IR Future - Part 6

And there’s no leadup. You’d at least expected lunch with the girls or something, but they just dump you and Lara in front of a building. Your knowledge of Swedish at this point still isn’t even as good as Ingrid’s command of English, so you’re a bit worried about that part. You’re used to things in Sweden being very nice, but that’s not the case here. It’s not that this building is particularly awful, it’s just not new and shiny like so many of the others.

You meet with a nice girl who speaks good English, and Lara amends the deal to include herself. They have their conversation away from you, presumably so that you don’t have to hear anything about money. As you stand in the lobby of the old building, you aren’t sure what it used to be.

It’s quiet. Quieter than you would expect a sex dungeon to be.

You hear a clang somewhere, like an actual jail door slamming shut. Lara and the girl return.

“We have to give them our mobiles,” Lara murmurs to you.

“What? Why?” you ask.

“We’re in prison, Riley.”

You resist the urge to whimper and hand over your phone. Lara does the same.

“Thank you. Just a moment please,” the girl says and walks away.

“I thought she’d be taller,” you say to Lara.

“That’s not Fru Satan. That’s the receptionist.”

You both flinch at another slamming noise from down the hallway. The sounds echo in this old place.

“Don’t worry about that,” Lara says. “That’s the perverts that want to be in jail properly. We’re doing something much fancier. I hope,” she adds.

“Fancy perverts,” you mutter. “That’s us.”

Lara looks around uneasily. “I did think from the website and the amount of money it would be a bit nicer. But it is supposed to be a dungeon,” she says hopefully.

“I’m not into that Fifty Shades stuff. Are you?” you ask her.

Lara folds her arms and looks thoughtful. “I think the handcuffs are all right. The rest I don’t need.”

You nod in agreement. Ingrid actually enjoys being blindfolded sometimes.

Shortly, footsteps are audible from the hallway. You and Lara turn to see a woman appear around the corner. She’s as tall as your shoulder, her hair is raven black, and her age is difficult to determine. She’s older than you and Lara, certainly. She wears a little ensemble of FUTA merch: a tee and a pair of short shorts. The outfit is snug enough to show off her figure, which isn’t as mouthwatering as, say Ingrid’s, but still more than enough to turn your head. There’s a whistle around her neck and sneakers on her feet. Her skin is pale and smooth. Her smile is both pretty and warm. She clasps her hands and gives you a little nod, eyes bright. Is this Fru Satan?

“Hello,” she says in thickly-accented English. “Welcome. I am your coach now, yes?”