Sicko(32)
The lighting here is soft, translucent enough to ease the nerves of anyone that may be anxious. I wonder if they created it this way. To make people feel warm and welcome. As soon as we enter, James directs us down a long corridor until we’re met with a glass door, frosted over the base so we can’t see through.
“Is this like The Complex?” I ask absently, studying the door like it’s the hardest test in history. After my first night working with James, I learned what he did and where he did it. It was called The Complex.
“No,” James murmurs. “This is different. You won’t need your collar, and you are free to roam.” There was only one other time I was free to roam. “They’re not in my line of business.”
The doors split open and I’m instantly sucked into a dark vortex of sin.
Bodies move around the room as soft music plays softly, each beat and note grazes down my arm in warning. It feels sexy and dark, not somewhere I particularly want to be a part of with James. People are having sex on couches, others are drinking at the bar, and some are right in the middle of the room in a damp tangle of sweaty limbs, rubbing each other all over.
My thighs clench. Before I can cement my feet to the ground, James is whipping me into the room with his hand securely at my lower back. “No one knows who runs this. They never show their face or mingle with their guests.” The collar he uses with me for work is dangling in front of my body, unlatched from his grip. If you didn’t know what it was, you would assume it’s an accessory. For a split second, all I can hear is the deep gasps of me reaching for air. The atmosphere is intense.
He continues to direct me through the swarm of people, until he reaches another set of doors. This time, he pushes me forward once they’re open and I fall into a dark room on my knees, hitting the carpet with a thud. The doors close behind me, and I quickly try to reassess my surroundings. Everything is pitch black. I can’t see any fucking thing. Curling my hands into fists, I cuss under my breath. My heartbeat is erratic, my palms pulsing in sweat. The carpet patterns are indenting into my knees, but I know better than to move.
I itch to reach behind my leather mask and scratch under my eye, but I don’t.
That’s when I hear the shuffle in the corner.
My blood turns cold. He leaves me in a dark room in a house I don’t know, during a party that is dripping with all things sinister, and now I’m pretty sure someone is in this room with me. I should be surprised, but I’m not. I know better when it comes to James.
My fingers tingle as I feel body heat swim around in front of me. If I lean forward, I’m almost certain I’d collide with whoever it is. I feel the warm mist of someone’s breath falling over my lips and my insides short circuit. My lips part slowly. I’ll just ask who’s there. Who James has left me with. Just as I’m about to allow the words to fall from my mouth, I feel that same fog but only this time, it’s on the back of my neck.
Oh my fucking god. How many are in here? My eyes close and my head tilts to the side, my breathing becoming harder, more desperate. There have been times where James has shared me, and there has been another time where he did more than that, but none of all those times felt like this. I don’t know if it’s because I came in reckless and in a mood to party, or that it just feels different in this house. The person behind me moves lower, down the nape of my neck as the one in front of me remains right there. The tip of a finger glides down from the front of my throat, slowly grazing against my sternum. I can’t breathe. Holding any oxygen I have left inside of me, I attempt to catch up with myself, maybe talk myself down, but it’s too late. My thighs clench and my belly shakes with a disturbing amount of lust.
Opening my mouth again, I’m ready to ask who is there, but my voice is cut out when three clock bells sound off in the room.
Ding… Ding… Ding…
It was a rusted ding, reminding me of an old church waking at midnight.
A voice comes through next. Maybe the bell was sounded through a speaker system throughout the house? Damn James for him not telling me more about L’artisaniant.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” The voice sounds unfamiliar. Every syllable is said through a device to distort it into a tone that sounds way too close to Billy the Puppet.
“Welcome to L’artisaniant. If you’re here tonight, you already know what we are, but not who we are. When you walked through our doors and gained your stamp, you signed away your right to speech. Leave your donations at the door on your way out, and remember, don’t go too far into the house. Each level is categorized by what it is you think you can handle. Each level has its own cost. The higher you go, the more expensive it becomes. Everyone has their kink, but I can assure you that niveau quatre is not it. With each level, there is one of us walking among you. As you know, no one has ever seen les quatre sangs before, and that is how it will remain.” He takes a short breath, chuckling.
“And may the odds be ever in your favor.”
Why did that sound like a challenge? The bells sounded out again, each one hitting the chords of my soul and vibrating over my skin on its way out. What level am I on right now?
“Bet she wants to know what level she’s on…” the voice behind me says, and I freeze. In the back of my mind, his voice absorbs into a hidden part of my brain. I don’t think much of it. When your sight is taken from you, you’d be surprised by how distorted everything becomes. A blur. Confusing. Do we grasp on to sound or scent? His tone is dark and gravelly. As if he smokes too many cigarettes. But it’s also smooth and sensual, like he drowns in expensive whiskey. Whoever is in front of me doesn’t answer.