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I spent enough time in school locker rooms that it’s not entirely bizarre to strip in front of the women at the counter. But my high school field hockey team never required me to put on a mask. And I never had to fight the instant wave of nausea when the mirror shows me my face framed beneath cat ears.
Trap is out there. Trap will keep me safe.
Three years in Herzog’s house devastated my innate sense of modesty. When he required, I went without clothes for days. For weeks, even. What are a few hours in the carefully controlled environment of a high-end sex club? Even if I’m expected to report to some auction at midnight?
Trap is out there. Trap will keep me safe.
I close my locker. It needs a four-digit code, so I enter the first one I think of: 0621. My birthday. The night I met Trap.
I tug at my mask one last time, centering the ears on top of my head. I blink slowly, surprised by how my eyes look like they belong to a doll. I flex my toes in my shoes, feeling the thin strap rub around each ankle.
And I head into Kynk, and the Heart, and whatever else is waiting on the other side of the door.
29
TRAP
* * *
It looks like Rider’s running a quality club here—plenty of staff, top-rail booze, rubbers available in crystal bowls on every horizontal surface. But nothing can hide the smell of sweat and sex as I walk into the main room.
Even with the fucking masks, I recognize a senator standing at the bar. I’m pretty sure the guy who’s paddling the blue-haired woman squealing like an overheated flywheel starred in last summer’s big movie, the one about zombies settling Mars. And I don’t need pinstripes to recognize the shortstop who’s sliding into home doggy-style while his date’s tits jiggle against the ballet barre set into the mirrored wall.
It’s hard to get a view of everyone. The crowd keeps shifting. Waiters pass through with champagne flutes and bottles of water. Couples meet up, pair off, and some head toward private rooms in the back.
Fifteen minutes into my maiden voyage at Kynk, I’ve passed up a chance for a blowjob with a finger up my ass, I’ve opted out of a remote-control butt plug, and I’ve told a couple I’m not interested in being their third.
No one seems upset when I pass up the invitations. There are plenty of fish in the kinky sea.
Something tells me the Herzog brothers aren’t in this room. This isn’t their style—plenty of space, with security standing unobtrusively in the shadows.
I make my way down a corridor lined with rough-cut brick.
The first room I come to has an open door. A man with a latex troll mask kneels in front of a woman, his bare ass shaking as he suits up with a rubber. “You call that a cock?” the woman sneers, tapping a riding crop against her black-clad thigh. Her leather mask matches her corset, trimmed in silver, with dangling laces tipped with steel. When she sees me in the doorway, she digs her stiletto into the poor guy’s shoulder. “Hey,” she says to me. “Want to show this pathetic cuck what a real man can do?”
“No thanks,” I say and make my way to the next room.
A cluster of candles is lit on a low table, red and green and blue mixed in with white. The temperature is high enough to spark sweat on my chest. A gagged woman lies on the floor, her wrists and ankles tied with purple cotton rope to convenient anchors on the walls. Clear glass cups bulge over nipples turned almost black from the vacuum. Her partner brushes hair from her face as he says, “One more minute. You can take it.” She bellows as he tips a snow-white candle over her belly, adding to the scribble of wax already hardening there.
I back out of the doorway, fairly certain neither one knows I was there.
I’m halfway down the hall when a door opens and a woman staggers out, tripping in front of me. My choice is to grab her arm or let her fall. The Beast hollers as she traps my fingers between her biceps and her boob. I clench my free hand in the pocket with the syringes, squeezing out a five-count so I can breathe.
“Hey!” she says, like she’s been looking for me for ages. She’s barefoot, so she should be able to keep her footing. But her panties are on backwards, with the scrap that should be covering her snatch flossing her ass.
She missed a hook on the matching lace bra. Her mask used to look like a peacock, but she crushes it in her right hand as she throws her arms around my neck.
“Wanna fuck me up the ass?” she asks. “I like it dirty. I want it rough.”
The Beast is carving my brain into sushi. My balls are trying to climb inside my belly. I need to get her off me, need to drop her, but her eyes roll back in her head before I can move.
“I’ve got this, sir,” says a uniformed security guard who appears out of nowhere. He sweeps her into a fireman’s carry like she weighs less than a sack of flour. Tapping a microphone on his chest, he informs Dr. Marshall that he’s on his way to sickbay.
I’m punching the wall, five quick jabs to shut up the fucking Beast, when a shadow materializes at my side. It’s another guard, his fingers already close to his comm unit. “Come with me, sir,” he says.
“I’m fine,” I respond. The last thing I need is one of these motherfuckers finding the cargo I’ve got on board.
He edges a step closer. His eyes go to my fist. My knuckles are red, but they haven’t split. “I’m asking you to come with me, sir,” he says, his voice making it clear I don’t have a choice.
