Page 7 of Deviant

I slip out of the window, sneak along the balcony and clamber down the fire exit, ensuring I avoid the security cameras. If someone is coming for me, I want them to at least work for it. I want them to think I’m still here, sleeping off a heavy night and by the time they realise I’m not, I’ll be miles away and hopefully way ahead of them.

It’s only when I get to the carpark that I realise I can’t simply drive out of here. I groan at my own stupidity because of course my plates would be trackable. I need another option, an anonymous option.

I huff over to where the bike shed is. With a pang of guilt, I twist the code into the lock for my neighbour’s bike. He used to let me borrow it every once in a while, only, tonight I won’t be borrowing, I’ll be stealing.

“Sorry, Bill,” I murmur, as if that might make up for it.

With the bag slung as securely as possible over my shoulders, I clamber on but a hand comes out of nowhere, pulling me back and I smash into the brick wall. Another hand silences my cry and I’m turned roughly around to face my attacker.

“Ronin?” I mumble, feeling shock and relief at seeing his face. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Come to think of it, how the fuck does he know where I live? But then, the Brethren know everything, don’t they?

His eyes dart about like he’s expecting the place to be packed, like he’s expecting the shadows to grow claws and come to life.

“They know,” he says. “They know.”

I gulp as my stomach drops. Somehow, hearing it from him, having him confirming it makes this situation feel all the worse. I can’t pretend it’s a misunderstanding, I can’t pretend that this might all be forgotten.

The Brethren know.

And they’re coming for me.

“What do you think I’m doing?” I reply, raising my shoulder to highlight the bag on my back.

He tilts his head, the stress evident on his normally attractive features. “You running?” he mutters. “Good. Always thought you were smart. You’ll need that, need those brains, need them to keep you alive…”

“Aren’t you?” I ask as he trails off.

He pulls a face I can’t read, looking over his shoulder once again. “Don’t tell me where you’re headed.” he says. “Don’t tell anyone. You need to disappear. Get far away from here. Be a ghost, Ana, be a ghost, and they can’t find you.”

I want to ask if he’ll be okay, if he has a plan, if he thinks they know about him, but he just shakes his head, steps back into the shadows, and then sprints away like the devil really is on his tail.

The music is blaring. A heavy, hypnotic beat that fits perfectly to all the moving, gyrating bodies around me.

I’ve never been much of a fan of this part of the prison. My tastes run a little differently from the vanilla undertones of this particular section. But then, when one doesn’t want to be disturbed, this provides the ideal sanctuary.

This guarantees I can think without being interrupted.

To my right, a man is feasting between the legs of a woman who must be half his age. His grubby little hands hold her petite thighs wide apart and though she’s not fighting it, you can see from the hazy dullness in her eyes the reason why.

But then, the mask covering her face signifieswhat she is.

All the women on this level wear masks, as do some of the men. Black like the one the girl is wearing signifies that they’re a whore. Lowest of the low. They’re there to fuck, to be used and in truth, they hold little interest to me.

Above them are the bronze masks. Brethren Women. Ones who’ve fallen foul of our laws, or, more likely, have fallen foul of their husbands.

To wear a bronze mask means your time is limited. That your punishment is temporary. It adds a little fun to the mix, especially when you don’t know whose wife or daughter you could be playing with.

But it’s the people in red masks that are truly fucked. Man or woman, for those unlucky few, there’s no escape, no limit, both to their sentence or to what can be done to them. It’s a free for all.

As I sink back further into my chair, my eyes land on the figures in the distance and the little scuffle that’s taking place. A bronze masked woman, who clearly hasn’t adjusted to her new place in society, is surrounded by two men who force her to her knees as she struggles and jerks. She’s a curvy thing, with big, bouncing breasts and nicely dark nipples, the kind you can truly knead and bind up beautifully. Every time she jerks, her tits bounce more, and emphasise what a truly soft, malleable body she has.

One of them rips off the flimsy see-through excuse for a dress, while the other laughs before slapping her enough to force her compliance. In unison they fuck her. One in her arse, one in her mouth. The woman gags and jerks, but there’s nothing she can do but take it.

And when they’ve finished, she’s hauled off, dragged away, no doubt to be given a few lashes for her bad behaviour. If she’s smart, she’ll learn, she’ll adapt. But if she isn’t, the next few months are going to be a brutal learning curve.

My lips quirk at that and my hands itch to dosomething. Anything.

It’s been months since I’ve indulged. Months since I’ve played. Oh, I go to the lower levels every now and then but seeing as this is my prison, it’s not the done thing to be the one to break our merchandise in. A Lord will pay a small fortune for such an honour. I can hardly turn them down in favour of my own selfish desires.

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