear me, Kat? I said come this way."
Kathryn realized Stephen had been speaking for a few moments. Over the dull, low thump of electronic music he described to her the workings of the club as they left the bar and climbed a flight of stairs to Stephen's office. The club, he said, catered to a small but devoted client base. All of the clientele were into domination, and they paid enormous membership fees - running into thousands of dollars a month for the regular visitors - to enjoy a space in which they could fulfill their every desire. The girls of the club, he explained, were essentially slaves.
Kathryn was shocked. "Slaves? What do you mean?"
"Oh, not in any legal way, of course. The girls are free to leave, should they wish to do so. They're slaves in a symbolic sense. When they come to work for me they sign a contract for a year of servitude. They live here in the club, and they can be called on 24 hours a day to serve their masters."
Stephen noticed Kathryn's look of disgust. "Don't worry, Kat. This is a world you don't understand. These girls come to me of their own free will. Only the best subs can work for me, and they beg for the privilege. These are girls who have devoted their lives to service. They live for the club, for their masters. They train for years for this. Pain turns them on. Submission is their drug. These are girls who'd find your sex life dull and pedestrian. Their wet little pussies gush at the thought of a whip. The idea of a rope binding their wrists makes them come. They love the feeling of tight latex encasing their bodies. Don't feel sorry for them when you see them flogged and spanked. For them, this is heaven."
Kathryn remained silent, shocked and disgusted at the way he spoke about the girls as if they were objects. What is this place?
That had been three months ago. That first night Kathryn had been measured for an outfit and handed her contract, along with an advance on her pay check that more than covered her rent for the next three months.
The rules were simple. The clients of the club knew that serving wenches were off limits. Touching a wench against her will was grounds for expulsion, and none of the customers would dare risk losing their membership. Kathryn would be expected to work six nights a week, from 10 until 5 in the morning. She'd never breathe a word of her employment to anyone. She'd never speak to a client outside of the club, and she'd never interfere with any activities between client and slave. In return she'd receive a more than generous pay check.
The first three months had been difficult. Working at the strip club had desensitized Kathryn to the sight of naked women and leering men, but she was in no way prepared to deal with the things she saw every night while carrying drinks to the private rooms. She'd seen men spank and flog women, slap them hard across the face, ass and breasts. She'd seen women bent double and tied in restraints with their legs wrapped painfully behind their heads, fucked viciously in their frozen position. She'd seen women humiliated, forced to stand still, unresponsive, with their heads bowed as men hurled insults toward them, called them worthless sluts and worse. Much worse.
Even after three months Kathryn was still shocked by some of the more extreme activities at the club. She knew the subs were there willingly, even eagerly, but there was something about watching a girl slapped and spanked, held down by her wrists and fucked deep in the throat that turned Kathryn's stomach. She couldn't understand why anyone would volunteer for such vicious, cruel treatment. She couldn't understand how any girl could be aroused by the pain of a rope bound tightly around their breasts, a line of clothespins pinching their skin. It was all she could do not to flinch with sympathy pain when she delivered drinks to a room in which a girl was bound to a steel frame and told to remain still as her master tied a length of dental floss in a slipknot that around her nipple, then tugged it snug until the girl squealed. These girls, Kathryn decided, were an alien species, abnormal and damaged in some way. She swore she'd never become involved in anything like that.
Until one night...
"Stephen wants to see you right away, Kathryn. He's up in the office with a client."
Kathryn gave Henry a puzzled look. "You're sure he wants to see me now?" Kathryn never had any contact with the clients beyond delivering drinks and collecting empties. She'd never been introduced to one, and she was happy to keep it that way.
"That's what he said. They're waiting for you now. Here, I'll take those." Henry took a tray of empty glasses from Kathryn's hands. He was the head of security, far too busy to work as a bus boy, but he knew better than to let Kathryn leave glasses lying around by the stage. Tonight's act was writhing on the floor just feet away, bound at the wrists and feet and encased in Saran wrap. Periodically a client would climb onto the stage and use her for a few minutes, teasing her to the brink of orgasm before taking his seat again. The girl wasn't allowed to come until 4AM, and in the two hours she'd been up there she'd become frustrated and prone to kick out at anything within reach. A few broken glasses might distract her from the torment for a moment.
"Thanks, Henry. Could you ask Ebony to cover my area for a few minutes?"
As Henry nodded and left for the kitchen Kathryn took a moment to watch the girl on stage. She lay on her back with the head and shoulders poking out over the edge, holding herself perfectly motionless with her mouth wide open as a man in a nicely cut gray suit held his erect cock lengthwise against her lips, holding it there like a bit between the teeth of a horse. He teased her, refusing to slide it into her mouth, and instead moved the long, thick shaft back and forth, grazing against her wet lips and tongue, pushing the throbbing head out beyond her cheek. With one hand he supported the back of her head and with the other he pinched and teased her clit, trying his hardest to force a squeal from her lips.
Kathryn sighed, knowing that the image would appear in her head against her will the next time she played with herself. In the last three months many of the less violent acts had begun to feature in her fantasies, and it often worried
Kathryn shook her head, trying to brush aside the image. Stephen didn't like to be kept waiting. She adjusted her skirt, suddenly self conscious of her exposed snatch, uncomfortably aware that it had become ever so slightly wet at the sight of the girl on stage, and strode quickly to the stairs up to Stephen's office.
"Ah, Kat, come on in. Come come, quickly now."
Stephen sat behind the large mahogany desk he loved so dearly, the air filled with the thick, greasy smoke of his Cuban cigars. Kathryn stepped through the door into the large office and immediately saw the client Henry had mentioned, standing it the corner as far as possible from the acrid smoke.
Kathryn didn't dare turn her head in his direction - even as a serving wench she was expected to act in a subservient manner to the clients - but she knew she'd not seen him in the club before. All she could tell from the corner of her eye was that he was younger than the average client, perhaps in his early 30s, he had short, dark hair, and he was dressed in a simple but obviously well cut dark gray suit.