Corporate Slave

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

The Club was what everyone called it. Maybe at some time it had had a proper name, like Joe Schmoe’s Club. These days it was only the small, independent, off-brand clubs that needed names. You said “The Club” and everyone knew which one you meant.

It didn’t even have a name outside, just a logo—a stylized star with an arrow pointing down, a “this is the place” marker as if no further explanation was needed. It wasn’t needed, because everyone knew the place. If you just drew the symbol on a piece of paper and showed it to anyone, they’d point you in the right direction. Or rob you, depending on what part of the city you were in.

The Club took up an entire city block, and who knew how many floors of the building. The whole of life was there. Pole dancing, lap dancing, strip shows, dance floors, three bands playing on different levels, a half-size Roman coliseum complete with gladiators, a love garden and boutique s*x pods, all interlaced with drinks and drugs bars, gambling machines and a casino. The whole thing was replicated on a smaller scale on the upper levels for VIPs, the corporate guys who got the big bucks. Well, maybe not the Coliseum, but probably something else instead. Allegedly it was replicated again above that for the VVIPs.

Some people said it had its own execution chamber, and a morgue. Cassie figured that was a sick rumor. It was, though, big enough to have its own prison. Well, not a prison exactly, but a suite of holding cells. And that wasn’t a sick rumor: if people started serious s**t, they got ejected or barred, but if they were involved in really serious s**t, they were locked up for the rest of the night for the court to deal with in the morning.

Well, people still called it “court” but in reality it was just an administrative decision made by some low-level security manager. An administrative decision that could f**k up people’s lives real good. Because word was that there weren’t many people who went to the cells and came back. Word was they wound up serving time in Indentured Labor.

Cassie had a love-hate relationship with the place. She was wary of the fact that it was owned by one of a string of corporations all tied in to the same multinational that owned most of the city’s real estate, along with a dozen other cities that all had their own versions of The Club. For all she knew, the one multinational, using a roster of subsidiaries and front companies, owned dozens of other cities around the world. In fact, they seemed to own anything that wasn’t a convenience store, a sweatshop, or a minimum-piece rate factory. They owned the media, made the dreamcrazy and licensed the dealers, pimped the city center whores. And they owned the police, and at least some of the prisons.

Cassie sometimes thought she should audition there as a dancer or stripper. She was better than almost all the ones who worked there. But the idea that if you worked there, they owned you, had made her hold off. She worked hard and made a tiny percentage on the store’s sales, it was true. But they didn’t own her outright, couldn’t control the rest of her life.

Ironic, then, that “the rest of her life” meant going to The Club. That was the love part of the love-hate thing she had, because she had to acknowledge it was the best place to dance out her tensions, get high, and get consequence-free, hassle-free and relationship-free s*x. She didn’t get tied up as much as she might have enjoyed, but no-one’s life was perfect.

First things first, though. Much as she thought Jude was wrong to take dreamcrazy at work, she had no such qualms about using it herself on a night at The Club. She just didn’t want to pay Club prices for it. There was a convenience store, a different chain to the one she worked in, on the corner. Cassie bought herself a small stick, checked out the competition. These girls were working hard, trying all kinds of tactics to get attention. They pressed themselves against the glass of the cubicle, which flattened their t**s and looked strange—though the male shoppers seemed to like it. And they did more than just finger themselves, finding surprising uses for various products. Well, not surprising, exactly, but anatomically impressive. Cassie noted there was a special display for “Sales Assistant Items” by the dance cubicle, with prices higher than for the regular items. Tasteless? Maybe, but the shoppers seemed to like it. The manager at her store was missing a trick. She wondered how much of the extra price actually went to the assistants dancing there.

Maybe she could sell him the idea and negotiate a good rate…

The Club was huge. She made it to the love garden, an artificial garden under synthetic moonlight with private glades running off a main area. She walked past the hopefuls standing outside, much to their disgust—unaccompanied men weren’t allowed past the main entrance and there was a separate area for gays. Single women, though, were welcome. There was always a demand for threesomes in the garden.

It didn’t take long. About fifteen seconds, in fact, before a couple she’d seen here before were waving at her. The guy was fit, in the sense that he had the kind of muscles that came from manual work. And a lazy grin, the kind that Cassie always associated with men who knew their way around female anatomy. The woman was Cassie’s age, with long blonde hair and a voluptuous figure, large breasts in comparison to Cassie’s own smaller, pert ones. She was already stripped for action.

“She wants to be pinned down with your p***y on her face while I f**k her.”

The protocol here was simple: no names, no need for pickup lines. If you’re here it’s because you want to f**k. Just say what you want, or listen to what they want, and say yes or no.

Cassie said yes.

The other woman lay back and watched Cassie appreciatively as she unwound the Dress. Then moaned with pleasure as Cassie dropped onto her, knees pinning the woman’s shoulders to the ground, p***y firmly pressed against her mouth. Cassie liked the moan; it sent shivers up her spine. She liked it even more when the guy entered the woman and she squealed and squirmed. He didn’t go for missionary: he put the woman’s ankles over his shoulders, lifting her ass off the ground, to put himself in a kneeling position and give himself more depth. He and Cassie braced themselves against each other, looked into each other’s eyes as he thrust, the woman almost sang out her pleasure, and Cassie felt the familiar sensation of female lips on labia, female tongue exploring her clit and p***y. This woman knew what she was doing, switching between broad tongue strokes and a curled tongue that felt something like a short, stubby d**k.

They moved, the three of them, in sync, rocking back and forth, the woman’s cries muffled by the pressure of Cassie’s p***y.

They weren’t in this for the long haul, this pair. He came suddenly, explosively, wild-eyed and slack-jawed. The woman came almost at the same time, breathless screams resonating through Cassie’s body but not quite taking her to and beyond the point of climax. As the other two relaxed and separated, Cassie rolled off, using her own fingers to go that last distance.

“You didn’t come?” The guy grabbed his partner by her long blonde hair, pulled her up off the ground.

“She didn’t come,” he announced. The woman seemed dazed.

“You know what that means?” he demanded. He held the woman, kneeling, in front of Cassie. Pinned her wrists behind her back.

“Tell her she’s a useless f**k and slap her face!”

This was going slightly off-script, but something in the woman’s eyes said she was expecting it. Hoping for it.

Two quick slaps, one on each cheek. And the woman was pitching forward, saying “Please, mistress, let me make you come!”

“Say it louder, b***h!”

“Please, mistress…?” She yelled the words, but the pumping music in the garden meant they wouldn’t carry more than a few feet. Cassie grabbed the woman’s hair, figuring it would turn her on.

And it did.

And knelt, docile and eager, to use her tongue as Cassie reclined and wrapped her own legs around the woman’s neck…

Hey, she thought, it takes all sorts. If she’s into humiliation, that’s fine by me.

A while later, Cassie re-wound the Dress around her body. The guy looked up, watched her movements.

“Weird,” he observed. “I could have sworn, when you came in here, that was a red dress…”

“Yeah, it probably was,” Cassie agreed. She didn’t bother to explain the Dress’s electrical conductance color-changing properties.

She left the couple to it. The guy has started getting enthusiastic about the humiliation thing, making her crawl on all fours to fetch her clothes from wherever he threw them, bring them back between her teeth. She seemed to be liking it, though it wasn’t Cassie’s scene. She wondered if the two of them knew each other, or had just met on the dance floor…

But what had got Cassie’s attention was that while lying back, enjoying being licked to orgasm, she’d spotted something under one of the artificial bushes. It was a small plastic strip on a thin, adjustable band. She knew exactly what it was, because the staff here all wore them: most on heir wrists, and the dancers and strippers usually around their necks or on their ankles.

She knew exactly what it was: an opportunity.

Cassie knew enough about The Club to be aware that staff, like club-goers, didn’t have full access to the whole place. Regular staff weren’t trusted to enter the VIP and VVIP levels. There were levels of vetting and security, and they probably weren’t just for show—they’d stop unwanted people, from the criminal to the merely curious, from seeing what happened, and they’d prevent scandals from becoming public knowledge.

Sure, the VIPs and VVIPS did slum it in the public areas from time to time. Some segment of the regular club-goers liked seeing them, enjoyed s*x with them. It kept the place buzzing. But the chance to see with her own eyes was compelling.

And this was a VVIP staff pass.