Page 36 of Feel Free to Scream

I don’t know why, given the fact that his voice is definitely modified, but something—his height, his way of speaking, or moving—tells me I know him. I say him, because he’s just too broad shoulders and tall, even under the cape, to be a girl. This means he is one of two options: Cross or Keller.

Keller. I would bet anything it’s Keller. Cross wouldn’t have left my vagina out of whatever they’re planning to do. I hate that I’m grateful for something this vile, this wrong, but I am.

“Follow me.”

The blue-masked man takes the lead, walking out of the study, in the direction Charlotte took earlier.

As we walk down to the basement, I can hear echoes of music beats. When Blue Mask open a heavy door, the sound’s much louder—hard drums and bass, the kind of music we feel more than hear.

There’s apparently a nightclub in their basement. Low blue lights running along the wall and floor allow me to see enough not to fall on my face, but not enough to truly distinguish much. I see silhouettes gyrating, and hear sounds that make me blush and tremble.

Moans, the wet slap of flesh against flesh, furniture creaking. There are people having sex here. That is apparent.

My heart sticking in my throat, I look down, reluctant to see much. I don’t need a preview of what’s about to happen to me.

Blue Mask removes his cloak and hangs it up on a rack close to the entrance. I see the six others do the same. They all keep their masks on.

I was right. There were some women under the cloaks; three of them, and four guys. I can’t exactly express why, but I hate them more than the guys. I expect men to be disgusting, to take advantage of women when they’re at their lowest. But girls? They should have spoken up, told them that making me a slave for half an evening is insanity, unfair, completely disproportionate to my infraction. But they didn’t.

“This way.”

Under the cloak, Blue Mask wears a hoodie and a pair of navy-blue slacks, tight over his strong thighs.

DefinitelyKeller. Not that it matters.

As we walk into the basement-slash-club, the lewd noises grow less and less subtle. This place is huge, and there are at least fifty people in the middle, elevated on a platform they use as a dance floor. Around it, a dozen booths with leather benches and low armchairs are mostly left empty. My eyes catch things I’ll likely never forget.

A girl on her hands and knees, with her pants down her thighs, while a guy squats behind her, pounding into her, right here in the open. I gasp, but I’m the only one. No one else seems to even notice.

Glancing away, I redirect my gaze to the dance floor instead, and my jaw falls all over again. The first thing I see is a girl, one of her legs lifted up over her partner’s shoulder. Both the guy in front of her and the one behind her penetrate her at the same time. Again, no one cares.

The more I look, the wilder it gets. Even the couples that just seem to be dancing quietly are behaving like absolute beasts, one guy fingering his partner, one girl with both her hands around one man’s cock while kissing a second, two men kissing each other while grinding their bare cocks against one another.

I was right; it’s a club, except it’s not the kind where people come to dance and drink. This place is a sex club.

Some of the people here wear masks, others, not. Not that it matters; I wouldn’t recognize anyone.

I start to notice some strange things around the booths; yes, they have seats, but there aren’t any tables in the middle. Instead, one has a gymnast bench, used for a very different purpose than what I’ve seen before. A guy’s bent over it, ankles and wrists locked, and the man behind him flogs his bare ass. In the middle of another booth, this one empty, there’s a seven-foot tall wooden cross, with cuffs and chains. I don’t need to guess what it’s for.

Oh, fuck.

So much for not knowing people here. I see Charlotte. A hell of a lot more than I saw last night when she was in nothing but a drenched dress clinging to her skin. She’s completely naked, except for a network of white harness straps, which slither over her dark skin, around her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. It’s beautiful, in a completely inappropriate, perverse sense. And I’m not the only one to think so. Everyone seems to want to her their hands on her, and she basks in the attention, curving her back into their touch, smiling, looking drunk on adoration.

She likes this. She’s not faking it; no one could pretend to look this close to ecstasy.

It takes me a while to tear my eyes away from her, from the sheer pleasure she exudes.

We approach another empty booth, this one with a simple armchair chair set up in the center. My eyes immediately zero in on the brown leather restraints attached to it.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. That much is clear. Is it too late to change my mind?

Then I remember what will happen if I change my mind. I’d be in the exact same situation as I was two hours ago. Kicked out of school, my entire future destroyed.

“Take a seat,” the voice rasps.

I do as I’m told, and the six masked proceed to take their seats around me.

The armchair is comfortable. Upon inspection, I see the cuffs are lined with padded leather.

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