by Smith, Maren
She coughed, choking on sobs she couldn’t keep back. That made noise, but she couldn’t stop. All she could do was press the hand towel tighter over her mouth with both hands and muffle as much as she could.
It had been a long time since Ethen’s last party, but she remembered every one of them. Her body remembered. Her aching, pulsing, needy pussy remembered best of all, because even despite the humiliation and the shame, if there was one thing Ethen was good at, it was making her come even when she hated it.
Puppy buried her face in terrycloth, hugging her knees tight and willing the ache of arousal to stop. Just stop. It wouldn’t. It had been over a year now and the throbbing hum of need hadn’t quit yet. It wasn’t constant, but it wasn’t very far beneath the surface, ready at a word or the spark of a memory to reduce her to this. Hiding in the damn bathtub in the middle of the night, rocking, her breasts heavy, her pussy swollen, and her clit throbbing without the slightest relief in sight.
She missed it. Not Ethen, never Ethen, but the things he did—all the parts she used to love—what kind of person went through the things that she had, called it rape, called it abuse, and secretly missed it?
Her whole life was in limbo. She hadn’t felt the security of a man’s hand grabbing the hair of her scalp, or the scrape of rope bindings tying her up in ways that made her feel sexy and subservient in the wake of his strength and authority. She hadn’t felt the stinging, fiery, burning, hurting fury of impact after impact that showed no sign of stopping no matter how she writhed or screamed, not until she yielded to it. Gave herself over to it. Let herself rise high above it until she was flying on wave after wave of sweet, absolving release.
She was a puzzle book, so far beyond her ability to solve that she didn’t even know where to start. Wallowing in the bottom of the tub in a bathroom she shared with Pony, she smothered her own intensifying sobs because she wasn’t just missing pieces, she was missing whole pages and she didn’t know how to get them back again. She wanted so badly to be the person she used to be, back before Ethen found her and she stupidly gave herself into his care. The things he’d promised had been everything she’d ever wanted—a 24/7 relationship with a man who would let her kneel to him, who would give her the impact she craved without thinking her weird for it, who wouldn’t hesitate to bind her in ropes and restraints until she couldn’t move so much as an inch on her own and who thought the marks those sessions left behind were every bit as beautiful as she did.
At least, that was what he’d said. He’d said he would lead if she would follow, and that he would look out for her, guide her, take care of her, watch over her even as he pushed her until every last trembling nerve in her body was screaming on the very edge of what she could bear without her crying out the safeword.
Except, with Ethen there were no safewords.
As she’d come to learn, Ethen didn’t give two shits where her boundaries were. Which didn’t mean he didn’t know where they were. He knew; he knew every single edge, fear, doubt, and insecurity that she harbored by heart, and he rarely missed an opportunity to use them against her.
It was almost funny how, back when she’d been living with him, something broken in her head had said it was okay when he did that to her. It was okay that he whipped her when he was angry, because Doms needed release too and she’d told him she liked impact play. So really, he was giving her what she wanted, right?
It was okay that he locked her in a dog kennel too small for her to be able to fully sit up or even to stretch out her legs. Sometimes he’d leave her in there for a day or more, never letting her out, not even to pee, just so he could rub her nose in it when the inevitable happened. Back when they’d first met, she’d told him she hoped to find someone who would take complete control over her. So really, she’d asked for it too, hadn’t she?
And it was perfectly normal for him to make her the fuckable centerpiece of his private parties, because a submissive was all things to her Master and he enjoyed having a toy he could share with his friends. He liked watching as they took their turns, even when she didn’t want to do it, because one time she’d confided that she’d always fantasized about being taken over and over and over again, until all she could feel was the slick smoothness of cum on her body and she was so exhausted that she couldn’t even move.
Except that the reality had been nothing like the fantasy. It hadn’t been fun; it had been mortifying and uncomfortable, and all she’d felt when it was over was dirty and used. But he kept making her do it, even after she worked up the courage to ask if it could stop. Because it made him happy, and isn’t that what a good submissive was supposed to want to do? Make the Master happy?
It had taken a year of separation before she finally reached a point where she no longer cared about making Ethen happy. She no longer slept in a kennel or crawled on a leash, or put on her puppy gear and romped at anyone’s feet. She didn’t care if she ever put on puppy gear again. She was free now.
Free to go wherever she wanted.
Free to work wherever she wanted, except she hadn’t been able to hold a job for more than a week without breaking down into panic and tears.
Free to spend her own money however she wanted, and yet she couldn’t keep herself together enough to earn a paycheck.
Free to meet people and talk to people without worrying about what Ethen would say or do or whether she’d get punished for it later on. But who was there to meet when she hid all day in her mother’s house? Under Pony’s supervision. The only time she ever left was when it came time to visit Ethen in prison.
What was wrong with her?
Who was she anymore?
Why couldn’t she get the fuck over this?
Once upon a time, she used to be brave. She used to be adventurous. She once thought almost nothing of getting dressed up in her sexiest outfit and heading down to the club, just to see who she might meet up and play with.
That was how she’d met Ethen, but she’d met other people too. Nice people. People who would probably be appalled now by what she’d let herself become.
Disgusted with herself, she shoved off the back of the tub far enough to slap the water on. The shower spewed, dousing her instantly in spraying drops that rapidly got colder the farther she wrenched the faucet toward the blue line. Throwing herself back up against the end of the tub once more, she huddled with that useless hand towel lying on her feet. The tangle of her brown hair grew stringy and wet, plastering against her skin as she shivered under the icy pelting spray. It was the worst punishment she could think of—yet another rule she was breaking, although she was almost certain Ethen would be amused if ever he knew.
Unlike leaving the house, which was far more likely to piss him off.
Hugging her knees, Puppy shook as the water ran off her. She clamped her jaw tight to keep her teeth from chattering.
She couldn’t leave even if she wanted to. Pony slept in the corner by her closet, where all her clothes were hanging up. Sliding open that door risked waking her up.
Like she could dress herself up for a night on the town. Hell, the only reason she didn’t walk around naked every day was because her mother quietly put clean clothes on the foot of her bed in the mornings. The only reason Pony got dressed was because Puppy did the same for her. How pathetic was it that neither of them could do that much for themselves?
But she used to. Up until Ethen, she’d been dressing herself every day since she was five.
She could do it again, couldn’t she? If she tried? She could pretend she was doing it for Pony, then reach into the dark closet and whatever she pulled out, that’s what she’d put on.
Without thinking. Without stressing.
Just to see if she still could.
And then what? She didn’t know what time it was, but she knew it was after midnight. Where in D.C. could she possibly go at this time on a Friday night?
Second Friday of the month, to be exact.
Where did they go on the second Friday of every
single month, for almost two full years before Piggy ran away and fucked up all their lives?
Black Light, of course.
Shaking from more than just the cold now, Puppy shut off the water. For a long time, she sat in the bottom of the tub, dripping and thinking.
There was no way she could go to Black Light. Not after what Ethen had done. They’d never let her in the door.
Not that she was responsible for his cruel behavior, but she still shared in the blame. Because, of course she did. She was part of his menagerie.
Her membership probably wasn’t even good anymore.
Still, Black Light was familiar. It was the only BDSM dungeon she’d ever been to. Where else but there could she go?
She dried off as best she could for how wet she was. Wringing out the wet terrycloth hand towel, she had a minor panic attack trying to figure out how to hide them. Her mother wouldn’t care if she got up in the morning and found a few wet things in the bathroom. Pony, on the other hand, would know she’d broken the rules. She would tell Ethen, he would issue a punishment, Pony would have a meltdown the entire time she did whatever he commanded, and everyone would know it was all Puppy’s fault.
Wadding both the bath and hand towels up in as small a ball as she could, she stuffed them under the sink behind the feminine care and cleaning products. Flicking off the bathroom light, she then crept back out into the bedroom she shared with the only person she considered both an enemy and a friend. The only friend she had. Ethen’s erstwhile spy.
Pony breathed so softly. Even after her ears tuned in to the rhythmic whisper of air, it was hard to tell if she was awake or asleep. Pony was good at pretending and she never snored.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark. The soft illumination of distant streetlights bled into the room through cracks in the window blinds, but it was enough to turn some shadows darker than others while some furniture lit up faintly. She felt her way along a three-foot stretch of wall from the bathroom door to the corner that opened up onto the bedroom as a whole. Around this corner was the closet and Pony’s narrow cot.
Slowly, she reached for it. Painstakingly silent, she slid it open.
The closet interior was nothing but a pitch-black maw gaping open in the dark. Reaching in, Puppy took the first thing her hand fell on… a shirt by the length and feel. Back into the closet she went, wincing at the soft clatter of plastic and wire hangers bumping together, until she found a pair of soft cotton pants, hanging by the ankle hems in the clasps of a skirt hanger, just the way Ethen preferred it. Because for the life of her, no matter how much time had passed, she could not make herself do the laundry in any way but the way he had preferred.
They were probably yoga pants by the feel of them, but they still had her neat iron creases cutting so sharply down the legs that Puppy could feel them in the dark.
She got dressed as silently as she knew how and then she sat on the edge of her bed, still without any lights on at all, trying to get her stomach to stop knotting. She felt sick to the core of herself. Her muscles locked so tight that it was all she could do not to run back into the bathroom for another ice-water shower until she felt better.
Except, she never felt better. And she never would until she got this… this knotted sickness… out of her.
That would never happen. Not for as long as she stayed like this—an official ward of her mother, and an unofficial prisoner of Pony and Ethen. A ghost of the brave person she used to be, but certainly brave no longer.
Puppy grabbed the backpack with her wallet tucked safely inside. That was almost laughable. She had her ID, but her mother had taken her driver’s license just as fast as she was released from the hospital. Truthfully, this wasn’t even her wallet. Hers had been checkbook style, made of soft brown leather and engraved with her name, which Ethen had given her—all four of them, in fact—one year for Christmas.
Her mother had taken that too.
What she had now was a cheap, plastic pink thing found at the same Goodwill that most of her and Pony’s clothes had come from. It had sparkles and a Hello Kitty sticker on the front and had probably belonged to a six-year-old before her. But there was a pocket inside for money and her debit card. Although she hadn’t been able to keep the panic attacks at bay long enough to hold a job, her mother made sure there was always a little bit of money in her bank account for buses, taxis, and such.
Her cellphone was in the kitchen, on the charger where Pony put it every night, lined up in a neat row of two—with Pony’s always first, hers always last, and Ethen’s always missing. They were pay-as-you-go phones from Walmart, but at least they worked.
And that was how Puppy found herself sitting at the end of her mother’s driveway at just after midnight, in hot pink yoga pants and an orange shirt that looked like a jack-o-lantern. The colors clashed, but she didn’t dare go back inside to change. She couldn’t risk the taxi coming while she was inside. What if it honked? It was better to look as if she was incapable of dressing herself than risk waking Pony up.
She felt ashamed, and useless, helpless, and she never used to be.
It was that last part that gave her the courage to get into the back of the cab once it arrived and let it carry her all the way downtown to Black Light. She wouldn’t stay long, she told herself. She’d just walk inside—and probably only make it as far as Luís in the psychic shop or Danny at the security desk before marching right back out again, but at least she’d be able to hold her head high and say she’d done something.
She’d just walk in say hello. Just hello. To someone other than Pony. She could still do that much.
Couldn’t she?
Chapter 3
Carlson Garvey sat down for what felt like the first time all day, and it had been a long one.
“Hello, stranger,” Pixie said brightly, sauntering up to his table in her next to nothing hot pink negligee. “I was really starting to get offended. You’ve been here since six and yet this is the first you’ve come to see me all night.”
“Dungeon monitors need to walk the floor, not socialize in the bar,” he reminded.
She mock pouted. “So you say.” Slit up the front, her outfit showed off the kind of body most men would ache to dominate, leaving only the thinnest sliver of a white thong to cover her sex. Her bob-cut wig and fake eyelashes matched the color of her outfit; so did her glossy, grinning pink lips. “Your usual, Gentleman Jack?”
“Please.” He stifled a sigh when she not so shyly bit her bottom lip, then trailed a playful finger over his shoulder before walking off to relay the drink order to Klara, Black Light’s best bartender.
It was no secret that Pixie had a crush on him. He also wasn’t above watching the sashay of her gorgeous ass playing peek-a-boo beneath the flowing hem of her outfit as she walked away. Someday, she was going to make someone a great submissive, but he was not that someone. She was barely old enough to be serving drinks in this place. She could have been his kid for crying out loud. He knew plenty of doms who wouldn’t even bat an eye, but he was coming up on forty now. His days of playing the field were done.
Hell, his days of playing period seemed to be done. It wasn’t even that he couldn’t find a partner when he wanted. Unlike in the beginning, Black Light these days was a pleasant mix of both doms and subs, with more than a few ‘service submissives’ ready, willing, and able to submit to anyone in need of a partner. Why he couldn’t be satisfied with that anymore, he didn’t know. But more and more these days, his problem seemed to be this increasing desire to find a partner who wanted to be with him outside the dungeon too. He wanted to date someone, damn it. He wanted to take someone out to dinner, talk to her like a real human being and have her talk back, preferably with something more than just what was going on in the world of video games or Pokémon Go.
No offense to Pokémon, but that was not Pixie.
Never in his wildest dreams had he ever thought he would be staring down forty and still be single. Having made h
is military career a priority for the last twenty-two years, he supposed that was to be expected. But he was Stateside now, and he had every intention of staying that way.
His priorities had changed. He wanted more.
He was tired of being alone.
Just not tired enough to settle for someone half his age and with whom he already knew he had little to nothing in common.
He looked around the dungeon as he waited for his drink. At just after one on a Friday night, Black Light wasn’t as busy as it had been earlier in the night. Only one other table in the bar area was occupied, and that was by two gentlemen deep in scene negotiations. It wasn’t hard to tell which of them was the submissive and which the Top. The submissive was blushing all the way up to his carrot-top roots. Ducking his head, he nodded at whatever the Dom just said and suddenly the scene negotiation was done. The Dom stood and walked around the table, collecting his submissive by looping a finger in a belt loop at his waist. Dragging the other to his feet, off they headed in the direction of an empty cross.
“And a good time was had by all,” he said softly to himself just as Pixie returned with his drink. Two fingers of Crown, hold the ice.
“Are you clocked off now?” she asked, plopping down in a seat beside him. She made a show of wiping down the table with a rag she then dropped beside her. “You look like I wish I felt: rode hard and put up wet.”
He almost laughed. Subtle.
“It’s been a day,” he agreed instead, although he didn’t share the details. Their relationship wasn’t really one that had ever been overly sharing, even of the positive stuff.
“It’s awful quiet tonight, isn’t it?” She stretched her arms and back, not-so-covertly pushing out her breasts. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it so quiet this ea—holy shit.” Dropping the stretching act, Pixie snapped her arms down, mouth gaping as she stared past him.
Glancing over his shoulder, Carlson searched for something shocking enough to stop Pixie mid-word, but all he saw was a brunette he didn’t know coming through the door.