“Are you sure?” slut asks, nervously.
“I am, it’ll be okay” she replies, leading him into the toilets.
The length of the room seems so long as Sonja hurridly, clasping Thomas’s hand, pulls him past rows of urinals and into the end toilet cubicle. Without missing a beat or a skip, Sonja gently closes the cubicle door and locks it, hanging her bag on the hook on the door.
“There it is, slut”, she whispers, pointing.
No time to think, no time to bail, no time to get overwhelmed.
“Strip”, again, whispering.
Taking off his shirt, and looking around where it can go, Sonja takes it off him and hangs it up on the door. Next comes the belt buckle, the clinking of the metal reverbs through the bathrooms, as the main door to the bathroom swings open.
Thomas freezes, hands holding his belt open, unsure, looking up at his owner for a hint, a suggestion, help. Shrugging and silently mouthing “I don’t know” in response, the slut remains frozen in place, waiting to hear, waiting for anything that will give him a clue.