The Gilded Cage



In the end, they will lay their freedom at our feet and say to us, Make us your slaves, but feed us.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Grand Inquisitor


Chapter 1


Voyt read the red sign on the door, “Volfram Club.” He glanced back to make sure no one was following then stepped inside. A big man in a frayed dinner jacket blocked his path.

“I’m looking for Lauren,” Voyt said, extending his hand.

Inside was a $50 bill.

“Which one, sir...? We have two on tonight, Lauren17 and Lauren37. Lauren41 is off.”

Voyt stared at him trying to hide his uncertainty. The instructions had just said, “Lauren, Volfram Club.” He had no idea which Lauren he was supposed to meet.

The man, presumably the club’s maître d’, raised his eyebrows. Voyt knew he could not stand here in the anteroom with his thumb up his ass. People would notice...and remember. He needed to do something.

“You choose,” he said and handed him another fifty.

The bill disappeared into his jacket as if by magic.

“Follow me.”

He pushed the heavy curtain aside and led the way into a dark room. Purple and red lights were strategically set in the ceiling to light some things and hide others. He had been in a thousand clubs like this. Rough men stationed on remote planets needed their diversions; erotic dancers were often the diversion of choice.

There was something different about the Volfram Club though. It was darker and meaner than most. In the center of the room behind the bar was a dance stage. He had trouble seeing the show through the crowd of men. The maître d’ paused at an opening to let him see what was happening onstage.

A machine was whipping a young girl. She had the sultry look of a gypsy--disheveled black hair, curly and shoulder length, long slender legs, and firm conical tits with raised red areolas and black nipples. The image they were going for was “smoldering fire behind youthful innocence.” He had seen it many times before, but this was exceptionally well done. The girl looked the part.

What he had never seen before was onstage pain, real pain. It was obvious the whips were hurting her. This was no allegorical dance act; this was the real deal. Her eyes kept darting around the dark room locking with the men watching, begging someone to help her. She was good, he thought. Tongues were practically hanging from some mouths. He felt his penis straining in his pants and realized he was not immune either.

He studied her bondage. A rope from the invisible ceiling bound her wrists suspending her about a foot off the stage. Another two ropes extended from floor cleats to her slender ankles holding her legs open. Her rigger had fastened her big toes to the floor rope to keep her feet pointed. It was an inspired touch, he thought. Pointing the girl’s feet enhanced the idea that she was desperate and added the erotic touch needed to blunt the scene’s inherent brutality.

Every minute or so, one of the two robotic whipping machines would whirl around and strike her body with a leather thong causing her to scream out in pain. After completing its cycle, the machine indifferently moved its whip moved down an inch and waited to deliver the next stroke. Heavy metal was playing in the background, but relatively softly to allow the crowd to hear her screams and moans. He could see the patrons at the bar, but the club’s discrete lighting hid those at the tables.

“How often do they switch girls?” he asked.

“There’s a new show every hours...lasts about 40 minutes.”

Forty minutes, Voyt thought. That’s 40 hard strokes...a moderate-to-severe punishment in most slave camps. These girls certainly earned their money.

“Sir,” his guide urged. Voyt followed obediently.

“Lauren 37 is the centerpiece for Table-A8. I believe you will find her satisfactory. There is a light and sound cone over each table for intimate...conversation,” he added.

Voyt nodded without understanding. Centerpiece, light cone, sound cone, gypsy whipping; the Volfram Club certainly had a unique set of male attractions. They stopped in front of a table with “A8” embossed on a faux-bronze plate. An overhead fixture cast a cone-shaped light over the table. He could see the hazy outline of a girl sitting atop the table. She was bound somehow, but it was hard to see how.

“Your waiter will explain everything once you’re seated,” the Maître d’ said. “I hope you find Lauren37 to your liking.”

He was standing between Voyt and the chair, waiting. Voyt looked up into his face then pulled another fifty out of his pocket and handed it over. The man smiled and moved aside.

“One-hundred and fifty fucking dollars just to get to a table,” Voyt mumbled as he moved into the light cone towards the chair.

Magically, the club noise stopped. He moved his head back experimentally and heard the ancient heavy metal sound of Twisted Sister. He moved back inside the light cone and it disappeared. The light worked the same way--from the outside, the table appeared in a hazy glow; inside, things were clear. The soft amber light replaced the white haze making the girls skin glow.

Cool. They were using noise-cancelling and light-dissembling technology to maintain a privacy area, a tiny oasis around the tables. It was cool but nowhere near as cool as the girl inside.

She was naked, sitting back on her haunches in the center of the table; permanent shackles screwed into the tabletop locked her slim ankles; a plastic yoke rested on her squarish shoulders locking her wrists and neck; a thick ball-gag kept her silent; and nipples clamps and cords held her tits to the table. The nipple cords, he noticed, didn’t just hold her in place; they forced her to lean forward, which raised her ass and put a strain on her back.

She watched him with guarded eyes and with an obvious curiosity not found in most bargirls. Interesting, he thought. She is certainly more than a centerpiece in the Volfram club, but is she the girl I need to meet?

Suddenly, he felt a sudden movement of air and his hand instinctively reached for the missing h’utter at his side. It was the waiter. He moved his hand to his balls and scratched, making it look like he was reaching for them all along. The government of Vulcan17 didn’t allow h’utters (laser hand cutters...swords) in Volfram or any city; customs had confiscated his at the spaceport.

“First time at the Volfram Club, sir?” his waiter asked as he hurriedly wiped the table off around the girl’s bare legs.


“Okay then, let me explain. All drinks are $20 with a five-drink minimum. Our most popular concoction is ‘the hot pussy,’ which is a mix of Volfram bourbon and honey, rimmed with pussy-juice. Our centerpiece here, Lauren37, who you are free to touch, is bound with five removable implements--one gag, two nipple cords, and two ankles shackles. Each one you remove is $50. The yoke I’m afraid is not removable by customers. If you take off all the removable bondage gear, Lauren37 will be glad to give you a blowjob for $50 and fuck you for $100. These must be performed in our privacy lounge in a private room. If you would like to combine either of these with discipline, we will provide a paddle. Each stroke of the paddle is only $5. We also offer a bespoke discipline package. You will need to speak to the manager to arrange this and obtain a price quote. Lauren37 is up for most anything.

“Any questions...? (No discernible pause) Okay, what can I get you to drink?”

Voyt stared at him as if processing his question.

“I’ll have the house special, the pussy thing,” he said, speaking slowly.

He had no intention of drinking or availing himself of any of the Volfram Club’s offerings, but he did need to look as if he was just another customer. He had no idea what the next step was in this arranged meeting. Why would anyone pick a place like this to meet secretly? He wondered. This was the exact opposite of a discrete rendezvous.

He heard a loud scream and turned to see the gypsy girl writhing on stage under her robots whip. She was twisting and pulling at her bondage now, clearly trying to communicate her need to stop. No one made any move to help her. This was not a casual commitment, he realized. Nothing around her seemed very casual.

It would be better to have a real man whip her, he thought absently as he watched. The machine took away the important elements of dominance and sexual threat. Then again, a real man would probably hesitate right now; wonder if her act was the priority. The robot had no such compunction...and the men watching the robot didn’t need to say or do anything to have the show continue.

The speedy waiter bounded back into his cone with his drink and an extra glass. Without any warning, he took the wooden paddle from between the girl’s legs and delivered four hard strokes to her ass, two on each cheek. Her eyes widened and sounds of pain sputtered through her gag.

Voyt watched with disapproval, but he didn’t let it show. Sudden pain, administered indifferently was not cool, he thought. If you are going to bind a girl like this, at least make her pain significant; put a little thought into it. The waiter smiled at him and returned the paddle to its place between her legs. He lifted the extra glass and ran its rim between her labia.

“The paddle starts her flow,” he explained, “producing wet pussy juice. We transfer some of it to the glass’ rim. You just pour your drink into this glass a little at a time then sip it slowly through the wet pussy juice. If it dries out on you, you can just run it through her pussy again. She should stay wet for a while.”

He was gone as quickly as he had come. Voyt looked down at the two glasses then up at the girl’s wide eyes. The pain was still flaring her nostrils. He ran his cool hand over the red skin on her ass then poured a small amount of the bourbon mix into the rimmed glass and sipped. It tasted like sweetened pussy. Memories of the girls he had personally tongued flooded back into his mind. He glanced up at Lauren37 and smiled at the memory. She stared at him, begging with her eyes for more of his cooling touch.

He did it then sat back in his chair. Her bondage, especially the nipple cords, was especially harsh; clearly, her pain was a come-on for gullible patrons. Using her raised pussy to rim glasses for their hot pussy drinks was another. There was something artless about causing pain to promote a drink. Her back must be burning. He ran his fingers lightly along the arch of her bare foot. Someone had told him once that a pronounced foot arch was a sure sign of unbridled passion. It was bullshit of course, still, her skin felt wonderfully soft and taut.

He reached up and squeezed her calf surprised to discover an uncompromising hardness. She didn’t get calves like that by sitting on a nightclub table. He ran the back of his fingers along the edge of her clamped nipple. She trembled in sexual response then moaned softly the clamp dug into to her flesh. The pain must be intense yet she was relatively quiet. There was definitely something different about her; desensitized lap dancers didn’t act this way.

Perhaps she really was part of the rendezvous. Perhaps the maître d’ was in on it as well. He reached up and removed her gag. A ruby-red register built into the tabletop beeped and its ruby-red display changed from $20 to $70. The gag must have electronics embedded inside, he guessed, taking another sip of his hot pussy.

“You’re Lauren, right?”

She was exercising her mouth trying to shake off the numbing effects of the gag. She had wide kissable lips, he thought, just right for sucking cock.

“I’m whoever you want me to me, handsome.”

It was the typical line of a bargirl. For a moment, he was disappointed then he realized that if she were his contact, she would need to play the tramp for a while.

 “Can I get you to remove my nipple clamps, honey?” she asked evenly. “It’s only a hundred bucks. It feels as if someone is sticking a hot poker into my back. Please...”

“Do you have something to tell me?” he asked, feeling stupid.

“What do you want me to tell you, lover...? I will say that you have nice hands--cool and dry, strong.”

Voyt sat back. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps this wasn’t the right Lauren after all. Should he go back and ask the maître d’ for the other Lauren? He hesitated, uncertain then reached between her legs to refresh the pussy juice rimming his glass. He was beginning to warm to the drink.

“You are Lauren, right?” he asked again.


“I’m Voyt,” Voyt said quietly, staring back at the gypsy screaming and twisting in late-stage pain. The club was definitely getting its money’s worth out of her, he thought.

“I’m happy to meet you, Mr. Voyt. Perhaps you want to take me to the privacy lounge...? The noise cancelling only works to prevent outside noise from getting in and bothering us. People out there can hear what we’re saying. We don’t want that, right, lover?”

Voyt shook his head. Was she telling him to shut up or was this her way of getting him into the privacy lounge? He had no idea. Was she just a centerpiece after all? This was stupid. He needed to be sure and to be sure, he was going to have to pay. He stood up and put his face near hers.

“I’m looking for a particular Lauren, Lauren, someone special I arranged to meet here. If you are not she, I am going to get very annoyed with you. Do you understand? I wonder how much bespoke pain you can handle...don’t make me find out, okay?”

She turned and smiled.

“I am very special, Mr. Voyt,” she whispered with a sexy voice. “How about an anal twist...? It’s a lap dance I do with your cock up my ass--sure to get you off--would you like that?”

Voyt smiled.

“You heard what I said, right? If you are not the Lauren I supposed to meet, I’m going to hurt you.”

“Uh huh, I heard you, lover. Is that a promise...the hurting part?”

Voyt stared. She wasn’t going to break out of character nor was she going to admit she was his “particular Lauren” out here. He was going to have to play this through to find out.

He reached out and gently unhooked the clamps from her nipples. She sucked in air and her eyes rolled back with the pain of blood rushing back then she sighed. Slowly, she straightened her back, shuddering as the agony receded to the back of her mind.