Caged At The Club

I sit naked, staring out through the thick, black metal bars of my cage. It was built to be secure and to look good – not for comfort. Without even a blanket on the floor, I'm constantly aware of the bars not just around me but beneath me.

My cage is in the middle of a large room, one of several floors in the club. From this level, I stare out at the legs and footwear of those who walk by. If I looked up, I could see their faces. But club protocol says that I don't raise my head unless a customer tells me to. Disobeying protocol means going hungry. Or worse.

I don't know the time, haven't known the time since I was locked in here some three days ago. Time doesn't really matter anymore. All I can be sure of is that it's early evening. The club doors for tonight must have opened about an hour ago, that's when the first customers began arriving. At the moment the place is still not crowded, but I know there will be many more people by the end of the night. Or, for those to whom hours matter, the early hours of the morning.

What day is it? Thursday? Yes, it must be Thursday. I arrived on Monday afternoon and this is my third night in the cage. I wonder how much more crowded the club will become on the weekend. There must be a rhythm to the customer numbers. It's one I'm sure I'll become familiar with as the weeks go by.

The majority of the customers to the club are male, however there are some women either on their own or with partners. The club has no dress code. Most visitors wear vanilla clothing. A few – mainly submissives with their Master or Mistress – are in fetish attire. From my position on the ground I see everything from trainers and business shoes to leather boots and high stilettos. The fact that I look at so much footwear is ironic given that the cage is too small for me to stand up. If I were allowed clothes, shoes would be the last of my concerns.

A man and a woman walk slowly past my cage. The music in this club is kept low, the customers like to talk about their special interests. It's a place for socialising rather than getting drunk and dancing, though some of both also happens. As this couple walk by, I hear snippets of their conversation. They are talking about the meal that they had at a restaurant earlier in the evening. Hearing that makes me feel even hungrier that I was already.

They pay me no attention as they walk by. For the people who visit this club, a naked young woman in a cage is not a novelty. I'm not even the only one here and, compared to some of the other girls, being locked in a cage is almost a holiday. The clubbers usually prefer to start by catching up on their socialising, then some play with the toys later. So, for now, I am ignored.

Sometimes it can be more humiliating to be ignored than to be stared at.

How did I come to be here? It was my decision, my choice. I knew exactly what I was doing when I agreed to it.

I could just have walked away, but I chose not to.

I chose to sign the slave contract.

-----

It was Monday afternoon and I was sitting on an uncomfortable wooden chair. On the other side of the desk in front of me sat Crawford. His chair was black leather and looked expensive – but then, he was the owner of this rather special club and I was in his office.

It was the first time I'd met Crawford. The earlier stages of the interview and vetting process had been handled by his subordinates. They'd checked my background, made sure that I was physically and mentally fit, assured themselves that I'd arranged things so I wouldn't be missed.

The big boss really didn't need to be involved at all. However he liked to handle the final signing himself. After all, it was his money. A lot of his money.

He liked to know what he was buying. Which, in this case, was me.

"Everything's been explained to you?" he asked. "You've read the contract fully? You know what's going to happen? You're happy with being a caged club slave?"

I nodded silently.

"You understand that once you sign, there's no chance of early release? You're committed for the duration of the contract."

I nodded again.

"Good. Stand up and strip."

The command wasn't a surprise. I knew that once I signed the contract I'd be naked until its end, exposed to anyone who came into the club. So I stood up and began to disrobe slowly. I tried to do it slowly enough to give Crawford a show, but not so slowly that it looked as if I was trying to delay.

He gave no sign of enjoyment, but his eyes remained fixed on me the whole time. Once I was finished, my clothes laying in a heap on the floor beside me, he nodded. "Good," he said "Your things will be kept safe, you'll get them back when the contract is over." He laid out three sheets of paper on my side of the desk. "Now, choose one and sign it."

I'd already looked through the contracts very carefully, but I checked them again to make sure that nothing had been changed. In particular, I ensured that my limits were listed as agreed. Not that there were many – too many would have disqualified me from the job.

The three contracts were essentially the same, however they differed in two important clauses: the duration and the payment. The first contract was for a week and would pay a good sum of money. The second was for a month and would pay eight times as much as the weekly contract. The third was for an entire year and would pay two hundred times the weekly rate – a huge amount, easily enough to buy a house in the city.

I couldn't help giving a little smile. It was a standard negotiating tactic. Provide three options, one of which is extremely low and one of which is ridiculously high. That way the other party thinks they have a choice but in reality they're going to choose the middle option.

In this case, the money for the week long contract would be useful but not really worth what it would take to earn. The idea of signing up to be a naked slave for a whole year was something I couldn't imagine anyone seriously considering. So there was really only one contract on the table.

Well, that was ok with me. I already knew which one I was going to choose. Even without the 'choice of three' tactic, I'd have taken the month long option. I picked up a pen.

"Before you choose," said Crawford. I stopped and looked up at him. His expression was serious. "Remember that you only get to work here once. No repeat contracts, no second chances. Once your time is up, you walk out the door with your money and never set foot in this place again. The punters like to believe that the girls here are sold as permanent slaves and it's a fantasy we like to encourage. Of course, it's not true. We don't really sell the girls. At least," he looked me in the eye. "Not very often."

He was joking. Of course he was joking, he had to be. But there was no sign of amusement on his poker face. I broke eye contact and looked down at the papers on the desk.

I put pen to paper and signed for a month.

"Good," he said. "Now you're our property for 30 days." He walked to the door of the office, opened it and called in a subordinate who had been waiting outside. Then he went back to his desk and ignored me as I was led away.

-----

Which brings us back to here and now, with me naked and caged, on display in the club.

I become aware that a man is standing at the front of my cage. From what I can see through the bars at this level, he appears to be wearing formal clothes, possibly a suit, with expensive, black leather shoes. I remain still, looking submissively downwards at the ground, whilst he slowly walks round the cage, examining me from all sides. He returns to the front.

"Look up," he says.

I obey. My first impressions are confirmed: this is a man in his thirties wearing a very impressive business suit. On his wrist he's wearing a watch that looks like it must have cost as much as I'm being paid for the whole month in this cage. His whole demeanour is that of someone used to being obeyed and getting what he wants.

He silently studies me further. Then he nods: "Very nice. Very nice indeed. I might put in a bid for you." He smiles and I don't know if it's because he's joking or because he's just enjoying the thought. Whatever the reason, I smile back.

He reaches into his jacket and brings out a long piece of red cotton rope. This he lowers slowly through the bars at the top of the cage.

"Breasts," he says. "Tight."

He doesn't need to ask if I know what to do. Experience of being a sub was one of the prerequisites for getting this job. Breast bondage is far from new to me.

I sit cross legged on the floor of the cage. With him watching carefully, I place one end of the rope around the base of my right breast and tie it tight, trying to make sure that the knot is as flat as possible. Then I begin to wrap the rope around, pulling tight as I do so. The ropes squeeze my breast, the cocoon of red emphasising the uncovered end with its now hard nipple.

I stop when I think I've used just under half the rope, then tie another knot to ensure that the bindings cannot slip off. Leaving a couple of feet of spare rope hanging down my chest, I use the other end to repeat the process on my left breast.

Once finished, I tie off the end of the rope. From what I can see at this angle, it looks like I've done a good job and I'm quietly pleased with myself. I can feel the blood pumping through the compressed flesh: a dull, regular throbbing made more intense by the knowledge that I did it to myself whilst a stranger watched.

One more step.

I lift the central part of the rope that I left hanging between my breasts. Lowering my head as far as I can, I bring the rope up and over my neck to the back. I raise my head a little, not fully upright but back to its normal subservient position. As I do, a little extra pressure is added to my bindings, lifting and presenting my breasts.

"Good," I hear him say. "Now these."

I know what's coming.

Through the bars of the cage he drops a pair of nipple clamps connected by a short metal chain. They aren't just simple clips, or even the more complex clover style. These are the more painful claw type, each having three metal prongs on the end that tighten with a screw. The ends aren't sharp, they won't cut the skin, but once they're tightened they will dig in with tremendous force.

I place the first clamp on my left nipple and turn the screw. The three talons bite in, pressing hard as I tighten further. I repeat the process on my right nipple, then give a gentle tug on the chain to make sure the clamps aren't not going to fall off.

"Tighter," he says.

Reluctantly, I give the screw on each clamp another twist and the metal claws bite harder still. Not only will they now not fall off, they won't come off even if pulled hard.

He beckons me forward and I shuffle to the front of the cage. With a crooked finger, he indicates for me to lean towards the bars. He reaches a hand through and takes hold of the chain between the clamps. I stay very still as he fiddles with the chain. After a few seconds, he pulls it gently towards him and I feel the pressure growing. Then he gives a sharp tug and I let out an involuntary squeal of pain. I was, unfortunately, right about the clamps not coming off.

He releases the chain and I sit back from the bars, breathing deeply.

But he's not finished yet. He reaches inside his jacket again and brings out a large padlock then beckons me forward a second time. Reaching through the bars, he clicks the padlock on to the centre of the chain between the nipple clamps. He raises it up to my eye level, pulling on my nipples as he does so. Then he opens his hand.

The padlock drops, pulling the chain and the clamps down with it.

The weight yanks my nipples down rapidly, stretching them as the clamps bite hard and gravity does its work. Again, I squeal with pain. This time, with the padlock fixed to the chain and hanging in front of my chest, the pain doesn't stop. It simply changes from a sharp shock to a constant throbbing. I know that I'll get used to that soon – the real pain will come when the clamps are removed. The longer they stay on, the worse that pain will be.

The man takes a step back to look at his work. My breasts are tightly bound and compressed, the red rope around the back of my neck pulling them up. Meanwhile the weight of the padlock is pulling my nipples down by way of the tight clamps.

It hurts, but in a strange way I enjoy it; if I didn't, I never would have taken this job. I love being the naked slave-girl, locked in a cage with breasts bound in red and nipples stretched painfully. I know everything that happens in the club is captured on CCTV, but I wish there was an old-fashioned mirror. It would be good to see myself, I must look hot as hell!

"Very nice," the man says, apparently thinking the same thing. "Leave that all on until I get back."

Then he turns and walks away.

How long will he leave me like this? When will he get back? It might be five minutes. Or an hour. Or the rest of the night. That's entirely up to him, I have no choice. Maybe he'll forget about me and my breasts will remain bound until the club closes and the staff clear up.

Of course I could easily remove the clamps and rope myself now, but disobeying a customer is the worst sin. Any complaint, no matter how trivial, means I lose that day's money.

-----

Money. That's why I signed the contract. I'm enjoying my time in the cage, but I'm here for the money. It was a business transaction, pure and simple: I sold myself to the club for a month.

From the second I was lead naked out of Crawford's office, I was treated as a piece of club property rather than as a person. Which, of course, I was. And still am. There was no conversation, no small talk, just instructions. The other staff sometimes gave me an appreciative look, but no more than that. Nobody tried to talk to me any more than they'd try to talk to a picture on the wall or the lighting system. To them I was a functional piece of decoration, nothing more.

I was taken to the club's main floor. Well, one of them – there are several, apparently catering for different tastes. Although we'd discussed it during the interview process, this was the first time they'd let me actually see my home for the next month.

The cage.

As we approached, my heart started pounding. I studied it carefully, draining in the sight.

The thick, black metal bars were intimidating, clearly too solid to be bent in any way. They were placed about six inches apart, giving enough space to get an arm through but no more. There were a variety of hinged sections that could be opened or locked separately to allow access by or to the occupant. Which would be me.

What struck me most about the cage was its size. It wasn't exactly small as cages go – maybe five foot long, three or four foot high and wide. Big enough for me to crouch and turn round in, but not big enough for me to stretch out. I could spend a happy hour or two in a cage that size, maybe sleep in it overnight.

But I wasn't just going to be spending a night in it. The thought that such a confined space was to be my home for a whole month was both exhilarating and terrifying.

The club worker took out a keyring and opened the lock on one end of the cage. The metal panel swung open to form an entrance. Then he stood to one side and pointed.

What would they have done if I'd said 'No" and refused to get in? Would they have let me go? Or would they have used force to ensure I kept to my side of the contract? I'll never know, because I didn't refuse. I willingly went down on my hands and knees and crawled naked into the cage.

The door clanged to behind me and the club worker padlocked it shut, literally sealing my fate. Then he walked off without another word. He'd done his job, to him I no longer mattered.

I haven't been out of the cage since that moment.

The contract I signed was quite clear that I would spend my entire time behind these bars. But the human body has limits, so once a day, a couple of hours before the club opens, the staff cuff my ankles to the base of the cage then unlock and remove the top. I'm allowed to stand up and stretch while they take away my bucket then hose me down with cold water. I never thought something as simple as standing up and stretching my legs could be so pleasant, yet it's become the highlight of my day. Unfortunately I only get a few minutes of this freedom, then I have to get back down and the cage is resealed. I suppose I could try to resist, but the punishment for that would be severe and they'd probably never let me stand up again.

Once I am back on my knees, my ankles are uncuffed. The water on the floor around the cage is mopped up by the staff, but I am left to shiver and dry naturally.

-----

I realise that there are three pairs of jeans and trainers standing in front of my cage.

"Nice tits," says a male voice.

"Nice everything!" says another.

"You aint wrong," replies the first. "Let's see more of it." He bangs on the cage roof. "Hey, slut! Sit up and raise your head."

I do as I'm told. As I raise my head, the chain to my nipples is pulled tighter and the clamps lifted upwards.

Looking up, I see three young men, probably only just old enough to drink legally. If I saw them on the street I'd describe them as 'rough'. But looks can be deceiving: to get in to this club you need money. And if you've got money, they don't care what you or your clothes look like or how you speak.

"Yep," says the first man. "Like you said Jerry, nice everything. I'll have to have a word with uncle Crawford about the 'no fucking' rule."

That's one of the few things the punters can't do to me: they can't fuck me. They can dominate me, humiliate me and cause me pain because I've consented to that and signed the contract. But because they pay to enter the club and I'm technically an employee, fucking me would be paying for sex. Which could get the club closed down.

"Why bother, Reed?" says the second man, the one called Jerry. "What would she need your cock for when she's got her little finger?"

Reed gives Jerry a playful shove. "Up yours pal. But you've got a point: she can fuck herself." He turns to me and wiggles his fingers. "Do it."

I lay back and spread my legs open as far as I can in the confines of the cage. Then I put my hands on my inner thighs and slowly rub my skin. I gradually move my fingers towards my pussy, teasing as much as I think I can get away with. Reed and Jerry cheer and urge me on. My right hand reaches my pussy and I stroke myself, moaning gently and putting on a show.

Although it's not really a show.

I can see that that the third young man, the one who hasn't spoken yet, has a huge erection beneath his jeans. He stares at me in transfixed silence, one of his hands rubbing his cock absent-mindedly through his fly. The way it's straining, it's wouldn't surprise me if the thing burst right through. I wonder if he's a virgin.

The knowledge that I am physically exciting this young, possibly innocent, young guy is a massive turn on for me. I can feel myself getting moist, partly from the touch of my fingers but mainly from the gaze of the three guys. If I wasn't at least a bit of an exhibitionist I would never have signed that contract.

Just at the moment, as I humiliate myself in front of these three young men, I can't think of anywhere I'd rather be.

Since the customers can't fuck me, this is the only sort of sex I'll have over the next month. I want to make it last as long as possible. My fingers stroke slowly, gradually pushing further inside of me. I'm close to cumming, but force myself not to; that's something I mustn't do unless ordered.

"God, the bitch really is hungry for it," says Jerry.

"Probably just hungry full stop," says Reed. "The girls here don't get to eat unless they please the customers."

"Well, she's pleasing me!" says Jerry.

"Yeah," Reed nods. "Me too. And I've just had an idea." He turns to the third guy, who rapidly removes his hand from his fly in the vain hope that the others haven't noticed what he was doing. "Hey, Dan. Stop fondling yourself and go get the girl a sandwich. Get her one with some meat in it since she can't have ours."

Dan blushes. He nods silently and heads off towards the bar area.

They're right about me being hungry. I am, almost constantly. The contract clearly stated that the club would ensure my welfare and feed me. It didn't say how much I'd get fed...

"Now," says Reed. "What shall we do until he gets back?" He gives me an evil grin. "Come close to the bars, slut."

I move forwards on my knees and thrust my breasts up against the front of the cage. The metal feels cold.

Reed squats down, his face now level with mine. He reaches out with one hand through the bars and massages one of my rope bound breasts.

"Nice," he says. "A good, tight job."

He takes his hand off my breast and runs his fingers around the base of the clamps where they bite into my nipple. Then he reaches down and grasps the padlock at the centre of the chain. He slowly pulls it out between the cage bars until it goes taut. He holds it there with just enough pressure for me to feel. Compared with the weight of the lock pulling down, this position is actually more comfortable. But somehow I don't think he's doing this to make my life easier.

He looks me in the eye, a grin on his face as he holds the padlock. We both know what's coming, I don't try to hide the unpleasant anticipation from my face; after all, that seems to be what he's after.

He waits, the seconds ticking by.

Then, just as I am almost relaxing, he yanks hard on the padlock and attached chain. The chain pulls on the fierce clamps attached to my nipples, tugging them sharply forwards. My breasts are already pressed on to the bars, so are unable to follow. That means the full force is felt on my nipples.

Reed is clearly experienced at this. He pulls hard enough to cause maximum sensation without physical damage. The pain that shoots through my nipples is the worst I've yet felt.

I let out a shriek of genuine pain.

He releases the padlock and lets the chain drop back down again. This time, the force of the heavy padlock dropping seems as nothing compared with what I just experienced. The extra jab of pain is just a coda to the main event. I try hard not to sob.

Reed has been watching my face all this time, soaking up the pained expressions. Now he nods. "I enjoyed that, I hope you didn't. What do you say?" he asks.

"Thank you, Sir." The response is automatic, but the sentiments are actually genuine. It hurt, it hurt very badly. But the pain was wonderful.

Reed stands and I'm aware of the third pair of legs having returned.

"Well done, Dan. This looks perfect. Why don't you do the honours, Jerry?"

"Oh yes, with pleasure."

Jerry now squats down in front of the cage. In his hand he has a small plate containing sandwiches cut into triangles. They are garnished with greenery and there is an artistic whirl of what looks like some sort of sauce around the edge of the plate. But I really don't care about the presentation, I just want the food. My stomach growls in anticipation.

Jerry sets the plate on the floor in front of the cage. Then he brings out a key from his pocket; many of the locks in the club share the same key, every customer is given one when they arrive. One of those keys can open or lock certain parts of the cage – but not all of it. The top of my cage is on a separate lock, so the customers couldn't actually let me out even if they wanted to.

In the front of the cage, at the bottom, is a small section that opens independently. Jerry unlocks it and swings the little gate open. It's just large enough for my head. He moves the plate towards my cage, where I'll be able to reach it.

"Eat up," he says.

I put my head through the opening. It's humiliating. I'm naked, caged, kneeling and eating from a plate on the floor like an animal. But I really don't care. I just want food.

I lower my head. Open my mouth. Prepare to bite into the bread.

At which point I feel pressure on the back of my head. It takes me a second to realise what it is: a foot, pressing my head down. Down into the food.

Rather than being allowed to eat the sandwiches, I am having my face squashed into them. I hear the three guys laughing. The foot is removed and I raise my head. Then Reed – I guess it was his foot – reaches down, grabs the plate and presses it into my face, smearing me with what is left of the food. He takes his time, putting on his own show for his friends. Then he removes the plate then uses his foot to press my head back into the cage before re-locking the panel.

I can hear the three of them still laughing as they turn and walk away.

-----

I won't starve, there's no danger of that. The club will keep their side of the contract as strictly as I must keep mine. That includes giving me enough food and water to keep me healthy.

They provide plenty of water, that isn't a problem. During the day I have a large bottle of water placed into my cage, along with the bucket to pee in.

Food is another matter. Giving me enough to keep me healthy doesn't mean giving me enough to stop feeling hungry. And what they do give me is far from pleasant to eat.

Once a day, at what I assume is around lunchtime, one of the staff brings over a bowl. The panel at the front of the cage is opened and the bowl placed into my cage. I'm not forced to eat this meal with my head sticking out of the cage, the staff don't care enough about me for that. To them I'm nothing, not even worth humiliating.

So I eat my food alone in my cage, slurping it from the bowl. It's designed to be slurped. I'm not sure exactly what it is, but it's some sort of grey, foul tasting muck with the consistency of lumpy porridge. The first day, I only ate a few mouthfuls, it was all I could manage. At the time, I didn't realise it was the only meal they were going to give me. When feeding time the second day came round, I was so hungry that I literally licked the bowl clean.

Apart from that one 'meal' a day, the only food I get is if the customers decide to give me some. Of course, it's against protocol for me to ask. Unless, of course, they order me to beg for it.

-----

Once the three guys have left, I scrape the remnants of the sandwiches off from my face. Bread crumbs and a few tattered shreds of meat fall on to the floor, between the bars at the base of the cage.

I put my head down and lick up every last, delicious morsel. Even small, green pieces of garnish.

Eating crumbs from the floor would be degrading, even if I wasn't locked naked in a cage. But I don't care. All I care about at the moment is real food, even if it is only a few tiny scraps. Any pride I once had disappeared the moment I signed the contract.

I make sure that there is no tiny crumb I've missed, then I sit up again. There wasn't enough left of the sandwich to make a meal, but at least it was something. Hopefully someone else will take pity on a poor slave-girl later tonight.

For now, all I can do is sit and wait again. I hope the first customer I saw first thing will return soon. The pressure on my breasts and nipples is extremely unpleasant. The clamps have already been on long enough that removing them is going to make me scream as the blood rushes back. Every minute longer they remain on means that the eventual pain will be worse.

So I wait. The club is getting more crowded now. Conversations blur into a background drone. I can no longer make out whole sentences, but catch a few words as customers walk by: "...did I tell you... sailing next weekend... had to punish her... the new book by..."

Some time later, I have no way of telling how long, two pairs of legs stop by my cage. This time they are male and female. The woman is wearing high heeled leather boots that make it very clear even from floor level that she is not a submissive. She is nothing like me. In real life, I'd be her equal, I might be even her boss. But here, in this club, she is my superior in every way. As is everyone else.

"Oh look, darling," I hear her say. "In the cage. What an adorable pet. Isn't she cute?"

"It's nice enough, I suppose," a male voice replies. "If you like that kind of thing. I prefer real women, like you. Not worthless submissives. I really don't understand what you see in pathetic creatures like this."

He's right. A pathetic creature is what I am and what I will remain until my month in this cage is up.

"You really don't enjoy them, do you? Not even the pretty ones?" she says. "But you still bring me to places like this, even though you don't like playing with the toys. You're always putting my needs before mine, making me happy. That's why I love you."

"That and my money."

She laughs easily, it's obviously a familiar jest. "True, darling. Very true."

"So do you want to play with this one? I assume you've got something in your handbag?"

"Of course! Let's see how this suits her."

There's a pause as I hear her rummaging in her bag. Customers aren't allowed to bring in their own toys, for health and security reasons. However there's a room in the club where they can hire equipment to use on the resident subs; anything that's left in place after closing time is removed by the staff after they've done the important work like collecting up the glasses. I saw the equipment room when I was being interviewed for this position and it was packed full with racks of leather, chains and more.

What did this woman rent? I want very badly to look up and see what she's getting from her bag, but I know I mustn't do so without permission.

I don't have to wait long to find out. Through the bars at the top of the cage she drops a bright red rubber ballgag on a black leather strip. Looped through one of the holes in the strap is a small, unlocked padlock.

"There you go, pet," the woman says. "Put that on for me. Make sure it's nice and tight."

Tight. The same word used by the earlier customer when I was applying the rope to my breasts. I'd almost forgotten the dull throb, but hearing that word brings it back again. I become aware of the blood thumping through my roped up breasts and the squeeze of the clamps that are still on my nipples.

I pick up the gag and check the padlock to make sure it has the club mark. If it doesn't, I'm not allowed to wear it; it's one of the few times that the rules let me refuse an order from a customer.

The padlock is fine. It has the club mark which means it's on the standard lock. It can be opened by the key carried by all customers and staff. But not, of course, by me.

I lift the gag up to my head and open my mouth. I push the red ball between my teeth – it only just fits in my jaw, the woman clearly selected the large size. I take the strap round the back of my head and feed one end through the buckle. I know they are watching carefully, so I pull it through as tightly as I can, the strap cutting uncomfortably into my face. Then I take the padlock, feed it through the hole nearest the buckle and snap it shut.

It's not coming off without the key.

"Say 'thank you' to the lady," says the man.

"Thnnoo." The garbled sound is all I can produce through the gag. I won't be saying anything – or eating anything – until it comes off.

With my voice effectively removed, I am now unable to beg for release even if I was ordered to. Until now I've stayed silent because of the rules, but I always had the option to say something. Knowing that option has now been removed is a very powerful and erotic thought.

"Oh, she sounds wonderful! One more thing and she'll be perfect. Just a second... ah, here they are."

Through the bars, an open pair of steel handcuffs drops into my cage.

"Behind your back, dear," she says.

I pick up the cuffs and check them, ensuring the club mark is in place. Then I put my arms behind my back. I click one cuff around my left wrist and slowly ratchet it closed until it's secure but not cutting in to my flesh. I repeat the process with my right wrist. Even over the background noise of the club, I can hear the clicks of the cuffs as my bondage tightens at my own hand.

With my mouth gagged and my hands locked firmly behind my back, any last semblance of control I had over my fate has gone.

"Turn round," the woman says.

I shuffle around until I am facing the other way, giving the two of them a good view of my steel encased wrists. I feel a hand reach for them and check the cuffs are secure with no space for me to pull my hands through. Then there is another small click; she has activated the double locking safety mechanism. In some ways this is a good thing, as it means the cuffs won't accidentally tighten further and cut off the blood supply to my hands. Any customer renting handcuffs is told about this, though most have enough experience to know how to use handcuffs safely.

But there's a downside to her using the safety mechanism. She wouldn't bother engaging the double lock if she was planning to release me any time soon.

"Turn back again," she says and I comply.

"Now look up so we can see your face properly."

I do so, presenting my gagged mouth and, in the process, pulling up my breasts a little due to the extra pressure on the nipple chain. Now I can see the two customers properly for the first time. Both man and woman are dressed in clothes that I couldn't even dream of affording. These are the sort of people the club was designed for. People with large amounts of money who are looking for unconventional experiences. But the unconventional experiences they want are on the outside not the inside of the cage.

"Oh, so pretty and so wonderfully helpless," says the woman. "She looks absolutely gorgeous like that. Doesn't she, darling?"

Despite the circumstances, I feel a wave of inappropriate pleasure at the compliment.

The man gives a little grunt by way of reply.

"Oh you. You've no sense of fun. OK, so you don't like her. But I do! Will you buy her for me?"

"Buy her? What do you need another pet for? You've got three at home already and you hardly ever play with them. You just leave them chained up in the basement for weeks at a time. If the staff didn't feed them occasionally, they'd starve."

"That's because I'm bored with them. You know how easily I get bored. They're no fun after the first six months. I need a new one. This one. Pretty please?"

"And what happens when you get bored of this one? What happens six months from now when this toy is no longer new and is left forgotten in the basement?"

"Then you'll buy me yet another one, sweetie. I know you will."

He sighs. "The trouble is, you're right. I can't refuse you anything if it'll make you happy. OK, you win. Let's go and ask how much they want for her."

They walk off without a backward glance, leaving me gagged and cuffed.

And sill hungry.

Now, even if there was food in front of me, I would be unable to eat it. I'm going to stay hungry for the rest of the night unless a customer decides to remove my gag. Which, from my experience these first few days, is unlikely. Once restraints go on, they are usually only removed in order to replace them with something more severe.

-----

So here I am, sitting naked in a locked cage in the middle of a room full of strangers. There's a large ballgag preventing me from talking and my hands are cuffed behind my back. My breasts are tightly bound in red rope and there are evil clamps attached to my nipples.

The night is only a few hours old and already I've been bound, hurt and humiliated. I'm hungry and am likely to remain so.

And this isn't even a weekend. What will Friday and Saturday nights be like?

It feels like a lifetime ago that I was locked into the cage, but in reality this is only the fourth night. I signed the contract for a month, so I'm less than a quarter of the way through. I have many more days and nights of this to go.

There's nobody I can blame. I did this of my own free will, I knew exactly what I was getting into. I chose to sign that contract. I consented to everything that has happened, is happening and will happen to me.

Do I regret it? Absolutely.

The thing I want most in the world – after a good meal – is to be able to rewind time. To be able to go back to that moment in Crawford's office and change the past. Signing that one month contract was the biggest mistake I've made in my entire life.

I wish I'd done things differently. If I had my time again, I wouldn't sign that contract.

I'd sign the year long one instead.