Besieged: Stories from the Iron Druid Chronicles(54)
He says more things like this, but I am already unsure what he is talking about. I hope Flidais knows. He says “dungeon” a lot and says no pictures are allowed but nothing about cuddles. At least is easy to remember not to touch other peoples. I am here for Flidais only.
Soon we go through door and white marshmallow walls end. We enter room with black walls that must be shop. There are many things on walls made of black leather and metal, and there are shelves with items I have never seen before and do not know what they do. But there are peoples there who know these things and also know exactly what they want. Like us they wear not much clothes, except they do not have coats covering them up. Paul points to right side and says the counter there is coat-check area, and door past cash register is entrance to play area; then he tells us to enjoy our evening.
A man with many piercings in face and chest stands at the coat check, with bands of spiky leather around his neck and wrists. He also has tattoos on most of his skin; these disappear beneath tight pants like rock star wears.
We take off coats and hand them to him. His eyes linger on me more than Flidais, so I assume he must like men, because Flidais is goddess in all senses. Other eyes in shop see what I see: She is most beautiful. But since I am also god I get my looks too. I am very hairy and not so beautiful, but peoples have different tastes and some of them like muscles. I am told American word for me is beefcake, though I am not made of cow flesh and am also nothing like frosted sugar pastry.
I am wearing collar with a metal ring in front. Flidais takes chain out of coat pocket before man hangs them up and clips one end to my collar. Tonight, she says, I am her pet. She also takes small money purse from pocket.
Coat-check man asks for our phones and we say we have none. He does not believe at first, but Flidais points to her clothes and mine. She has black corset under bust and nothing above it except fulgurite talisman dangling between breasts to protect from my lightning—when I am excited my touch can be electric in literal way. Below hips is thin bikini underwear and then thick-soled boots with many buckles up to knees. I have harness across chest and back that makes letter X under my collar and then a leather jock with front that opens as needed. “Where do you think we’d be hiding them? I don’t even have a place for my purse.” Man admits we have zero pockets and no phone-shaped bulges and gives her ticket for coats.
We turn and see many heads in shop look away from either my backside or Flidais’s. We both chuckle at this. But I think we are both excited too. There is much skin on display, many curves and cleavages, silvery studs and spikes on black leather wrapped around so many soft lines and hard edges, attractive on all shapes and skin colors. These clothings are made to be seen.
Flidais leads me to place on wall where different whips are hanging. She buys a kind called a riding crop, with money from purse, but nothing else.
“Crop is for what?” I ask, but she does not answer question. Instead, she says for rest of evening I should not speak unless she gives permission first. Is part of the experience, she explains, and so I do not ask about all the other things I see.
We go through door to play area and the music changes. Is not slick thumping electric pulse anymore but loud angry metal guitar. And this is where the screaming is.
Room is very large and dark, with only lights coming from kind you see in dance clubs—cones of rage-face red and urine yellow and fake raspberry blue shining down on scenes.
A slim woman dressed the exact opposite of Paul welcomes us. She has leather on entire body except for eyes and happy place. There is zipper over her mouth, but this is open to allow speaking.
“Is this your first time in our dungeon?” she asks Flidais in Scottish English, ignoring me. My lover nods and woman points at lighted scenes, naming them. “We have a standard bondage table there, a punishment bench, a jail cell, a set of bondage chairs next to it, and on the back wall on the other side of the center stage is a row of stockades of different kinds. On this other wall we have lockdown systems and pillories and a couple of bondage horses. You’re welcome to use anything not currently being used by others.”
Much is being used already. Some men, some women, bound to these things with steel clasps or rope, are being tickled, slapped, pinched, and more by partners. They make many noises above loud music, but this treatment they are wanting. And other peoples are watching.
Zipper Woman says, “I was also told to tell ye she’s not here yet but will be once the center-stage scene begins. She’s always here for that.”
“Thank you,” Flidais replies, and I forget my instructions.
“Who will be here?” I ask, and Flidais flicks my chest with crop, stinging my nipple.
“Do not speak!” She watches me to see if I will respond, but I keep mouth shut. Satisfied, she turns to woman and says, “When will the center-stage scene begin?”
“Soon,” she says.
“Okay. I think my partner and I will be playing.”
“Great. Ye have settled upon a safe word, haven’t ye?”
Flidais looks back at me. “Perun. You may answer. What’s your safe word?”
“What is safe word?”
“We will be playing and having a good time, but if it stops being a good time for you, or if you want or need to stop for any reason at all, you say the safe word and I will stop and let you go. And the observers will make sure I do.”
“Let me go?”