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With that done, she opened her eyes.
With her breasts covered, her naked pussy seemed lewd and on display, and while that might be a good thing, the outfit also felt unfinished.
Irritated with herself, Mal unsnapped the cups from the corset. Now her breasts were also naked, but framed and partially lifted by the corset. A small lip where the cups attached provided a push-up bra effect. Her nipple rings caught the light, drawing attention up from her pussy to her tits.
Reaching once more for the sheer white gown, she pulled it on over the corset, which was now more of a waist cinch. Now her obviously intentionally naked breasts and sex were visible, but veiled.
Mal’s hands rose to her hair, gathering it up at the crown of her head in preparation for putting it into one of the loose buns she often wore at Las Palmas. She stilled, arms raised, which lifted her breasts, her nipples rubbing against the still cool fabric.
After a pregnant moment, she released her hair, this time gathering only the upper half and securing it with a heavy metal clip.
Turning away from the mirror, Mal put away the various items she’d pulled out of her locker, tucking everything back into place, including the gold leather cups for the corset.
Closing her locker—and vowing she wouldn’t open it again—she went to fix her makeup.
Around her, other submissives were getting ready. She heard several interesting conversations she might have otherwise opted to take part in, but she was antsy, and not interested in hearing someone’s recollection of the pleasure and pain they’d experienced thanks to the game.
As she walked to the long counter set in front of an even longer mirror, she stopped, struck by her own appearance. Not that she didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror.
Instead, her reflection seemed almost too accurate a metaphor. Her attire was an odd mix of soft and hard, flowing and tight, black and white. Her hair was neither up nor down, but both.
Her body was both naked, with her pierced nipples and hairless pussy clearly visible, and yet fully clothed, with fabric covering her from shoulders to ankles.
“Sub Malvia to the Iron Court.”
The announcement came over the PA system, the words melodious and soft.
She’d expected to feel anticipation, or perhaps anxiety, when things finally started. Instead, the first emotion that struck her was sweet relief.
She didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop to check her makeup or go to the bathroom. Within ninety seconds of being called, Mal was slipping out the gate of the Subs’ Garden, winding her way through the covered halls and courtyards of Las Palmas.
Of the three main buildings, the Iron Court was the most extreme, both in decor and in the options available in those playrooms.
The rooms of the Sub Rosa court mostly looked like bedrooms, admittedly bedrooms where every piece of furniture doubled as bondage gear—dressers were the perfect height for submissives to sit atop, their legs spread wide, giving their partner easy access to view, touch and otherwise play with or use their genitals.
The Constellation Court was a middle ground. Aesthetically dramatic rooms with versatile furnishings, including plenty of thick gymnastic mats suitable for use as a bed or laying on the floor underneath a rope suspension scene. Dramatic lighting illuminated multifunctional pieces like padded horses and chairs with plenty of tie-off points. Each room’s ceiling was studded with small lights placed in a pattern to represent the specific constellation.
The Iron Court was a place of whips, chains, and cages. The central, open-air courtyard boasted a garden of statuary rather than vegetation. Heavy stone walls and large iron O-rings made the rooms look like medieval dungeons.
As she stepped through the opening into the covered hall that circled the statuary garden, Mal realized she didn’t know which room she was going to.
She hesitated, worried that she’d run out of the Subs’ Garden so fast she missed critical information.
“Second thoughts?”
Mal turned, searching the flickering shadows. The Iron Court was lit by torches mounted on the support pillars at the edge of the roof. Mal knew the “torches” were actually custom-made gas fixtures. Still, the flickering firelight cast shadows that made some statues look as if they were moving.
Thanks to the shadows, the flickering light, and the statues themselves, it took her a moment to spot Benson.
He was leaning against a statue, half in shadow, his hip propped against the butt of a stone woman bowed low on a platform. Her raised ass was the tallest point on the statue.
Mal had spent enough time in this courtyard, mostly with Master Xavier, that she was familiar with each of the statues. That stone submissive was female, with a plug in her ass—the round base of the plug a slightly different material, or perhaps the same stone stained a different color—in order to draw attention to it. She also had a thick collar around her neck, partially obscured by the coarse waves of her hair. The statue’s features were indistinct, purposefully so. Mal had never asked the other submissives if they saw themselves represented in the almost-faceless statues in the Iron Court, but Mal did.
Benson wore leathers—leather pants with laces at the crotch that could be easily opened, then the panel pushed aside, allowing him to free his cock without removing his pants or risking a zipper biting into his balls.
She knew how to unlace those pants with her teeth and tongue.
“No, Master Benson.” She walked into the courtyard, out from under the overhang. The sandy soil crunched under her feet. She passed between statues that loomed over her, the moments where she was in their shadow cold and dark.
