Cut your losses and continue

I take as deep a breath as my mask will allow and **** my body to relax. There’s no point fighting this right now—it’s only making everything worse. Obediently, I lift my right foot, and the latex immediately forces it en pointe, stiffening it rigid. I set it down and try to balance, the metal restraints the only thing keeping me from toppling over.

Then the cold metal retracts from my body, leaving me wobbling precariously in the ballet heels.

> “Alteration complete. Have a good time, Subject.”

“Mmu’ ‘oo,” I try to snarl ‘fuck you’ through the mask, but before I can finish the second syllable the phallus inside me shakes to life, the sudden vibration jolting me like a shock.

> “Edging device activated.”

The buzz throws me completely off balance. I stumble and fall against the padded wall of the Wardrobe Machine. My gloved hands fly between my legs, desperately rubbing at the slick latex, but I feel nothing—no friction, no relief, only smooth, seamless perfection. My fingers slide lower and encounter a wide, open entrance where there should be none. A gasp escapes me into the gag as the truth hits: the phallus is hollow, leaving me gaping and exposed beneath the suit.

I have barely a second to moan at the overwhelming vibration before it cuts off abruptly. The wardrobe door hisses open. I stumble out into the bright, busy plaza, teetering dangerously on the impossible heels.

I’m still in my slavesuit, but now locked into ballet heels I can’t remove for three full hours—barely enough time to make it home before curfew—and trapped with this cruel edging device buried inside me for days. Despite the humiliation, or perhaps because of it, arousal throbs through me so fiercely I can barely think of anything else.

Resigned to the fact that negotiating with the wardrobe machine is pointless, I decide to head for my usual club. Getting there, of course, is far harder than usual. I collect my ID cards from the tray outside the machine and slip them into the discreet pocket at my hip.

I grip one of the railings on the row of wardrobe machines and haul myself upright. It’s not as agonizing as I feared; the heels somehow bolster my strength, distributing my weight in ways that feel almost unnatural. Standing straight, though, is nearly impossible. By the time I’m almost vertical, I hear soft giggling behind me. When I twist to look, a small crowd has gathered to watch.

“Unowned! Ha!” A woman in a shimmering metallic teal catsuit—adorned with exquisite jewelry—points at me and says to her companion, loud enough for the whole plaza to hear. “Tourist! Must be her first time—she definitely bit off more than she can chew.”

It isn’t my first time, but I can’t deny she has a point. I’ve overdone it tonight. I shift awkwardly, trying to angle my body so no one catches a glimpse of the artificial entrance between my legs, and begin an unsteady shuffle sideways.

The same woman who mocked me struts over with confident grace. Before I can react, her fingers hook through the D-ring on my collar and she lifts me effortlessly upright, my toes barely scraping the ground. Her eyes gleam with amused authority.

“Where are you trying to go?” she asks, her tone that of an impatient teacher scolding a wayward student.