Time stretches as I settle into the monotonous rumble of voices in the bar. My situation is made more bearable by the fact that I'm not the only one on the floor kneeling at someone's feet, so I feel less anomalous as the minutes drag. It's not an altogether out-of-place sight in the speakeasy. There are several women and even a few men holding the position.
Every bit of arousal I felt while we were in the dressing room has been pulled from my body, which I'm grateful for as my attentions are focused on my relative discomfort and efforts to concentrate on what transpires around me. The last thing I need is to be trying to sort out the complicated feelings of the way this particular sin affects me, that's not why I'm here. Although I was undeniably discomfited, I felt my breathing hitch and moisture pool between my thighs, which only fed into the level of humiliation I was feeling. It was an endless loop.
