And it's time to begin

"Today," Jamal said from the hallway, his voice reaching me before his body, "you're not going out. I'll get you ready today."

“Yes, Master.”

She entered the bathroom with a black plastic bag and placed it on the sink. Inside were things I'd never seen before—a new razor, an unlabeled tube of cream, a pair of thin scissors, a box of cotton wool. And underneath all of it, carefully folded, was a dress that wasn't pink latex.

"I'll shave you first," he said. "All over. I don't want a hair on you when Marcos gets his hands on you."

He sat me on the edge of the tub. The hot water ran, and the steam filled my lungs, and Jamal knelt before me, razor in hand. He didn't look at my face. He looked at my skin—my thighs, my pubic area, my chest, my arms. He rubbed the cream coldly over my belly with two fingers, and then the blade began to slide down. I felt the metal against my taut skin, the faint sound of hair giving way, and I remained still because I'd been taught that movement was a price to pay. Under the collar, his breath hitched hotly against my ear. When he reached my groin, he took my cock in one hand—limp, locked in the cage—and pulled it aside to shave underneath, and I felt his fingers squeeze me and felt the metal pass a millimeter from my skin, and I closed my eyes.

“Look,” he said. “Don’t close your eyes.”

I opened them again. I saw my face in the mirror above the sink—mouth open, eyes shining—and I saw Jamal kneeling behind me with the razor in his hand, and for a moment I couldn't believe that this scene was my life.

He finished with my legs, then my armpits, then my chest. He turned me around and shaved my back around the tattoo—carefully, as if the black dick and the word "Love" were things not to be scratched—and then he had me bend over the sink and shaved between my buttocks, and I felt the blade run around the hole where the plug was holding me open, and I felt the cold cotton swab my skin after each stroke.

"Good," he said, and stood up. "Now shower. Then I'll get you dressed."

I washed myself with the soap he'd given me—unscented, because he chose the scent—and when I left, he was waiting for me in the bedroom with the dress spread out on the bed. It wasn't latex. It was a short, black dress, with a neckline that reached my navel and the hem that reached just below my buttocks. The fabric was light, almost transparent in the light, and when I touched it, I realized it wasn't covering anything—it just suggested it.

“Get dressed,” he said.

I slipped it on. The low cut exposed my piercings and ace-of-spades charms, and the bottoms rode up my thighs with every movement, and the collar peeked out above the black fabric like a sign that it couldn't be hidden. Jamal looked at me. Then he took a pair of shoes from his bag—high heels, black, with a thin ankle strap—and placed them at my feet.

“Put them on,” he said. “And walk.”

I slipped them on. The heel shifted my balance—my hips shifting, my ass tensing, my chest coming forward—and as I crossed the room I felt the plug shift inside me with every step, and I felt the cage press, and I felt myself walking like someone who knew she was being watched.

“Turn around,” Jamal said.

I turned around. He leaned closer, cupped my chin, and studied my face for an interminable time. Then he took a lipstick from his bag—dark red, almost black—and smeared it over my lips, slowly, unhurriedly, and I felt his thumb press into the corner of my mouth to correct the line.

“Open up now,” he said.

I opened it. He took a small tube and put a drop of something on my tongue—shiny, sweet, mingling with the taste of the metal from my piercing—and then closed my mouth with two fingers under my chin.

"This way, customers can see the tattoo even when you're not speaking," she said. "The letters shine."

He pulled back and looked at me one last time. He wasn't smiling. But something in his eyes—a sort of reckoning—told me I was ready the way he wanted me to be ready.

“Let’s go,” he said.

In the car, he didn't speak. He drove slowly, one-handed, and I watched the city light up outside the window—the signs, the traffic lights, the people walking toward things that weren't mine. My black dress clung to my thighs, and every time the car took a curve, the plug reminded me it was there, and I clenched my knees and said nothing.

He stopped in front of the Black Stallion. The black facade, the two golden lanterns, the varnished wooden door. He didn't turn off the engine.

"Listen," he said, finally turning to me. "Tonight, you come in alone. You introduce yourself at the bar. You say you're Jamal's. Then you go where they tell you to go and do what they tell you to do." He paused. "With everyone. Not just Marcos. With whoever Marcos decides."

“Yes, Master.”

"And if they ask you about the double," she continued, "you tell the truth. That you took it. That you took it with Terrence and me. And that you're ready to take it again."

“Yes, Master.”

"If you cry," he said, his voice unchanged, "you'll get punished in front of everyone. And I won't help you."

“Yes, Master.”

I got out. The door closed behind me, and the car sat there for a moment, and then it drove off, and I was left alone in front of the door with my black dress and heels and the spade axes hanging from my nipples.

I pushed the door.

Inside, the place was already alive. It wasn't the empty shell of the first night, and it wasn't the half-full place of yesterday—it was full. Men at the tables, women with trays, smoke curling under the low lamps, and the mirrors on the walls multiplying everything—the faces, the glasses, the lights, me. I paused a step inside the door and felt eyes coming at me from every corner, one at a time, as if they were counting my bones.

There was a woman at the counter. Black hair tied high, a red dress, a tray in her hand, and a smile that meant nothing to anyone. She watched me approach and didn't say anything until I was in front of her.

“You’re the new one,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

"Yes. They're Jamal's."

“I know who you are.” He set down the tray. “Marcos is waiting for you at the back. But come see me first.” He grabbed my wrist and pulled me behind the counter, into a narrow corridor that smelled of disinfectant and old perfume. “Rules. You don’t speak unless they speak to you. You don’t look anyone in the face without permission. If a customer touches you and you don’t want to, it’s not that you don’t want to—it’s Marcos’s decision. If someone sends you, you go. If two send you, you go anyway. And if someone sends you who pays to hurt you, you do it, because Marcos has already collected.”

"Yes."

"And don't call me Master," she said. "I'm not your master. My name is Rosa." She looked me up and down, and for a moment something flashed in her eyes—not contempt, not pity, a kind of reckoning she was doing, too. "How old are you?"

«Twenty-two.»

“Fuck.” He shook his head. “All right. Come on.”

She led me back into the restaurant and between the tables. I heard voices lower as I passed, and I heard a man say something that contained the word "tongue," and I heard another laugh. Rosa didn't stop. She led me to the round table at the back, where Marcos sat in his open white shirt and gold watch, and next to him were two men I'd never seen before—a thin one with his tie undone, a large one with a gray beard—and all three turned when we arrived.

"There she is," Marcos said, his voice carrying to the farthest tables. "Jamal's little slut."

He didn't get up. He nodded, and Rosa let go of my wrist and returned to the counter, and I remained standing in front of the table with my hands at my sides and my heels shaking at my ankles.

"Turn around," Marcos said. "Let me see you."

I turned around. I felt the three pairs of eyes on my back, on my black cock, on the word "Love" that the black dress allowed me to glimpse as I moved. I heard one of the men—the skinny one—murmur something in Marcos's ear, and I heard Marcos laugh softly.

“Come back here,” he said.

I turned around. Marcos leaned back and spread his arms along the edges of the table, and looked at me like you might look at a car you've just bought and come to pick up.

"You're working tonight," he said. "Not like last night. Last night you were merchandise on display. Tonight you're in production." He nodded toward the two men. "These are customers. They pay. You serve them."

“Yes, Master Marcos.”

"The skinny one's called Aldo. The big one's called Bruno." He paused. "Aldo wants to see your tongue. Bruno wants to see your ass. And they both want to know if you can suck without losing your teeth."

The skinny one—Aldo—laughed and ran a hand through his thinning hair. The big one—Bruno—didn't laugh. He looked at me with small, steady eyes, as if he were already deciding how long he could last.

"Come here," Bruno said, his voice low and hoarse. "Between my legs."

I looked at Marcos. Marcos gestured with his glass. I approached, and Bruno's legs parted to make room for me, and I knelt between them on the wooden floor, and my black dress rose up my thighs, and my heels dug into my shins.

“Open your mouth,” said Bruno.

I opened it. My tongue was hanging out, the black letters exposed, the piercing glinting under the lamp. Bruno leaned forward slightly—his breath smelled of cigars and wine—and stared at my tongue for an interminable moment. Then he straightened and nodded to Aldo.

"It has the marks," he said. "Now let's see if it works."

He unbuckled his belt. The buckle clinked against the table, and I felt the fabric unbuckle, and then I saw his cock—big, dark, already half-hard—rising toward me from his gray boxers. "Take it," he said. "And watch Marcos while you take it."

I leaned over. I took it in one hand—warm, heavy, the skin barely moving beneath my fingers—and brought it to my mouth. The tip entered my lips, and I tasted it—salt, tobacco, a hint of sweat—and my tongue's piercing pricked the base of his cock as I tried to open myself wider. I began to suck, slowly, my tongue swirling around the tip, my hand squeezing the base, and I felt his cock harden inside me, filling my mouth, pushing against the roof of my mouth.

"Further down," Bruno said. "You're not afraid of suffocating, are you?"

I pushed down. The tip reached my throat and I felt the reflex tighten my stomach, and tears welled up in my eyes, and I continued—up and down, saliva dripping from my chin onto my thighs, the wet sound filling the table. Above me, I heard Aldo say something to Marcos, and I heard Marcos reply, and I didn't understand the words but I understood the tone—two men talking business while a mouth worked beneath them.

"Enough," Bruno said, and pulled me up by my hair. "Now your ass."

I stood up. My knees hurt, and I felt the plug shift, and I felt the cage weigh. Marcos gestured toward the table, and Aldo stood up and grabbed a chair, carried it to the center of the room, in front of everyone, and placed it with the back facing me.

"Bend over," Marcos said. "On the table."

I bent over. My hands on the polished wood, my face toward the mirrors, my ass toward the room, my black dress riding up to my waist. I felt the eyes of all the customers on me—their voices lowering, the chairs turning, a whistle from a distant table. I heard Bruno approaching. I felt his large hands cupping my ass and spreading it, and I felt the plug slowly twisting, and I felt his low voice against my back.

"XXL," she said. "Marcos isn't joking."

"Since this morning," Marcos said from his table. "Since he made it."

Bruno pulled the plug out slowly, and I felt the emptiness, and I felt my ass tighten around nothing, and I felt shame rise to my face. Then I felt his cock—hard, hot, pressing against my hole—and I felt the tip enter, and the rest follow, and my body opening for him as it had opened for Jamal, as it had opened for Kendrick, as it would open for whoever Marcos chose.

"Fuck," Bruno said, his voice cracking slightly. "How come a little whore like you has an ass like that?"

"Because she's trained," Marcos said. "It's not a joke. It's a service."

Bruno began to move. He wasn't slow. He wasn't gentle. He took me like you take something you've paid for, and every thrust made me grit my teeth, and every time he reached the end I felt my cock trying to harden in the cage and failing, and the pain of that failed attempt made me moan louder than the thrusts. The table creaked under my hands. My black dress had bunched up around my waist, and the spade axes swung across my chest with every thrust, and the mirrors in front of me reflected everything back to me—my face, my open mouth, my bent body, Bruno behind me, holding my hips with both hands.

"Tell him," Bruno ordered. "Tell him what you are."

“I’m a little whore,” I said. “I’m Master Jamal’s little whore.”

"No," Marcos said, and his voice came from the table, cold, precise. "Tonight you're mine. Say it."

“I’m Master Marcos’s little whore,” I said, and my voice broke.

"Well done," said Marcos.

Aldo approached. I felt his shadow pass over me, and I felt his hand cup my chin and turn my face to the side, and I saw his cock—thin, pale, already shiny—waiting at my mouth.

“Open up,” he said.

I opened the door. He came in, and I tasted a different flavor—less salt, more bitter—and I felt his cock hit my throat as Bruno continued to thrust from behind, and for a moment I couldn't breathe, and tears ran from my eyes onto my cheeks, and I continued because there was nothing else to do. Two cocks. One in my throat, one in my ass. The club watching. Marcos counting. And me in the middle, my black dress hiked up, my heels cutting into my ankles, the collar tightening with every breath.

"Look how much he takes," someone said from a table. "And he doesn't cry."

“He’s not crying because he can’t,” Aldo said, and laughed, and pushed further down.

Time dragged on. I don't know how long it lasted—maybe ten minutes, maybe twenty—but I lay there bent over the table with two men inside me, and every time one stopped, the other continued, and every time I thought it was over, they started again, and my knees were shaking and my mouth was full of saliva and my ass was full of cock and the mirrors were reflecting back a face I could no longer call my own. Then Bruno sank in and remained still, and I felt his cock throbbing inside me, and I felt the heat filling me, and he moaned and leaned all his weight against my back.

“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck.”

He pulled out. I felt his semen dripping down my thigh, and I felt the emptiness return, and Aldo pulled me up by my hair and came too—in my mouth, hot, bitter—and I swallowed because I'd been taught to swallow, and I remained kneeling on the floor with one man's semen dripping from my mouth and the other's dripping from my ass.

The room applauded. Not everyone—some. But enough.

Marcos didn't applaud. He waited for the noise to die down, then put down his glass and looked at me from his table.

"Good," he said. "The first one's done." He nodded to Rosa, who had reappeared at the counter with her tray balanced. "Take her to the back. Get her cleaned up. She has three more customers before midnight."

Rosa grabbed my arm and pulled me up. My legs were shaking, and my semen was dripping, and my heels were making me wobble, and as I walked across the room I felt everyone's eyes still on me—but different now. Not curiosity. Calculation. As if they'd already decided on the price.

In the hallway behind the counter, Rosa placed a towel in my hand and led me toward a small bathroom with a broken mirror in the corner.

"Clean yourself up," he said. "And don't sit down. The next guy wants you standing."

I looked at myself in the mirror. My lipstick was gone. The polish on my tongue was gone. My black dress was sticky with sweat, and the spade axes hung askew, and on my neck, under the collar, were the marks of Bruno's fingers. I washed my face with cold water. I dried myself with the towel. I reapplied the lipstick that Rosa handed me without saying anything.

“What are the other three’s names?” I asked.

Rosa looked at me in the mirror. "One's named Diego. One has no name. You'll find out about the third when he arrives." She paused. "Marcos said he wants to see you work until the end tonight. Then he'll send you home with Jamal."

"And the double?"

"You do the double when Marcos decides," Rosa said. "Not when you ask."

We left the bathroom. A man was already waiting in the hallway—young, thin, still wearing a coat and his hands in his pockets—and when he saw me, he didn't smile. He looked at Rosa, and Rosa nodded, and he motioned for me to follow him to a door at the end of the hallway.

I turned back toward the bar one last time. Through the smoke and the lights, I saw Marcos at his table, glass in hand and his eyes on me, and I saw the other customers laughing and drinking, and I saw the mirrors multiplying everything—the faces, the glasses, the lights, me.

Then the door at the end of the hall opened, and the man in the coat let me go first, and I walked into the room with the semen still on me and the redone lipstick and the cage weighing me down, and I thought of Jamal waiting for me at home, and I thought I didn't know what time it would end, and I thought it didn't matter.

The man took off his coat and placed it on a chair. He closed the door. He turned to me.

"Strip," he said. "And get down on your knees."

I got down on my knees. The floor was cold beneath my knees, and my black dress slipped off my shoulders, and I was left with the collar and the piercings and the cage and nothing else, and I looked up enough to see his face.

He wasn't smiling. But he wasn't in a hurry.

Outside, in the room, someone laughed. Inside, the door was closed.