Rush to the machine

Fifteen minutes would ordinarily be plenty of time, but since I'm tethered to this woman, I struggle to make any real ground. My temporary mistress is clearly excited to be parading her temporary pet past her friends in the club. I try to walk ahead, pulling against the leash, but she holds firm, tugging me back by the collar. "Easy, pet. What's the rush?"

"Mmgh!" I moan into the gag, but she can't hear me—or doesn't care. Eventually we leave the club, and I point myself desperately toward the wardrobe machine.

She moves painstakingly slowly, savoring every second. Finally she reaches for a contact card and slips it into my pocket. I gulp, heart hammering, praying she doesn't brush against my real ID chit hidden deeper inside. "Call me," she purrs.

The instant she unclips the leash from my collar, I rush forward with all the balance I can muster. I have only minutes before I'm caught outside after curfew, and then things will get truly, irreversibly bad. The ballet heels turn every step into a torturous wobble, my ankles screaming in protest, my thighs trembling from the enforced arch. Nobody spares me a glance; the plaza still hums with winding-down energy, warm lake breeze carrying laughter and distant chimes.

The wardrobe machine waits across the hub, its panel glowing like a promise of salvation.

I wobble toward it, relief flooding me as I finally close the distance—only for a group of three to cut across my path. They bump into me hard, and I go down in a helpless sprawl, arms bound behind me, knees scraping the ground through the thin stockings.

"Oops! Sorry!" They look down at me with expressions I can't quite read. It's not sympathy—something hungrier, more amused.

I scramble back to my feet, grasping the handle of the wardrobe machine for support, but it's too late. The chrono's chime rings out across the plaza: curfew. The machine's interface flickers to standby, cold and unresponsive to any unaccompanied request.

The colorful lights dim in waves. The music cuts off mid-note.

All I can hear now is my own panicked breathing, hot and wet behind the mask, and the soft voices of the last few people being collected by their chaperones.

The panic sucks every bit of air from inside the mask, turning my face into a furnace. I can't speak, can't explain myself. My resident ID chit is useless now; the diplomatic one is hidden too well to reach with my hands locked behind my back.

If I'm caught and **** to reveal my true identity to claim immunity, I'll ruin my family's reputation—and possibly drag my entire conservative planet into scandal.

If I'm caught and they process me under the fake resident ID, who knows what this world's justice system will do to someone like me? How long before—if ever—I see home again?

Is not getting caught even possible?

I look around, pulse thundering in my ears. There's The Lead, now filling with a slow line of women in various forms of restraint being led away by their owners. The waterfront is mostly empty, dotted only with a few purposeful figures and others dressed like me—collared, bound, carrying goods between premises. I spot the limited **** Parking: gleaming bondage frames designed to keep unclaimed pets "safe" and completely immobile through curfew, yet horribly exposed to anyone who passes. Dark paths vanish into the wooded park, so black I can barely make out the first trees. Narrow alleyways thread between the buildings like tempting shadows.

I have moments—maybe less—before the Truant Officers arrive. This is a tourist hotspot; I know they'll sweep through fast, eager to collect naive stragglers for processing and profit.

I don't have long to decide what to do.