There are hidden depths to Sodom. Places that visitors will never know exists, let alone visit. Where else can the owner and the staff do their jobs, let alone relax when the club is closed?
One place is hidden in plain sight. A slim door marked ‘Supplies’ between two bathrooms, perpetually seen padlocked. If anyone thinks of it at all, it’s to assume it has the usual – a mop and bucket, some cleaner, some loo paper. Instead, it has something much more interesting tucked inside…
They don’t see him. They have no idea he even exists. But he watches them all. Sees them in all their depravity. Watches them wallow in their perversions, flaunt their fetishes, and enjoy every desire they never knew they had before coming to Sodom.
That’s his job. To watch. And so watching is what he does.
It’s his pleasure.
One of the simplest ways to keep all the clientele at Sodom safe is, simply, to keep an eye on the goings on. So there’s Tina on the door and Jake at the bar, and the owner moving around as the mood strikes. The floor staff circulating means guests are always aware they can ask for help or guidance, and the silver armbands mark them out clearly.
But visitors to Sodom don’t see the tiny earpieces, or notice the discreet cameras. They have no reason to look up other than to admire the cross-bars and the sling – who is going to look for a tiny lens? Those small apertures show Arthur two floors of fantastical filth, all night. He looks through all of them, sees the entirety of the club at a glance. Every private room, all the dimly lit corners (dimly lit for a reason – those recesses are popular spots), cage, the bar, the shower stalls. He can see them rimming and fucking, flogging and fisting. He watches the dance of picking up, making out, exhibiting, voyeuring.
Arthur knows he’s a voyeur too. But that’s why he’s so very good at his job.
Every once in a very long while, there’s something that catches his attention. Something not quite right. Perhaps body language reading of consent withdrawn, or too much to drink despite the low limit. When that happens, he notes the closest staff member and murmurs in their ear – and there they are, ready to keep things smooth. To read the riot act if needed, or give some quiet space. To provide water, or a firm talking to, or maybe a firm hand instead.
When he’s working, he’s utterly focused. While Arthur takes his pleasure from what he sees, he stores away the most appalling images for later, for his personal use. In his memory, he knows he will be able to recall them as vividly as if they are on the screen before him. And, if he needs it? Well, everything is recorded and kept for seven days before wiping. Boss’s orders. He’s never needed to refer back to what he’s seen – but just knowing he could is sometimes enough to make him spill, when he later berates himself, beats himself, wanks himself into orgasm.
He knows he’s sick. Knows he’s as depraved as all of them out there. But he’s in here. Removed. Hidden. That allows him to work, to focus, to get through the night.
And in the morning the owner will come to let him out of his chains, and out of his dank oubliette. His work will be done, and he can go and wallow in his own perversions once more.
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