Throne of Sin

The Vault

Eve Pov



The leather cuffs bite into my wrists as I lean over the table, and I don't even flinch anymore. That's the thing about working at The Vault—you stop noticing the small pains. The ache in my feet from standing for six hours, the burn in my shoulders from carrying trays, the way my lower back protests every time I bend to deliver another overpriced whiskey to some voyeur in the corner. Pain becomes background noise.

I straighten, smoothing my hands down the black dress that clings to every curve, and catch my reflection in the mirrored wall behind the bar. Dark hair falling in waves past my shoulders, eyes lined heavy with kohl, lips painted the color of fresh bruises. I look good. I always look good here. That's the job.

"Table seven needs a refresh," Brea calls from across the main floor, her voice cutting through the low thrum of music and the rhythmic crack of a flogger coming from Room Three.

I nod, already moving. My body knows this dance—the sway of hips, the arch of my back as I reach for bottles, the way I make eye contact just long enough to promise something I'll never deliver. The clients eat it up. They always do.

Brea meets me at the bar, her blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, her own black dress identical to mine except for the way she fills it out—all sharp angles where I'm soft curves. We're a matched set, Marcus likes to say. The dungeon's best bottle girls.

"You look like death," she says, loading her tray with champagne flutes.

"Thanks. You're a real confidence booster."

"I'm serious, Eve. When's the last time you slept?"

I do the math in my head. Woke up at five this morning for the opening shift at the coffee shop. Worked until two. Came home, showered, changed, arrived here at eight. It's almost midnight now.

"I'll sleep when I'm dead," I say, forcing a smile.

Brea's eyes narrow. "Or when you collapse. Which might be sooner than you think."

"Rent's due in five days. I'm three hundred short."

She sighs, the sound heavy with understanding. She's been where I am. Hell, she's still here, working doubles most weekends. But Brea's been in the lifestyle since she was eighteen—five years of this world, five years of learning to navigate doms and subs and the blurred lines between pleasure and business. She's made her peace with it.

I'm still trying to figure out what peace even looks like.

"Table seven," she reminds me, gentler this time.

I grab my tray and weave through the main floor. The Vault is busy tonight—every table occupied, every private room booked. The dungeon sprawls across the basement of an old warehouse, all exposed brick and strategic lighting that makes everything look like a fever dream. Red and black everywhere. Leather and chrome. The main floor has the bar, scattered tables, a small stage where demonstrations happen on weekends. Beyond that, the hallways branch off into themed rooms: bondage chambers with suspension rigs, furniture rooms with St. Andrew's crosses and spanking benches, sensory deprivation chambers that cost extra.

I pass Room Two and glance through the open doorway. A striking woman in head-to-toe leather—tall, commanding, covered in intricate tattoos—has a man on his knees before her. He's naked except for a collar, his head bowed, hands clasped behind his back. She's making him recite something, her voice low and controlled. When he stumbles over a word, she yanks the leash attached to his collar, and he gasps.

"Again," she commands.

He starts over, desperate to please her.

I keep walking. I've seen a thousand scenes like that. A thousand variations of power and surrender, dominance and submission. It used to fascinate me. Now it's just... background.

Table seven is occupied by a regular—Derek, mid-forties, investment banker, comes in twice a month to watch and pretend he's not thinking about his wife at home. He tips well, never touches, never crosses lines. Safe.

"Evening, Derek," I say, setting down his bourbon. "Enjoying the show?"

He nods, eyes fixed on the stage where a demonstration is wrapping up. "Always."

"Let me know if you need anything else."

His gaze flicks to me, just for a second, and I see it—the hunger, the curiosity, the unspoken question. They all have it. They all wonder what it would be like to have me on my knees, to hear me beg, to break through the armor I wear like a second skin.

None of them ever will.

I'm halfway back to the bar when Marcus catches my eye from his office doorway. He's in his fifties, silver-haired, sharp-eyed, the kind of man who's seen everything twice and still manages to look surprised by human nature. He gestures me over.

"You good?" he asks when I reach him.

"Fine. Why?"

"You've been working a lot of hours."

"Need the money."

He studies me for a long moment, and I resist the urge to fidget. Marcus has always been protective of his staff, but lately he's been watching me more closely. Like he's waiting for me to crack.

"Some of the high-end clients have been asking about you," he says finally.

My stomach tightens. "Asking what?"

"If you're available for private arrangements."

I know what that means. Contracts. Submissive arrangements. The kind of thing that pays five times what I make as a bottle girl but requires giving up control in ways I've never been willing to consider.

"I'm not interested," I say automatically.

Marcus nods, unsurprised. "Just wanted you to know the option's there. If things change."

Things won't change. I won't let them.

I return to the floor, to the endless cycle of trays and tables and tips I count obsessively in my head. Two hundred and forty so far tonight. Sixty more and I'll make rent. Tuition's another problem—applications are due in three months, and I'm nowhere near having enough saved.

Business degree. That's the plan. Learn how these places work from the inside, then open my own. Something high-end, exclusive, safe. A place where people like me don't have to work themselves to death just to survive.

But that's years away. Right now, I'm just trying to make it to next week.

At one am, Marcus pulls me aside again. "Room Five. Client requested you specifically."

I frown. "Who?"

"Regular. Says he's scened with you before. Just wants a quick session."

I run through my mental roster of clients and come up blank, but I nod anyway. Room Five is one of the smaller chambers—a bondage setup with a padded bench and restraint points on the walls. Simple.

The client is waiting when I arrive. Mid-thirties, decent-looking, nervous energy. I recognize him vaguely—maybe from a few months ago?

"Hi," he says, too eager. "Thanks for doing this."

"Of course." I close the door behind me, flipping the lock. "What are we doing tonight?"

He explains what he wants—basic impact play on me, nothing extreme. I've done this a hundred times. I guide him through it with practiced ease, reading his body language, adjusting intensity, delivering exactly what he needs. He's grateful, almost worshipful, when it's over.

And I feel nothing.

That's the problem, isn't it? I'm good at this. I know how to read people, how to give them what they crave, how to make them feel seen and understood and satisfied. But there's no spark for me. No fire. Just the mechanical execution of a skill I've honed over two years of working here.

When I leave Room Five, Brea is waiting in the hallway.

"You okay?" she asks.

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

She doesn't answer, just loops her arm through mine as we walk back to the main floor. The Vault is starting to empty out—last call was twenty minutes ago, and the stragglers are settling their tabs.

I count my tips in the back room while Brea changes out of her dress. Three hundred and ten. Rent is covered. Relief floods through me, sharp and immediate.

"You coming out with us?" Brea asks, pulling on jeans. A few of the other staff are grabbing late-night food.

"Nah. I'm exhausted."

"Eve—"

"I'm fine, Brea. Really."

She doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push. That's what I love about her—she knows when to let things go.

I change quickly, pulling on leggings and an oversized sweater, scrubbing the makeup off my face until I look like myself again. Twenty-one, tired, hungry for something I can't name.

The night air hits me like a slap when I step outside. It's late October, cold enough that I can see my breath. I pull my jacket tighter and start the walk to my car.

My phone buzzes. A text from Brea: Get some sleep. Love you.

I smile despite myself. Love you too.

The drive home is quiet, the city streets mostly empty. I live in a studio apartment in a building that's seen better days—cracked tiles in the bathroom, a radiator that clangs all night, neighbors who fight loud enough to hear through the walls. But it's mine. I pay for it. No one can take it from me.

I collapse into bed still wearing my clothes, too tired to bother changing. My body aches in that deep, bone-tired way that means I'll sleep hard and wake up feeling worse.

But before I drift off, I think about the woman in Room Two. The way she commanded that man with absolute certainty. The way he looked at her like she was his entire world.

I wonder what that feels like. To want someone that desperately. To surrender that completely.

I can be stuck in my ways, but sometimes I wonder if I'll ever let myself find out.