Chapter 2

Employee number two hundred and fifty-six was wearing the most perculiar outfit she'd ever seen. It probably didn't even count as an outfit at all. Whatever it was, it was probably in the dreaded realm of "equipment." It was much more elaborate than anything she'd been made to wear before, so was almost certainly something the client himself must have brought with him. After seven months with the company, she was pretty sure she must have tried on the full range of in-house costumes by now. Besides, this wasn't their style, or rather, it wasn't their lowest-common-demoninator lack of it.

She was encased from her collared neck all the way to her toes in a tight fitting black rubber sack with special sleeve-like compartments inside it that kept her arms at her sides. Lying down on the floor, she tried to lift her head up enough to look down at herself. A leash was dangling down from her collar, the shiny metal chain ending in a rubber handle that was idly lying on top of her groin. She gently lowered her head back onto the hard tiles of the floor. Again, she heard footsteps, and again she felt that terrible surge of anticipation, dreading what might happen next.

The client strolled in, his eyes lighting up as he towered over her.

Once he was safely inside, the door slammed shut with a deafening clunk. The sliding doors had evidently been designed by someone whose main goals were to intimidate people, and to ensure each transaction went as quickly as possible. "Ah, perfect." The man looked her up and down. "How do you like your outfit?"

"It's strange." She squirmed around uncomfortably, trying to look back up at him. "I guess it's kind of interesting, though."

"I want you to be completely honest with me," said the man. "I even paid extra to have them turn off the CCTV cameras and microphones."

That meant he must have been rich, she realised. She gently lowered her head back to the floor again, giving her neck muscles a chance to relax. "OK, then. I'm uncomfortable. I can't move around in this thing."

"It doesn't look to me like you're trying." The man knelt down and grabbed her leash. When he stood up again, she saw the chain looming ominously from his strong hand all the way down to her fragile neck.

It seemed somehow fitting as a representation of their relationship.

In a way, it was more honest than a glimpse of the animalistic fucking of most clients would have been.

Two hundred and fifty-six squirmed around in her outfit, trying her best to sit upright. She couldn't. She looked helplessly up at the man holding her leash.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Whatever you want it to be," she said as she squirmed around. "We're all just known by our numbers here anyway. I'm number two hundred and fifty-six. The other woman you were talking to, in the cell next to me, is number two hundred and fifty-seven. None of us know each other's real names."

"Don't give me that," said the man. "I told you, no one else can hear us."

She looked away from him, her voice barely more than a whisper.

"Jane."

"Good," said the man. "Why are you here, Jane?"

Jane spoke in a hushed tone. "Please don't call me that, I'll get into trouble."

"You'd better be nice to me then," said the man. "Why are you here,

Jane?"

"Because you picked me," she replied in between grunts, making another attempt to sit up. She couldn't hold the position. All the suirming did was make the chain swing around, reminding her of her place.

Maybe that was the point, she realised.

"Don't give me the script," the man snapped. "Why did you choose this career? Why aren't you working in some supermarket stacking shelves?"

"Oh." Jane stopped struggling and lay down, gazing up at the man.

"Because it's the only way I can afford orgasms, I guess."

"Ah, so you're more of a slut than a whore."

"What's the difference?" she asked, still holding his gaze. He looked sincere, as far as she could tell.

"A whore has sex for money. A slut has sex for its own sake. You're here because you feel a need to climax."

She averted her eyes from him again. "I guess," she mumbled.

Without warning, the man spat on her face. "Answer me, slut," he said loudly.

Jane let out a yelp and tried to roll onto her side, but it was impossible in her cocoon. The man tugged on the leash, keeping her face close to him, close and vulnerable. "Yes," she finally admitted, staring straight into the man's eyes. "I let people use me so that

I can buy my own orgasms afterwards."

"So you admit you're a dirty little slut?"

"Yes," she said.

"Say it," demanded the man.

"I'm a slut," she said softly.

"Louder."

"I'm a slut."

"Again!" he ordered.

"I'm a dirty little slut, OK?" Jane was practically shouting now, suddenly oblivious to whether anyone could hear her in the adjacent cells. "I crave sex. I want to have orgasms. I need to have orgasms. Is that what you want me to say? It's true. I need to be fucked, and I'm frustrated every day that doesn't happen. I'd like nothing more than to have regular, daily sex with someone. Not like in this place, but actual sex, where I get to climax. Is that what you want to hear?" She squirmed around uncomfortably in the rubber outfit, suddenly feeling an urge to just run away to somewhere private and cry to herself. She tried to ignore the unwanted emotion.

The man grinned. Jane briefly wondered what he was enjoying the most, her confession or the fact that she was genuinely trying to get away from him for the first time. She was starting to realise that she really didn't want to be where she was, and that she was helpless, utterly unable to escape her perdicament. He seemed to be grinning with the knowledge that she'd just had this realisation.

Then again, maybe she was giving him too much credit. "And just where do you get your orgasms, you worthless slut?"

"Another place like this," she confessed. She made a conscious effort to calm down. She didn't want to rise to this pervert's bait.

He evidently got off of pushing her buttons. "Where none of the workers know me. Sometimes I pay one of the women to lick me out, but usually I can only afford to have my chastity belt removed and to masturbate by myself."

"So you're a dyke then?" asked the man.

"No!" she replied, a little more forcefully than she'd intended.

The idea repelled her. "It's just those services are always geared towards men, so I have to make do with what's on offer." If women like her were sluts, she thought to herself, then so were pretty much all men. But she didn't say it.

The man knelt down again, then began to slide a strong hand along her outfit, all the way from her neck, down past her breasts, and finally to her stomach before sliding it all the way back up again.