Are you guys fucking kidding me? 54 reviews and 151 follows for only two chapters? Thanks to every single one of you. I really hope you continue to enjoy this story. I received some ridiculously nice comments, which I was both flattered and intimidated by all at once lol. To those who thanked me for not going down the G!P path, you're welcome. I hate reading a good summary and then finding out that the story is gip, so I feel you on that.
To Crashkill, sorry for setting your brain on fire. I hope that there's at least some part of it still functioning so that you can read this chapter though ;P
To Heavenly Divine, I'm not planning on writing a chapter from Brittany's POV, simply because to know what she's thinking would put a pin in the great big balloon of tension that I'm trying to create here. Everything relating to Brittany will be perceived through Santana's eyes.
To Ascoeur. AGAIN, maybe Brittany has a sweeter side. Who knows? If she does though, you'll have to wait until Santana uncovers it ;) I love me some fluff too. It's ALWAYS better with feelings!
Let's proceed with the story then shall we?
The darkest tinted sunglasses were not going to be enough. If I was going to leave my condo, then sunglasses just were not going to cut it. Instead I was going to have to pencil on some sort of mustache, and ball all of my luscious hair up so that I could stuff it beneath one of the snapbacks that I kept in the bottom of my closet. Hopefully people would think that I was just some stocky little Hispanic dude with a slightly effeminate walk when they looked at me.
Whatever, I didn't want to be Santana Lopez today.
"Uuuhghh!" I groaned into both of my hands, further grunting, "this is not fucking happening to me."
Without any sort of warning, something forcefully snapped around the back of my head and left again. I quickly lifted my startled face up out of my palms, and in just enough time to catch a widely grinning Puck hastily retreating the rolled up magazine in his hand back to his lap, like nothing had happened.
The silence between us grew icicles challenging that of Narnia as I narrowed a glare comprised of pure Satanism at him.
He shrugged, still wearing that asinine grin.
"That's your response? – To hit me in the back of the head with a magazine, you fuck?" I reached over and ripped the magazine from his grasp, before throwing it across the room with every ounce of frustration that I could pour into the muscles of my arm. It thudded against the painting hung up on the opposite wall with all the venom that I'd intended, and then slid down to the floor, out of sight where it belonged.
"Ok," he sighed, his face swiftly deflating of his grin. "But you need to snap out of…" He gestured his hand around at all that was me. "This."
That was his miracle advice? Snap out of it?
"You know, this is totally why - despite your rugged good lucks and astounding physique - you're still single. Nobody wants a fucktard for a boyfriend."
"Nobody wants a killjoy for a friend either," he mumbled under his breath.
"Yet you continue to stick around, even when you're not wanted." I deadpanned. "Like right now. Why is that?"
"Whatever. You and your family love me. I'm the Diego to your Dora the Explorer."
"Whatever," I growled.
"Man, she must have been smoking hot," he mused after a while, finding his way back to that stupid grin as he drummed his fingers to the armrest of my leather sofa.
As much as I wanted to find Brittany and hold her accountable for all that she'd done to me, I couldn't deny Puck's statement. "Stupidly hot," I grumbled back bitterly.
"What time are you having dinner with your family today?" Puck suddenly asked. His fingers had ceased their drumming and were now still as they rested on the sofa's armrest.
I eyed them for a moment, and then him. "Why?"
He shrugged, and then took the hand that I'd been watching up to his mohawk, ruffling it. "No reason."
Something wasn't right, but I was in too much of my own distress to pry any further or, you know, generally give a fuck.
An hour later Puck was gone, with nothing to show for his drop-in appearance but the magazine that still lay unfurled on my living room floor. I didn't know who to be the angriest at. The obvious choices were Miss Brittany or myself, but then the more I dwelled upon the situation, the more my anger zeroed in on the little dweeb that had walked into Eden's ladies room to my demands that the fire brigade be summoned immediately.
Unsure, the shaky voice called out: "m-miss, are you hurt in any way? Why do you want me to call the fire brigade?"
"Because I'm handcuffed to a fucking pipe, that's why!" I promptly yelled back, absolutely furious over the fact that Mistress Brittany had left me throbbing and bound like she had - and on top of that I'd spent the last fifteen or so minutes fidgeting on the toilet seat to keep my bladder from emptying itself without my consent.
The ache that had settled into my awkwardly strung-up arms had since caused an intense spraying of pins and needles to prickle from my armpits to my forearms, rendering my limbs numb and heavy. But somehow I managed to rattle my burning wrists around just enough to inspire the loud clanging noise that echoed out whenever the handcuffs collided with the pipe. "I'm in this one! The middle one!"
There was silence, some shuffling, and then a tentative push to the cubicle door, before a pale freckled face, framed with a mop of messy strawberry blonde hair, peaked inside.
The moment his eyes met mine they widened to perfect circles, swirling with recognition behind his glasses.
"S-Santana Lopez," he awed, mouth hanging ajar as he stood there like the simpleton that he was, gawping.
"Fire brigade. Call them. Now!" I grunted, forcing that last word out through caged teeth.
The boy, who couldn't have been more than seventeen, pushed his slipping glasses further up the bridge of his cumbersomely large nose in what I think was an effort to collect himself. "Erm..." He vigorously shook his head, further shaking off his apparent daze. "Hold on a second."
Drumming my foot to the floor impatiently, I watched as he reached into the pockets of trousers much too big for him. He rummaged around inside as though everything but the kitchen sink resided in them, and then finally nodded to himself before pulling out a phone.
My eyes fluttered shut in partial relief. But not for a second was I naïve enough to think that I was out of deep waters just yet.
Whilst the boy explained the situation, my situation, to the person on the other end of the line, the deep ache plaguing my bladder seemed to become much more pressing, and I found myself lapping one leg over the other and twisting in ways that caused the boy to keep frowning at me as he spoke the address of the establishment into his cell phone.
"Ok, thank you. Bye." With that, the boy flipped his phone shut and resumed his need to stand there gawping at me like I was live art.
"How long are they gonna be?" I pounced, now unabashedly bouncing around on the toilet seat.
"They didn't sa…" His answer suddenly trailed into silence, and the instant I felt my sweatpants grow warm around my crotch area, I knew why.
Looking down into my lap only confirmed it. The crotch to my otherwise light grey sweats had darkened, and that dark patch was continuing to expand to the mortifying soundtrack of my own urine dribbling down the basin of the toilet and puddling on the tile.
"Fuck!" I shouted, horrified at the utter lack of control that I had over my own faculties. "Fuck!" tore from my throat once more. The force of it – I was sure – left my tonsils frayed.
The boy didn't say a word. Instead, he simply lifted his phone up at me and pressed the button built into its side, blinding me with a flash that instigated an overwhelming swell of white spots behind my eyelids.
"I'm sorry," he said, not really sounding all that sorry, "but I gotta pay for school somehow."
Intense anger powered up my legs, motivating me into trying to stand, but my forgotten restraints instantly jerked me back down to the toilet seat. So I kicked a wild leg out, hoping to at least break this kid's knee in or something.
My foot met nothing but futile air.
When my vision had finally cleared, the boy was gone, and I was afforded no time to digest what had happened because, shortly after, two firemen sauntered in wearing protective facial shields. They'd asked me what had happened, and I had told them to shut the fuck up and do their damn jobs already. So, through poorly stifled giggles and thinly veiled amusement over the fact that I, Santana Paris Lopez, had... peed all over myself, the two proceeded to take a pair of bolt cutters to the handcuffs, telling me – in that condescending lecturing tone - to take the proper precautions the next time I felt the need to add a little kink to my life, because there were far more pressing emergencies in the city for them to tend to.
As I'd walked out of the café, with the sodden fabric of my sweats clinging to my inner thighs, I had never felt so humiliated in all of my twenty-four years.
And now, two days later, here I was dealing with the fact that I'd, once again, managed to make the front cover of multiple magazines… except this time I couldn't just shrug it off and keep it moving. There was no Hollywood starlet's name in print next to mine this time, nobody for me to hide behind. Nothing for me to boast about. Instead, my name was being paraded around next to an incriminating picture and phrases such as, 'Lopez pees herself... on a toilet seat?' and 'How the mighty have fallen.'
I was being mocked.
People were laughing at me.
People.
Laughing.
At me!
To put it bluntly, I was going to find Mistress Brittany Sheridan and attempt to annihilate her... right after I figured out how I was going to leave the seclusion of my condo without racing back inside just seconds later, because someone's gaze lingered a little too long.
With a huff, I threw myself back into the softness of my bed like a limp rag doll, and simply lay there peering up at the ceiling, internally scolding myself for wondering whether or not Miss Brittany thought I was a good kisser, or whether or not she thought that I was hot. She made me feel my imperfections and insecurities like no other had ever been able to, with her unwavering refusal to yield to my feminine allure, and her blasé dismissal of how much money I had. My looks and affluence were my crutches, a fundamental part of who I was, and she was managing to effortlessly rip them right out from underneath me, bringing me back to earth with a disgruntled thud.
She was forcing me to feel my mortality, and I imagined doing dark things to her because of that.
Just then my phone tremored in the pocket of my silk red pajama pants, emitting three low hums.
Sitting up and expelling a weary sigh, I freed the device from its silk confines and braced myself for admonishment either from Rachel or dad, but when I peered at the small screen, the envelope icon was flashing, informing me that I had a new message. I slid the fader at the side of the object down, unlocking the screen, before tapping the pad of my finger to the flashing envelope icon.
I got you so hot that you had to call fire services? I'm even better at this than I thought.
I blinked at the message, letting it compute.
The image of Miss Brittany sitting smug whilst she had typed out that mocking message plagued my mind into an almost itching sensation, and I found myself scratching manically for an itch that wasn't physically there at the crown of my scalp. But to no avail.
I growled and quickly pressed out a response.
I'm going to track you down and when I do, it's not gonna be pretty. Fuck fire services. They're gonna have to call out forensics.
Content with that, I sent it off and waited, phone in hand, for her reaction.
About twenty minutes later, she replied.
Forensics? More like a janitor to clean up your next puddle of urine. Keep talking yourself into another punishment Santana.
I frowned, deep and ugly I suspect, and sent back an instantaneous: Fuck you!
Miss Brittany left me drumming an impatient foot to the floor for another half an hour, before finally concerning herself with messaging me back.
You owe me a pair of handcuffs ; )
That was it!
Swiftly exiting the message application, I punched my finger to the screen of my phone until I was scrolling my contacts. When I got to P.I Ben, I punched the call button and slung the device to my ear, listening to it ring.
"Hello, Ben Fullham speaking."
"Tell me," I began, rubbing a finger back and forth my chin, "if I give you a cell phone number, can you track its location?"
"Certainly," Ben chuckled out, already knowing who he was talking to. "Go ahead and text me the number Santana. I'll have the signal triangulated. As long as the targeted cell phone is turned on, I can track the approximate location and have it to you whenever you need it."
My face pulled into its first real smirk in two whole days, and it served to make me feel somewhat like myself again. "Perfect. I'll text you the number and give you a call for the location when I need it."
"Alright then. Bye."
"Bye Ben," I chirped, grinning off into my thoughts long after hanging up.
Lopez Sunday dinner was in thirty minutes.
I was expected to be there, just like every other Sunday evening. The farce of an event was tense enough on those days when I hadn't made the magazines, never mind on those days that I had… like today. I suspected that 'Lopez Sunday dinner' was the only reason why my father hadn't yet called to address the mortifying debacle currently surrounding me. He was probably waiting to see me in person, so that we could exchange stern eyes and tense silences over bowls of mashed potato and pasta, as he sat at the head of the dining table thinking up ways to explode on me when the time called for it.
Finn would most likely be there too, sat next to Rachel as he was every other Sunday, and mom would be sat next to dad, provided she was liquored up enough to endure being in the same room as me, which – come every Sunday – she always was.
I slipped a pair of dark Gucci sunglasses onto my face and pulled the beak of my snapback further down over my forehead. I'd foregone penciling on a mustache, instead deciding to butch it up in other ways, hence attiring myself in an old Levi Fenom sweat suit, and the black and grey High-top dunks that were currently snuggling my feet.
No one would suspect a thing… and if they did then I'd just deepen my voice and pretend that I didn't speak English.
"Let's do this," I told my vast bedroom mirror…
I could feel the tension the moment I pulled up on the six-car driveway of my parent's mansion, and I only perceived it to grow when their maid, Lucile, opened the front door for me, the usual perk in her cheeks lacking.
"Good evening miss Lopez," she greeted me, purely out of duty, as she stepped to the side to allow me entry.
"It's not gonna be a good evening for anybody," I replied as I strode in past her, not at all in the mood for falsities, much less with the help.
I swept past the bar area and strode through the art room, which took me to the large dining table area; the place that I'd come to associate with tension and exchanges of snide comments over the years.
I could hear the chef bustling around in the kitchen, the familiar clink of plates, glasses, and silverware. It meant that dinner was not yet ready to be served, which meant that I'd have to stick around longer than I wanted to.
"Great," I grumbled to myself, pulling out a chair at the long table and slumping into it. My fingers drummed the knots in the dark varnished wood, foot tapping the patterned fresco rug beneath the soles of my High-top dunks.
There was some brief noise that didn't sound like it was coming from the kitchen, and then Rachel suddenly swept into the room as if propelled by the winds that blustered noisily against the windows. Her long brown hair flew back from her face as she pounded the marble floor towards me, half a glass of wine and a rolled up magazine in hand.
I braced up and sucked in a discreet lung of breath, believing that it would power me through the, no doubt, imminent altercation.
The magazine slapped the table just a few millimeters away from my fingers. "What's this?" she demanded, stood over me.
I looked up into her slightly glossy eyes, pointed at her face, and asked, "what's that? - Oh, it's just your unfortunate excuse for a nose."
Pointedly sitting her glass down, she placed both of her palms to the table and bent to lower her mouth closer to my ear. "How do you expect your father to maintain an air of professionalism, an air of leadership, with your habitual need to embarrass the Lopez name? Potential clients certainly aren't going to want to invest with us if they think that Miguel can't control his own daughter! I mean..." She paused for much needed breath, her apparent frustration seeming much too big for simple words to convey. "How do you venture to even get yourself in these types of predicaments anyway? Urinating all over yourself whilst handcuffed to a toilet seat?"
I squeezed my eyes shut tight behind my shades, and dragged a hand over my tired face.
"We don't make money if people perceive the Lopez name as a joke, Santana! That also means that your lavish lifestyle stops!" Having vented the bulk of her gripe, Rachel leaned up out of my space but remained stood over me, catching her breath. "Who handcuffed you, or was it another one of your twisted little sessions with yet another woman who means nothing to you?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of mom stumbling into the room behind dad, both of their faces a mask of solemn.
My father leaned his briefcase against the plush pale sofa over in the corner, whilst my mother dragged drunken feet over towards the dining table. She could barely get her fingers to co-operate as she wrapped them around the backrest of the wooden chair and drew it out so that she could sit down. But nobody was saying anything about her antics, about her love affair with the bottle.
I rolled my eyes. The Lopez name and everything that it stood for was a joke. But guess what? I wasn't the only clown in town.
A stony silence swirled preponderantly around us, until my father roughly tugged loose his necktie and announced, "a large sum of money is missing from my account!"
My eyebrows shot up, because I hadn't been expecting that.
He threw a nod my way. "Your friend, that uhm, that Puck - or whatever the hell he calls himself!" he barked, seemingly irritated with his own imprecision. "How well do you know him?"
I hadn't been expecting that either.
All eyes swam to me.
"Uhh... Wait hold on," I frowned, "you think Puck took the money?"
We all flinched when my father's fist came down hard on the table, save my mother of course. "How well do you know him?" he demanded.
"Uhh - well, he uhh tried to hit on me in a nightclub once and -"
My mother scoffed, slurring, "talk about barking up the wrong tree."
"And," I pointedly continued, not bothering to acknowledge her disdain, "we became friends. He's..." I shrugged. "Just Puck."
"What's his family name?"
"Puckerman," I slowly replied, utterly perplexed at this point.
"I'll go have Joe go over all of our accounts, just to be on the safe side," Rachel spoke up, hastening from the room.
The atmosphere was completely toxic, and I didn't want any part of it. So I stood up, preparing to leave.
"Where are you going? Dinner commences in ten minutes," my father gruffed.
I sighed up at the ceiling, before answering, "I have other stuff to do."
"What, like peeing all over yourself in a public restroom for the whole world to see?"
My eyes snapped to his and my heart began to gallop.
"Sit."
With that one word, my legs bent and I begrudgingly resumed my seat.
As soon as dinner was served, I shoveled quick trips of it into my mouth until the plate gleamed, not even bothering to wash it down with a drink.
I was out of there by nine-thirty.
Outside, in the dark of my red Mercedes Benz SLR McLaren, I fumbled around for my phone, relying only on the light from the many functions built into the dashboard. When I found it, I held down the number two button, letting it speed dial Ben.
It rang five times before my ear filled with the usual: "Hello, Ben Fullham speaking."
"Can I get the location of the phone I asked you about earlier?"
"Sure," he replied. There was some silence, and then the vague noise of rustling papers, before he said, "right now, the approximate area is Wald Street, central town."
I frowned. "Wald Street?"
"Yes," he confirmed.
Then it all began to fall into place, but just to be sure I asked, "isn't there an S&M place situated on Wald Street?"
"I believe there is."
I felt the corners of my mouth turn up considerably. "Subspace."
"Subspace?"
"Yeah, that's what the place is called. Subspace."
"Hey, whatever floats your boat," Ben quipped with a small chuckle.
I rolled my eyes. "Shut up wise-ass. I know it because I drive past there all the time on the way to and from my parent's place."
"Ok."
"And hey, if the location changes, let me know as soon as possible," I stressed.
"Alright. I'll leave the tracking map up on my screen. If the target goes anywhere I'll see it, and I'll let you know."
I could hardly contain my glee. "You're a fucking diamond Ben. Send the bill in the post and I'll throw in a bonus or something."
"Happy to be of service," he chirped. "Bye Santana, and have fun."
"Bye."
I couldn't start the engine of my car up quickly enough, the need to see Miss Brittany's face once she'd worked out that I had hunted her down, and that she wasn't nearly as in control of everything as she thought she was, taking precedence over even the most fundamental driving precautions.
I blitzed through red lights, cut other vehicles off, and broke multiple speed limits until I was pulling into the parking lot just left of the actual Subspace building. Once I was parked up and surrounded by columns of vehicles, I found myself wondering which car belonged to Miss Brittany - if any of them at all.
When I took my first step into the foyer of the establishment, I noted that the atmosphere was that of your typical low-lit nightclub, except no music could be heard. The floor was dressed in a deep red carpet, the walls swirling with a modern vector pattern that seemed to imitate the behavior of smoke.
"Can I help you miss?"
At the sound of that voice, I glanced to the side. A man, wearing a very nice suit, was stood behind what I can only describe as a black leather reception counter. He wore a kind smile, like he could smell that this was my first time ever stepping foot into one of these places.
I approached the counter, making sure to keep my head down - not that he'd know who I was with the beak of my snapback casting down so heavily over my Gucci's. But I didn't need to see my name in print again anytime soon, so my head remained bowed, even as I asked, "how much to gain admission?"
"We only charge men. It's free for women," he replied, keeping up that smile. "However, if you come in on couples only night with a partner, you both will be charged an admission fee, regardless of gender."
I nodded. "Ok."
"Will you be staying?" he politely inquired.
I nodded once more.
"Just make your way through there." He cast his finger at a set of double doors to his right. "That will take you through to the locker room, where you'll change into a white towel." He then disappeared down behind the counter, re-emerging seconds later with a numbered key. "Here," he said, sliding it across the counter. "Use that to open the locker corresponding with the key number. There will be a clean white towel inside, and you can store the clothes that you have on now inside of it."
"Thanks," I muttered, taking the key in hand.
"The locker room opens out to a staircase. Up there is where most of the activities take place. Enjoy your evening." He finalized his instructional speech with another smile, and I sauntered off through the double doors.
The locker room was eerily quiet, save a few who were shedding their clothes to slip into the mandatory white towel provided.
A middle-aged white man was getting changed over in the corner. I watched him in the same way that you'd watch a car pile-up; against your own will but fascinated to the point that you're unable to look away. He'd just lost his baggy white Y-fronts and was now stood there in all of his glory, stuffing them into his assigned locker for the night.
I hadn't seen a penis in years, but when I saw his, its appearance limp and baggy like a balloon that'd been blown up and let back down again, I knew that I wasn't missing out on anything.
There was no way that I was about to strip down to nothing but a white towel. I wasn't here for that. So I slid my locker key into my pocket and acted as casual as possible as I ascended the staircase that the man in the foyer had described.
Having quickly reached the top, I stole a few glances at the clusters of people that were dressed in nothing but white towels. There were a few average-looking middle-aged couples, an old white man accompanied by a gorgeous Asian woman with awesome full breasts, and a handful of black men. They were all filtering into one of the many tiny rooms lining either side of the walls.
"I don't envy the broad that has to clean this place up," I muttered under my breath.
It was dark, making it difficult to process exactly what I was seeing, but as I passed room after room my eyes adapted, showing me a trend of men who had their hands underneath their towels, tugging and moaning, whilst others watched.
Other rooms I walked past were inhabited by two women or more.
From the door-window of one particular room, I watched two women whimper shallow breaths against one another's mouths as they humped animalistically, whilst a muscular masked man yanked on the leather collar that was fitted around the top's neck.
"Holy fuck," I whispered against the glass, condensating it a little.
It was one thing to watch porn, but to actually see people having sex only a couple of feet away from me was an experience unlike any other. It was novel, this place. The idea that you could just walk in and get someone to have sex with you, without the need to shell out for dinner or make boring awkward small talk, was liberating in a way. I briefly wondered why I'd never been to one of these places before, but then I remembered the very real possibility of contracting a sexually transmitted disease, which crashed that train of thought instantly.
But make no mistake about it, I was severely flustered. The noises, the visuals; it was all making my head swim… and my thighs clench.
Just then a blast that sounded very much like the crack of a whip lashed out, followed closely by a loud whine. Like a sobering slap, it served as a reminder as to why I'd come here in the first place.
Mistress Brittany.
People gave me unreadable looks as I continued to trail the long hallway peeking into doors for Mistress Brittany. I put the stares down to the fact that I was still fully clothed, and kept up my search… but to no avail. Miss Brittany seemed to be nowhere in sight.
With copious reluctance, I had decided to give up the hunt, but then I caught sight of another staircase. Its rails were a glistening chrome whereas the rails to the first flight of stairs had been black. The man downstairs in the foyer had mentioned nothing about a third floor, which led me to believe that that was where the really intense stuff lived.
If Mistress Brittany wasn't anything else, she was intense.
Feeling like I was somehow now trespassing, I glanced over my shoulder to make sure that I wasn't being watched, and when the coast seemed clear I quickly shot up each step, looking behind every now and then to assure myself that I wasn't being followed.
When I finally reached the top of the flight, I understood why the rails to the staircase leading up here were a regal chrome. This floor was plush, like what a VIP area was to a nightclub. Extravagant chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and a long expensive-looking red and gold rug carpeted the narrow floor. The rooms downstairs had been tiny, unlike the rooms – or chambers – that I now seemed to be peering into. Everything was quiet, no groans of ecstasy, and no callous cracks of whips. There was even an elevator, which I assumed went down directly to the ground floor to assist all those permitted to use it in cutting out having to mingle with the riffraff just below.
To be frank, this floor made downstairs seem like a lower astral realm.
If Mistress Brittany was in this building, then up here was where she would be. I was sure of it.
Careful to be quiet, I padded by chamber after chamber, each one revealing itself to be void of any human life. Though I did notice that every one of them contained at least one wall socket – for electrical stimulation I assumed.
She stepped out of nowhere, startling and halting me in my tracks.
Complex blue eyes that sparkled like the tip of a knife pinned me from beneath the small beak of the leather dominatrix hat that sat on her head. The hat was shaped like that of a cop's, the area just above the beak studded with five or six small silver spikes. Her long blonde hair, the straightest that I'd ever seen it, rivered down past her shoulders and flowed like fields of gold into her flawless cleavage, which was being held together by what looked to be a red and black latex corset. Black fishnet suspender tights ran the never-ending entities that were her legs, their length only further accentuated by the shiny black heels sitting on her feet.
Our stare-down sent electrical currents trickling up and down my spine, and in that moment I was certain that she was the single most beautiful woman that I had ever seen in all of my life.
I've never been to a sex club, so if anything was inaccurate I'm sorry. I tried to write it in a way that would seem realistic even if inaccurate. Though I doubt any of you will call me on any inaccuracies because then that'll out your inner freak lmao! Google helped me immensely with my inexperience when it comes to sex clubs, so thanks google. Let me know if you enjoyed it.
Btw, what are communities? This fic has been added to two on here and I have no idea what it is.