Store Room

The dim lighting made it hard to see, but it was filled with shelves stacked with crates and supplies. The stale air was filled with the musky scent of stale **** and cleaning chemicals. It wasn’t exactly promising, but she wasn't in a position to be choosy.

Fennec glanced around, searching for anything that might be used to cover herself or at least get these damn cuffs off. Her wrists throbbed from the rough metal on her skin. But it wasn’t just the physical discomfort; it was the sheer vulnerability that gnawed at her. She wasn’t used to feeling this way, stripped of her confidence, control, and (most importantly) clothing.

A quick glance at the shelves revealed cleaning supplies, disposable cups, and other useless junk. She found a few old bar towels, but none big enough to cover her properly. She grabbed one of the larger towels and awkwardly tried to wrap it around her waist, but the cuffs on her wrists made it impossible to secure. The towel slipped off as she tried to tie it, leaving her naked again.

“Dank farrik,” she swore.

Suppressing a groan of frustration, she shifted her focus to the cuffs. If she couldn’t find clothes, maybe there was something she could use to pick her binders. Her eyes scanned the shelves. There was a small prybar for opening crates and she tried to pry the binder apart, but the awkward angle made it impossible to get any leverage. Her wrists were starting to ache from all the pulling and twisting. With a groan of frustration, she through it to the ground.. Her head dropping in defeat.

That’s when she heard footsteps outside the door.

Fennec tensed, her heart skipping a beat. She pressed herself against the wall, trying to make herself as small and inconspicuous as possible. The door opened, and a massive figure loomed in the doorway. It was a Dowutin, a hulking alien who had to duck to luck under the doorframe. He easily blotted out the light from the hall. His thick skin was a pale shade of gray, and tusks jutted from his lower jaw. No doubt, the club's bouncer. Dowutins were known for their impressive strength and resilience, and this one looked like he could snap her in half with his pinky.

Turning sideways, he pushed himself into the little room. "I can smell that fruity stuff you're wearing. What are you doin’ back here, girl?” The Dowutin’s voice was a low rumble, and he peered at her with squinted, near-sighted eyes.

Fennec swallowed hard, her mind racing. She couldn't run; she couldn't even get around him to reach the door. If she tried to fight… well, her kicks wouldn't even leave bruises on his armored skin. She'd have better luck in a tickle fight.

“I—uh,” she stammered, feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment. “I’m a new… companion,” she lied, trembling slightly. She felt so tiny around him and it was making her voice come out meek and high pitched. “Just got lost looking for the dressing room.”

“New, huh?” He scratched between his tusks as he examined her. “Looks like someone left these on ya, huh?” He gestured to the cuffs binding Fennec's wrists.

Before Fennec could react, he grabbed her binders and lifted her off the ground like she was weightless. Fennec’s breath hitched as her bare body swayed slightly in the air, her toes nowhere near the floor. She dangled there helplessly. Her face flushed with embarrassment, and she bit her lip to keep from making a sound. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so powerless.

“Hold still,” he grunted, his voice rough but not unkind. “Let’s get these off ya.”

The Dowutin gripped the cuffs with one hand, but just as he was about to rip them apart, he paused. His brow furrowed, and he squinted at her neck. “Wait a minute,” he said, his tone turning suspicious. “Where’s your tax medallion?”

Fennec blinked, confused for a moment before she realized what he meant. The dancers and 'companions' of Blue Sector, were all supposed to wear a blue tax medallion to track the extra 'tax' they paid to the local security ****. It was a way for the club to avoid trouble with the authorities through legal bribery.

The Dowutin’s squinted eyes searched her face, and he seemed to come to a decision. “No worries, new girl. Got somethin’ for that.”

He turned to a nearby shelf and grabbed a small, printer gun. Fennec’s stomach sank as she realized what he was about to do. He wasn’t going to give her a real medallion; he was going to brand a temporary one directly onto her skin. Dangling in the air, she couldn't even attempt to run away as he brought the printer gun to her neck.

The printer gun hummed, and then there was a sharp sting it etched identifying circuitry to her skin. The sensation was brief but intense. Her body was already a tangled mess of nerves, anxiety, and arousal, and the thought of being stamped like property sent an electric thrill through her.

"That should hold you a couple weeks till you get the real thing,” the Dowutin grunted, putting the gun back on the shelf.

"Weeks?" she squeaked. The humiliation of it all sent a shiver down her spine. She felt branded, claimed, and a strange, conflicting mix of emotions churned inside her—anger, shame, and that uncomfortable, humiliating thrill she couldn’t shake.

With a sharp tug, he shattered them effortlessly, the broken metal clattering to the floor. Fennec rubbed her wrists as she was sat back on her feet, the cool air feeling strange against her newly freed skin.

“Dressing room’s down the hall to the left,” he said, pointing in the general direction.

“Thank you,” Fennec mumbled meekly as she shuffled by.

"Get there fast," was hollered after her as she scampered off, trying her best to cover her chest and crotch with her newly freed arms. "Don't keep customers waiting!"