Indigo

This really had come out of nowhere. She hadn’t even really had a chance to put on proper clothes before getting into the car - not even a chance to put on shoes. He’d just come in, told her to follow him, put the blindfold on, and driven off. Anytime she’d asked what was happening he’d stonewall, until she’d basically given up asking. She knew nothing.

That she’d gone along with it all anyway gave her butterflies.

Eventually the car stops and the engine switches off. Staying in her seat, hands in her lap, she hears him unbuckle and get out, closing his door behind him. A second or later her door opens, he reaches across to unbuckle her, and then takes her hand to wordlessly help her step out herself. All of this she does without complaint. Her heart is racing, but she keeps her mouth shut.

She hears her door shut. She feels grass underfoot.

The blindfold comes off. She blinks. She looks around.

She has no idea where she is.

They’re at the end of a country lane. She felt grass because, when he’d helped her out of the car, he’d helped her out onto the verge. There’s fields both sides, with the fields on one side just carrying on and on towards the horizon, the fields on the other carrying on until they finished at a tree line and there were deep, dark woods. This was the side they’d parked closest too. There was no-one else and nothing else around. Just them.

It was very quiet.

“Um,” she said, just-about finding her voice, even if it sounded much smaller than usual. “D-do I get to know what this is about yet?”

“Run.”

The wind rolled by after he’d said this and since all she had on was one of his shirts it made her shiver before she could reply.

“What?”

He pointed to the field and the woods beyond.

“Run. You run, you can hide. If I don’t catch you or you get back to the car, well, I suppose you win. If I do catch you? Well, you’ll win in a different way. Now run.”

She didn’t move. This had to be a joke, surely. He couldn’t be serious. Eyes wide, mouth hanging slightly open, she waited for the punchline. One of his eyebrows rose, just a little.

“I was going to wait until you got to the trees but I don’t have to.”

Not a joke.

Oh God.

She started running. It wasn’t easy. The field was dry enough, it hadn’t been raining, the weather was mild, but still. She was in a shirt, she had no shoes. More than once she nearly fell over and every time she looked back over her shoulder he was standing there, watching, waiting. The last time she looked was when she reached the trees, and that was when she saw him running, too.

Much faster than she had.

This wasn’t fair! He was cheating! He had shoes! Longer legs! It wasn’t fair!

Not that it mattered. It wasn’t meant to be fair.

It was much harder going through the trees. Barefoot, she had to be very careful where she was stepping. There were more places to hide, but keeping the distance between them was going to be impossible - her lead meant next to nothing, him letting her have a head start had just been so he could watch her run.

She was breathing so loud.

Hide. She could hide. She had to hide. Her brain wasn’t really doing a whole lot right then. The situation had overwhelmed her thoughts completely. Rationally, there was probably a lot to think about. Right then? In that moment? Gut instinct. Animal instinct. Being chased. Run, and since she couldn’t run, hide. Hide.

Another frantic glance back and she couldn’t see him, and then she spotted what looked like a good place. Fallen tree and plants. It’d work. She picked her way over, leaves clinging to her feet, and got down to make herself as scarce as possible.

This was fine. Didn’t matter it wasn’t fair. She could do this. This was a good spot, she could hide here a bit, could get her breath back. Then she’d wait for a while, make sure the coast was clear, and then she could get back to the car. It was fine. She could do this, and then it’d be done, and then-

“Found you.”

She yelped and fell over, scampering back on elbows and feet just as a reflex. It didn’t get her very far. Reaching down, he took her by the wrists and in one move hauled her back to her feet. It happened so quickly. Sometimes she forgot how strong he was.

“Good hiding spot,” he said, turning her around in place. “Just not good enough.”

The shock of the chase and the hiding and the being found left her trembling, utterly unable to move. Even if she could muster the wits to think of what she should do, she knew she wouldn’t have a chance anyway. He had her. He had her hands behind her.

He had rope.

“You don’t need to do this,” she said, swallowing, the rope going around her wrists.

“No, but I want to.”

She had no idea he knew knots.

“Come along,” he said giving a tug on the length that wasn’t now keeping her hands bound together. What else could she do? She followed him, slowly and carefully with her bare feet, as he led her further into the trees, and further away from any possibility of getting away. The shock of all of this was still there. It was leaving her feeling numb. Dumb. Helpless. Weak. Utterly frozen and just going along with whatever happened, yet aware. Like she was trapped in her own body, almost. Watching herself just follow.

He led her to a tree, not even an especially big one. Once he got her there, he started to wind the loose rope around it, and in barely anytime at all had tied her to it. Her hands held the trunk, and her arms were going nowhere. She’d let all of that happen, too, all in stunned and stupified silence. Her mouth was hanging open just a little. He closed it with a finger on her chin.

“That secure?” He asked. She stared with wide eyes but did nothing else until he tipped his head a little towards the ropes. Getting the point, she tried to pull herself free. It didn’t budge an inch. He smiled. “That’s secure.”

With that he moved behind her, his hands coming to rest on her hips. She heard him sigh.

“Mine,” he said, more to himself than to her, hands running contentedly up and down her sides before settling back on her hips again. “Sometimes it’s easy to forget that, ultimately, it’s only my choices that matter. Hmm? Nod.”

She nodded.

“Good girl.”

His hands began to roam. One stayed in place to keep her still and to keep her pressed against him and the bulge she could feel pressing into her from behind, the other went off to enjoy what was his. She trembled, and she groaned when he groped her through the shirt. The casually possessive way he did it. She was just for him. Something of his. And he was enjoying that.

“I could have you helpless at home, of course,” he said, as though he wasn’t playing with her tits with her tied to a tree in the woods. “Like that time I left you gagged and tied with the wand for a little bit when I went to go see a friend. I could have done that. But there’s just something about the chase. I was thinking about it. I wanted to see it. And I wanted you to feel it. And then I wanted you here, like this.”

He’d started lifting the shirt up, and as it rose up to her waist he paused, and actually looked down.

“This whole time you weren’t wearing anything under this?”

“Y-you… you didn’t say… say I… could…”

Underwear was one of those decisions that were obviously and explicitly his, rather than just implicitly his. Since he hadn’t said what she should wear and since she hadn’t originally planned on leaving the house she’d just taken it to mean she shouldn’t wear any at all. Even when he didn’t choose, he was still choosing for her.

His hand went between her legs, and her legs parted. A reflex. So well trained.

“I’d sort of hoped to take them off and just shove them in your mouth to help keep you quiet but, well, it isn’t like there’s anyone to bother out here anyway. This works too.”

Without warning he pulled her backwards. She yelped and was left bent forward, arms ahead, legs apart. The only thing that was keeping her from falling face-first was the rope keeping her attached to the tree. She was going to say something about it but he saw this coming and the smack on her bare rear cut her off before she’d so much as taken a breath.

She heard a belt being unbuckled. She felt his cock nestle up between her thighs, against her slit.

Some tiny, tiny part of her - maybe the part still thrumming with the adrenaline of it all - chose this moment to try and make a stand, to make a point. She moved to at least stand up but, his hands still holding her, he stopped her. Easily.

“Ah, no. Come on,” he said, chiding, and when she made to try and say something again, he again gave her another smack on the rear. This one stung more. She kept her mouth shut, at least until his running the head of his cock up and down the length of her made it open again. “It’s cute you tried, but come on. All I’d need to do is ask. I’d have you like this against the tree without the rope, if I wanted. But I wanted this. So shh.”

It was true, even if that tiny, tiny part of her wanted to try and argue it wasn’t.

And that tiny part of her disappeared the instant he started sliding his cock into her.

“There you go…” he sighed, hilting and just taking a moment to enjoy it as she clenched and panted and pushed back into him thoughtlessly. Her doing this, her obvious need, was what really got him started. Fingers digging into her hips, he fucked her.

It carried the same energy as the chase. Urgency. Vulnerability. It was raw. He could (and did) fuck her anytime he wanted, just about anywhere he felt like. But he’d wanted to catch her first. He’d wanted to hear the noise she’d make when he found her hiding spot. See the look on her face when she saw he’d brought rope. 

And she’d wanted those things too, now, she knew.

Hanging from the tree and held by him she just relaxed. This was out of her control. This was just happening to her, and she loved it. There was nothing she could do and nothing she could even think about anyway, other than his cock and how perfectly it filled her every time he pushed against her. Made for him, made for this. Everything else dropped away.

Until he said:

“I’m not going to pull out. That’s not a problem is it though, because you’ve been remembering to take… oh… you haven’t have you?”

How he asked made it very, very obvious that he knew the answer. She did, too. Her eyes widened briefly before the feeling of his cock pounding into her knocked the spike of panic she’d felt right out of her head. Still, something stayed, and she tried to answer:

“N-n-n-”

He didn’t let her finish.

“But you still don’t have any problems with me cumming inside you. Right?”

She kept trying to talk but he put his thumb in her mouth and she started sucking without thinking, and anything like words she might have had in mind all melted away. She moaned and sucked and when, a few seconds later, he let out a quiet grunt and pushed as hard into her as he could go, she moaned even louder.

They stayed locked, not really moving beyond a little tremble running through both of them.

Not pulling out, he bent forward over her and gave her a kiss on the neck before saying quietly:

She got a new job. A good one. Marketing director for a company that made something boring and necessary, the kind of job that came with health insurance and a 401k. She showed up early. She stayed late. She impressed people. Her boss used the word "high potential" in her six-month review, and she didn't just hear it as "you'd make a good pet," which was progress.

She started running. Not far, not fast, but enough that her body felt like something she inhabited rather than something others used. She ate vegetables. She called her mother on Sundays. She went on dates with men who were nice and respectful and didn't make her feel like she was under their thumb.

She had sex too. Normal sex. The kind where both people cum and then talk about their days and fall asleep in each other's arms. Not to mention, she stopped calling herself a slut in her head while she did it. Stopped imagining someone else was watching. Not everything had to be a kink.

She was better.

Except.

Her phone still autocapitalizes "You" sometimes, a memory from years of typing it as a proper noun. She changes it when she notices, but she doesn't always notice.

Kneeling during yoga still does something to her. The instructor says "child's pose" and she folds forward and feels her forehead touch the mat and something in her chest unlocks. She breathes through it. Tells herself it's just a stretch.

She still begs sometimes when she touches herself. Not every time. But sometimes the words slip out, quiet and desperate, "please" and "let me" and "I'll be good," and she doesn't know who she's talking to and she doesn't let herself think about it too deeply. Oh, and she lets herself cum. That's a big one. Normal, healthy orgasms. Not the hours-long edging sessions that used to leave her stupid and shaking. Just regular masturbation, like regular people have.

She was doing really well, all things considered, but unfortunately forward progress can only last so long for fragile things that try to put themselves back together.

It's a normal Thursday when the cracks start to show.

She's home early from work, a rare thing, and she's done everything right. Made dinner. Gone for a run. Called a friend. She's sitting on her couch with a book and a cup of tea like a person with no baggage at all.

But she's bored.

Bored in a specific way. Like something is missing and she can't name it and the not-naming is only making it worse. The book isn't landing. The tea is too hot. Her skin feels tight.

She puts down the book. Picks up her phone. Opens Instagram, closes it. Opens TikTok, closes it. Her thumb hovers...

She could just look. That's not relapsing. Looking isn't doing. She's a different person now. She can handle it.

She types the blog name from memory. Of course she remembers it. Six months is nothing. Especially when she spent years there.

The blog looks the same. The familiar layout, the font, the cadence of the posts. She scrolls without reading, just getting a feel for it. Just checking in. She's anthropologizing her past self. That's healthy, probably. Confronting where she came from.

She reads one post.

It's nothing special. Short, almost throwaway. Something about how good girls don't need to understand why they obey, they just need to feel how right it is. She's read a hundred posts like this before. A thousand maybe.

But it still hits. Her thighs press together.

She knows she should get off this app. This is the exact sequence of events that led to all the bad times before. Late night, boredom, one post, two posts, suddenly it's 3am and she's edging on the floor of her bedroom, begging an empty room to let her cum.

She reads another post.

This one is longer. About corruption. About how the girls who come back after trying to leave always fall harder than they did before. About how the "better" never really takes, it just builds pressure, and when they finally break they shatter into something even more desperate than they were the first time.

She should definitely get off this app.

She doesn't.

Her hand moves without her deciding. Slides under the waistband of her leggings. She's wet. Just from two posts and the memory of who she used to be.

She reads another post. Touches herself while she reads. Doesn't let herself cum. That would be giving in. That would be admitting something. She can edge a little and go to bed and pretend this didn't happen.

An hour passes.

She's on the floor now. She doesn't remember moving to the floor, but here she is, on her knees, one hand between her legs, scrolling with the other. Her leggings are around her thighs. She's making sounds she hasn't made in months. Whimpers. Little pleas. The begging she told herself was beneath the new her.

She doesn't cum. She won't let herself cum. If she doesn't cum, this doesn't count. If she doesn't cum, she's still better. She's just having a moment. A slip. Everyone slips.

Two hours.

She's crying now. Not sad crying. The other kind. The kind that happens when you've been edging so long your body doesn't know what else to do with the sensation. Her clit is swollen and throbbing and she can't stop touching it and she can't let herself finish and she can't get off this fucking app.

The posts keep coming. She reads them all. Drinks them like water after a drought. Her brain is getting fuzzy, that familiar fog she used to chase for hours. She missed it. God, she missed it. All those months of being better and she never felt like this. Never felt this alive, this desperate, this much like herself.

"I'm a slut," she whispers, testing it out.

The word lands in her chest and explodes into warmth. She says it again. Adds more words.

Dumb slut. Desperate slut. Pathetic, needy, cock-drunk slut who can't stop scrolling.

She cums.

Six months of healthy orgasms revealed as pale imitations of this. She screams into her empty apartment and shakes and cries and keeps rubbing because one isn't enough, she needs more, she needs to make up for all the time she wasted pretending she didn't need this.

She cums again. And again. Until she's too sensitive to touch and too fucked out to move and she's just lying on her floor in the dark, leggings around her ankles, phone still glowing with the blog she never should have visited.

The next morning she calls in sick to work. First time in six months. She spends the day on her knees, edging, reading, scrolling. She creates a new account. Follows all the blogs she used to follow. Reblog, like, reblog, like. Her thumb knows the motions.

She finds the collar she'd tucked away. Some part of her knew. Some part of her was always waiting for this.

She puts it on. Wraps it around her neck so tight she can barely breathe.

By the weekend, she's worse than she ever was before. The job is a distant concern. Friend's texts left unanswered. The nice men's numbers are blocked. She's back to sleeping on the floor because the bed feels too comfortable, too human, too much like something a better person would deserve.

She edges for five hours on Saturday. Eight on Sunday. She loses count of the orgasms, the denials. She talks to herself constantly, narrating her own destruction, telling herself what she is.

On Monday morning, she opens up a blank doc on her laptop.

She starts to write.

About how she tried to get better. About the job and the running and the nice men. About the residue that never washed off. About the autocapitalized You, the kneeling, the begging. About the Thursday night when she finally stopped pretending.

She writes about what it felt like to fall. How the six months of "better" had only made the drop sweeter. How she'd been so afraid of becoming this again, and now that she's here, she can't remember why. She writes about the collar around her neck as she types, about the wetness between her thighs, about how she's going to post this and then edge for hours thinking about strangers reading it.

When she's finished, she reads it back. Fixes a few typos. Considers, for one brief moment, deleting the whole thing. Then she posts it.

She sits there, collar on, cunt aching, watching the notes climb. Watching other girls reblog her words, add tags about how seen they feel. Girls who tried to get better too. Girls who are thinking about getting worse. Girls who are exactly where she was six months ago, staring at a screen, telling themselves they can stop whenever they want.

She reaches down. Starts to touch herself again. Rubbing to the fact that she's not the only one getting worse. The disease is spreading.