#mark reeve

Ira looked different. She was in a short white dress, white hair was tousled, a slight blush on her dark cheeks, lip swollen. She looked like seduction itself. Strange, to imagine Gemma allowing her to walk around like this. After she'd been so intent on beating her up for being... just like this.

"Ira," he said softly. "How are you?"

Straight, thin bruises shone on her skin, marks of Gemma's rage, drawn over her thighs under the hem of the short skirt, and on her upper arms.

She seemed to notice his gaze, and her hand wandered up, almost instinctively, to another bruise, around her neck. Long lined, almost black in colour, shaped like fingers. His fingers.

Mark bit his lip, and she tilted her head without a reply. 

For a second, he understood it as a gesture of submission, but then he noted the packed bags by her feet.

"These are yours," she said. "Ms Gemma would like you to leave."

A quick glance was enough to tell him the content of the bags was far from everything he owned in this place.

"Well, Gemma can -" He interrupted himself. This was ridiculous. He didn't have to talk to her. "Gemma!," he shouted instead. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

He put a hand on Ira's hip to shove her aside and get past her and toward his stuff.

She didn't move. "No."

He cocked his head at her and looked her down. His hand was still resting on her thin dress, and he was all too aware of her soft, warm skin under it. "You're not meant to say no." He whispered into her hair, almost conspirationally. "We both know you want to be good."

"Not for you," She tensed under his grip, but still didn't step back. Somehow, she seemed taller than before. "I'm Ms Gemma's."

"Ms Gemma almost killed you."

"Ms Gemma is my owner. You're not." He was close enough to her to hear her quick breathing, to see her bruised throat bob as she swallowed, before she added. "You almost killed me, too."

Mark scoffed. "Come on, Ira. Did Gemma really paint me as the villain here?"

"Leave Ira alone, Mark, and just go." He caught a glimpse of Gemma's ginger hair behind Ira's shoulder, but Ira shifted to the side to block his way. Elegantly, as everything that fucking pet did. It was infuriating.

"Ira?", he repeated. "So you've bonded now? Oh, just perfect." 

He looked at Ira again, her swollen lip and unusually messy hair, and finally understood.

"You've fucked the pet, Gem, haven't you? Oh, you're really so fucking simple. Constantly afraid of losing control, but with the pet, you'll always get your will. She better than me, huh? Because you never wanted a person in the first place, did you? Just obedience and a warm body? Fuck you, Gem, you know what, you've failed. You've-"

She dove under Ira's arm and appeared in front of him, jaw tense, face red with fury, finger raised at him like a tiny school teacher scolding a child. "You're the failure Mark, I don't even understand why I put up with you for so long. You're lazy and useless, just laid back and let me take care of-" 

Enough. That was fucking enough. He reached out to grab her wrist and slam her into the wall.

He wasn't fast enough.

Ira's hand around his felt like steel. Pain flared through his shoulder as she twisted his arm almost effortlessly. Mark yelped and stumbled to his knees. Her hold of him was relentless.

"Fuck," he yelled. "Fuck, Gemma, call her off."

Gemma's eyes were wide in shock, but smoothed over with a smug satisfaction that he definitely never wanted to see again.

"In a minute," she mumbled, looking down on him. He could see three red rims around her eyes, salty traces of dried tears. "I like this."

New pain erupted in his strained shoulder. "Ira," he begged. "Ira, please, let go."

"You're pathetic, Mark," Gemma said softly, and stepped in, only to look down on him. With a frown, she ran her fingers down his cheek. "You shouldn't have been able to break my heart like that."

"Fuck, Gem, you-" He interrupted himself with a pained hiss. He shouldn't. He'd seen her angry. He didn't want to end up on the receiving end of that cane. 

"What do you want, Mark? I packed your stuff."

"My…" He felt like an idiot, fucking humiliated by Gemma and Ira, of all people. Ira, who'd been so soft and warm to him, compared to Gemma who had felt like stainless steel and sharp edges. Now Ira was the steel one, holding him down with an iron grip. "My work stuff?"

Gemma tilted her head. "In there. Along with your potted plant. Well, without the pot. Tried to be efficient."

Mark bit back a sharp remark, cleared his throat instead. "My, uh… PlayStation?"

"Really, babe?" She laughed. "Your fucking PlayStation? After you disrespected me, and my things, what do you think I did to your own toy? It's in the trash."

"You did what?"

"Yeah. That's kind of exactly what I thought when I walked in on you fucking my pet, when you knew I didn't want you to."

The grip around Mark's arm tensed for a second, twisting his shoulder even further. "Ahhh", he whimpered. "Fuck, Gem, you can't let her break my arm."

"You're trespassing. It's self defense." Still, she gestured at Ira, and the hold of his arm was released.

Mark let out a relieved sigh, and rose back to a full stand. 

Gemma lifted her chin. "Take your bags and leave, Mark. Don't come back."

He grabbed the bags. Sharp pain rushed through his right arm, and with clenched teeth, he threw the bag over his shoulder. "I won't."

He stepped out of the door, turning away just in time to see Gemma rest her hand on Ira's cheek, and the way the pet's face lit up when Gemma pulled her into a kiss.

The door fell close, cutting off the view. Instead, his gaze was caught by his old, wrong key still uselessly stuck in the lock.

He left it.

Mark looked at Ira, at the thin bloody lines over her breast and stomach. She was barely moving now, her breath flat, shoulders shaking. Her eyes were closed, as if she could just hide from the world like this.

She hadn't been like that just minutes before. She'd been good, perfect, without Gemma interfering and making it all about herself.

He'd just taken her, however he pleased - three or four times, he guessed, depending on how one would count it - and after her initial show of acting up she'd played along. She'd enjoyed it, too. Of course she had, it was her single purpose. If Gemma wouldn't give it to Ira, he would.

"The fucking question is what you just did! Did you really beat her up for serving her one single purpose?"

"I asked you not to touch it."

"And yet I did," Mark felt his hands curl into fists. "This is my place, too. You don't get to tell me what to do in my own home."

"I asked you to," she replied stubbornly. "I asked you for one single thing Mark, and that's to keep it in your pants for one afternoon. But I guess I don't mean anything to you."

"I... I fucking get it. You - you're jealous." Mark pushed her at arm's length, stared down at her. "You're jealous that I fucked the pet instead of you?"

"That's not -" Gemma began, but he couldn't bear her flat apathetic voice.

"You want us to have an actual sex life? You know what, try to actually come home from work at night, maybe, or to get rid of this stick you've got shoved up your ass. Maybe treat me like a person instead of a burden? Like I'm actually worth something? Guess what, then I might have wanted to fuck you instead of the dumb pet." He pointed at Ira. "She looks at me like I matter. Like I can be the center of her world, like my touch makes her happy. You? You look at me like you're sorry for me, like you're disappointed that even you, perfect Miss Gemma couldn't fix me."

Gemma still didn't look at him, just at Ira spread on the bed. "She... It said, it said no."

Mark scoffed in disbelief. "Well she's made to be fucking obedient. She said it for you, Gemma, because that dumb pet still finds it in her to love you, and wish to obey you. As if you could be loved. You can't be loved, Gem, but you know what? You deserve her. You can keep her. She's the only one who can stand being with you even if you're the cruel cold controlling bitch that you are. Because I..." He shrugged and stepped back. "I can't."

Gemma's head spun, clear eyes boring into his. "What the... What the heck, Mark. Are you - are you breaking up with me? You? You, the one who did every even remotely possible thing wrong? You have the audacity to think you're the one to break up? No. No, Mark, it's me, I'm in charge, and I -" She brought up her hands in fists, tiny, delicate fists, and he almost laughed at how ridiculous she was. How he couldn've had this little woman keep him prisoner in this relationship for so long.

"You what?" he teased.

The anger boiling up in her was cute to watch. He could see her gaze fly down to the cane. "Oooh, you're going to beat me up? Like you did her? No Gemma, you've lost this one. I'm out." He backed out, a wild thrill rushing down his spine. He was free. He was fucking liberated. It felt fantastic. "Have fun with her. She's amazing with her tongue. And she can make it all just about you, the way you like it, right?"

He grabbed his pants from the floor. Gemma was frozen in place, hands still balled into fists, face contorted between anger and disbelief.

"Fuck you, Gemma," he said softly, as he reached for the doorknob. "And if you feel too good to do it yourself, use her." He wondered, for a moment, if she would. Or if she'd beat her to death, insane as she was. He didn't care, he realized. As long as he was out of this.

"Bye."

He pulled the door shut behind him and stepped out of his life.

Writing (32 chapters, total 21k words)

[I The Gift]

[II Tiles]

[III Pillow Talk]

[IV Morning]

[V Ira]

[VI Permission]

[VII Supplies]

[VIII Rejection]

[IX Sushi]

[X Rice]

[XI Dark]

[XII Lingerie]

[XIII Three]

[XIV Good]

[XV Sleeping In]

[XVI Happy]

[XVII Rules]

[XVIII Breakfast]

[XIX Chocolate Cake]

[XX Loud]

[XXI Disobey]

[XXII Headaches]

[XXIII Snap]

[XXIV Out]

[XXV Pain]

[XXVI Comfort]

[XXVII Need]

[XXVIII Love]

[XXIX Pick Up]

[XXX Rebound]

[XXXI Smile]

Yet somehow, she figured, she was also this man's.

He had walked off to another room after a while, after pretending not to stare at her from behind his phone. Of course he had. She'd felt his eyes on her face, her hair, her body, and in contrast to his attempts at talking, she had very much liked that.

It was what she was for. She was made to be pretty, pliant, soft, a canvas for other's desires. She longed to be touched, to be held - but the man's gaze at least had made her feel wanted.

Now, with him gone and time passing, all that she felt was a growing headache, were her knees going stiff on the cool stone floor, her back aching at familiar places.

She didn't know how much time it had been.

He hadn't ordered her to get up.

Then again, he hadn't ordered her to kneel either. She'd just done it, good pets know how to behave, obey without explicit orders. Her head hurt.

She'd been given no real rules. No touching Ms Gemma. Not being naked in front of her or the man. Mark. Mr Mark? Sir? That was it.

She wasn't told to kneel. There wasn't a rule about it, as it had been with Mistress. No. She was allowed to get up.

Carefully, slowly, she unfolded her legs and got up. She swayed a little bit on her feet, her vision swimming before it settled. She... She hadn't been drinking since the shower this morning.

Her gaze wandered to the cabinets in the kitchen. She licked her lips nervously. Rules or not, she couldn't touch their things without her owners' permission.

Her knees threatened to buckle and she steadied herself on the couch.

She... She needed permission.

With small steps, hand on the wall, she walked down the corrido. Each step rattled her head, sending spikes of pains into her brain. Mr Mark's humming and the clicking of fingers on a keyboard could be heard from the last room, and she lifted a weak hand to knock on the door. "Si... Sir?"

No answer.

Her head hurt so much.

She stepped in, dropping to her knees right away. All she saw of him were his legs on a spinning chair behind a desk, the chair pushed back the second she asked.

Then he was on his knees, too, his face in front of her, headphones around his neck. "Ira- Pet, what is it? Are you okay?"

A cool hand reached out and rested on her cheek, and Ira melted into the touch, as she'd learned, as it was right.

"I...", she rasped. "Per... Permission to... drink?"

"You -" There was horror to his voice, and she flinched, she'd made a mistake, she'd made him angry. "You... you didn't drink?"

"'M sorry, Sir," she whispered. "Need... I need permission."

His hold of her shifted, as he reached up with his free hand. She felt the rim of a glass pressed to her lips.

Obediently, she tilted her head, let her owner guide her. "Oh honey, no", he mumbled. His voice was nice, not angry, even a little worried. "You have permission to drink, always, okay?"

He pulled her in closer, gently tilted the glass to feed her, and for the first time in this house, Ira felt safe.

Ira, he formed her name again in his mind. Gemma didn't know that name. She probably never would. She'd stick with "pet", or maybe even return to the number the pet said with this flat, monotonous voice. Gemma loved structures and numbers and efficiency.

Sometimes he wondered, why she actually stayed with him, who was anything but.

The glass was empty, and he gently set it aside on the floor next to him.

The pet - Ira - shifted, but she didn't try to get up. She turned to her side, a languid movement that made his nerves tingle and sent little shivers through his whole body.

She must've felt it, surely she did, but didn't show. Instead, she glanced up at him through dark eyelashes. "Thank you, Sir," she said softly. Her face was so close, close enough to count her eyelashes, to see the faint line of a scar on her cheek, and a dimple in the other. Her white hair smelled like strawberries, vaguely familiar. She was beautiful, he thought, the notion drowned under a wave of shame. Don't think with your groin, Gemma's voice whispered.

How couldn't he, with this perfect creature in his arms, with her breath on his skin, and her lips on his ne-

No. No, she couldn't, he couldn't, Gemma would never forgive him. "Ira," he said, one tiny word, so heavy on his tongue. "Don't."

He grabbed her shoulders and gently pushed her at arm's length. She didn't fight him, gave in to his touch like a dancing partner, retreating with perfect elegance.

His skin burned where her lips had touched him, and for a moment he wondered how perfectly she'd follow his lead if he just guided her a little downward, if he -

No.

"Sir?" she asked. There was hurt in her voice, and he couldn't tell if it was real, he could only tell that it kindled the urge to pull her back into his arms, to give her everything he had.

He took a sharp breath, before he lifted a hand between them. "I... I know you are a romantic pet, Ira, but, uh, I... I can't, okay? I want to, but you... You're Gemma's, and I'm Gemma's, too, there... there can't be anything like this, okay?"

The pet tilted her head and Mark's gaze was captivated by the curve of her neck, caught by the tight leather collar marking her. Fuck. They really owned a pet. And the pet was obviously better at this game than he was.

"But..." Her voice was honey, soft and sweet, and he wanted to drown himself in it. "Doesn't Ms Gemma want you to be happy?"

Something snapped inside him, and he struggled not to think about it, not to really take this question to heart, because he didn't want to know the answer.

He pushed himself back from her. "I... I really need to work," he said. It wasn't a reply, but then again, he didn't owe her one either. "You... You have permission to drink, okay? And, uh. Make the beds or something. Whatever. Don't... uhm... disturb me until Gemma comes home, okay?"

"I..." There was an odd despair clinging to her voice. "I could just sit here, Sir. I can be a very pleasant company."

He let out a sharp chuckle, his hand pressed to the spot on his neck where she'd kissed him, still sending pulsating heat through his body. "Yeah I, uhm. I don't doubt that in the slightest."

"Please, Sir?" She was on her knees, head lowered, begging. "I'll be good for you."

"I don't want you good for me," he said. Lied. He had this pet, at his disposal, that perfect body, these soft lips, those eyes promising him infinite bliss. He'd heard about what they could do, in what ways the pet, Ira, could satisfy him. Could be good.

Yet he also had Gemma, and the man she wanted him to be. Doesn't she want him to be happy?

"Leave," he said firmly.

She did.

It was right, he told himself. Yet it didn't feel good at all.