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An older lesbian seduces a younger virgin.
Eyes of all shapes and sizes rushed up to meet her, as every gaze in the room swung toward the movement of the curtain. Amy bowed her head; many of the faces in that sea of life were familiar to her, customers from earlier in her time at the Olivan. Her new haircut seemed to be a message to them that she herself hadn't understood; Fiori had made some repeated suggestion that her new short bristles signified slavery, but who knew how that applied to the culture here? The other slaves understood, knew the ins and outs of this place enough to keep out of trouble, but Amy found herself tripping over it at every turn. She stayed still; it was best to just wait for instructions.
... Which, she supposed, was rather the point...
There was a screen set into the rim of the stage, angled in such a way that only those on the stage could see it. Mostly a flickering, glowing blue, one word was stamped in stark white, a simple instruction from the management to the center of attention for the night:
The sweeping pressure of the crowd, the tidal demand for obedience, washed over Amy, suppressing the shudder that threatened to take hold of her, as her eyes took in the order. What would happen if she so much as hesitated? Nothing good. Would the crowd get involved? It had happened before...
One hand drifted between her legs.
She was already wet. It wasn't even a surprise anymore. Even if her body hadn't proved itself Amy's own perennial Judas, there was a mixture of gases pumped into the Olivan that heightened sensation, strung out arousal in everyone within. Made the floor a beating core of lust.
Just as Master wanted.
Amy's index finger found her clit, lingered there, and she moaned. Right on cue, the holo-screens set above her bloomed to life, her own little exposure to the world. Even if she looked up she wouldn't be able to see what was being displayed, but she heard herself moaning in chorus up there, a different iteration of herself on each screen, as her own memories played for the crowd.
What was a show without a soundtrack, after all?
Sometimes Fiori played those images for her in private, so Amy was all too familiar with their content; whatever machinery reached into her mind and pulled her memories free seemed primarily interested in her time with Sander. Perhaps it found her modest exploits in Leadworth too boring, lacking in flavor compared to the collars and ass fuckings Sander had brought to the table.
Amy wished she wasn't so pale; her blush was so completely obvious to the crowd. They could see exactly how ashamed she was.
Still, she didn't dare stop; she spread her knees wide, like the audience liked, and let them see her fingers plunge into her sopping wet pussy. The sound system picked up every damp noise, every squelch, and ensured it got to the audience in crystal clarity. When her breathing labored, hitched in her throat as pleasure climbed her spine, that too became common knowledge. Here she was, getting off against her will, and everyone knew it...
Close your eyes, Amy. Escape to somewhere else...
It must have looked like she was losing herself in her ministrations, and she even let her head tip back to complete that illusion, because the show was so important, here. Amy felt a pang of regret, at the absence of the familiar tickling of her hair on her back. It was gone now, of course. All that was left was the bristling mark of a slave; short hair for a creature without identity. Just a body.
Her lips parted, a high, feminine sigh escaping them as her thumb rounded her clit, fingers curling deep in her wetness.
The word broke through the moaning, groaning, lustful chaos of sound above like a brick through a window pane. The sounds of sex became somehow useless in the wake of it, vestigial to Amy's mind. Silence yawned in her mind, defiantly ignoring the show continuing above, and her hand froze between her legs.
And the Time Lord stood framed in the doorway.
It was a less dramatic moment than Amy was hoping for; only those at the back of