Please customers

Karim grabbed my collar from behind, two fingers under the leather, and pulled. Not hard. Just enough to make me realize I wasn't walking alone.

“Let’s go,” he said.

The club was larger than it looked from the bar. Low dark wood tables, black leather booths, a chandelier hanging above the stage like a half-closed eye. The music was low, a beat that never quite reached the point of song. My heels clicked on the floor—click, click—and every step pushed my plug against the inside wall, a reminder that it was walking with me.

The collar tightened around my throat with every breath. Beneath it, the golden tag thumped against my collarbone, empty, nameless. I still didn't have a name to say if anyone asked.

Karim led me between the tables. We passed a sofa; there were already several customers sitting on the sofas drinking. Others were at the bar; the place was starting to come alive.

“Look ahead,” he said. “Not at the floor. Forward.”

I looked up. The stage was three steps away from the sound. The lights were low, a circle of white light in the center that didn't illuminate the edges. The polished wood reflected the light as if it were wet.

Three men were sitting in the front row. I hadn't seen them before—they were already there, or had entered while I was looking at my feet. One with a drink in his hand. One with his arms crossed. One was running his thumb back and forth across his lip and staring at my ass.

Karim stopped me at the foot of the steps. He turned me toward him with the collar, so that I had to raise my chin.

"You know what they came to see"

pointing to the three men on the sofas.?

“Yes,” I said.

"No, you don't. You know it when you're on stage." He let go of my collar and pushed me with a slap on the ass.

«Sali.»

I climbed the steps. My heels weren't made for steps—I gripped the railing with one hand, and felt the plug slide a millimeter, settle, and press again. At the top, I straightened. The white light hit me in the face and made me close my eyes for a second.

When I opened them again, the three men were closer than I'd thought. The front row was two meters from the edge of the stage. From there they could see everything—my thighs, the apron that reached mid-thigh, my stockings, my heels. They could see the pink collar and the dangling gold tag.

Karim climbed up behind me. I felt his weight, the way the stage absorbed his footsteps, not mine.

“In the center,” he said.

I walked to the center of the circle of light. I stopped. My hands didn't know where to go—I put them behind my back, then let them fall to my sides, then crossed them in front. No position was right. No position was mine.

"Stop," Karim said. "Stop moving like you're looking for the exit."

I stopped. I breathed. The collar tightened a little.

The man with the whiskey glass raised it toward me, as if toasting, and didn't drink. The amber liquid sloshed in the glass. He didn't put it down.

Karim approached me from behind. I heard his voice reach my ear before the words.

“Show him how you prepared.”

I didn't understand right away. I stood still.

"On all fours," he said. "Hands on your buttocks. Open up."

Blood rushed to my face. Not from shame—that was long gone, or maybe it had never really come. It was the heat, the way my body responded before my head had time to speak. I dropped to all fours on the polished wood. My knees slipped a little; I settled. My hands reached behind me, grasped the fabric of my apron and pulled it up my back, then cupped my buttocks and spread them.

The plug moved inside me. I felt it all—the rounded base pressing against the outside, the full body pushing against the walls, the way my body held it tight and simultaneously wanted it out. The club air cooled my exposed skin.

The three men leaned forward. Not all at once—the first, the one with his thumb on his lip, leaned forward first, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the spot where the plug entered me. The second, the one with his arms crossed, simply tilted his head. The third, the whiskey, didn't move an inch, but the glass trembled slightly in his hand.

"Here," Karim said. Not to me. To them. "Look."

I felt my breaths coming out in short gasps. My knees hurt against the wood. The collar pressed against my throat every time I lowered my head, and I kept it lowered, my forehead almost touching the ground, so I wouldn't have to see their faces as they looked at me.

Then the man with his thumb on his lip spoke.

«I want to see it without plugins. I want to see how open it is.»

His voice was low, calm, as if he were ordering another drink. He didn't look at Karim. He looked at me.

Karim didn't answer immediately. I heard his footsteps on the stage, the wood creaking. He knelt behind me. His hand gripped my collar from underneath, pulling my head up, and my back arched accordingly—my buttocks higher, open, offered.

"You heard that," Karim said. "Take it out."

My hands were still on her buttocks. I didn't move them. I didn't know if I should do it myself or wait.

"With your hands," he said. "Slowly. All the way in."

I took the base of the plug between two fingers. It was warm, coated with my own heat. I pulled. The first inch came out with a wet sound, and my body tightened around what was left inside, as if wanting to hold it. I pulled again. The wide circle passed the opening, and I felt the emptiness arrive all at once—an emptiness that wasn't relief, but lack. The plug came out completely and remained in my hand, shiny, heavy, with a thread still stretching between me and it.

The three men looked. Whiskey finally put his glass down on the table—a sharp thud on the wood—and leaned over too.

“There,” Karim said behind me. “See?”

I didn't know who he was telling this to. Maybe everyone. Maybe me.

I remained on all fours, the plug in my hand, my back arched, the collar pulling my head up. The club air was seeping into me where the plug had been, and every breath was a small cold draft in a place that shouldn't have been cold. My apron had slipped down my back, and I didn't put it back. They hadn't told me.

Karim released my collar. My head fell again, my forehead almost touching the wood.

"Now," he said, "put the plug down. Next to you. Where they can see it."

I placed it on the stage, in front of me, in the circle of light. It remained there, lucid, and the three men looked at it as if it were something I had said without speaking.

“On your knees,” Karim said. “Straight up.”

I knelt down. Thighs pressed together, hands on thighs, back straight. The collar was pressing against me. The empty tag was thumping against my chest.

Karim stood up behind me. I heard his belt—the leather unbuckling, the metal clanging once. I didn't turn around. I looked at the three men, who were looking at me, and none of them were looking at Karim. They were looking at me.

His hand grabbed the back of my neck and pushed me forward. My hands went to the floor to keep from falling. My cheek pressed against the polished, cold wood that smelled of disinfectant. My knees spread, my buttocks high. The apron still covered me a little, and Karim lifted it up my back in one swift movement, without asking.

"Hold them open," he said. "With your hands. Like before."

My hands returned to the back, cupped my buttocks, and spread them. The void the plug had left was still there, and air was flowing in.

I felt the head of his cock against me. Hot, hard, wet with something. He didn't wait. He pushed.

The first stroke went in without resistance—my body was already open, already prepared, and it took him all at once. I felt my breath come out in a sound I hadn't decided upon. My cheek pressed against the wood, my eyes closed, my hands holding my buttocks open because that's what he'd told me to do.

Karim stopped inside me. He didn't move. I could feel his breathing behind me, the cigarette smoke still clinging to his clothes, his weight pressing down on my knees through his body.

“Look at them,” he said. “Not me. Them.”

I looked up. The three men were two meters away. The first, the one with his thumb on his lip, now had his hand firmly on his knee and his mouth slightly open. The second had taken off his jacket and folded it over his knees. The third, the whiskey, was holding his glass again, but he wasn't drinking—he held it as if waiting for something to happen.

Karim pulled back. Slowly, leaving only the head inside. Then he pushed again, all at once, and my body took him without resistance. And the sound he made was wet and full and loud in the empty club.

“There,” said Karim. “Like this.”

The rhythm came later. Not immediately fast. A thrust, then a pause, then another thrust. Each time he pushed me forward onto the wood, and my knees slipped a little, and I readjusted with my thighs, and my hands remained behind, holding my buttocks apart because he hadn't told me to let go.

The third man put down his glass. The sound of glass on wood was the only thing I heard besides Karim inside me.

“Harder,” said the first man.

Karim didn't respond. But the rhythm changed. Faster, shorter, the thrusts following one another without pause. My breathing hitched. My cheek burned against the wood. I felt my body opening and closing around him, and each time it opened it was one sound, and each time it closed it was another.

"Tell me," Karim said. "That you're ready."

“I’m ready,” I said. My voice came out cracking, lower than I remembered.

«Ready for what.»

“To be used,” I said.

"From whom."

«From whoever wants.»

The three men exchanged a look. Not a smile—something colder, more satisfied. The first nodded slowly, as if I'd answered correctly to a question he hadn't asked.

Karim accelerated further. His breath hit the back of my neck, hot and short. His hands gripped my hips—not the collar, my hips—and he pulled me toward him with each thrust, so that it wasn't me pushing back, it was him taking me. My hands left my buttocks and went to the floor, because I couldn't hold myself up on my back alone anymore. My forehead pressed against the wood. My eyes closed. My mouth open.

"Don't close your eyes," Karim said. "Look at them."

I opened them. The three men were there. The first had stood up, hands at his sides, and was looking down at me. The second had leaned over the edge of the table. The third was holding the glass again, and this time he drank, a long sip, without taking his eyes off me.

Karim came with a low sound, almost a growl, and his body ground against mine. I felt his cock throb inside me, once, twice, three times, and each pulse was hot and full, and I stayed still, taking it all in because there was nothing else I could do and nothing else I wanted to do. His weight pressed me to the stage. His fingers left my hips and rested on my back, over my fresh tattoo, and stayed there.

Then he pulled out. Slowly. The emptiness returned, and with it came something warm, oozing down my thigh, down my skin, to my knee. I didn't move. I remained on all fours, my forehead on the wood, my legs spread, and I felt the liquid stop mid-thigh and remain there, as if waiting.

Karim pulled back. I felt his warm breath on the back of my neck, near my ear, and his voice came softly, just for me.

“Now serve the customers drinks.”

He stood up. His footsteps left the stage—one step, then another—and the wood stopped creaking beneath him. I heard his belt click shut, the metal clink once, and then silence.

I remained on my knees. His cum dripped down my thigh. The plug was still on the stage, before me, in the circle of light. The collar constricted my throat. The empty gold tag thumped against my chest.

The three men looked at me. The first sat down again, slowly, without taking his eyes off me. The second folded his jacket over his knees. The third raised his empty glass and held it high, toward me, as if waiting for me to refill it.

The whiskey glass was empty. The ice inside made a small clicking sound as he moved it.

They were waiting