Collared: [R-18 Homoerotic BDSM OneShot]

Collared

Water dripped and trickled somewhere along the walls or through the ceiling in the dank basement room. They could have fixed it up, the rest of the old Victorian probably cost a hundred thousand dollars to fully renovate, but when Slippers' PR team boasted a dungeon, they meant it in every sense of the word...not just the fun ones. Which of course, only added to the experience...if that was what you wanted. 

The employees were all professionals, experts at giving their clients exactly what they wanted. What they needed, really. Whatever would allow them to escape from the boring grind, the depressing, painful, blandness of everyday life. At Slippers, nobody judged anybody else. You could play in private parlours or the wide open drawing room or salon. You could wear whatever suited your mood...or spend your time completely naked. The only thing everyone had in common was the namesake of the club: their slippers. 

The clients at Slippers all wore slippers. 

Whether they were Dom or Sub, first timers or Platinum members, they all wore the same, personally issued slippers. It might have been to set them apart from the employees at a glance, or perhaps just a strange kink of the owner, but whatever the reason was, the rule was inviolable. They were beautifully made, comfortable, and came in every color of the rainbow so nobody seemed to mind much...if anyone did complain, they were respectfully shown the door.

Every club has its quirks. 

Erik hadn't thought twice about the slippers in the eight months he had been coming to Slippers. At this point, if his Dom gave the order he would eat the fucking slippers for all he cared...but tonight, as he knelt on the rough stone floor of the dark, dripping basement, facing the wall...all his mind could focus on was the fact that his feet were bare. 

Platinum members like Erik had certain perks built into their contracts. One of those perks was a private locker where they could keep outfits and any toys they wanted to bring from home...including the client-issue robe and slippers, which were dry cleaned by the club after each visit. But when he arrived this evening, the spot where his slippers usually sat was empty. He looked for them everywhere but none of the usually helpful attendants could tell him how to track them down or issue him another pair. Because of traffic he was already running late, a sin worth twenty lashes from his master. He didn't know if not having his slippers would garner a punishment, but he would definitely be disciplined for arriving late, so he hurried to the dungeon to kneel in his designated spot. 

As his mind calmed from a long day of facing his students a trickle of unease settled between his naked shoulders. Andre would definitely notice he was not wearing his slippers. Would he even care that it wasn't Erik's fault they were missing? Would he stop to listen before he punished him? Would he throw him out before he could explain? 

The anticipation of Andre's arrival was both torture and ecstacy. The minutes seemed to stretch but for Erik it was anything but boring. Even if he couldn't see his master, he was already in the scene. He stopped being the confident, charismatic, English Department head, who fought for students and represented his colleagues to the Teachers' Union. He wasn't the man with the answers here. Here, he was nothing. Nobody. He existed entirely for the pleasure of his master. He didn't have to think or make a single decision. When he was here, he was completely taken care of.

It was intoxicating. 

The dungeon was dark, but it wasn't cold, yet another hint that the unfinished harshness of the space was intelligently designed. Lit torches were evenly spaced along the walls. Their dancing flames cast interesting shadows on the small portion of stone where Erik was permitted to direct his gaze. He must not raise his head at any cost without permission from the master.