#lukis writes stuff

Next to your heart and your lungs you can feel the latex pressing on your vital organs; you can’t inhale enough, and you can feel your heart muscles fending off the flimsy material. Some of it seems to pass into your trachea, too, blocking any air from passing in or out.

You don’t say anything when you leave the restaurant, simply standing up as Fallon rambles on about someone at work who accused her of using her Daddy’s money to get by. It’s not that you don’t care that she cares about her reputation—but, more importantly, if you had to hear one more second of literally any noise, you were going to start screaming and flipping tables.

It’s not too hot outside, but not too cold, either. One of those end-of-summer days where the light jacket you’d refused to take off when you’d entered the restaurant would keep you perfectly content. Now you wish you’d brought the heavy blazer you’d tossed aside at the last second. You would’ve hated lugging it around, but at least you’d have something to hide under as the world shrunk around you.

It's easy to know that Fallon is the one coming to stand next to you. She’s got that confident air about her that you’ve envied since undergrad—that kind of energy that guys in your profession were born with; the kind you hated until you saw it dressed in a hot pink pantsuit with a matching Prada purse.

Fallon doesn’t bother to ask if you’re okay. She and the few strangers passing by know you’re not okay just by looking at you—hunched over, hands over your ears, eyes screwed shut. She also knows how easily touch can set you off in these moments, as if you had become trapped inside the belly of a territorial dog, ready to bite at the slightest move.

She doesn’t say anything, actually. Not to you, anyway. Your hands are only so-so at blocking noise, and you can hear her going they’re fine, don’t worry to the occasional concerned civilian troubled enough to ask your companion about you.

You can feel something in front of your face and open your eyes just a bit. It’s her phone, a message typed out in her notes app.

Leave or stay here? It says.

You lean your head to the left a bit.

Fallon takes it back. My place or yours?

Your head snaps left once more. Your roommate works from home and, while she’s sweet, if you have to listen to one of her horrible meetings you think you’ll explode.

You look down again and read the next line.

Let me pay for the food, grab our coats, and call the driver. Stay here.

You nod just a little, hands still over your ears. You knew you should keep a pair of earplugs in your pocket.

Fallon does just as she said she would (or, at least you hope so, given all you can verify is that she’s holding your coat and ushering you into the black Suburban. You like that restaurant, and the last thing you need is for them to put you on their “do not seat” list for nonpayment). The driver, who’s always been understanding of your needs, keeps the car silent as he takes you and Fallon down backroads and through the suburbs.

He doesn’t even say anything as he drops you and Fallon off at her expensive condo, giving her a nod in the rearview mirror that she returns equally silently.

You know lots of people don’t like Fallon, that much has been clear since you were paired for a project in one of your advanced marketing classes. But the parts of her everyone seems to dislike (or worse, actively hate) are all the things you admire most about her; her drive, her stubbornness, how she gets whatever she wants. When you first met, you’d spent your whole life denying yourself anything slightly out of the ordinary.  You’d deny yourself anything your mother would’ve considered frivolous and followed every rule placed upon you.

It was horrible. You had felt trapped, walking into that marketing class. Every day an anvil would settle itself atop your chest, painfully crushing your ribs. Meeting Fallon was a true breath of fresh air. She helped you, in her own way, helping to stand up to professors with bones to pick and fellow students who tried to take advantage.

In that same strange, wonderful way, she guides you up the steps of her home, silently instructing you to lay on the couch. There, she piles fancy blankets on top of you (three, to be exact), from thickest to thinnest. She then grabs you a glass of water, cold, from her fridge dispenser.

“You want to watch something?” Fallon asks. You nod, just a little. “Blink once for something you’ve seen before, twice for something irrelevant to your interests.”

You blink once.

She follows your request without comment, sitting so that the side of her thigh presses into your head.

“Thank you,” you say after a while, voice small. For a moment, you’re not sure Fallon hears you. The thick blankets surely muffle your voice, the sound barely audible as the sounds of some television show you’ve seen a thousand times play on her flatscreen television.

Honestly, the fact people were gambling on your ability to survive hits you less than you think it should. In truth, you wouldn’t have bet on yourself either. There are no underdogs here; only winners, losers, and those throwing money between them.

You try and remember the positives of being back in Kate’s care. Warm beds, always. Food that tastes good and doesn’t come from a bag. Her large bathtub with massaging jets. Her personal chef. Her caves of heated blankets you can hide in during traditional New York blizzards. Her chilled pool during hot summers. Fleeting memories of your time on the street bring your gratefulness into perspective, choosing to ignore your feelings of inadequacy as people you’ve known for years gawk at you like a newly revealed zoo animal.

It’s not as if all of them are mean – Kate would never allow them to throw things at you, touch you, or even come within a few feet of you without her express and explicit permission. But their heavy gazes, their snickering…it all makes you curl even deeper into yourself as you curl against the large dog bed. Kate has bought a new one, the deep gray contrasted by “Kate’s puppy” embroidered off to one side. Your skin occasionally brushes against it when you’re sleeping, yet another sensory reminder of your place.

Natasha is the first one to really meet with Kate after your newfound arrival, the two of them chatting over drinks and dinner. You get occasional bites of the lobster rolls (one of Natasha’s favorites), but as the meeting leeches deep into the night, you’re too tired to do anything else but keep your form.

She looks you up and down as you remain in position in the corner, your thick collar keeping your head up and face forward. It’s a strain, but one that’s familiar enough to feel…nice. You choose not to lean into the comfort, just letting it warm you from the inside out.  

“The pet’s back, huh?” she asks as she shakes her head and turns back to watch Kate sign checks. Money laundering is a complicated business that requires careful precision and planning. These include cutting real, legitimate checks for fake, bloated amounts. Kate could have one of her assistants do this, but she likes to double-check the numbers – she refuses to be on the other end of such a heinous crime. “She’s prettier than I remembered.”

Kate grunts out a laugh. She’s known Natasha since the two of them were mixing coke with pre-workout…the redhead is allowed to make comments that would get other people shot. Still, Kate doesn’t need Natasha getting too big for her britches…even if those britches are currently skin-tight leggings that flatter her ass tremendously.

“Yeah,” your owner says, not bothering to look back at you. She’s still shaky in her belief you’re back for good this time, and doesn’t want to jinx it by going soft. “They just can’t seem to stay away.”

“Has it really been a year?” Nat careens her own neck to rake her eyes up your form once more. She’s not as into such discipline as Kate is - preferring a little more push and pull with the ones she decides to fuck. Even so, she can’t deny the scene in front of her is hot. Your form is perfect, with your back arrow straight and your gaze unflinching. Not to mention your nipples are hard as diamonds as they’re exposed to the chilled office air, and you shiver every so often when the air conditioning sputters to life.

Kate hmms after a minute or so, shoving the stack of checks into an envelope before pushing them aside. “And about a week. Time flies so fast, doesn’t it?”

It's Natasha’s turn to murmur a response, the both of them watching you now. It takes all your might not to look at them, keeping your eyes trained on one of Kate’s small vintage horse statues she got into collecting a few years back. Most of them were tossed when she moved into her new office after her old club was mysteriously burned to the ground after an undercover cop was found flirting with an escort Kate hires every so often. The insurance money was quite a lot, enough to build her a new office, and buy a whole lot of new decorations.

But that horse statue, somehow, remained unscathed. Depicting a wild stallion running through a river – its eyes wide, mouth open, teeth barred as fish flip uselessly around it, hair tossed from imaginary wind, and light brown coat speckled with dirt – you wonder if she had kept it for any particular reason. The statue, though dynamic, was neither large nor immediately thought-provoking. You also wondered why it was so low on the set of black matte shelves, given its old place had been higher and on an adjacent wall.

“You know what they say,” Kate leans over to graze her knuckles over your cheek. You don’t flinch, instead leaning into her touch. She rewards you with a smile. “Pets always find their way back to what they know.”

Natasha doesn’t disagree but does turn the conversation away from you. She’s not a prude, but watching you get eye-fucked by a mafia boss is not her idea of a fun evening (at least, not now. You’re always more interesting when there’s an audience). She’s certainly not against voyeurism, but in a world where she can touch…she’d always rather be at the center of the action.

“When are you meeting with the Russian?”

Kate takes a sip of her drink. The bourbon is just how she likes it, neat, and she hums in appreciation. She may be a very complicated woman, but she prefers a very simple drink. “Tonight. Said she’d come later into the evening when the club was busiest.”

If this were anyone else, Natasha would say something sarcastic, mocking the person for hiding in the sea of hot, sweaty bodies (not that it would work, Kate’s team of bodyguards are exceptionally well-trained in the art of track and trace.). But they’re not talking about just anyone, and although Natasha isn’t afraid of her…it’s just best not to invite the devil to your dinner table. “Makes sense. You know how they are.”

“Speaking of which,” Kate leans over and unhooks your collar, a sign you can lay down and rest for a little bit. “Don’t want her all worn out before our special guest arrives.”

Natasha says nothing. She’s pushed her luck enough.

“But yes, I’m intimately familiar. When they shave your head after kidnapping you and do it poorly, you tend to remember their cruelty.”

She wrinkles her nose at the memory – including the number of wigs she had to buy once she was safely returned. She was young when it happened, and her hair had long grown out since then, but her skin still remembers the itch of the growing stubble atop her head.

“Anyway, you know what I need from you,” Kate shakes her head to push the experience back deep into the recesses of her mind. “Everyone is hands-on, everyone tracks her. I don’t want a single person entering or exiting this club without us knowing any affiliations.”

It’s not as if Natasha knows the protocol – she was the one who developed it after an unfortunate incident with a Bratva a few years back – but she nods along as if it’s the first time she’s heard it. It’s easier that way.

As she goes to leave, Kate stops her – a wave of emotion cracking through her harsh façade for just a moment, before her steeled brow resets itself into its regular position. “Keep her safe. I can’t lose her again.”

The redhead just nods once, silently, before going back to the security wing with the rest of the team. Even underground, she can faintly hear the deep bass of a particularly rancid EDM remix, but mostly the only noises are the sounds of tactical gear clacking against itself. Loopholes in a military overstock program meant police departments were willing to exchange gear for cash with nonsequential serial numbers, and Natasha was always the first in line when silent auctions went live. It’s what she liked, it’s what she was good at: protecting, watching, strategizing.

She liked Kate trusted her enough to give her as much freedom as she does. That’s where she saw other mobsters fall—egos too big it couldn’t fit inside of them, imploding the whole organization from the inside out in a single generation. Natasha didn’t want to a freelancer anymore—the money was good, but stability had become more important in recent years. Maybe she’d gone soft, maybe she’d just gotten older. Either way, looking at the vast away of screens that covered every inch of the club and its perimeter…she felt truly at home.

Back in Kate’s office, you lay in your dog bed while your owner smokes a cigarette. It’s not something she does frequently—she’s a busy woman, she doesn’t have time to press pause every hour to hunch outside. Plus, she hates smoking with other people. She quit for the reason most people refuse to: the social aspect proved a worse taste in her mouth than the nicotine. Even the e-cigarette people didn’t find themselves outside, instead blowing fruit-smelling air into whatever closed space they felt entitled to.

Whatever, she sighs, putting it out in an ashtray that looks suspiciously similar to your pussy. I’ve got more important things to think about anyway.   

Kate sees the suit first – a muted orange with fantastical patterns woven into the fabric, reminiscent of tapestries she remembers from a museum visit from a job farther down the East Coast. The thread glimmers in the light, a subtle way to signal her importance. Heeled boots thump against the tile as she walks, her loose, bouncy blonde hair framing her face. Unlike most of the people in the club tonight, she’s perfectly relaxed. It’s as if she’s sitting down at a family restaurant she’s been to a million times before, confidence in her step you’re not used to seeing.

“Yelena,” she says, gesturing to the seat where – just last night – Kate fingered you until you squirted all over the floor. She made you clean it, but your face still heats at the thought of her sitting there. “Come, sit. I will have my assistant pour us a drink, if you’d like.”

Assistant. Its double meaning hanging in the air like a dark, ominous cloud.

Yelena looks you up and down, eyes raking over your form as if you were a painting she was attempting to commit to memory. Her eyes seem to see not through you, but all of you – flesh and bone and sinew. You’re not sure what to make of her heavy gaze, the way she stops every few inches for just a moment before continuing. People watch you, stare at you, all the time – some shocked, some less so. She doesn’t look at you the way they do, like a starved animal seeing its keeper dangle fresh carnage outside of its cage. Rather, she’s a fully fed bear, fat and happy as it revels in its hunting ability. She knows she doesn’t need to kill, doesn’t need the destruction or chaos or unspeakable violence; but she can. She very easily can. And that’s all that matters to her, and her prey.

You’re wearing a gag – that part isn’t new (she’s not some sniveling virgin) – but what surprises Yelena ever so slightly is that it’s shaped like a dog bone. Drool pools at the side of your mouth, dripping down your chest and covering you in your own spit. All you can do, though, is look up at her with wide, empty eyes.

That is, until you remember your manners and turn your gaze downward.

“I don’t intend to stay long,” she says. It’s not meant to be sarcastic or clipping. It is what it is. Still, as she looks you over once more, a small smile curls at her lips. “Bishop-“

“Kate, please,” the brunette insists. “We have enough history to be past that formality, don’t we?”

Yelena doesn’t correct herself, continuing to stare at you. Her gaze is so intense you can feel it without looking back, small fires igniting down your spine under it. “I see you found a way to occupy your time since we last spoke.”

You wish you could see her, but all you can do is stare at the floor while the tension in the room builds in the way one expects the crash of a tsunami. Kate keeps much of her time in the Eastern Bloc a secret lost to time, but you’re not that much of an idiot to understand what silence means in these spaces.

Kate gives a tense smile, stepping to give Yelena some space. You’re not sure if the guest is asking for it, or if Kate needs it to cool down. “Sit, please. We’ve got much to discuss.”

It’s hard to track the movements of their feet through sound, but the slight scrape of the chair legs against the hardwood floor is too distinctive to ignore.

Kate tries to ease them back to the intended conversation, the experienced gears in her mind turning as fast as they can. “As I told Melina, your ports would be an incredibly valuable asset to us, and-“

“What are you offering me?” Her accent is thick, her tone straightforward. It’s one of the things Kate likes most about working with Russians – they don’t dance around the issue, they don’t fuck around, they don’t ask her to read between the lines. They say what they want to say without preamble or metaphor. Life is easier when you know what kind of target you’re shooting at. “You want access to several multibillion-dollar ports for what, the shithole Jersey has to offer?”

Kate narrows her eyes. “Underestimating your enemies seems to be a thing with your people, isn’t it?”

Yelena just laughs. It’s a dry, husky sound, and you do poorly at dampening the flutter in your chest. “Governments are very temporary where I’m from. No sense in vesting yourself in something that can’t touch you in a country so big.”

Both women pause. In the distance (or maybe right next to you), you hear waves crashing ashore—the sound of car alarms and windows breaking and people screaming. It’s here. It’s here and you are stuck in the middle of it.

“What do you want?” Kate remains outwardly calm, combing through her knowledge of the other woman to try and find some middle ground. It’s true – dock access benefits her much more than her Eastern counterpart. But she’s made people agree to a lot more for a lot less.

The woman across from her hmms, but stays silent otherwise. It’s that heavy, weighted silence; the kind that begs for another party to ask a question, lower their offer, barter for less. It’s an anvil that hangs over the both of them, swinging as they work against each other to determine where it will fall.

“Sign this deal, give me access to the ports, and if all goes well I’ll let you stay a week with my puppy over here,” Kate says plainly. Your head shoots up and your eyes widen when you realize what she’s saying, that she’s offering you up as bait for this deal. The bait part isn’t so surprising, you’ve been used as a carrot much more than you’ve been used as a stick. What causes your heart to stop is how sincere she sounds. Kate’s poker face is akin to a brick wall (maybe concrete – a brick wall has too many imperfections to be compared to your owner), but you’ve known her long enough to know how her tone wavers just a little when she’s lying. You hear nothing, no notes skipped or rests added. Just a sincere, long melody that rings throughout the room in a minor key.

It’s not as though Yelena isn’t gorgeous – with her plush lips, soft face, and eyes lined with dusty eyeshadow. She has this relaxed air about her that screams “I know exactly what I’m capable of, and you do, too.” And if your relationship with Kate is any indicator, you’re very attracted to that energy. Still, a pretty unknown is still an unknown…and you’re worried your recently lost seniority with Kate could have devastating consequences.

“I can give you money, drugs, equipment, girls,” Kate tells her. “But you said you willing to come and talk, so I’m assuming you didn’t come here just to-“

“No,” Yelena cuts her off. Fucking bold ass Russians, Kate thinks. You’d think they’d at least let you finish “I want to take the puppy out on a nice dinner, a little…what is it you Americans call it?” She smiles, laughing to herself just a little. “Dine and wine?”

Kate doesn’t correct her.

“Whatever it’s called, I want to do it to the pet. One night, including dinner. That’s what I want in exchange for giving you dock access.”

Kate clenches her jaw just a little. You don’t notice, head perking up at all the attention on you. It’s nice to not be a little toy on a shelf sometimes, everyone staring at you but no one touching. Having merely the focus of one person is a nice change, especially in a restaurant as fancy as you presume Yelena frequents. Perfectly literate in poverty, you can tell this woman and Kate fall in the same tax bracket (if they paid their taxes accurately).

They work out the details on their own, details far above what you’re able to hold in your own brain. All you care about now is what happens next, your body thrumming with excitement. If you’ve gotten the attention of this woman, you’re curious of what others would do for you.

Kate cuts up pieces of the food to feed to you from her own fork, pausing every so often to take a bite of her own. It’s awkward, sitting there just out of view but so exposed, hands bound in front of you as you’re denied the chance to feed yourself.

Sharon blinks, face blank. “Must we do this now, boss?”

Kate just smiles, watching as you eagerly swallow the spoonful of mashed potatoes. Ever since your return, she’d had her chef prepare comfort food she knew you’d missed while you were on the run – macaroni and cheese, pot pie, chicken noodle soup, decadent desserts. Watching pleasure wash over your face with every bite was worth denying you all those months. It’s something Kate’s had to learn intimately; how torturous waiting is. Still, she knows she—and you—are better off with abundance of patience.

“This is the only time I have available to speak on this matter,” she doesn’t look away from you as she speaks, her tone light while her words pointed. “We can either discuss this now, or you can wait in three days when the subject in question is back in position.”

The blonde’s jaw sets, her hands balling into fists under the lip of Kate’s massive oak desk. It’s not like she’s some prude, like that one guard who lasted twenty-four hours before begging to be moved to another post. She just knows that, less than four feet away, you’re clad in only soft panties and a large t-shirt that shows off your hardened nipples, collar jingling with each movement and your hands kept inert. If she had her way, she’d be bending you over and filling your holes with her fingers, laughing as you wept from the pleasure.

She’s not a prude, she’s just really fucking horny and wants to go home so she can watch the most intense porn she can find. Alone. With her vibrator and thruster and noise-canceling headphones and maybe an expensive bottle of Scotch. Or an edible. She doesn’t know, yet – part of the joy for her is sitting with the process and going with whatever sings to her heart the most.

So, Sharon shoves down the memory of your moans, of past promises of letting you loose in Kate’s mansion while Kate’s most trusted within the organization hunt you down like prey. She digs her nails into her palm as a distraction, but all it does is think of them digging into your hips.

“Are you really going to let her do that?”

Kate doesn’t move a muscle, and, for a split second, her blonde counterpart thinks she’s going to crack. Sharon knows what you mean to her, what your return symbolizes. When you decided to leave, Sharon remembers how angry she was, how often Kate came home with bloody knuckles or a split lip from forcing Nat to spar with her. To have you back and then immediately do something she’s never done before with you—letting someone outside their tight-knit group lay any sort of claim on you…it worries her.

But she’s Kate fucking Bishop, she has no flaws, admits no wrong, displays no weaknesses.

“We need several billion dollars, and all we have to do is let our little pet out into the world for the night,” Kate says with a shrug, looking at you with the same critical eye of an art collector. “Seems like a good deal to me.”

“Plus,” she pets the top of your head as you nuzzle into her knee. “Yelena’s not an idiot. She knows we’ll be watching and if anything happens to my prized pet that she’ll meet the end she was promised by the Red Room.”

Sharon nods just a little, trying to imagine how much a nightmare tracking you, the Russian, and the Russian’s own security will be awhile keeping Kate in the loop. She and her team can get it done (not as if they have a choice), but it'll be the definition of a logistical nightmare.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Kate coos to you. You keen under her words, pressing your face into the side of her knee and rubbing your face against the fabric of her jeans. “Daddy will always keep you safe.”

“Kate,” Sharon can’t tamper down the bile that rises in her throat as she imagines a Kate without you once more. “You’re sure?”

She ignores her, instead forcefully grabbing you by the chin and forcing you to face Sharon. You let out a small yelp, which Kate simply ignores.

"Do you want to be a good girl for me?"

You nod, desperately trying to push the fear to the back of your brain. Needless to say, it doesn’t work – you can feel it oozing down your spinal cord and settling into your stomach. You’ll be good – you’ll do anything to be good…but you worry your clammy hands and shaky breath might give you away.

Kate pulls you back so that you’re facing her, forcing a whimper from your throat.

“Then don’t leave that Russian’s side for a single fucking second, you understand?”

You nod as much as you can, eyes wide with fear. You truly have no plans to run again—you’d spent enough time on the streets to know that even if you somehow got away (which, in and of itself, is about as likely as you jumping off a building and flying), there’s nowhere for you to go. You have nothing to your name, nothing to barter or trade for on the streets. Kate is, in all ways, the devil you know. Better her than what waits beyond her scope.

The woman holding you face smiles—not the kind that comforts you, but the kind that has you bracing for what comes next. “Perfect.” She pushes you away as she lets go, patting your cheek hard enough that you’re sure it qualifies as a slap. “I knew you could do it. Now, Sharon, walk me through the security protocols, please.”

Kate’s bedroom in her mansion is technically categorized as a “master bedroom,” but feels close to its own apartment within the house. It’s bigger—much bigger—than the home you grew up in, certainly larger than anywhere you found to sleep while away from her. She’s got a large vintage wardrobe that’s been fitted with the favorites of her toy collection, a huge bathroom with a tub large enough for three people, and a small kitchenette.

You have your own walk-in closet, too, not that you really use it. On occasion, you’re arm candy to a fancy dinner or meeting, or you need to catch the eye of a target to leave them vulnerable. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of clothes hang, sadly, mostly unused, as you clap (yes, clap, Kate is not one to spare any expense, especially when it comes to you) the lights on.

You wish you had been given some sort of dress code; you’re not really used to dressing yourself. Truthfully, you’re not used to making any decision on your own, and now that everything rests on you… you’re terrified of messing it up.

It takes what feels like hours, but soon you’ve got three options. A vintage satin wrap dress that hugs your figure but gives you room to breathe, a strappy emerald green floor-length gown with a visible slit that parts every time you walk, and a plush pink sun dress that barely hits your knees but whose sleeves and straight neckline give the illusion of modesty.

In the end, paired with black stilettos and diamond jewelry you’re nearly completely sure was stolen from the Met, you choose the wrap dress. You’re not sure what Russian mobsters like, but you think it’s a safe bet that they enjoy plunging necklines, a high, hidden slit, and perfectly winged eyeliner.

(Or, at least you hope so.)

The car Yelena said would come at eight comes right as the clock ticks into the hour, one of Kate’s servants alerting you to its presence as it pulls into the winding driveway. It’s empty, save the driver, who attempts to neither greet you nor converse with you. He opens the door for you and helps you over the curb, certainly, but the car ride there is completely silent.

Wherever you go, someone seems to be right at your side. The driver escorts you into the restaurant, and the hostess walks you to the far back, where Yelena is already sitting at a perfectly set table in a private room.

“Sit,” she says, pouring champagne into shiny fancy glasses. “We have much to discuss.”

You do as you’re told, taking a champagne flute from her. Initially, you’d hope the alcohol would calm your nerves. Now, you’re settling for it warming your skin.

“It’s nice to have you alone, маленький щенок. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Your face heats—you know your existence is the elephant in the room in many meetings with Kate, but having people know you when you don’t know them has never gotten less strange. Still, your lightweight nature begins to mask itself as bravery as you down the rest of the bubbly liquid. “Anything in particular?”

Apparently, the champagne, while calming your nerves, also dulled your inhibitions.

Yelena, to her credit, just laughs. Like her voice, it’s deep and raspy and goes straight to your center.

“Just that you are a very, very good girl who would do anything for her beloved owner.”

Her energy is electric, enigmatic. This must be what Eve felt like in the garden, with the snake swirling around her in its impossible size. Truthfully, you’d bite into anything Yelena asked you to, if she did it in the same way she asked the waiter for a booth in the corner or how she requested a more “balanced” selection of wine from the sommelier. She even lets you order for yourself, something Kate has never let you do.

It’s interesting to see the differences between the two of them.

As you watch Yelena cut a thin bite of bloodied steak, though, you realize how similar they really are. Yelena, like a knife with an intricately carved handle, and Kate, like a baseball bat with blood in its grooves, may not be mirror images of each other. It is easy to imagine, though, the both of them, side by side, waiting for their turn to torture someone who had wronged them in some way. Danger, regardless of its form, settles its heated self into your lower abdomen.

The conversation is light, flirty. It reminds you of a first date, the kind you went on before Kate domesticated you. You feel…warm, the light of her gaze. It’s hazy, too, the way a fire is in the wee hours of the morning. You feel that same sort of flush, that sort of vulnerability that only reveals itself in the hours before the birds start to sing. It feels both like decades and like seconds before you’re splitting a cherry crème brule and Yelena is sliding the waiter her black card. She holds you close to her with her arm around your waist, her thumb drawing small circles even as the directs you into a black car with the same driver as before. The ride is a daze, her hands dancing over your skin in complete silence.

She guides you into your destination—a hotel—in the same manner, the doorman pointedly making an effort to keep you from his eyeline.

The name of the place doesn’t register until you’re stepping into the lobby, a hand on your waist guiding you to an elevator hidden off to the side. Of course – this is the expensive hotel Kate gets rooms in sometimes to house guests she wants to keep an eye on. Yelena booked her own accommodation, and you doubt Kate needs as much retcon on Yelena as she does for a normal client, but what really causes your breath to hitch in your throat is the cost. A week here is more than most people make in a year, and you know she’s staying for two.

“You’ve been here before?” she asks as she hits on the buttons closer to the top row. The penthouses, you recognize.

“A few times,” you answer honestly. “But never for more than a night or two.”

The room Yelena’s staying in looks exactly like yours did all those years back—modern, tastefully decorated, almost too neat. You don’t have much time to look around, though, before Yelena’s got you pushed against one of the walls while presses her lips to yours. She doesn’t say anything—doesn’t need to—simply bunches your dress in her hands to pull it off you.

It falls to the floor in the same way you think Marie Antoinette’s head did – smoothly, and with silent, eager onlookers watching as it finds its place on the ground.

You expect, or at least hope, there was more fanfare, more witnesses to her destruction. All this dress is getting, as you step out of it and deep into Yelena’s arms, is one woman’s lust. It’s easy to see, though, how anything the Russian does would overpower a crowd of thousands; in the same way her silence screams louder than an army, the way she tugs her bottom lip between her bright teeth says more than anything anyone else could tell you about her.

Her hand rests over your clothed pussy, skimming over the soft skin there. “What a good girl you are.”

You can feel the heat rise to your cheeks and over your chest. You wonder if this is what being burned alive would be like—the light tinging the border of your vision and painful heat quickly turning into pleasure.

“I like them well trained,” she murmurs into your skin. All you can do is grab at her shoulders, holding her close. If Kate said it was okay…

“I’m a busy, busy woman, little puppy,” Yelena peppers small kisses across the base of your throat, her soft, plush lips sending shockwaves through your body. “I don’t have the time to break the brats my…colleagues seem to enjoy so much. But you…you’d do whatever I’d ask you to, wouldn’t you?”

If the room was on fire, you’re sure you wouldn’t be able to tell until the roof caved in. Heat licks at your abdomen, sparks flying across your center as you cross your legs in an attempt to dampen the flames. It, needless to say, doesn’t work at all.

“Oh, puppy,” Yelena grins as the hand begins to ghost over your tummy. “No, don’t do that. Don’t hide from pleasure, my darling.”

Your mouth feels drier than a desert as you meet her heavy gaze, her eyes lined with artfully smudged black shadow. She’s stunning, there’s no way around that (not that you want to avoid it); but, truthfully, you’re also not so sure what she sees in you. It’s easy to forget your insecurities, though, when one hand is suddenly moving south and pushing your carefully curated panties to the side.

Her hands remind you of the rest of her—rough, skilled, no-nonsense. She teases you for a moment, ghosting her fingertips over your desperate cunt. You want her, you want her more than a man dying of dehydration craves an endless freshwater ocean. She knows it, too, watches through dark lashes as you pant and chase her lips when she pulls back.

It's only when you begin to whine that she slides her fingers into your dripping pussy, a moan passing her own lips the same as yours. “Oh щенок, you’re wet after just a little kissing, huh? You like it when I touch you there?”

You swallow the frog in your throat, trying to find a way to defend yourself. The choosing you, the conversation in the restaurant, the touches in the car…but your protests die in your chest as her other hand moves to your throat.

“Gotta hold you in place, щенок,” she murmurs. “Can’t have you running away, can I?”

She finds that special spot inside of you easily, like a scent hound to the hideout of a family of foxes. You can hear the beats of horses’ hooves in just under your ribcage, their owners hollering at the chance to hunt properly.

“I-“ You gasp, trying to find purchase against the wall. When the concrete doesn’t make way for your fingers, your find yourself digging them into her suit. “I-“

"Come on, baby, be good for me,” Yelena purrs. It’s sweet, sincere…but you also can’t imagine how fake it’d have to be for you to not feel a trembling in your knees. She could be a snake oil salesman, and you a harlot hypochondriac with money burning a hole in your purse, and you’re sure you would do whatever she asked. “Give me what I want.”

And so, you do – exploding from the inside out like dynamite inside a coal mine. It’s hard for you to keep yourself upright, and you find yourself leaning on Yelena entirely. She catches you, keeps you upright enough so you can catch your breath.

“I know, baby,” Yelena purrs, rubbing her thumb against the fabric of your dress. “I know, it’s okay.”

She holds you to her, gives you a moment to find your proverbial footing as the pleasure settles into the base of your spine, your knees no longer struggling to hold your weight. You pull back, leaning on the wall as her arms cage you in.

“What a pretty girl you are,” she says quietly, as if she’s merely confirming to herself that her assumptions were correct.

Your heart—the stupid, fluttering thing—thumps against your ribs as you reach for her belt.

Yelena lets you do as you please, finding your lips as your hand finds the toy placed just for you. “Mm,” she moves to nip at your neck as you spit on her cock, your hand finding purchase on the carefully molded silicone. “So good, too. I’ve heard a lot of rumors, щенок. It’s good to know so many of them are true.”

Heat rises in your cheeks and chest. You’re not sure what to say, or do. Even if you did, all of your focus is concentrated on releasing what you want from their confines. Yelena doesn’t stop you, but doesn’t help either. All she does is push you to your knees, one hand on the top of your head while the other guides the toy to your lips. You’ve done this thousands of times with Kate, with her own strong hands at the top of your head.

This is different, though, with Yelena. Different in the way swimming in an ocean is different than swimming in a lake; in the same way sexting through text is different than through a phone call. It’s indescribable but perfect, and you can feel yourself dripping as you lick up the length of the shaft.

“Look at me, красивая девушка,” Yelena murmurs, voice low as if to not startle you. She moans as you meet her heavy gaze, the corners of your eyes watering as you slowly swallow her cock. “Such a pretty little thing, aren’t you?”

You’d smile if your lips weren’t so thoroughly occupied, the praise hitting you at every angle. The warmth prods at you, urging you on, with the world shrinking until it was only the two of you and no one else. There was nothing, no one, who could break the focus of you on Yelena, and vice versa.

It's easy, with her hands on the top of your head and endless sweet nothings tumbling from her lips, to swallow her down until your nose was pressed against her pubic bone. She’s got a tuft of light brown hair on her lower tummy, a happy trail you’re eager to nuzzle into when you’re not pre-occupied with her cock.

“Gorgeous,” Yelena whispers, seemingly more to herself than to you.

Funny enough, looking up at her, you’re thinking the same thing.

She swipes her thumb over your cheek, following the outline the silicone makes in the muscle. “Absolutely fucking gorgeous, милый.”

Her praise spurs you on, pushes you to force yourself further and further down until you can feel tears forming at the corner of your eyes and your lungs fighting for air. Yelena just watches you, eyes full of awe and one hand at the back of your head, as you pull back and sputter for air before licking up the shaft once more.

“Enough of this,” she says gruffly, suddenly, grabbing you and throwing you over her shoulder before you can so much as squeak. You’re tossed on the bed much in the same fashion, her hands unzipping your dress and tossing your panties aside as Yelena kisses you. She’s rough, passionate, moving you without pretense until she’s on her back, your core hovering over her face. “Now this,” she moves her head enough to kiss as your empty, waiting cunt. “This is what I’ve been looking forward to since I saw you the first time.”

You want to question her—ask her how she knows about you, how she saw you when Kate keeps you under such close supervision. The curiosity dies as she grabs reaches under your legs to grab your hips and seats you atop her, her lips and tongue moving in tandem. It’s hard to keep yourself from rocking against her, and so you don’t. You grind against her tongue, your hands finding hers to help with her balance. You cum easily, quickly, shaking against her as she moans into your pussy. As the pleasure subsides you push yourself away ever so slightly, seating yourself against her chest. Both of you catch your breaths, the shared panting the only sound in the otherwise quiet hotel room.

When you’re finally able to look down, to see her blissed-out face covered in your juices, you’re mesmerized.

Yelena just smiles up at you, eyes half closed. “черт возьми, you’re amazing. Give me a second, and we can do it again.”

The next morning, Yelena drives you herself, waving away the driver who passes her the keys despite his concerned look. She opens the passenger door for you and closes it once you’re fully inside, getting into the driver’s seat after that. As she drives off, silence settles over the two of you. It’s hard to make small talk in your situation, and so you wait for her to say something first.

Luckily, she does.

“You could come with me, you know.”

You don’t meet her gaze, if she’s even looking at you. All you can do is stare out the car window and watch as the world passes by.

“Americans have nothing on us,” Yelena continues. You wonder if she notices your hands balling into fists. “I could keep you safe, if you wanted to run. It’d be very easy to convince my own people to love you the way Kate’s people do.”

The car stops—a red light, hopefully—and her hand caresses your cheek. “Look at me, щенок. Please.”

And so, you do. Apparently, you’re very easily persuaded.

“Not sure if Kate has told you, but you’re quite the talk of the underground.” Heat rises on your cheeks, the horrors of being known pricking at your skin like needles. “Like some kind of cat tossed out the back. Many people were following your path, щенок. Many people were following Kate’s path as well.”

“W-“ you stop for a second as her thumb rubs at your bottom lip, the lip she was nipping not-so-long ago. “What do you mean?”

 “I mean you are a trophy,” she murmurs, eyes flitting from your lips to your eyes to your heaving chest. “You deserve to be treated like one. And I’ve got a special place for you with me, if you want it.”

Yelena lets you look away from her as the light turns green, the world once again shirking its responsibility to be a quality distraction. The car goes too fast for that, and so you are stuck rolling her words over in your brain.

“I can’t,” you say when the club comes into view. “I just can’t.”

The blonde next to you sighs quiet enough that you barely hear it. She nods to the valet—some scrawny kid you’ve seen once or twice. Where your hands rest in your lap, you feel Yelena’s own sliding between your fingers and depositing a simple business card. On it is just a number, the characters a stark black against the thick eggshell paper.

“Maybe one day I’ll see you again, щенок,” she whispers into your ear. “Tell your владелец she can use the docks whenever she’d like.”

You don’t speak Russian, but it’s easy to tell who she’s talking about.

“Thank you,” is all you can say back, eyes wide and waiting. You worry there’s some catch, a bit of rope you forgot to step over that will make you hit the concrete face-first.

But you remain upright, familiar faces ushering you through. It’s still early in the day, which is something you’re grateful for. You don’t need to deal with the prying eyes of patrons on top of the pity from the workers who are mopping the floors and cleaning glasses. You pass a few of Natasha’s lower guards in the narrow, dim hallways—all of them staring at you as though you were a cow being sent to slaughter. They’ll feast on you someday (both of you know it), but you still can’t make yourself do anything but stare at the floor.

Kate shows no emotion as you step into the office, her face expertly wiped of emotion. Natasha, standing guard at the door, seems relieved. She and her guardswomen have always been a sort of Greek chorus, their reactions slipping through the cracks in their facades every so often. It makes their earlier expressions far more sinister.

“Go lay down, puppy,” Kate says without looking at you. “Daddy’s got some work to finish.”

You do as you’re told, taking your shoes off before sliding onto the dog bed. As soon as your skin hits the fabric you can tell it’s been cleaned – the blanket on top of it, too. It’s still warm from the dryer, smelling distinctly of the lavender dryer sheets she buys in bulk. The bed at the hotel was too big, uncomfortable in its never-ending borders. This feels closer to home, and you lose consciousness to the sound of Kate’s keyboard clicking and opera music playing softly from her desktop.

Hours later, you lift your head when you hear her desk light being turned off, the familiar click a moment of respite from the harrowing silence of the office.

She smiles – a small smile, but a smile nonetheless – when she sees you perk up.

Home? You ask silently, looking at her with wide, pleading eyes.

Home, she tells you through a silent nod.

You tamper your excitement enough to follow her calmly, her arm wrapped possessively around your waist as you exit. The club hums with the pre-opening anticipation, and your own eagerness mixes with the electricity in the air.

The ride home is silent, Kate looking more at her phone than you. She does, though, keep one hand on your thigh, and for that, you are ecstatic.

Once home, Kate grabs one of the collars and leash sets that hang inside a custom end table, a bowl of car keys on top hiding its true function. You drop to your knees without further prompting. It’s hard to fight the moan that bubbles at the familiar clicking sound, and so you don’t.

It makes your owner smile, and you preen under the attention. The hand not holding the leash cups your jaw as you, too, grin with her.

“Such a good puppy,” Kate purrs, looking you over for signs Yelena had failed Kate’s commands.

“If I see a single mark on her, I will kill you,” she’d simply said.

The Russian just laughed. “Going to be hard, Катя. How about just the neck?

Kate hmms, thinking about it. She certainly doesn’t need Yelena to pull out of this deal for something as simple as a few hickeys. “Fine. Anything below the collarbone is fair game.”

“Be careful what you wish for, baby.”

You do not heed her warning—you don’t need to. You’ve known Kate long enough to know exactly what you’re getting into.

“Come on, pup,” she says, standing up straighter as begins to walk towards her personal wing of her house. Just as she trained you, you stand and follow right behind her, eyes focused on the floor. You miss crawling, but know Kate likes to keep your favorites for when she’s really rewarding you. When you’ve proved you deserve it.

As you follow her, you pass a room that’s hidden from view - the door closed to warn the eyes from unwanted, unexpected visitors. Inside rests the larger pieces from Kate’s sexual collection - the full cage, the St. Andrew’s Cross, the coffee table with rivets made for rope. All custom-made to her specifications (and your body measurements).

It surprises you, just a little, when she doesn’t lead you directly to there. Kate has always preferred grand gestures to smaller ones, and that preference doesn’t end when she steps into the bedroom. Once, after receiving news a rival of hers was finally killed by another, second rival, she tied you to the bed and edged you for six hours. She set a timer and everything, telling you it was “an hour for each bullet in his skull.”

You swallow your shock, following her diligently throughout her large mansion. You like Kate’s predictability – even when it’s paired with brutality. This change…you’re almost worried, even as excited and the last thrums of your previous orgasms rush through your blood.

It all melts away, though, when you feel Kate come up behind you, kissing at your neck. She pushes you towards the bedroom—the shared bedroom—the one with the bed you’re rarely allowed to sleep in. This is her version of affection, her language of love. She would never say it, never out loud, but it still makes your heart flutter.

“Good puppy,” she moans as she pushes you against the doorframe, kissing you fiercely. “Such a good fucking puppy for Daddy.”

One of her hands snakes between you, cupping your heated mound. It’s still sore from last night, but that certainly has never stopped her before.

“You’re so beautiful, too,” she murmurs breathlessly. “My gorgeous ray of fuckin’ sunshine.”

The beating in your heart travels south, Kate’s hands roaming over your hips and ass and thighs as she kisses you breathless. It’s easy for her to push your dress up, exposing you to the cool air. Kate laughs, staring at where your very expensive panties were no longer present. “She took ‘em, huh?”

You swallow, not sure what to say. In truth, you hadn’t even thought to look for them—Kate usually makes you go without.

She just laughs, going back to caressing your ass. “Can’t even blame her, I would’ve done the same thing if I had the chance.” She moans as her fingers sink into you. They’re not too deep, but that doesn’t do much to mitigate the stretch. “Fucked a lot of good pussy when you left me, but not a single one matches up to this cunt right here.”

You yelp as she slaps your clit, moans replacing the sharp sound as she circles it slowly. It’s easy to love her when she’s the one taking the pain away, even if she’s the one who caused it in the first place.

Without panties, her fingers slide in easily – your wetness already pooling under you. Your pussy is sore, but it only adds to the pleasure that spreads in your abdomen. It’s the kind of soreness you can feel everywhere—your shoulders, your thighs, your stomach, your arms. It feels good to be a well-loved toy, you think. It feels good to be used, to be useful.

“So wet already?” Kate purrs, a humiliating laugh tinging her words. “I bet I could get my dick now and I’d be able to fuck you exactly how I want to.”

You moan—you can’t help it—biting at your bottom lip.

“You want me to fuck you, puppy?” she asks, smiling as you nod feverishly. “Good girl. Strip, then go wait for me on the bed. Hands and knees, puppy.”

You scramble to take your clothes off and find your place as soon as she lets you go, almost tripping over your own feet in your frenzied desire to follow her orders. The bed, luckily, has already been made, providing you with a wide landscape in which to stake your claim.

Kate appears behind you, it seems, seconds later. The elaborate strap she’s chosen is gorgeous—all woven leather and silver hardware. She has a plethora of harnesses at varying levels of similar and dissimilar to the one she’s wearing, certainly, but after she wore it when she made you squirt for the first time…this one had remained her favorite.

You shiver, just a little, when you feel her hands running over your hips. Kate guides you, silently, closer to her. The silicone brushes against your bare core ever so lightly, sending another wave of desire through you.

“So wet,” she murmurs, her fingers everywhere except exactly where you want them. You’re about to whine, to cry, to beg, to do something to convince how desperately you want her, but before you can even open your mouth, you can feel the head of the toy slip inside of you.

“Oh,” you moan, barely fighting the urge to collapse into the bed, to let her use you like a toy. You know, though, that she likes to be the one to choose your position—if she wanted you with your face pressed into the sheets, she’s put you there with a hand between your shoulders. “Oh, please.”

“You’ve been a good little girl,” Kate muses. You bite your lip, trying to suppress the slew of pleads desperate to spill from your lips. “And well-behaved puppies deserve rewards, I suppose.”

You don’t have time to breath before she’s slamming into you, the toy fully sheathed as Kate pins you to the bed.

“Tell me who you belong to,” she hisses, the strap stretching your cunt. Unlike Yelena’s, this one is smooth, ridgeless, with a bulbous head that ends in a cone shape. It hits that spot inside of you with the kind of delicious pain Kate is so well known for—your cries interrupting her commands. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

You can’t speak—you simply can’t. Your fingers grasp at the silk bedsheets, desperately wishing you had claws so you could hook them into the $15,000 fabric and tear them into shreds. Like a werewolf stuck in the middle of its transformation, the rabidness racing in your blood feels too much for your mortal flesh to bear.

And yet, Kate pushes.

“Say it,” she growls, barring her teeth as she thrusts into you.

“I-I,” There’s no way, no way you’ll be able to choke those words out, choke any words out – everything you want to say is lodged in your throat, stuck there like a fly trapped in a spider’s web. You thrash in the same way, knowing your fate but fighting against it anyway. What was that guy’s name? Sisyphus? He had it easy, rolling that boulder up that hill. At least he wasn’t getting his cock teased while it happened.

Or maybe he was…you couldn’t remember much of your early college English classes as a fire raged inside of you.

“It belongs- oh!,” you moan as Kate bottoms out, the leather of her harness pressing against the inside of your thighs. “It belongs to you.”

“That’s fucking right,” she moans, deep in her chest, as she fucks into you with purpose. “You’re mine, all fucking mine and no one else’s.”

Your cries punctuate her proclamations, hiccups and moans layered over her words.

“I don’t care how many other people touch you,” Kate tells you, ignoring you as your howls of pleasure. “I don’t care if every fucking night you’re at the center of some orgy. You’re mine. Not Natasha’s, or Maria’s, or even fucking Carol-“

You’re wailing now, sure the soundproof walls have disintegrated and are thin as paper—pieces of which flap against your sound waves. Kate, in her unwavering desire to ruin you for eternity, keeps going.

“And certainly not some goddamn Russian who doesn’t know when to stop fucking pushing.”

“N-no!” All you can do is wail, clutching to her so hard you’re sure there will be red marks down her back come morning. Kate won’t mind, though. She also likes a bit of pain to remind her of her own mortality.

“Good fucking puppy,” she whispers, panting into your ear. “Took a stray dog in from the street, gave it a collar. Look at it now, huh?” You can hear the smile on her lips—the kind hunters have when their prey whimpers below them. Kate could set a thousand traps, catch you a thousand times, and she’d still have that delicious grin plastered over her face. It makes you feel small, vulnerable, like a rabbit caught in a snare. You love it.

 “Such a good fucking mutt,” she moans. “Good fucking mutt who takes my cock so well.”

It’s easy to come, then, already sensitive and desperate and so deeply happy to be back with he woman you love the most.

“Yes, puppy,” she moans. “Give it to me.”

And so, you do, over and over again. Kate continues fucking you, even as you begin to shake from the overstimulation. The world shrinks to just the two of you, Kate panting in your ear and you swimming in pleasure. There is no one, there isn’t a need for anyone, to exist outside of you and her.

You’re not sure when it ends. Like an ocean in high tide, you can only wait for her to recede and grant you peace under her thick duvets. She wipes you down with warm, fluffy towels with Puppy embroidered onto them, cleaning your slick and the dried lube from your center and inner thighs. When you gasp at the feeling of the cloth against your sensitive skin, to which Kate just coos and peppers kisses against your sweaty temple.

“It’s okay, baby,” she whispers. “Go to sleep. I know you’re tired.”

Always the best at following directions, you allow unconsciousness to overtake you.

You wake up hours later, the darkness outside giving you no clues to the time. Your whole body is the kind of sore you haven’t experienced in years, the kind that reminds you of when your college roommate freshman year convinced you to run a 5K with her.

Kate sits beside you on the bed, reading some hardcover book about something or other. She likes older books, the boring kind you’d expect a dad to be reading in an old armchair.

It’s easier to deal with her when she’s satiated; when a deal’s gone well, or her product sold for more than she expected. She’s got a quicker step, and holds one hand in her pants’ front pocket as she smirks.

You’re not always the first thing she concerns herself with after her days go perfectly. She wants to brag—to soak in the euphoria of hard work done well with the people who benefit the most from her dealmaking.

But now, as she pushes sweaty hair from your face and smiles softly…it feels good. It feels right.

“How are you feeling, puppy?”

You blink, trying to clear the sleep from your vision. “M good, I think.”

Kate hmms. “Need anything?”

It’s only then you realize how dry your mouth is. “Water, maybe?”

She grabs it for you without question, reaching into the mini fridge hidden inside a less garish nightstand. She waits, patiently, until you’ve downed the whole bottle, before she speaks again.

“Now,” you can hear how out of breath Kate is, as though her restraint in not asking immediately after you’d woken up had driven her to the brink of madness. “Tell me everything she told you. I want every. Last. Detail. And I’ll reward you in ways you can’t currently comprehend.”

You’re not sure what to say at first, the fear of triggering Kate’s possessiveness is always a looming threat. What does she want to know? That you sat on her face? That she likes red wine? That her Russian accent thickens when she’s fucking?

Kate grabs your chin and forces you to meet her gaze, her eyes narrowed in determination. “Don’t think, puppy. Just tell me everything that happened in the order it happened. This sort of arrangement could change some things, could make you a much more important asset.”

You blink, still unsure. Kate’s eyes, though, don’t move from yours.

You’re soon glad you’re looking at your phone, though, because your droomscrolling is rudely interrupting by someone calling. Luckily, It may be someone who can make this night a little better.

“Hey, Fallon,” you try to ignore the flutter in your chest. Neither you nor Fallon were looking for a relationship (work always came first, despite your differences the both of you could agree with that). Still, the oil former-baronness has never left you dissatisfied, and you liked to think the arrangement you two had outlined one fateful spring night benefitted each of you. “What can I do for you this fine evening?”

You can hear her huff angrily, and you’re sure she’s already rolled her eyes. “Shut up.”

And…?

“I’ll be at your place in thirty. Food is already ordered. Have a glass of red prepared for me when I get there.”

You smile. It’s been a tough week, something about mergers and lawyers and the HR department. You’re not really sure, you work in accounting at a different media company, but from the whispers on Slack and the texts from Fallon…it has not been her easiest week. But her call comes as no surprise—this little ritual of yours, the food, the wine, the sex…It had become an easy way for the both of you to blow off steam. It was a good, simple relationship between people who had signed enough NDAs to know what to keep private. Like a Secretary of State to her therapist, the both of you understand the nature of insider trading and the risks it poses to both of your careers.

Still, nothing was illegal about vague, wine-induced gossiping. And so vague, wine-induced gossip you two did.

Food arrives only a few minutes before Fallon does, the woman letting herself in as you plate what you know to be her order (Caeser salad, light dressing, with a medium-well steak). You hadn’t started on the win yet, though, and so she poured two glasses of a too-expensive red.

“So,” you smile just a little, a bit sadistic in how cute Fallon is when she’s annoyed. “How was work?”

Soon, both of you are full. It’s the nice kind of full that has you sleepy, content, almost drunk (that could also be the few glasses of wine you’d consumed as Fallon ranted about having to fire another assistant and HR fucking up payroll again). Her hand rests on your thigh, under the blanket but over your sweatpants. Some cheesy TV show the both of you had watched several times over plays lowly in the background, but all you can think about is the feeling of her thumb rubbing back and forth.

Fallon never seems to notice the little things she does—now, the thumb; other times, the way she buys you lunch when you don’t text her during your mandatory lunch break. The way she offers trip ideas when you haven’t taken PTO in a while. How she cares for you in her own specific way, even if that way is hidden behind eight layers of obfuscation.

“What are you thinking about?” her words cut through your high-speed train of thought easily as a knife through room-temperature butter.

“Spreadsheets,” you answer.

She snorts. “I’ve been able to tell when you’re lying since before grad school.”

You snort. “Nothing worth talking about.”

Fallon rolls her eyes, a smile playing on her lips. “Whatever.” A beat. She looks you up and down, in that slow, predatory way lions scan injured zebras. “You want to go to bed?”

Both of you are creatures of habit, and so this is always how it starts. It’s a dance, a wonderful ballet, that begins with the same opening number. A disrobing behind closed doors, changing into comfy clothes and taking off jewelry. Your bed, perfectly made as always, makes itself a stage as you displace well-loved Squishmallows while Fallon scoffs about how childish they are. She tucks herself into your chest, using your forearm as a pillow, while you read on your tablet and she rubs those small circles on your tummy. You stay like that, pressed against each other, until she decides to shift herself upwards, so her breath fans across your neck. You’ll pretend to ignore her, until she nuzzles her nose just under your ear, leaving a little kiss on your neck.

Then you smile, not looking at her. She likes this dance, even if she won’t admit it. “You want something?”

Fallon hmms, her hand moving higher and higher until she’s tracing just under your breasts. “Maybe.”

That’s another thing about Fallon—she likes it when you make the first move for her. “Hmm,” you pretend to consider your options. It is then, silently, that you go in for the kill, placing your tablet to the side before shifting down to kiss her ever so lightly. Her lips are soft, always soft from her oils and scrubs and constant attention to her appearance. “This what you want?”

She furrows her brow, an adorable shade of frustration washing over her face. She’s a slow and careful predator, until something she wants is just within reach. What comes next is not a surprise, but certainly isn’t unwelcome—she climbs atop of you, abandoning any sort of subtlety as she tangles her fingers with yours and kisses you with her pillowy lips.

You know there won’t be much talking after this—moaning and begging and teasing, sure, but certainly no talking. It’s easy to follow the choreography you two had performed so many times before, dancers in each other’s arms as clothes come off and skin becomes bruised from teeth and hands. It’ll all be hidden tomorrow, but for now, both of you remain bare to the other in every way that matters.

Being with Fallon is easy in the best way; the way pleasure washes over you as she presses her fingers into you as easy as rain hits ones skin if they find themselves trapped in a thunderstorm. The only choice you have to make is to be present, to feel your fingers tangle into sheets and in her hair. To feel her tongue press against the most sensitive part of you and hum as you gasp your ever-approaching climax.

It’s a similar kind of easy to push her onto her back, to mount her while she grips your hips.

“You’re gorgeous,” she says, breathy and barely above a whisper. “Literally so gorgeous.”

As a teenager, the focus turned to your appearance. Reading and writing were joined by a hair and make-up session. You recited factoids and roleplayed conversations with other rulers and aristocrats and constituents while you were shoved into corsets and fitted for dresses.

Your entire life has led up to this day, to this moment.

So why are you here, picking at your cuticles, as you hear your family and allies of the crown celebrating joyously? A new queen was not a frequent occurrence, especially one who reigned without a sudden, unexpected death or drought. None of that had occurred—your mother, aging and desperate for a life of her own, had informed you of her plan to abdicate the throne on the eve of your 16th birthday. It would give you two years until they’d announce, and a few more for everyone in every kingdom to adjust to the news.

You can hear your personal guard come in, the formal armor clinking as she steps. She prefers to go without (something about stealth being the best protection), but given the occasion, tradition requires her to be in full regalia.

“Are you all right, your majesty?”

You bite at your nail, pulling at the dead skin as you attempt to ground yourself. Staring off into the distance, you say nothing.

“That’s what I thought.”

Peggy had been your main guard since you were preteens. You, trying to learn politics and languages and negotiation tactics. Her, learning the ins and outs of palace protection from her mother. She was much scrawnier back then, limbs resembling the branches of a freshly planted oak tree. Peggy had bloomed since then, all muscle and confidence. She had also, over the years, become your closest confidant.

“Princess,” she says, her tone knowing. You can’t see her smirk, but it rests atop her words like moss in a pond. “Didn’t expect to find you here.”

A crash, quickly followed by bellows from amused, drunken palace goers, stops you from responding immediately.

“Don’t call me that,” you finally say with a sigh. Might as well start getting used to correcting people now, you think. Though, your tone does not have the kind of royal tone you’d often heard from your mother. “I am now your queen and you will address me as such.”

She smiles softly, nodding just a little. “My apologies, your majesty, you were a princess for a very long time, and so it will take effort to get used to.”

You don’t disagree—it’s still hard to remind yourself to respond to the title when it’s called. You start to speak, wringing your hands every so slightly. “Margaret-“

“Please, your majesty,” she interrupts you, raising one hand to her chest. “You mustn’t. Now that you are queen, I think it’s best to refer to me as Peggy. It’s what my mother called me.”

As you roll the name over your tongue, the sounds feel like a tough cut of meat between your teeth. Still, it seems important to her, and given all she’s done for you over the years, you feel as though you owe her. It’s then, as you run through what it would be like to call for her in front of the rest of the court, that you let yourself smile just a little.

“It’s very improper,” you say quietly, as though someone could hear you admit to entertaining such a thought.

Peggy just grins—big and toothy. You ignore the way your heart swells at the sight. “That it is.”

“And what would the queen mother think?”

“What the old crone doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

It’s hard to suppress a laugh in your state, the giggles overwhelming your defenses within seconds. It sometimes feels as though your mother is a lighthouse at the center of the sea, locating ships with horrifying precision. Queen or not, the thought of her knowing you’re deviating from her desires spikes fear in your gut. A terrifying woman, it’s easy to treat her the same way one treats a prison guard.

But then you think of your mother—not the queen, but the little bit of her that exists outside of the demands of royal life. She’d been queen for years when she was your age, your grandmother succumbing during the birth of her youngest brother. Within hours after he entered the world, your uncle became an orphan and your mother became a queen. Their roles overtook them, both of them mourning as they grew into their roles. It was your mother’s job to rule. It was his job to remain as far from the public eye as possible.

“Are you okay, your majesty?”

Peggy places her hand on your shoulder. You can feel her thumb rubbing into the sore muscles there, and you wish she could apply that pressure to every inch of your skin. She allows you to sit with your non-reply, the nice quiet a welcome change from the cacophony of noise. She looks you up and down a few times, noticing the way you wring your hands and how you bite at your bottom lip.

You don’t know it, but she watches you in the same way she did when you were teenagers. She couldn’t stop, watching as you both grew to fit the titles you were expected to live up to as adults.

But she can’t do anything about it—not now. Not until the time is right.

“May I?”

You nod.

She takes the crown from your head, holding it gingerly as she inspects it. You were able to design your own crown given the circumstances. It all had to be kept under a veil of secrecy, of course—the jewelers and blacksmiths were sequestered until everything had finished, and even then were sworn to secrecy for fear of beheading.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” You sound more mournful than you intended. It really is beautiful, is the worst part. A half-circle peaking in the middle, pearls topping each peak. At the center, swinging as your knight holds it in her calloused hands, rests a dangling cameo made of ivory and obsidian.

“An orchid?” Peggy asks, that same smirk as before teasing at her lips.

You nod. “It represents love and thoughtfulness. My mother’s favorite.”

Peggy hmms, turning it in her hands again. The gold shimmers in the low candlelight, catching as the fat flames flicker. “It looks like a cunt.”

You just shrug, unable to comment on the likeness. Many of the knights were crude, almost alarmingly so, but the only experience you had with your center had been your monthly bleeding and the occasional anatomy lesson from an exasperated nanny.

“Yours looks prettier, though.”

You blink once, twice; bewildered by her comment. Any witty retort you might have made drowns in the confusion, your brow furrowing and heart racing.

“Wh…what did you just say?”

“I said,” she moves to where you are, her nose brushing against yours from how close you are. “Your pussy is much prettier than any gem you could put in front of me.”

You’re not sure what to say—mouth agape as you attempt to process what she’s said. Though neither of you had addressed whatever it was that crackled between you, neither of you had done much to dampen it, either.

“What would your royal friends think, hm?” Peggy moans, a slight laugh coating her teasing. “I wonder how the rest of the court would react to you defiling the good name of your foremothers.”

She knows what she’s doing—poking and prodding at the sense of duty you’ve shared since you were old enough to understand the importance of longevity to the royal lineage. You’ve spent your entire life dedicated to the well-being of the crown, allowing your family and their most trusted allies to contort you into the perfect royal to lead your kingdom. It’s your purpose, it’s your only skill, it’s your only option.

If your mother had remained queen, she would have picked out some nice man for you to marry. A younger brother perhaps, whose power wouldn’t rival your own but still allowed your kingdom to gain some sort of leverage or asset. Normally these are done in childhood, sometimes they’re signed as soon as the sex is confirmed in the birthing room. You had escaped such a fate, in contrast to your sisters. Escaped only to find yourself in another possible trap.

“Retiring for the night?” Your head shoots up to see your mother’s lady-in-waiting, a much older woman who’d been in the castle since your mother’s teenage years, standing in the doorway. It’s then that you realize that you are tired, and move to rub at the dark circles under your eyes, not unlike the children of various royals whose bedtimes were hours ago. The rush of emotions, the pounding heartbeat, the awareness of your entire body…it feels as though you had been running through a field with reckless abandon and very suddenly met the kingdom’s sturdiest oak tree.

“Yes, I believe so.”

Her face softens, memories of your mother’s coronation rising. The woman has always said you look just like your mother did at your age, something you’ve never been able to fully process. “I understand. The queen requests-“she pauses for just a second before correcting herself. “The queen mother requests to see you before you disappear.”

You smile, nodding in affirmation. Before you can dust off your dress and stand, Peggy offers you her hand for stability. Your refusal dies into a hesitation when you realize a witness remains.

As you stand, she pulls you to her quick enough to make it look as if you had fallen. “I’ll meet you in your room, your majesty,” she whispers lowly into your ear. Before you can react, she straightens you into a standing position. Louder, she speaks again. “Now come along so we can find your darling mother.”

Lucky for you, no one has become caught in one of her famous conversations that can last for an hour or more.

“He and his guard will be staying for the next week or so,” she grins. It’s that real kind of smile, one that hasn’t graced your mother’s face in a long, long time. It stings, just a little.

You attempt to mirror her face, but you can feel how vacant your eyes look. “That’s wonderful, Mother. I’m glad such a close ally of the family will be our first guests after our coronation.”

The older woman pointedly ignores the flatness of your tone. “He’s wished to speak with you before he leaves.”

Great, you think. Lord Rogers is…an interesting man, certainly. Famously easy to anger and hard-headed, he only seems to care about women and ale. More accurately, he cares about women who are willing to put up with him while he drinks ale. Neither are hobbies of yours and so he has decided you are not worth respecting.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Your hands shake ever slightly as you find your way back to your quarters, the ringing in your ears drowning out the harshness of your steps. You nod to the two guards—Natasha and Valkyrie—who open the hefty door for you. There, sitting in your vanity chair, lies your loyal knight.

You’re unsure of what you should say, and so you say nothing.

“I’ve wanted you for as long as I’ve known what it is to want,” Peggy says, still seated.

“My reputation would never recover if anyone found out,” is all you can reply. Maybe the thought of your legacy crumbling would knock some sense into her.

The woman across from you just smiles. “That was when you were simply a princess. But you are queen now, so we’re free to do as we wish.”

You step back, watching with wide eyes as she moves to undo her ceremonial armor. Each time the metal pieces hit each other, you flinch at the small clang. The sound of metal reminds you far too much of violence, and you’ve never been one for that.

“Queens still have reputations, Peggy,” your protest is weak…but is a protest, nonetheless. Affairs like this could ruin a royal, send them tumbling into a well of scandal that would threaten the power your family had held for generations. If anyone learned of what was happening, you could be dethroned, excommunicated, possibly even executed. “Big, consequential ones.”

You can feel your mouth dry when she removes her undershirt, revealing her bare chest. Bruises, scars, and scrapes litter the skin, but it only adds to her natural allure.

When all you do is stare, she smiles ever-so-slightly. “Has no one educated you on matters of the flesh, your majesty?”

Part of you wants to deny you understand what she asks—but the rest of you is just confused. Most of the eligible bachelors in your court steered clear of your bath, too terrified of your mother to make any sort of romantic gesture. The allure of bedding a royal was far outweighed by your mother’s ruthless reputation. When a man was found kissing up the neck of your younger sister, one of his hands at the small of her back, he was sent to work at a proxy farm hundreds of miles away, rumored to be herding sheep with just one hand.

No one ever seemed worth the risk of losing them.

She speaks as she removes the cloth pants, your eyes drawn to the slight bulge at the apex of her thighs that the harder armor covered. “It’s an honor to be your first, your majesty.”

As her pants hit the floor, you can feel the air being knocked from your lungs. There, between her legs, rests a sort of…toy. Long, thick, tapering a little before flaring out again.  It looks like what the other ladies of the court had described after their nights of passion with visitors from other kingdoms.

“You’ll take me in your mouth soon, my queen,” she reaches into the bag at her side, producing a small, unlabeled jar that reminds you of the potions witches sometimes sell at the markets held near the castle. She pops the cork, spreading the thick, clear substance over the bulbous head between her legs. You’re not sure what she means, but the heat in your belly spreads along your spine, nonetheless. When her length is fully covered in it, she takes your hand, the scented oils from the morning having soaked beneath the surface, leaving only supple, perfumed skin in its wake.

“Here,” she practically whispers, her voice quiet but filled with what sounds like excitement. “Wrap your hands like this…”

Your knight guides you, her hand over yours as you wrap your fingers around it. It’s a strange feeling, but certainly not unwelcome. You follow her motions, moving up and down and twisting your wrist right before you reach the top. Peggy watches enraptured, her eyes locked on where your hands meet. It’s easy for you to presume she can’t feel what you’re doing, certainly not even witches could combine this material with the flesh of a human. But, with the way your knight’s lips part, the way her breathy moans fill the room…you’re not sure.

Her other hand, once curled into a fist at her side, now cups the back of your head firmly. “Lick the tip, your majesty,” she instructs. At any other time, you’d hesitate, but the lightheadedness that’s come over you silences your protests. Ever so lightly, you lick over where your hand had avoided. Your open mouth gives Peggy the opportunity to buck her hips, pushing the object past your lips. She takes care not to push it too far, merely pressing it onto your tongue so you would become used to the weight.

She’s been waiting for this day since she first saw you, since her mother told her of the duties that were passed down their family line for generations; since she had seen you studying French in the garden in your pink spring dress. She’d loved you for years—decades, even. Though she’d never wish it, if the Goddess took her tomorrow, she’d die a woman fulfilled.  

Peggy grabs at your hair, pulling you until you stand. She takes the position you just had, falling to her knees before burrowing herself under the hem of your skirt. Before you can ask what she’s doing, she unbuckles your shoes and pulls down your chemise. Too stunned to do anything else, you step out of them on instinct.

“Good girl,” Peggy purrs, leaving kisses along your thighs before standing back up. “My perfect girl.”

You lock eyes for a moment, expecting the other to say something, anything. When nothing comes, Peggy locks her lips with yours, leading you backwards until you’re pushed onto the bed. She’s practiced this many times, an old pillow covered in one of your nightgowns folded in half so she could smell your signature perfume as words of praise and promise tumbled from behind her lips. Just as she imagined, she parts your legs to find the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

I was right, she thinks. Much prettier than any crown.

“Oh Godess,” Peggy groans as she finally pushes inside of you. “You cannot imagine how long I’ve waited to do this-“

You moan as she enters you slowly, purposefully. Blood drains from your fingers as you grip the sheets with all you have, Peggy holding your legs open as you adjust to the feeling of her inside of you. She gives you a moment, tracing the calloused pads of her around your nipples, down your quivering stomach, and back up again.

“I-“ you’re not sure what you’re supposed to say, or if you’re supposed to say anything at all. “I-“

“Shhh, your majesty, Shh,” she reaches around to cup one hand over your mouth, the rough palm pressed against your lips. “Not all the servants are asleep. I don’t want anyone else to hear you sing for me. Not just yet.”

Your eyes widen as you realize what she’s saying. Each frenzied thought is broken as she pulls back before entering once more. Every time she retreats and leaves you empty and wanting, her pace quickening steadily.

“Wh-what do you-“

Peggy just smiles, watching as your eyes roll to the back of your head. It’s as though she’s watching your thoughts leak from your ears, your head falling onto the covers as pleasure overtakes you. She thought about flipping you over, about grabbing you by your hair and fucking you until you couldn’t walk. But she knew she had to start you off slowly, carefully as to not scare you off. Soon enough, though, she’d be able to fuck you in all the ways she’d fantasized; with her fingers inside you right next to her cock, with her hand around your neck, with her telling you the ways she’d fill you and how beautiful you’d look round with her kin. You were both young, and with your newfound power, had plenty of time to learn what you both liked best.

“Don’t worry, my beautiful queen,” she murmured into your neck. She had also imagined fucking you front of all the other knights in her tight circle of guards, showing the rest of them what they could have if they continued to pledge their loyalty. They’re all just as protective of you as she is already, but with queenhood comes increased threats that require increased vigilance. “I’ll explain in due time.”

It's then that she reaches down, moving to rub small, staccato circles at the most sensitive part of you. It’s a part you’ve explored before, under the thick covers and once everyone had presumed you asleep. That, though, was nothing like this—none of the fireworks, none of the way she grips your thighs to pull you back after each thrust.

This is what you imagine being struck by lightning feels like, the way your skin crackles every time she touches you. The difference, though, is that you’ve never heard of survivors wanting more. You’d never imagined anything feeling as good as this, as though those late-night explorations and giggles shared between princesses could feel so magnificent. Had everyone else felt like this, when they had indulged in matters of the flesh? Why had everyone kept such a thing from you?

“I’m, I’m-“ You’re not sure what’s happening, coil inside of you tightening with every passing second. Every muscle in your body tenses as you silently plea for Peggy for…well, truthfully, you don’t know what you’re pegging for. All you know is that you want it.

“Oh, your majesty,” Peggy smirks as she continues to pound into you, continuing to rub at the apex of your pussy. “Do it, baby, let go for me. Allow me the gratification of seeing you let go.”

You’re not sure what’s supposed to happen until it does, and a white-hot pleasure explodes inside of you. It reminds you of rolling down a hill, or being on horseback while it gallops. This is different, though, a nearly indescribable feeling lighting your skin ablaze. The feeling inches away little by little, your legs beginning to twitch. Peggy slows before pulling away completely, collapsing next to you as the toy prods at your leg.

“I’ll always watch over my queen,” she says as you pant, looking up at the ceiling of your room you had looked as a thousand times before. The mural your mother had painted for you hadn’t changed at all, but you…you were transformed. “No matter what.”

A week or so passes without incident. A week of your entire body on edge, of watching your personal knight as she stood in corners and examines perimeters. It’s a small part of you, but nevertheless, a quiet voice in the back of your brain shamed you in the way you’d imagine your mother would if she found out.

How did it end up like this? You, the most powerful person in your kingdom, bending at the will of your closest guard as though she had the magic to move mountains. A shudder ripples its way through your muscles as you imagine a world where she was blessed with the connection to the Mother Goddess.  She was the only one who could grant the special few the ability to harness the magic found in the soil of your land, and it was a gift to you that she hadn’t given Peggy that power.

“Your majesty,” Peggy says from across the room, her affect flat in the proper way staff are meant to address members of your family. “Lord Steven Rogers is here to see you.”

She steps into the room and to the side, making room for the man and his personal guard. James, if your memory is correct, watches over the interaction with the same stoic silence as Peggy. He’s large, much different than the leaner bodies of the women who make up the castle’s defenses. James fills the doorway, nearly having to duck just a tad. What really scares you is the way he stares, his jaw set and his eyes bearing into you. You make every effort to avoid his gaze as Steve sits down.

“I have something to share with you,” he says with a boyish smile. He slides a small, wooden box across the desk that you make no move to open. “But I’d like for us to be alone. No guards.”

As if he can sense your trepidation, he adds, “Just to put us on even footing.”

“If my security cannot be in the room while this information is shared,” you tremble, ever so slightly, as you push the box back towards him. You hope he doesn’t notice, but something in his keen eyes says there’s very little he doesn’t see. “Then I don’t want to hear it at all. And I certainly wouldn’t want your security here as well.”

“Oh, princess,” his words are tinged with a low, condescending chuckle. It reminds you of your father when he knows he’s bested you at chess—the same stupid, smug look painted across his face; the same infuriating smile playing at the very corners of his lips. As a child, you thought he was at least trying to hide the fact he had such a large competitive advantage, saving your young ego from being crushed too early.

As you stand here, though, a single eyebrow raised and the inside of your cheek between your teeth to keep you from lashing out…you understand it is merely a poor attempt to hide the glee of besting a person one views as deeply and utterly inferior.

You grit your teeth, clenching your fists as your side as you resist the urge to slap him with the back of your hand. As a royal, your mother had never expressed herself in such a rash manner. You hadn’t even held the crown for a week and were on the brink of putting the entire royal reputation in jeopardy.

What a failure.

“I am queen now and you know it,” you eventually bite out, face red hot with the knowledge you’d taken much too long to respond.

Lord Rogers smiles in the same way you imagine snakes or wolves do when they’ve spotted injured prey. “Let’s have this conversation again when you’ve calmed down. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

You paint a tense smile over your face, attempting to hide your distaste. “Tomorrow it is. I look forward to seeing you then.”

Peggy watches as your lady-in-waiting undoes your corset, her nimble fingers freeing you from its confines. Normally you liked your corsets—they improve your posture so much even your mother doesn’t comment on it—but that and the coronation dress weighed on you in an unfortunately literal way.

“My queen,” she nearly whispers. You expect her tone to be light and airy, and are startled by the more somber tone. “I need to speak with you.”

You blink once, twice. Why not here? Your face says, gesturing towards the lady-in-waiting as subtly as you can. Peggy’s stoicism remains unchanged.

“Give us a moment, Katherine, please,” you tell her, keeping your eye contact.

The dark-haired girl nods once, bidding you goodnight and curtsying before dashing away. She’s odd, that one, but so charming you choose not to comment when she’s around.

When the door shuts behind her, you turn to your knight, nodding just a little to prompt her.

Instead of speaking, though, she remains quiet, an obvious discontent washing over her face. A nagging feeling at the back of your heart wants to go to her, comfort her, bring out all the bad feelings so you can tame them. But you’re a queen, and she’s not a child, so you stay where you are—silent, stoic, painfully waiting for her to open her mouth and tell you what’s wrong.

When she does, though, you wish she hadn’t.

“I don’t like Lord Rogers very much,” is all Peggy says. She looks you dead in the eyes, jaw set. You wait for her to continue—to rant and scream and scowl.

You allow yourself a moment to sigh, the exhale ending in a dry laugh. Peggy narrows her eyes as you do so, tilting her head ever so slightly. “I’m not joking.”

It certainly sounds like it, though. She knows just as well as you how court politics works, how every single person in this castle has every single one of their decisions shrouded in a cloak of constrictive diplomacy. In a country situated at the center of the continent, a smile and a few lines of small talk are sometimes all there is between economic prosperity and absolute devastation.  

Speaking ill of Lord Rogers would effectively be the same as threatening to banish Lord Rogers from your castle. And banishing Lord Rogers would be the same as slitting the throat of his wife in their marriage bed. War? Guaranteed. Your chances of winning? Slim.

“Well, you certainly can’t be serious.” You’re outwardly scoffing now, rolling your eyes, and turning away from her without so much as a half-hearted excuse. There’s nothing in you that wants to fight; who wants to risk it all, fight the status quo, and make a new world from the ashes of the old one. You have never been very rebellious, and that instinct for conflict avoidance will serve you well if you want yourself, and your kingdom, to survive.

You expect your beloved knight to deflect. You expect her to do as you would’ve done: assume someone with loose lips was listening and you’d need to immediately play it off as some kind of nightmare and distance yourself from any ounce of culpability.

She doesn’t, though. She doesn’t move an inch.

“I’m serious, your majesty.” Peggy continues to meet your tense gaze, her own eyes free from any regret, or fear, or anything. Strong as a stone, and just as agreeable. Her face remains stoic, her sharp jaw set. “I would never lie to you.”

Red bleeds into the edges of your vision, the vision of your delicate legacy crashing to the floor like an antique teapot, crashing into a million, unfixable pieces and cutting into the bottoms of your soft feet. “Absolutely not,” you growl, your fists clenching in the light fabric of your underdress. “You know why that’s impossible, so certainly you wouldn’t be foolish enough to entertain the idea of saying it out loud.”

She still doesn’t budge. “I can’t lie to you, your majesty.” She repeats. “I have a duty to protect you-“

Now you bark out a laugh, the sharp descending into something darker quickly as you continue. “Protect!?” You reach across your abdomen to hold your sore stomach, glad you were able to get out of your corset before she opened her mouth. It feels like ages later when you’re able to catch your breath, the words still breathy as tears fall down your cheeks. “If anyone heard you, they’d have my head under a blade fast than you can cut the limbs off of any one person. You believing this is some roundabout way to fulfill the oath you took when you were given your sword is such horseshit you should be back shoveling it in stalls.”

You’re ready to continue—to bare your teeth and tear at her skin until she heeds your warning. Fangs—you wish you had fangs—so she’d know how ready you are to tear flesh from bone just to keep her from continuing. So that she’d know you’re also dangerous, and willing to fight if it meant you remained in power.

“Get out of here,” you snarl. “Tell Katherine to come back in. I don’t want to see you until I need escorting to the chancery tomorrow. Do you understand?”

Peggy’s face doesn’t change as she responds before turning and leaving. “Yes, your majesty. I will see you in the morning.”

Neither of you speak, you following just behind her in silence. The blanket of quiet remains as you enter, a servant having already lit the candles that illuminate the room. As you requested, Peggy remains just outside the thick door, only entering when Lord Rogers does.

He seems pleased you’d followed his directions, and it makes your skin crawl. If you had your way, you’d never deal with him at all—outsourcing all communication through a third party. Unfortunately, the Rogers name is powerful in this region, and a queen is nothing without her allies.

“So,” he sits across from you, separated only by your desk. You move to stand near him, eyeing the same box he had yesterday. “I’ve come to talk about the land deeds your mother signed over to me at the very end of her reign.”

Your brow furrows as you reach forward to grab at what he brought with him. Inside are…bones? They’re small but thick, with etchings in an alphabet you do not understand. “What are these?”

He scoffs, as though you should understand what riddle he’s piecing together. You resist the urge to remind him you can speak five languages, and read even more. If there was a language you didn’t recognize, you’d be going to the royal translators…not a man who’s been trying to de-throne your family since the day he could ride a horse. “They’re proof my family has had ownership over the lands I’m asking about since before your family name ever existed. You simply raise both your brows, still looking through the box.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

But you don’t, you really don’t. There’s nothing anyone’s ever told you about Lord Roger’s land deeds besides the fact he has a lot of them.  His family’s been around for as long as yours has and has amassed a similar amount of wealth and power. He controls several important ports, his castle is nearly as large as yours.

It hits you then, what he’s doing.

Originally both lineages were at war for the last few thousand years, moving borders and people and livestock as their whims changed. They’d both fought to control the kingdom that’s encompassed the land it had for centuries, the deciding factor being one last territory that a woman four or so generations ago had seized during a tense buyout the Rogers lineage had always claimed was faked. That’s the only territory his family had ever asked for, something your mother had spent many nights telling you about. They’d tried everything to get it back, from raids to paying witnesses to give false accounts of the treaty signing. This was another, even cheaper shot at their goal—to overtake what your family had held so dear.

It’s easy to see now that the markings on the bones show tallies of cattle losses in a shorthand developed by farmers, indicating his family would’ve been working the land after the year the agreement had gone into place. This, of course, means absolutely nothing.

You chew your lip as you examine them, building up the courage to speak. “Lord Rogers, I am not sure this indicates anything meaningful. Many families work on land they do not own. This isn’t proof at all your family has any right over the land, or over the kingdom”

As you look closely at the engravings once more, “You stupid little bitch!”

You don’t have time to turn around; to slap him across the face, or find a letter opener to remind him of your years of self-defense training. All you have time to do is cry out as his palm meets your cheek, your screams becoming muffled as he grabs the back of your neck and turns you around so he can pin you against the desk.

“Peggy!” you try to yell, but all that comes out is a choked sound.

“You will give my family what we are owed. I will kill you if I have to.” His words are practically growls, holding you with one hand as he reaches into his coat. As you struggle, he flashes a thin, sharp knife in front of your eyes.

“Please-“ you kick at him, figurines your mother had collected (and you hadn’t yet had the heart to have a servant collect and placed in her quarters) fall to the hard ground. Some shatter immediately, others skidding across the floor. “Please don’t kill me I-“

“Shut the fuck up.” He flips the weapon in his hands, as if he was showing it off. “Now hold still, this doesn’t need to hurt. There are a few spots I can hit that’ll have you bleeding out in seconds. But if you want it to hurt, I can-“

He doesn’t have time to finish his sentence before he’s thrown off of you, slammed into the nearest wall. You’re partially thrown with him, but Peggy’s arms keep you from traveling the same distance. One of the other guards, Valkyrie, holds him against the wall as Peggy drops to the floor to hold you. Other guards you can’t remember the names for flood in behind her, holding his arms behind his back and dragging him away.

“You’re okay, my queen,” Peggy whispers. “You’re going to be okay.”

She scans you for harm, eyes wide as she checks for broken bones or open wounds. A few spots are tender. One, most notably, at the place the table made contact with your abdomen. Still, nothing that can’t be healed with a few days of rest and (most important) nothing that will leave horrific and long-lasting scars. Katherine comes in soon after, taking you from Peggy and ushering you across the castle and to your bed. She fetches you something to drink and a cool cloth, fluffing your pillows once your heart has slowed enough that exhaustion replaces adrenaline.

It all happens so fast, you don’t have time to question why all of those women were close enough to help in the first place.

Peggy stands behind Katherine, watching as she comforts you.

As your eyelids grow heavy, she moves to pet your hair, leaning down to murmur into your temple. “I’ll be back, my queen.” You don’t hear it, sleep long since having pulled you into its arms. “I promise I’ll be back soon.”

She slips out of the room, silently exiting out of your area of the castle before finding a door hidden behind a tapestry depicting a field of poppies, your grandmother’s favorite flowers. The secret paths had been built the same time the castle was, meant to be a way for those that served in the castle to enter the servant’s quarters without disturbing the royals. Fifty or so years ago, though, too many servants were living there, and in an effort to stave rebellion, an addendum to the castle was built. Now, where some had lived, slept, and ate, lay abandoned rooms far from the eyes of royalty.

The staircase is narrow, so narrow she has to hold her sword in front of her. She’s silent as she navigates the maze-like corridor, the path to her destination an easy show of muscle memory. The door, unassuming and identical to the rest of them, opens to a scene she’s been wishing for since she first saw Lord Rogers look you up and down all those years ago.

Five women, two on each side and one immediately behind, flank the man that sits tied to an old chair from the servants’ quarters. It’s been used for these sorts of nights before, as evidenced by the scuffed wood that marks where pieces of leather kept one’s limbs in place. They fight, they always do. For Peggy, it’s part of the fun. No sense in killing something without a desire to live.

She stands as the man sits, his face already bruised and bloody. Split lip, a cut through his right brow. Every time he spits it’s tinged pink. Even though she wishes they had held off until she arrived, Peggy wishes it was redder. Nothing matters more to her than the fact he remains in pain.

“Do you know what the punishment is for laying a hand on Her Majesty?” she asks.

He looks pathetic in the low candlelight, she thinks. He’s over six feet, covered in lean muscle and scars. She can see every pitiful inch of him—she instructed the other royal guards to strip him down when they grabbed him from his plush bed once all the royals had retired for the night. He was surprisingly easy to overpower, according to the message she received from the guards, delivered via a squire who had an affinity for staying up much too late. He was fast and, more importantly, quiet on his feet. Both necessary to avoid being caught. While many of the knights in this kingdom were women, it’s easy to see how his skills would do him well in the profession.

“You’ll never get away with this,” he spits out.

Peggy smirks, small laughs escaping from behind the others’ hands. She takes a moment to allow the others to collect themselves (and to give herself some time to savor the rage that washes over his face as he realizes they’re all laughing at him.

“Well,” she says eventually. “One of us tied to a chair right now, and it isn’t any of us, so…”

He snarls, reminding Peggy of one of the guard dogs that roam the farms around the castle. They look very similar, in a way—strong jaw, barred teeth, a little grimy from their misadventures. Lord Rogers lacks something that would shrink the gap between them. Those dogs, as innocent as they sometimes look, would defend their flock with their lives; she’s seen them ward off mountain lions to protect the sheep they’d grown up with.

Peggy doesn’t think he’d defend anyone other than himself.

Lord Rogers doesn’t know it (and, given his condition, he may never found out), but his personal knight was given an option: either leave, change his name, and abandon the Rogers lineage…or die trying to defend the bloodline he swore to secure.

Needless to say, he chose the latter, and his various body parts are being fed to pigs at the far end of the castle’s main farm. Kamala offered to do that, the young girl eager to be involved but not old enough to secure herself to the heart of the action. Truthfully, Peggy found the entire endeavor useless given they sent his head to Lord Rogers’ wife in an unlabeled box. It should arrive by the end of the month, giving them enough time to do what needs to be done.

“Do you confess?” Natasha asks, her sword secured in her belt. Peggy only enlisted the guards she believed were level-headed enough to follow her lead. Normally, she’s all right with those she relies on going rogue—she trusts them for a reason—but tonight requires a very specific form of precision.

Steven just scoffs. “Confess to what, exactly?”

“We know what happened with the Queen,” Jane says, her tone flat. “We know what you did to her.”

The man laughs the kind of fake, sarcastic laugh Peggy had come to loathe from him. “That bitch had it coming. She’s hiding something from me, just like her cunt m-”

He is interrupted quickly by the back of Peggy’s hand. It throws him off, stunning him

“Confess.” One of them say, calmly.

“Fuck you!” Lord Rogers will scream back. Unfortunately, it seems to have only quieted him for just a moment.

Each denial is met with a similar reaction.

This time, it’s Carol punching him so hard that he starts to spit out blood afterward. The time after that, it’s Monica carving out leg muscles with a farrier’s knife. After that, it’s Wanda flattening his fingers with a hammer. His body, morphing into some monstrous, destroyed thing, is tormented with every broken breath he takes. A slight wheeze tinges each exhale.

Peggy watches him, watches as the women she trusts with your life take him apart piece by piece. At the end of the night, long before the morning rises, he will be mangled to the point of no return before one of them gives him the undue mercy of ending his life. This was the plan, even if she had no desire to watch him receive such an undeserved gift. Originally, she’d wanted to keep him alive for days and show you her handiwork…but a stern conversation with Gamora had ended that conversation. Her magic gave her the kind of sense a brutish knight lacked, Peggy thought.

She steps back, tossing the hefty stick to Carol, who catches it. “Do what you need to do,” she says to no one in particular. “I’ve got what I need.”

Steven tugs at his restraints, the panic in his eyes palpable despite being nearly swollen shut. “You bitch! Let me out of here!”

Peggy just laughs, not bothering to face him as she walks away. The Lord’s pleas silence as she shuts the door behind her, deep screams becoming fainter and fainter as she sneaks down the corridor once more. She retraces her path, fire in her veins making the trip much shorter this time around. Before she knows it, she’s back in bed with you, tracing the indents your pillow’s creases have made on your cheeks.

“Peggy?” you murmur, your tired brow furrowing. Sleep rests heavy on your slurred speech, exhaustion still wracking your bones.

She shushes you, tucking herself under the covers. When you move over to give her unnecessary room, she merely grabs your hips to pull you back. When you return to your original spot still deep in the throws of sleep, Peggy lets a small smile escape from behind her teeth.

Her breaking point came when she’d separated the two of you, questioning why you were dripping through the simple cotton panties despite Yelena’s very strict direction not to. That’s when she learned that, not only had Kate swirled circles around your clit as you desperately attempted to muffle your moans, but she’d also said that Yelena would blame you instead of Kate for going against such an integral rule.

Kate knows she fucked up, too—another thing that adds another ten to the running total in Yelena’s mind. She can hear the threat in the way Yelena beckons her closer, the “Puppy, come” command a much lower tone than usual.

While not the most critical thinker, Kate’s real deviousness comes in how decisive she is. A car with no breaks, a scent hound caught on the trail of a fox, a baseball flying through the air at 97 miles-per-hour. None of these could compare with Kate, not when she spotted the leather swatch that was used for spankings haphazardly balanced on one of the arms of the couch (Yelena hasn’t had much time to do a lot of things lately, including clean).

Before she can do anything, the well-worn leather is in Kate’s mouth, the woman on all fours with her collar jingling as she pants.

“Let it go,” Yelena sighs more than commands.

Kate does not let it go. She does not even loosen her jaw just so she can tighten it up again once the other person trying to grab it believes they’ve won over her. She just holds it between her teeth, staring with narrowed eyes and a growl forming at the base of her throat.

You’re not sure what to do. Kate, a sharp contrast to your own fear of retribution, loves to misbehave. She likes to tease, to poke and prod and see what sort of volcanic eruption she can trigger with the least amount of effort. Yelena normally humors her at least a little before enacting strict punishment—getting out the whips and the darkened cage and the electric shock collar and the touching you while Kate remains tied up.

But Yelena doesn’t seem in the same mood as she does when she fingers you until you cry as Kate’s arms remain restrained behind her back, the rope connected to a hook in the wall to keep her in her place. Doesn’t have the same “try me” glimmer in her dark eyes, the same teasing smile.

This is different. Something—something you can’t quite describe—is different, and all you can do is watch.

As she decides what to do, Yelena thinks about the whiteboard Natasha had custom-made for her, the words “DAYS WITHOUT BRATTING” underneath a large “zero” she had written nearly two weeks prior. She knows she’s been working a lot, and (even though her office is within the house, and both of you have places to sit with her while she works) Yelena knows both of her subs had been feeling lonely.

But subs like Kate require consistency—give them an inch and they’ll find a mile. She’s not like you, nice and self-correcting. Once you found yourself grinding against a pillow while waiting for Yelena to clean you up after an intense squirting session, and almost cried from the shame. Kate? The definition of gluttonous in her lust, couldn’t stop even if she wanted to, which she doesn’t. Yelena is her guardrails, a yellow light, a tree for her to collide against.

“Give Daddy what you have in your mouth,” Yelena says through grit teeth. “Or I’ll have to reteach you what it means what someone loses their patience.”

You remain seated, curled up next to where Yelena props her feet up on the coffee table. A fluffy pink dog bed with Bunny embroidered on it, you were happy to spend the morning (or all day, really), resting your head against her legs while she occasionally pets your hair.

But no, the universe continues to punish you with the presence of one Kate Bishop.

A stare-down ensues in front of you, neither of them moving, but alert in case the other does. You half expect tumbleweeds to roll in the distance--as if the town isn’t big enough for the two of them.

But nothing happens, and the world stands still.

That is, until Kate makes a run for the bedroom, where there’s the only closet in the house that locks from the inside.

What Kate failed to consider, though, is that Yelena isn’t just fast: she’s strategic as well. Leashes with hook ends drilled in the wall are placed on each side of every room, useful for a litany of play. Now, though, they act as anchors Kate can’t easily avoid on all fours. She gets a few feet, if that, before Yelena’s got one hand on wrapped around the collar and the other on the leash’s clasp. One click later, Kate’s stuck in place, the short leash keeping her on her knees with her back straight.

Yelena’s fuming as she releases the leash, keeping her other hand occupied with the collar. It’s not loose, and she can tell Kate’s struggling to breath against the minimal give of the leather. Good, Yelena thinks. Maybe that’ll remind her how vulnerable she is.

“Let. Go.” She says through grit teeth once more, rage a fire in her eyes.

Kate’s got fire, too, but the kind that yearns for more gasoline, more newspaper, more anything to keep the blaze growing. Slowly, she moves her head from side to side, refusing to give up her bargaining chip. Does she know what she wants? Not exactly. But does she kind of, sort of, maybe have a plan on how to get it? Absolutely. And it involves the leather piece in her mouth.

“Fine,” Yelena cedes. Kate perks up at that, believing she’s won for now. “If you want it so bad, puppy, go ahead keep it in your mouth.”

What she doesn’t hear is Yelena mumbling under her breath, the blonde woman rubbing at her temples as she murmurs about how she’ll need something to bite down on in a minute.  

“Stay right there, bunny,” she says, more audible now. She turns to Kate to say the same thing, then snorts.

Distorted by the leather, the stuck sub looks at you and smirks. Look at what I can do, her face says.

Yeah, yours replies, much drier. Sure.

Yelena returns a short time later carrying the sybian in her arms, silently setting it up. You can tell Kate’s as confused as you are—the sybian is usually a reward. Kate doesn’t let it show, though, still holding the leather in her mouth even as drool begins to drop from the corners of her lips. Once she sets it down as close to Kate as she can, she moves to you, her eyes full of concern.

“You okay, bunny?” she asks, wiping the tears from your eyes. You’re sweet—too sweet, sometimes—and she knows you require more emotional support regardless of what’s happening.

You lean into her hand, letting her caress your cheek. You’ve always been bad with chaos, with the unplanned. But Yelena’s there, always, to calm the storm.

“M’okay daddy,” you mumble. “I promise.”

This time her smile is genuine. “Good, bunny. Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

You nod, moving your head to the side to kiss at her palm.

When Yelena’s certain you don’t need anything for now, she turns her attention back to Kate.

“Go ahead and mount it, puppy.”

Delightfully unaware, Kate does as she’s told, moving ever-so-carefully with the constraints of the leash’s length. Time stands still until she finally has it between her legs, her huffs of determination the only sound in the room. She looks pleased with herself as she rests on the rough silicone pad, a small triumph given the circumstances.

Yelena, once again, remains silent. She remains silent as she stares, waiting for Kate to move (she doesn’t). She remains silent as she opens the coffee table, the top lifting to reveal a batch of meticulously organized toys. She remains silent as she regards her options. She remains silent as she grabs purple rope and walks back to Kate.

Yelena only speaks when she crouches down and begins to wrap the ropes.

“I didn’t want to do this, you know,” Yelena mutters as she ties the them so that they keep Kate’s legs folded. She tests the give of the rope with her fingers, moving to tie her wrists behind her back after Kate gives her a nod. “But if you want to test me, fine.”

Yelena turns to the side, grabbing the large pink wand vibrator that had been charging in the bedroom. As she moves, her tank top falls down her chest, the silver keys on a matching chain nearly visible. One engraved with a P, the other a B; the keys to each of your chastity cages remain an ever-present reminder of one of Yelena’s favorite punishments.

Be good, she said once as she edged you, dangling them back and forth in front of your hazy eyes. Or I’ll need to make sure these still fit in those cute little locks over your pussy.

“C’mere bunny,” she says, beckoning you over. “Come here to Daddy.”

Your legs feel like jelly as you get up, slotting yourself in the chasm that’s formed between them. You stand in front of Yelena, a little apprehensive but ultimately willing to trust her with whatever plan she has formed while she was waiting for Kate to stop misbehaving.  

Yelena leaves soft kisses along your jugular, her hands finding your hips. They’re still sore from the night before, covered in light, spotty purple bruising. She holds you as though you’re fragile, breakable—not wanting to crush you with her skilled hands.

She pushes up your shirt a little to cradle your tummy. For some reason, it makes you feel exposed.

It’s not like you were wearing much anyway, your preferred at-home attire being a well-worn shirt from either of your girlfriends and a comfortable pair of cotton panties. The shirt today is a two-sizes-too-big t-shirt from a tech startup Yelena had the misfortune of working for (and caused her to swear off startups forever), the underwear a pink pair with a small bow on the front. They’re also joined by your day collar, a silver necklace with a bunny outline and “property of Daddy” engraved in the back.

“Eyes up here, puppy,” she says, teeth scraping now along the column of your throat. She knows how sensitive you are there, how easily you’ll melt into her palms with a few well-placed kisses. She also knows how much Kate needs attention—and hates when others get it when she doesn’t.

When Kate finally meets your eyes, you feel one of Yelena’s hands move and then hear a faint click—followed by the sound of vibrations and Kate’s muffled moans.

“Stand right here with Daddy,” she whispers in your ear, voice low enough Kate can’t hear. “I want to see what she does when she realizes which one of you is about to get off.”

Kate’s close to your pussy, close enough that you can feel her heated breath against your core. She’s panting in that desperate way you’ve always loved, the kind that makes her face flushed. Her lips are swollen and red from rubbing them against the leather, making them extra kissable.

You love her like this, fucked out before even being fucked. But you wished you got to see her like this outside of Yelena’s intense punishments.

That’s when you hear another click, another vibrational hum joining the symphony of lewdness. With one arm around your middle to keep you upright, the other grabs the vibrator and runs the head over your covered, unsuspecting clit.

“Oh!” You’re caught by surprise, wrapping your shirt in your fists as an alternative to grabbing something for balance. You’re able to lean on Yelena, your back pushed against her chest. But there’s nothing else to keep you upright. “Oh Daddy!”

“That feel good, bunny?” she coos at you. You can feel her smiling into your heated skin, sometimes leaving small nips as she revels in giving you pleasure.

You suck your bottom lip between your teeth as she presses harder, still making those large, slow circles meant to tease you. The nods you give her are quick, frenzied. All you want to do for her is find the nearest tall surface and bend yourself over it, pulling your soaked panties down your trembling thighs to give her free access to your dripping center. You want her to fuck you in the hard, fast, rough way you liked; the kind that left you struggling to walk the next day.

When you don’t reply immediately, she decreases the speed.

“No,” you whimper, grinding your hips down as best you can. “Daddy no, no, no please don’t please!”

“Then answer me, bunny,” she responds. “Don’t want you to end up like puppy here, do you?”

While a keen ear could hear it immediately, you’re too fucked out already to tell that the sybian Kate’s riding is on the setting that rotates through intensities. It never stays on the higher settings long enough for her to cum, but never gets low enough to give her any sort of relief.

“Yes, Daddy!” It’s hard to form words, your speech speeding up as the vibe rolls over your clit. “Yes, fuck Daddy it feels so good.”

“Good, bunny. I’m glad.”

You think she’s going to let you cum now, going to press the vibe as hard as she can into your aching center. But she doesn’t—she just continues her cycle, not telling you she’s timing them so you and Kate are on opposite settings. When one of you is moaning, the other is begging for more. Yelena revels in making the two of you play off of each other, forcing the two of you to intersect in ways she orchestrates.

“You look so pretty, bunny,” she coos, her eyes flitting between both of you. “Doesn’t our little bunny look pretty, baby?”

Kate tries to say something, but it dies as something muffled by the material still in her mouth. Still, she continues to try, the mumbled words sounding more and more desperate as she continues. You assume you look like a mirror of her—same fuzzy brain leading to the same pleading eyes and choked cries.

“Puppy, do you want something?” Yelena’s words are coated in the fake-caring tone that sends another wave of heat through your abdomen. A noise that sounds something close to a “yes” comes from Kate’s throat.

Yelena just tuts. “You need to tell me what you want, puppy.”

Kate whimpers, drool starting to pool at the sides of her mouth. Tears, too, are now flooding her cheeks.

Yelena’s smile is sinister, a light laugh bracketing her words. “Oh, that’s right, isn’t it? You lost that privilege when you decided to be a stupid brat and disobey a simple command. I trained you better than that, puppy.”

The desperate brunette couldn’t defend herself if she wanted to. Yelena’s always been a domme with high standards, standards she’s always communicated clearly and effectively. Kate has just…always liked to push buttons, the envelope, boundaries. Anything she thought she could defy, she would.

But Yelena still loved her, always providing the punishments appropriate. There was never a challenge she couldn’t meet, and Kate loved her in return.

“Are you willing to drop it now?”

Kate blinks at her once, twice. Then nods.

Defeat, Yelena thinks, always tastes just as good as she predicts.

“Then drop it.”

For the first time that day, Kate does what she is told without a fight. She doesn’t realize how sore her jaw is until she’s finally able to move it around, the muscles resisting the stretch.

“Do you want to come now?”

Kate nods, the words a little garbled because of her jaw. “Yes, please Daddy.”

Yelena doesn’t respond to her, instead turning to you.

“Go ahead and cum, bunny. I’ll hold you, don’t worry.”

Her permission is all you need, crying out as the avalanche of gratification floods your veins. The white-hot euphoria burns your fingertips, Yelena’s strength able to keep you from falling on your face. She turns the vibe down as your orgasm succeeds, slowly pulling you from the euphoric edge.

“Such a good girl for me,” she says, holding you to her as you pant. “Such a good little pet for Daddy.”

When your breathing finally evens out, she slowly lowers you to the ground. She’s wearing the same sweatpants she was last night, the soft fabric a welcome pillow as you lean against her. They smell like her, too, like the cologne she wears even though she works from home and the honey shampoo she likes. You drink in the comfort of being near her, of being enveloped by her.

Yelena pets your hair as she speaks once more. “I want you to cum while eating our perfect little bunny out,” she says. “Can you do that? Or do you want to go to bed without an orgasm?”

“I-“ you watch as Kate grinds against the toy, her pussy so slick you can see her wetness seeping over the silicone bit of the sybian. It catches the light, and your fried brain is mesmerized by the sight. “Yes, Daddy. Please let me eat our Bunny’s pussy while I cum.”

“Good girl.”

Yelena picks you up and moves you into position, pushing your shirt up and your panties down. You don’t have to think or do anything but stand there, leaning on her for balance as Kate licks up your weeping slit.

The angle is awkward for both of you. Every time Kate presses herself to you, she has to hold her breath—which can never hold long enough for you to get anywhere close to your peak. Yelena makes a mental note to try this again if she ever wanted to edge you, especially since Kate loves a little breathplay now and then.

Despite all of this, though, it’s easy, for both of you to lose yourself to the pleasure, and so you do. You don’t think about the strain in your knees, or how dry your mouth feels. Kate doesn’t think about how sore she’s going to be tomorrow from her muscles tensing so often, or the fact her cunt aches in that way Yelena’s only been able to draw out of her. All you can think about is the feeling of Kate’s tongue lapping at your soaked folds; all Kate can think about is how much she loves drawing those little gasps out of you she loves so much.

“Such perfect pets,” Yelena murmurs. One hand is threaded through Kate’s hair, the other reaching around your waist to palm at your ass. “So good to each other...”

She remembers, vividly, when the two of you couldn’t seem to stop hating each other. There were fights and so much bickering that drove Yelena insane. In the end, an extra extra large crate; an extra, extra short leash attached to both of your collars; and a few overstimulation sessions got you two to get along quite well.

It’s good—so good—and all your fucked-out brain can do is babble nonsensically. Her movements are jerky and mistimed, but with how sensitive you are, it really doesn’t matter.

Kate finally cums a few minutes later, moaning lowly into your cunt. Her whole body shakes with each breath, her chest red hot from exertion. Ecstasy flows between the two of you, settling on your skin like glitter.

“You okay?”

Both of you nod. Kate’s face is covered in your wetness, the same wetness that drenches your thighs.

Yelena watches you both for a second the same way hunters monitor their kill even after they’ve hit the ground. There’s something special about knowing she’s the one who did this—who set the scene where both of you finished so worn out that neither of you could do anything else but fall to the floor in exhaustion.

But she’s a sadist, not a monster, and so once she’s had her moment of fun, she carries you to the couch before untying Kate. The ropes have made beautiful indents in her pale skin, and Yelena can’t wait to trace them once all three of you are cuddled up in bed. Yelena carries Kate so you two can lay together as she checks the minifridge in the bedroom, making sure there are enough water bottles and light snacks to last you until you can eat something more substantial. After making sure the covers are in the right order (you’re ridiculously picky), and the heated blanket is on its lowest setting (Kate always gets cold, but hates being too hot), she returns to find the both of you cuddled into each other like newborn puppies.  

Fuck, she thinks. She always feels bad moving either of you once you’re snuggled up and comfortable, let alone when you’re all cozy together.

But Yelena also knows the couch definitely isn’t big enough for the two of you, and you’re already going to be sore tomorrow, and there are no blankets, and there isn’t any room for her in the mix of all of this. So, partially selflessly, partially completely selfishly, she slowly detangles the two of you. It’s a mess of limbs reminiscence of a tangled pair of earbuds, but somehow she manages to free you from each other and carry you up to bed one by one (Yelena’s strong, but she’s definitely not strong enough to carry both of you at once, unfortunately). You’re on the right side of the California King with Kate on the left, leaving a big enough space that you can’t find the other one and tangle back up again. Once both of you has consumed a full water bottle’s worth of water and are wearing clean shirts to sleep in, Yelena finally crawls under the covers to join the both of you.  

“I love you both,” she says as each of you cuddles into her chest. You prefer resting your head in the crook of her neck, while Kate prefers to be face first into her chest. Even half asleep, Kate’s always a little obsessed with Yelena’s tits. “Even when you act like spoiled little princesses.”

You’re just grateful to be home now, even if you can’t get any work done, and you can’t relax in a steaming hot bath while sipping red wine and reading a trashy romance novel. (You’ve still got the win and the bodice ripper, but it’s just not the same without the steamy bathroom and near-boiling water.)

Sitting alone in the quiet of your apartment eating from a giant bag of tortilla chips and a similarly large container of salsa that took five minutes to open is not how you imagined spending tonight. Still, it beats being at work.

Your poor mood becomes even worse when you hear a series of knocks at your front door—a sound that normally only ever brings your elderly neighbor asking for help with her ancient television or your downstairs neighbor asking you to not “be so loud” (despite you never moving furniture). On a normal day, you’d be willing to tell the sweet Italian woman that she just needs to turn the television on before changing the channel, or politely tell the douchey frat bro who you’re sure works for an unethical startup that if he’s hearing noises that aren’t there, he should take that up with his doctor and not you. But it hasn’t been a normal day, and you’re not in your normal mood.

Praying the person at your door will just leave, you remain face down on the couch with your feet dangling off the side. Hopefully, the person will just believe you aren’t home and will leave you in blessed silence.

Knock knock knock.

Of course, they don’t, though. Of course, this universe sees you struggling and goes “hey, want it to be worse?” without waiting for a response.

“I really don’t have time for this,” you grumble, speaking at a normal volume as you open the door. “Can you just-“

You stop in your tracks, frozen in place as you take in the sight in front of you.

It’s your girlfriend, clad in a signature well-cut pantsuit, with her giant work bag on one shoulder and both hands carrying a very large bag of what smells like takeout.

“A little bird told me you had a bad day,” she says, giving you a small, tentative smile as she steps into your apartment. “Was hoping I could make it better.”

You’re so happy to see her you legitimately could cry. And not one of those cute cries, where there are a few tears and you look like a newborn dear afterward. No, not an adorable little cry. Rather, one of those deep, guttural ones. The kind where snot runs down your chin and you scream so hard your throat hurts. The kind where sobs wrack your body and leave your muscles aching. The kind of cry that changes you, that represents a turning point in your life, where you emerge like a phoenix from the ashes of your old self.

Somehow, though, you manage to keep it all inside of you (and plan to let it all out when you’re finally able to take a steaming hot shower). You manage to give your lovely girlfriend a small smile, stepping to the side to let her in. Neither of you needs to say anything as she sits down on the couch next to your deeply sad dinner selection, rolling the top of the chip bag and closing the salsa before pushing them to the side to place the bags on your coffee table.

You, ever dutiful, follow her lead and curl up next to her on your old couch.

“Tell me what’s wrong, baby,” she says, handing you a hot black plastic container with a clear lid. It’s hot in your hands, and for a moment you relish the warmth. You can feel it, somehow, in your chest, a pleasant heat simmering inside of you. Maybe that’s just what happens when Fallon is near, though.

“I just a lot,” you sigh, popping open the Tupperware-like container and letting the tantalizing smell waft into your nose. You’d spent most of the last few days eating cold leftovers—not of food you’d cooked yourself, but late-night deliveries that had gone cold as you attempted to finish work. “I haven’t had time to call a plumber and every time the Internet company schedules someone to come out. Work fucking sucks, and then I can’t come home and relax. It’s like, never-ending. Everything always sucks.”

“Hmm,” is all you hear before you begin shoveling forkfuls of noodles and chicken into your mouth. It’s good, so good, both because you’ve missed warm, freshly cooked meals, and because you’re sure this is from the expensive Thai place that’s on the other side of town.

It's out of your way, but, more importantly, it’s out of Fallon’s way. She works even more north than you do, having to cross the city just to get it. Thinking of her exerting herself like this is sweet in a way that makes your chipmunk cheeks blush.

Putting her phone down, Fallon empties the rest of the large, brown paper bag. In her hands emerges a white, semi-opaque bag smelling of a deliciously familiar scent.

“Crab Rangoon?” you ask, your mouth watering so much you can nearly feel yourself drool.

“Crab Rangoon,” she confirms, handing you the delicious morsels encased in waxy paper. “I just ask for one as girlfriend tax.”

Truly, you could cry from sheer joy and the love you have for her, and so of course, once you rip open the stapled bag, you have over the first one you see.

You then, of course, devour three of them in less time than it takes Fallon to properly mix up her pad Thai curry. Can she blame you, though?

Neither of you says anything for a while, and the quiet is therapeutic. Every day, all day, all there is at work is noise—the sounds of Teams, meetings, people chatting around your desk (did you mention you don’t even get a real office?), the clicking of keyboards and computer mice. Being able to sit in a soundless space comforts you more than anything, especially as Fallon’s leg presses against your own.

That is, until you hear knocks at the door again and roll your eyes.

“Is that how you reacted when you heard me knocking?” she asks with a snort, getting up before you have a chance to swallow your massive bite of pad Thai and meet the mystery person outside the door.

To be fair, you think to yourself as you struggle to clear your mouth. I probably would’ve been happier if I’d known it was you.

Fallon answers the door, and whoever is there is then just let into your apartment.

You don’t want to be rude, and Fallon seems to know who’s traversing his way into your apartment and why he’s got a giant box of tools, so you don’t say anything. But you still furrow your brow, to which Fallon pointedly ignores.

“Thanks for coming,” she leads the man through your kitchen and towards the back of your apartment. “Water heater is this way.”

When she returns, all you give her is a raised brow.

“That’s Greg,” she replies. As if that explains everything. “He’s the handyman we call at the office when the usual guy isn’t able to come in time.”

You nearly jump out of your chair, prepared to run and relieve this poor man of whatever duty your girlfriend bestowed upon him. “You made him come here?” you whisper-yell, pushing peanut pieces from your shirt. “Fallon, that guy probably has a wife and kids and shit. He doesn’t need to be here fixing my water heater!”

Fallon just smiles a little and stands up with you. “Babe, Greg is twenty-three and an art school dropout. I paid him like four times the usual amount for him to come. And he lives like five minutes away. Let him do this for you.”

You glare at her for just a second, trying to decipher the proud look on her face. “Fine, fine. Just-“ she squeals and gives you a kiss on your cheek, hugging you as you struggle to protect your precious dinner from the ground. “Just don’t let him fuck anything up too bad.”

“Don’t worry,” she waves her hand. “Greg’s great.”

You hope she’s right, given your snooty landlord. Fallon breaks your train of thought, though, as she speaks up once more.

“Also, uh…you don’t have to say yes-“

You brace for what she’s about to say—something you’ve heard a thousand times, but are still unsure of how to handle it.

“But I’m going to tell you again,” she pauses for a moment and waits for you to cut her off. You don’t. Neither of you attempts to meet each other’s eyes for fear “If you ever wanted to work a job at Carrington, or any company I ever own, just tell me and I’ll find an opening for you.”

“Thank you,” you finally manage. You don’t say anything else for what feels like an eternity, merely staring down at your half-finished food and letting the sounds of some random man tinkering with your water heater fill the air.

Minutes later, the man re-emerges, breaking the tender silence. When you meet his eyes, his face remains painted with the same, blank features.

Fallon, though, doesn’t miss a beat. “Router’s right behind you,” she says, gesturing with her chin. “Internet company has been blowing her off for days.”

He, still, doesn’t do anything to indicate he’s heard what your girlfriend said until he’s kneeling down to open the lower cabinet’s glass door and begins tinkering with the device. Again, awkward silence, as the nearly complete stranger hums to himself as he examines the issue.

“You’ve got a busted coax cable,” Greg says after what you feel is way too short a period of time, given how annoying the issue has been. His voice is much deeper than you expected. “Had an extra in my bag and replaced it. Should work fine now.”

Fallon’s “thanks” overlaps with your more enthusiastic “thank you so much!” as she gets up to pay him. You continue your silence, listening more than watching the interaction and subsequent “let me walk you out” despite the front door being just a few steps away.

“I think there are new episodes out of that bartending show you like,” she says when she returns, looking for the remote as she sits down. “Wanna watch?”

You nod, just grateful that you can connect to Netflix again. You also remember, as she sifts through your “currently watching” list, that Fallon does not like the bartending show very much. She called it “too flashy” once (a beautiful hypocrisy, coming from her), and doesn’t like one of the judges.

You know most of the world doesn’t see this version of Fallon. They get the version of Fallon she wants them to see—the mean, bitchy one who’d rather commit murder than be wrong or humiliated or underhanded. The Fallon who looks pristine and never has so much as a nail out of place. The Fallon who will buy out an entire company just because an executive laughed at her outfit. You’re sure this is the Fallon they want to see as well. Someone mean taking you down is one thing, but someone kind? That’s a whole other.

“What are you smiling about?” She meets your eyes for a few fleeting moments before looking back at the TV.

“Nothing in particular,” you say. You don’t want to make her uncomfortable, you know she’s a little insecure about how other people see her. That’s okay, though. You’re fine keeping this version of her to yourself. “Just that I love you.”

Especially when she sneaks out to see you during work hours. She’d deny it if anyone asked—not that they were dumb enough to think they could ask her such a question. What Shiv does off company property is no one’s business but her own, and she intends to keep it that way.  

Entering the facility, she refuses a coat check (she knows from you the person running it tonight has sticky fingers, and a penchant for mixing up tags) and slides into one of the velvet-lined semi-circle couches in the darkest corner of the club. It’s far from the stage, the usual clientele leaving the seat vacant for that reason. Not many people are here—probably because she decided to come after the dinner rush. A smart move, considering how much she hates being overcrowded. It’s stifling, to be around many people—especially when all of those people are old, sweaty men.

She’s not here to throw cash, though, she’s here to see you.

And you, she notices, have just stepped onto the floor. Not only that, but you’re wearing the dress she bought you recently.

The white dress, dripping in hand-beaded, translucent crystal fringe, hugs your figure. The crystals move as you do, dancing as if they’re the ones on stage. Each one shines in the light, licking at your skin like flames onto wood. You don’t let it subsume you, though. No one else could wear that dress like you are right now. No one has the presence powerful enough to rival the crystals, or the V-shaped hem, or the deep neckline. The shoes, the ones she also bought you, are the same white as the dress. The toe strap has just enough crystals to call attention to them were you to be upside down, the ankle strap and thick heel bare.

The most important facet of your attire, though, is that Shiv had it custom-made for you and had it delivered to your apartment on the Upper West Side. She saw it on a model during fashion week, touting the gaudy, too-short dress with an atrocious pair of heels and a walk that reminded her of tripod dog that just woke up from a deep nap.

Shiv saw something though, behind the horrid styling and wretched model. She saw a chance, which she immediately took to prove that she hadn’t forgotten about you despite months of no contact.

If Shiv were anyone else, she would’ve grabbed you already—gave you a giant diamond ring and an outrageously expensive wedding and swept you to some cottage in the countryside where she’d make love to you as if she was trying to produce an heir.

But she’s herself, and you’re you, and so she finds herself here: in this high-end strip club-slash-sex dungeon, watching you from afar like a hunter in the brush. At least for them, though, they have the pleasure of taking their kills home.

No, she just saw a five-figure price tag and filled out the check. What can she say, she likes things that are expensive. She anything as long as it has a big enough price tag. The powerbroker inherited an unfortunate number of traits from Logan—her hairline, how she likes her coffee in the morning, the way she expresses love in the same way the average general speaks to their soldiers. This, though, seems to get her into the most trouble. Particularly, the most trouble with you.

One of the other girls offers her a menu as she sits down, one she turns down. She knows what she wants, ordering a bottle for herself and a single cocktail for you.

It’s not long before you find her, sitting to her right. Right after, the sever brings her order and leaves without saying anything else. She’s seen you and her together before, she knows she won’t be needed until it’s time to pay the tab.

“Fancy seeing you here,” you say, no hint of irony in your voice. Shiv likes that about you, how dry you are. No lube before the fucking, just how Shiv likes it.

She takes a long drink from her glass, savoring the rich taste for a moment before speaking. “I could say the same to you as well.”

“Still with your husband?” you ask, sipping on the virgin sex on the beach. Shiv could convince you to do quite a lot—but you’d never drink on the job, and you don’t intend to start now. Even for the beautiful woman with a bottomless wallet and a toy collection that would put the pro-dominatrixes who work in the club to shame, you’ve got to keep a clear head and not break house rules. It’s kept you alive this long, and you’re not one for breaking tradition.

Shiv respects that, popping the cork and pouring herself a glass of 2007 Sassicaia. She’s the only woman you had ever met who drinks red wine at a strip club, but you admire her commitment to avoiding champagne and vodka.

“By all legal accounts,” is all Shiv says in return. A divorce is costly, even with the prenup, and could make her appearance to shareholders worse. She’s tough, and a good CEO, but the bastards are always looking for a way to undermine her. Still, she and Tom haven’t slept in the same bed in years, now, their legal addresses are the same only in case someone were to ask. They haven’t spoken to each other about anything except business in even longer, their conversations about times when they need to be seen together going through their assistants.

Shiv Roy maintains a steeled image, and she can’t give that up for anyone—even you.

You know it, too; your profession acts as a piece of bulletproof glass, separating you for eternity.

This job may not have been your first choice. In fact, it was a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from getting evicted. Your mom may not know what you do, your career a shameful red A on your personhood. You lie to anyone who asks, dodging questions from landlords and lenders and your financial advisor.

But it had paid for your niece to go to nursing school. It had kept your sister out of collections when she had that cancer scare. It kept a roof over both of their heads when both of them lost their jobs. It keeps you out of debt and your apartment paid off. You don’t have a lifeboat, you are a lifeboat.

Shiv can’t understand that. The silver spoon hidden artfully under her tongue still shines when the dim lights of the house floor hit it just right. You can’t be too mad at her, though. The valley it creates between you keeps you from getting too close, from falling into her clutches. She’s a customer, and, you, providing a service. A very expensive service. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less. It keeps you both in your respective rigid categories, the borders shocking you every time you attempt to navigate past them.

“Meet me outside?” she asks, raking her eyes up and down your form. You shake just a bit as you break from your own line of thought, remembering the rest of the world exists. “I know your shift’s over soon.”

Shiv’s right. Even if she wasn’t, it’s not like you’d make more money showing your lace thong to the grandpas currently whistling at your coworker.

You nod, not giving her the satisfaction of a verbal reply. She just smiles, though, knowing she’s won and that there’s nothing anyone can do about it. There’s a certain smugness that comes from succeeding in battle, and Shiv will take it in any form she can. At least silence saves your dignity.

“One more thing,” she leans over to whisper, her lips just barely grazing the shell of your ear. “Keep the dress on.”

Back in the dressing room, you put on the biggest coat you can find, mindful of handsy customers’ bad habits regarding dancers out in the unprotected open. See a pretty woman in a short dress, and know she’s a dancer? It’s a concoction that ends in either a police report or a trip to the morgue, and you don’t have time for either. The mink and chinchilla fur blend keeps the February New York air from biting too deep into your skin, and the general public from seeing you dressed to the nines on a Tuesday night.

Confident in your half-hearted disguise as a normal civilian, you somehow find the courage to leave.

The dancers all have a special exit, patrolled by two security guards who are big as houses. They’re Russian, covered in tattoos, and wear earpieces you’ve never seen them talk into. They have, however, made sure no one who isn’t a dancer gets into the dressing rooms and kept every creepy customer from harassing leaving girls. In your book, that’s all you need to know that they’ll keep you safe.

You can feel their eyes following you as you step into Shiv’s car, the driver opening the door for you before walking back to his place in the front. Shiv’s already there, working on a tablet you’re sure is on airplane mode. She doesn’t look up to greet you until the car has already begun driving, and even then all she does is press a button on the central console.

You watch as the soundproof partition rolls up, the driver’s blank face staring straight ahead as you watch him disappear behind the black divider. Only then does Shiv turn to you, leaning forward to press your foreheads together.

Her perfectly manicured nails—painted in a deep purple that contrasts her pale skin—trace up your leg. “I’ve missed you, you know.”

In the safety of the car, you let your guard down. Your thighs open slowly, carefully, making room for her between them. But she doesn’t go that far, instead tracing up your navel before cradling your cheek. “And I know you’ve missed me, too.”

All you can do is flick your eyes between looking at her hand, and looking into her eyes.

“C’mon, open up, darling,” she coos, her index and middle finger rubbing over your plump bottom lip. Your lipstick, a matte nude meant to keep all the attention on your dress, doesn’t come off on her fingers just yet. For that, you’re grateful.

You hesitate for a moment, looking from her soft hands to her relaxed face. Shiv pouts, her calm demeanor giving way to a faux-niceness that has your center aching.

“Baby, don’t be like this,” she tuts, moving her hand so her thumb ever-so-subtly pulls your lips apart. “Let Mommy have some fun before we get home, won’t you?”

You nod ever so slightly, swallowing in a weak attempt to build your own courage back up. “Yes, Mommy. I’m sorry.”

She smiles as you open your mouth, welcoming the intrusion.

“Such a good girl for me,” she coos, her fingers rubbing circles onto your tongue before thrusting to the back of your throat. You can feel bits of drool fall down your chin between your thighs and pooling on the seat. It’s not the worst thing these seats have seen, at least not from you. And yet here, now, as Shiv balances her other hand behind you, as her wedding ring glints against the bright billboards of the city…

You gag around her fingers, the sudden drop in your ability to retrieve oxygen causing you to jerk.

“Shh pretty thing,” Shiv whispers, moving to rub at the tip of your tongue again. It gives you a chance to breathe, even as your jaw aches and your desperation grows. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

You can barely hear her over the ringing in your ears, your heart a racehorse in your chest. Your body slumps against the seats as you try to steady your breathing, but the last thread of your self-control snaps as you feel her tease at the thin fabric covering your weeping pussy. She doesn’t take them off, merely pushes them to the side.

“Fuck,” your voice is barely above a whisper, breathy and wonton. Her movements are confident and practiced as she gathers your wetness, circling it around your neglected clit. You buck into her hand, your hips moving on their own accord. No one else can touch you as she can, no one can elicit the same animalistic moans as her middle and index finger curling inside of you while her thumb rubs at your clit.

It’s good, it’s so fucking good, and all too soon you’re muffling your moans by biting into your hand as your other hand digs into her arm. Just a few more presses, just a few more twists until you-

Shiv laughs as she pulls away, watching as your face contorts and you cry out choked sobs.  

“Nuh-uh, baby,” she smiles as you whine, kicking your feet and pleading quietly. “Gotta make sure you have a reason to come home with me.”

Given Fallon’s past requests, you’re very sure that was on purpose. You’re sure it’s the same with the heels – tall, skinny, loud as they clack against the marble floor. As a kid, you once found a collection of your father’s vintage porn magazines hidden behind a stack of quarterly reports from his accounting firm. Those pinups, with their skimpy versions of various professions’ signature outfits, were once your pinnacle of beauty. You studied them like textbooks, watching their garters and fishnets and short dresses and lowcut tops. As an adult, though, as you pulled similar items onto your body, you did  it without any of the childish revere.

Still, you did it anyway. “I wasn’t really feeling it today” doesn’t pay your bills, and plus, you like Fallon. Fallon intrigues you. Most of your clients are people you’d rather never see again; too boring, too annoying, too desperate, too cheap. It’s welcome to be intrigued by her. Your job, while exciting to all those you tell of it, still occasionally is dreadfully boring. Nothing matters as much as Fallon does. It’s dangerous to put her on such a pedestal; your clients are just that—clients. They care about you in the same way one cares about their pets or expensive espresso machines.

The sound of her heels distracts you from your train of thought. As you turn to the source of the sound, you see her and nearly gasp.

She’s gorgeous, the long black dress hugging her body as if it was a second skin. The neckline dips between her breasts, revealing a deep V of pale skin.

You’ve played this game for a while. Her, acting coy and as if she is not a black widow who has murdered more than a dozen men in her hundred-year lifespan. You, acting as though you don’t know her cunning, monstrous ways.

One hand rests on the black barrister, her pale hand contrasting against the dark wood. The other holds a martini glass filled with a dark, thick liquid you know, from experience, is human blood. When you first took this job, her habits petrified you more than anything else in your life had. Now, it’s the least terrifying part of your deeply strange occupation. You’d allowed many a vampire to take from you, sipping from your neck or inner thigh or wrist. Fallon was the only, though, to be allowed to hold you as she drinks from your neck.

“So lovely of you to join me tonight,” she says with a sinister smile. She reminds you of cartoon wolves, or lions advancing toward a limping zebra. When watching nature documentaries, you’d never considered if the prey understood their imminent demise, if they were acutely aware of the danger lurking behind the tall grass. Certainly, the beasts had evolved to stalk quietly, to keep their lips sealed even as they drooled. But did they need to? Do they need to grant their target one last shred of hope, if they will force it to die in equal parts fear and pain?

You try to mask your glee at see her with a sly smile. “I had a hole in my schedule, so I knew I could fit in an appointment, especially for such a lovely customer.”

She smiles back, and you hope she’s bought your nearly translucent cover.

Fallon looks at you for just a moment, examining you from her position—checking, you think, to make sure you wore the outfit she asked for.

“Well, come on up, darling,” she tells you, turning and walking in the direction of her bedroom. Acclimated enough to know her cues, you follow her into the lavishly decorated bedroom.

She doesn’t sleep—none of them do, you’ve found. They have beds, of course. Hard to blend in or entertain guests if you have no beds. But very few of them decorate the way she does. Fallon’s got a keen eye for interior décor that’s also functional, a balance the older men you see rarely seem to strike. She once said she has secret compartments everywhere filled with trinkets she’s collected over her long life, antique jewelry, teeth from humans and animals, first-edition books from before the 19th century. Sometimes, when she’s feeling playful, she’ll pick an area and have you try to find where the objects are hidden. She stands there, watching you like a child at the zoo, sipping from a wine glass filled with a liquid you don’t ask the origin of as you tap against wood and push against books.

The intricate dance between you two begins as you step into the threshold, taking your usual place in the center of the four-poster bed. There, on your back, your upper body propped against well-fluffed pillows, your eyes follow her as she crosses the room to lay at your side.

She can hear your heartbeat, hear the blood rushing through your veins. Like drums in the distance, it thumps in her inner ear as she drags her teeth across the skin of your collar bones. You’ve never been robbed before, certainly never robbed at knifepoint. But every time you’ve seen someone in those black-and-white movies Fallon loves so much backed into a wall with a switchblade, you imagine it feels just like this. Danger so close you can taste it, your life betting on the mercy of a creature you’ve seen rip men’s hearts from their chests with their bare hands.

She climbs on top of you without preamble, stealing the breath from your lungs as her pelvis crashes against yours. Her hands hold your hips in place, her nails perfectly painted and sharpened into points threatening to tear into the cheap fabric of your frilly dress.

Fallon leans closer, and it takes all of your will not to press your warm body against her cold one. That’s another thing Fallon likes—the chase.

“Don’t you want to be a good girl for me,” she moans in her signature fake pout. It’s something you’ve only seen her pull off; that faux-final girl facial expression hiding behind a nearly feral glint in her eye. She could convince you (and, given her history, anyone else) to do anything she wanted with that tone, with her big eyes, with a small bite of her lip.

There’s something almost poetic about it you. The riches she’s gained with the ever-so-subtle touch of one of her nails likely reaches the hundreds of billions, and here she is, using it just for the honor of taking a few pints of blood. The money she takes never returns – lawyers, sex, and shame keep people’s lips sealed. Your blood always comes back, though, so it always feels like you’re getting the better end of the deal.  

(But then again, so did those old, wrinkly-ass men.)

“A-always, Mistress,” you finally stutter out, biting into your bottom lip to keep yourself from moaning. She grinds against you slowly, purposefully. God, she feels good against you.

She leans down, brushing her lips against your ear. It sends shivers down your spine, and once more you struggle not to turn your head and crash your mouths together. “Then give me what I want.”

“Yes, Mistress,” you whimper, turning your head so she has full access to the column of your neck.

Fallon, unlike the other vampires you’ve worked for in your career, likes to take her time with you. The others—possibly still waiting to unwrap the shame around their desires, possibly just not wanting to pay extra—always took what they needed, paid you, and then had you leave without a trace. No small talk, no pleasantries, no conversation, nothing. With merely a nod of acknowledgment, the creatures waiting on the sidelines as you laid on the settee or bed or whatever else they had purchased just so people like you could be comfortable while you were fed upon.

The woman on top of you, grazing her expertly painted lips over your neck, is a nice change of pace from your usual clientele.

It doesn’t hurt, the feeling of her teeth making tiny punctures into your skin. She keeps them sharpened (the term “vampire dentist” feels like the punchline to a bad Halloween joke, but in truth they’re all too real), the enamel filed down to a steep point that reminds you of a toothpick or a razer blade. This doesn’t stop you, though, from gasping just a bit as she drinks from your left carotid artery.

She holds you down, one hand keeping its place on your hip and the other moving to support the back of your neck. The feeling of her tongue over the wound, her light kisses pressed to your neck, her palm holding you at the perfect angle…your head swims as everything converges inside of you.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” she murmurs, her cold hands tracing up and down your thighs. The threat of her razor-sharp nails is only dulled by her supernatural control over her own movements. With anyone else, you’d be scared. With her, all you can do it watch her as her eyes drag over your body.

Her hand falls below the skirt, brushing her hands over your trembling thighs. Her nails – sharp as her teeth and dark as her lips – trail over the hem of the frilly panties. You imagine they were made for cents on the dollar and would fall apart if you so much as whispered in their direction. Fallon, though, makes you feel as though you’re wearing lingerie made of Mulberry silk.

You know she can smell you; smell your blood as it pounds through your veins, smell your core as it weeps under her gaze. She knows you know this, too, her confessing her supernatural senses after you accompanied her to some grand vampire dinner. Only there, as she pushed you into an empty bedroom and kissed up the column if your neck, did she confess that everyone at the long, oak table knew how wet you were under your blue velvet dress.

“Fuck, you’re wet,” she purrs, maneuvering your panties so the palm of her hand is pressed against your aching clit. “All this for me, baby?”

You moan, the sound so lewd it scares you. “Yes, Mistress, please-“

The word becomes a choked, animalistic noise as she begins rubbing her hand up and down the slick flesh, gathering the wetness at your dripping pussy before grinding the heel of her hand against the most sensitive part of you. She’s barely touching you compared to what you’re used to—no intricate ropes or morphing into fantastical beasts or fucking you with the ride array of strap ons she keeps organized by size in an armoire. This feels even bigger than all of those, though, her guiding you up the mountain of pleasure with a single hand.

The other, still present at the back of your neck, angles your face towards hers. You can see the remnant trails of your blood at the sides of your mouth, but it doesn’t stop you from accepting her deep kisses. The iron and copper taste doesn’t deter you, no, doesn’t keep you from slipping your tongue into her mouth. It also doesn’t stop you from begging for more, more—from pleading for whatever it is she’s willing to give you.

“So cute,” Fallon murmurs, smirking as you pant into your mouth. “Cum for me, baby” she purrs. “Give me what I want.”

It’s easy to follow her command, screaming as you reach your peak. She rubs you through it, only pulling away when your whimpers turn more painful than pathetic. Fallon eventually pulls away, leaving you as she murmurs something about replenishing your body and finding something to drink.

As she exits, you begin to wish you could know her more—wish she’d tell you about what life was like before she turned, how the world had changed around her as she tried to keep her status under wraps. She had only told you she had been the only daughter of a ruthless oil baron, and that the vampire who turned her attacked her outside a busy social club. The mystery person had taken her wallet, her ruby necklace, and her mortality.

The supernatural has always been…a fascination of yours. Ever since you were a child, werewolves and zombies and things that go bump in the night occupied most of your thoughts. Fallon and her mysterious aura had only magnified your desire to learn more, to store information in your brain to ponder whenever you found yourself staring into space, or on a date with a more boring customer.

You train of thought is thrown off the rails as you hear the sound of her heels once more, entering with her butler in tow. An older New Zealander whose perpetual politeness always has you on the offense, he carries a fanciful charcuterie plate and a scowl. Thinly sliced artisanal meats are folded to resemble flowers, bite-sized cuts of cheese are expertly placed to create spirals of various whites and yellows. Fruits—some you recognize, some you don’t—pepper the board. In the center rests a pitcher, already covered in condensation, and a small glass.

He doesn’t like you very much, you think.

Truthfully, you’re not sure he likes you at all, given he’s never spoken a single word directly to you. You’re just happy he only speaks to Fallon, if you’re being honest. Given his brashness with her, you’re just a little scared of what he’d say to you.

He leaves just as he left—silent, and with a slight scour painted over his face. You watch him as he leaves, his rigid posture and squared shoulders never slumping even as he turns the corner, out of Fallon’s eyeshot. She once told you she had superhuman hearing, and knew where everyone at the house was at all times. You wonder if the butler knows that, or if it’s even true.

“Eat, darling,” Fallon tells you, snapping you back to attention. “I can’t have the company forcing me to pay on that insurance clause.”

You know she would be able to afford it, keeping the company from dumping her as a client. Still, it warms your cheeks just enough to keep you from making a witty remark. Everything melts on your tongue, your heart racing at the taste. That’s another part of the reason you adore when Fallon picks up one of your appointments from you; even though she doesn’t eat much human food ever since she was turned, she only keeps sustenance of the best quality under her roof. She’s buys things not just because they’re expensive, but also because they’re good. You’ve had so many terrible steaks and horrible salads because men with no discernable taste believe them to be some of the best.

As you begin to fill your small plate with bits and pieces from the board, taking sips of cold water between bites, you feel her lean down next to you.