Author's Note: This is a sequel series to Amy, Captured. To get the full experience, please read that one first.
I have returned! My apologies for the lengthy wait, fellows! I took some time off to focus on a larger project: my first kink novel. Big news, about that: it's been published! In celebration of this happy day I've pushed to get this chapter finished for the release day, with another chapter to follow in just a week or two (seriously, I'm already like halfway done with it, don't worry!)
In any case, please do check out my profile if you'd like to know more about my debut sexy novel, "Suit, Tie, & Chains." If you like Panic Moon I'm sure you'll like the flavor of kink present there. Otherwise, enjoy the chapter, and thanks for your patience, you wonderful people!
-Kurokami
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Amy collapsed onto what she was increasingly beginning to call her bed. She couldn't stop trembling.
The low blue light streamed out from the depression above the bed, spilling over the abundance of exposed skin that she sported. That was the point, she supposed; the light was colored strangely, designed to caress the skin, enhance her natural charms while playing down her imperfections. Exactly what one would expect, from a sexual technician like Fiori.
It had been a week, since Sander had pushed her into Fiori's grasp and, without stopping to listen to her objections, or even looking back, left Amy behind. But oh, the Olivan had been there. The Olivan had enfolded her like a suffocating hug, and before she knew it, Amy had become a part of it.
In some ways, this place reminded her of her past job as a kissogram; there was certainly no end to the costumes. She had been cycled through all manner of prurient, visually pleasing finery in these past seven days, from standard clothing through to elaborate, skimpy costumes, and even just layers of body paint, the colors constantly shifting in complex patterns over the curves of her body. None of them she would have chosen for herself. All of them bared parts of her she would rather have covered.
Even Amy had had to admit that she had looked like some kind of artwork daubed in the paint, but the fact that so many strangers had been given the same eyeful rather soured the memory. She had been on display, given a day job as just another ornament for the Olivan, scuttling around the front rooms like any other club girl. There was always something to do; drinks to serve, dark corners to light, and always, the endless supply of patrons looking for something to grab onto. They took to her warm body with an easy nonchalance, entitled in a dizzyingly offensive way.
But the front rooms were infinitely preferable to being sent to the back, no matter how many groping hands she had to deal with. Amy had been told on her first day in the Olivan that the back rooms were where the money was made, and after spending a few hours there at the end of the day, she knew why.
When she had started her job back in Leadworth, before she had so much as slipped into that tight little policewoman's outfit, Amy had met with a woman from her agency who had laid out, in no uncertain terms, what the limits of her responsibilities would be. This was important, because the agency was
respectable;
the list was based more around the things she should not do, rather than those that she should.
Over the course of those few hours she had been made to cross all of those lines; the collar at her neck had made her leap gleefully over that border and into impropriety. The Olivan represented an inversion of her kissogram job; the simple act of winding up men was the purview of the front rooms. The rear guard took them all the way to satisfaction.
And when a portion of the wall faded away and a tall figure entered the room, Amy remembered the
other
difference.
Fiori...
Amy found herself kneeling beside the bed almost automatically now, palms down on her thighs. The near silent, imposing man had taught her this on her first day, and the tone of his voice had made it clear that disobedience was not an option. He almost never used her collar to control her, merely relying on expectation and Amy's natural uncertainty about how far he would go to combat defiance.
The bald man looked her over dispassionately, but Amy knew better than to think he was
actually
uninterested. She had spent a lot of time watching him, she
had
to, and by now she knew that his cool exterior was just a façade, and inside he was deciding how to punish her.
Oh god, oh god, what had she done
now?
'I had a number of guest reports on you tonight, Amelia,' The rules were so numerous, none were ever explained until she had broken them... 'Very few of them were satisfactory.'
The meaning behind the words dropped into place without Amy even needing to hear the sentences themselves: pain was coming. Of course, it wouldn't have mattered how she had performed out there tonight, her customers would have given bad ratings anyway, because they
knew
what would happen to her when they did, and frankly, they liked the idea. It left her with the choice of
trying
