by Angel Lawson
Story is in some dire-ass straits.
“You got all the conditions down?” Killian asks, eyebrows raised as he moves to the second part of the paperwork. “Including the additions to The Game that we made last night?”
“Yes, sir,” Martin says. “They’re added to the bottom of the current list.”
The Game is a long-standing tradition with the Lords. Having a Lady who’s obligated to meet our every whim is a bit too easy for men like us. We need a challenge, a difficult pursuit, which is why none of the other girls passed. They were too fucking easy, chomping at the bit for a pat on the head, ready to service us however we saw fit.
Yawn.
But not Story. Maybe she’s changed—matured—but even though she’s obviously desperate, I could smell the fear rolling off her body. The nervousness. The dread. It’s going to be tooth and nail with her. It got my dick instantly hard.
The three of us sit quietly for a moment reading over the points system of The Game. The idea is simple. Each item gets a point. Since we won the game last year and are already living in the brownstone, we needed another prize. We’ll no longer be a team, because for this, we’ll be competing against each other. The Lord with the highest number of points by the end of the year wins. The prize?
Sweet Cherry’s cherry.
Each of us want it, but only one can take it. It’s probably Killian’s, by rights, which is something that was brought up with feeling during the discussion. He’s not wrong. We just don’t give a shit. Killer had his chance with her. They lived under the same roof for a year. Whatever drama was going on between him and his dad has fuck-all to do with us.
So that’s the endgame. One of us is going to take her virginity, and these two dumbasses don’t know it yet, but it’s going to be me.
The problem with a house having a girl is that it’s a delicate balance. Just look at the Princes and their Princess. It’s too easy to humanize them, to make them seem like…girlfriends. They’re not. They’re owned. Subservient. For the Lords, the prize isn’t in the Lady herself. It’s in the possession of her.
Our history with Story complicates matters.
We’ve already had a taste of her, for one. Plus, Killer’s got all his baggage. Rath and her seem to have a brief history, too. I’ve got none of that. To me, Story’s just some girl who gave me a really thrilling blowjob once upon a time. But I’d be lying if I said her ability to get my boys all tangled up didn’t bother me.
That’s why we had to revise The Game—to keep us on task. We agreed to a few changes this year because of our history with her, mostly because Killian has massive control issues and is obsessed with his stepsister. Everything is put on a point scale. The way we won last year was by the three of us accomplishing every task on the list. There’s nothing we won’t do. No degradation too small. No female we can’t convince or manipulate into our beds. For Story, that has to shift a little. It’ll be about the small things; how often she wears an outfit we picked out, if we provide ‘correction’ for insubordinate behavior, how, when, and where she sucks our cocks. There are more points for voyeurism or exhibitionism, and humiliation. There’s less for willing cooperation, unless it’s explicit, enthusiastic consent, but more for tactical coercion. The art of the mindfuck will be my own personal specialty.
I suspect this will be a high-points game.
“You all need to sign the top copy,” Martin says, holding out a pen.
I read through it once more, since my position is a little more vulnerable here. Killer is all brute aggression, and Rath is all about the slow, simmering tension. Their own strategies are up-front. Mine are far more subtle.
It only takes me a moment to find the right clause; anyone who informs Story of The Game will be summarily disqualified from the competition for the prize.
“So,” I say, once the paper is signed and Martin has left the room, “any particular plans on how to welcome Sweet Cherry into the house?”
“We don’t,” Killian says, pouring us each a glass of whiskey. “As a reminder that she’s not special, we won’t be here when she arrives. There’s business we need to attend to in South Side. I say we take care of it and let her fucking stew.”
Rath and I both take a glass and stand, holding our glasses out.
“Let the mind games begin,” Rath says, smirking.
I thrust my glass out, clinking the crystal with the others and repeating Rath’s words, “Let the mind games begin, indeed.”
6
Story
When I return to the brownstone that night, I’ve managed to get this wild, terrified feeling under control. At least sort of. It’s not like I can ever feel relaxed around these three. On the contrary, I’m determined to keep my defenses up at all times. Something tells me that’s exactly what they want. Killian in particular seems to enjoy terrorizing me. I still feel a twinge of soreness from his earlier ‘inspection’, not strong enough to be called pain, but just present enough that it can’t be ignored.
This time, the door is locked. With a deep breath, I bang the brass skull knocker. It swings open a moment later, revealing the guy from the other day.
“Good evening,” he says, gesturing for me to enter the front room. “We met before, but I didn’t introduce myself. My name is Martin. I’m the Lords’ assistant.”
“I’m Story. Story Austin,” I reply, giving him my real name as I peer around the foyer once again. When I turn to the man—Martin—I give him a onceover. I wonder if I’ll be under his thumb, too. I wonder if he’ll want to do things to me. He doesn’t look like a ruthless sadist, but neither does Tristian. It’s a dumb notion, anyway. The Lords don’t share with anyone but each other. “You’re their assistant? You don’t look any older than me.”
“I’m twenty-five actually,” he says, shutting the door. I take note of him turning the lock, the click sounding final and grim. “The Lords have always had an assistant assigned to them by the firm. It’s an honor to serve them, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
I only barely manage to hide the face I want to pull. Sadist or not, if this guy thinks being their ‘Lady’ is an honor, then he’s a creep. Unfortunately, I’m not in the position to make my feelings on the matter known. “I see.”
“I mostly manage things for the frat and house; maintenance, repairs, and legal advice.”
I wonder if he signed a contract that gave over the rights to almost every freedom in his life like I did.
Doubtful.
Speaking of the contract, my eyes are drawn to the thick envelope waiting in Martin’s hand. I nod toward it, asking, “Is that it?”
Martin’s gaze follows mine. “Yes. Why don’t you follow me?” He leads me to the same parlor I’d waited in the other day, still immaculate, and places the envelope on the table in front of the sofa. “I’ll give you a few minutes to look it over. Let me know if you have any questions.” Despite this, he doesn’t leave, instead opting to fold himself down into a wing-backed chair near the fireplace.
Reluctantly, I take a seat on the sofa, gently sliding the papers from the envelope. The beginning is practically in Latin, but I get the gist. This contract seals my fate, yadda yadda, I’m agreeing to it of my own free will, blah blah. Going over the stipulations of being Lady is an exercise in humiliation, my face blooming hotter and hotter with each line, realizing that this Martin guy knows every single one.
Many of them are boring, such as always dressing presentably, always being available to the Lords, never speaking to males other than the Lords or their staff without permission, keeping up my figure, a promise that every encounter and exchange between me and the Lords will be strictly confidential.
Then there are other ones. Mostly sexual, completely vile. I’m giving my consent to a whole plethora of things, and they aren’t even worded to sound nice. It’s all blunt and completely unavoidable.
I must pleasure them each on their command.
I must submit myself to punishment when I don’t.
<
br /> I must never wear a bra while under their roof.
I must always remain waxed or shaved.
I must never masturbate unless I’m given permission to.
I must remain on birth control.
The list goes on and on, more and more vulgar with each line item. At one point, I glance up at Martin, half expecting him to look as uncomfortable as I feel.
He just smiles placidly back at me. “I’ll give you a copy so you can remember it all.”
Right.
Even worse than that is the non-disclosure agreement. According to the contract, I need to give collateral—something damaging they can hold over my head. I take it as the joke it was obviously meant to be. They already hold quite enough over my head.
Because of this, I don’t think twice about pulling the two photos from my bag—the ones Ted had sent me, from the sugar baby site. In both of them, I’m in compromising positions. But Killian has no doubt already seen them. He probably already has them saved somewhere. This is just some macho bullshit to ensure that I know he has them.
“Before signing this,” I say, tapping the paper. “Am I allowed to add my own stipulations?”
His eyebrows climb his forehead, but his responding grin is full of humor. “The Lords aren’t exactly open to negotiations. But I suppose you’re allowed to try.”
I nod, already knowing this. I won’t get much. I should choose one thing, big enough to put some power back into my hands, challenging enough that they might be put off, possibly enough leverage to negotiate some of their stipulations down.
After a few moments, I decide, jotting the words at the bottom of the list.
Martin takes the contract from my hand with another one of those sedate smiles, eyes flicking down to catch my amendment. He pauses for a moment, seeming to re-read, before meeting my gaze again. “I’ll just need to check this with the others first.”
“Of course,” I answer, waiting as he pulls out his phone.
I watch as his thumbs fly over the screen, sending the message, and I almost regret them not being here—not being able to see the looks on their faces at my condition.
His phone pings with a response after only five minutes. “Well then,” he says, staring down at the screen. “It seems the Lords are amenable to your condition.”
I freeze. “What?”
“They agree to the change of terms,” he says, passing the contract back. “All it needs is your signature.”
No way.
No fucking way should they have agreed to that. They should have said no, and then had Martin agree to take something off their requests in concession.
I remain frozen for a long moment, wishing I had time to properly strategize here. Does this mean I can make more requests? Did I choose wrong? Should I have negotiated something else?
It doesn’t matter.
Whether they agree or not, none of them will be capable of following through. When they fail, the contract will be null and void. Forcing myself not to think too hard on what I’m doing, I sign the bottom line.
Martin nods, stuffing everything back into the envelope. “If you’re ready, I can show you to your room.” After a beat, he adds, “Lady.”
The title makes a frisson of disgust roll up my spine.
He leads me up the narrow staircase to the first floor, where two doors lead off the hallway. He eyes my suitcase. “I’m not sure how much you’ll need from your own belongings. Clothing and toiletries are provided. Each item has been cultivated to the Lords’ particular tastes.” He stops at a door and gestures to the handle. “This will be your room.”
I turn the doorknob and step inside, taking in the space. It’s not quite what I expected. The room is spacious and warm, with windows that overlook the front of the house. There’s a double bed made of iron, with rose-colored bedding. A pale green couch sits against one wall. Another holds a fireplace. The décor is not modern, but comfortable. Feminine. I notice perfume bottles on the dressing table, one I notice as my preferred fragrance, and a scarf hanging on the back of the chair. Momentarily, I wonder what other women agreed to stay in this room before me? How were they treated? Did they get nice bedding, scarves, perfumes?
I’d half-expected to just be tossed in a squat cell with nothing but a bucket.
“Do you live here, too?” I ask Martin.
“No,” he answers, lifting a hand to pick lint from his shoulder. “Although I am available to the Lords on a twenty-four-hour basis, seven days a week. I’m only here to make sure you settle in since the Lords couldn’t be present to welcome you.”
I frown. “Where are they?”
“They have business,” he says vaguely, his tone making it clear that he won’t elaborate.
“Oh.” It seems odd that they wouldn’t take the opportunity to make me feel even more uncomfortable. I’ve been on edge all day, anxious about what would await me. The reality is both a relief and a disappointment. I’ve put off their torment for just a little while longer. A part of me just wants to get it over with, though. “Well, thank you for showing me my room.”
“You’re welcome, Story. I left you some dinner in the kitchen, if you’re hungry.” A weirdly thoughtful gesture from the man who’s helping to legally bind me into sexual serfdom.
I touch my stomach and realize I haven’t eaten all day. I’ve been on edge since I got back in town, but now that I’m finally in this house, I feel some of that tension unwind. Ted isn’t going to come after me here—not if he knows what’s good for him. And if he does, then…
Well, then he’ll be their problem.
Plus, it seems like I don’t even have to worry about the guys tonight.
“Thank you,” I answer, trying for a smile that probably escapes as a grimace. “I’ll get something after I unpack.”
Martin leaves the room, and a few minutes later, I hear him go out the front door, the latch snapping into place behind him. The first thing I do is check the locks on my bedroom’s door.
“Thank God,” I mutter, testing the knob. The lock works well.
I explore the rest of the room, looking into the large, nicely-sized bathroom. This door has a lock, too. There’s a shower, a massive bathtub, and a large vanity. The cabinets and drawers are filled with toiletries and cosmetics—expensive, high-end brands. There’s a box of tampons and three months of birth control pills—prescribed by the campus doctor. Soft towels are stacked on a shelf by the tub. I go back into the bedroom and place my suitcase on the bed, unzipping it to reveal my things. I left my old apartment in a hurry, leaving behind most of my belongings. I never made a lot of money or had much in the way of possessions, so my clothing options were already slim. I walk to the dresser with a handful of old cotton panties and open the top drawer. Inside, I discover that there are already clothes inside, just like Martin implied. I pick up one of the lacy scraps of fabric and see that the tags are still attached. Bras and panties, sheer tanks, and boy shorts. All in my size.
Did they buy all of this today?
I finger a black, strappy, lacy bralette. This isn’t something I’d wear. Too revealing, not enough function. It’s clear from the selection what the guys are expecting from me. Frilly underthings and very little else.
I finish unpacking, adding my own pathetic clothing to the drawers. My worn jeans are tucked in next to the crisp, designer denims folded in neat stacks. I hang a few things in the closet. There are outfits in there too, including stylish shirts and a few dresses. Some casual. A few for dressier occasions. Also brand new. In stark contrast to the lacy bras and panties, the clothes I must be intended to wear outside of the house are strangely modest instyle, if not in function. It takes me a while to understand, but eventually, I do.
I’m meant to look like every inch the sweet little virgin I’ve branded myself as. The clothes are cute, but revealing enough to be considered a tease. Skirts that are a little too short, pants and tops that are a little too tight. I suppose I should be thankful that I won’t be f
orced into wearing stilettos and tube tops.
Instead, it just makes my stomach churn.
By the time I’m finished, I don’t just need dinner, I need a drink as well.
In the kitchen, I find the plate of food in the refrigerator, and I familiarize myself with the room while it heats it up in the microwave. In the back of the pantry, I find a bottle of vodka. I’m not a big drinker, but I need something to calm my nerves. I pour a shot in a glass and knock it back. The burn down my throat licks like fire, but it eases the hard knot in my stomach.
I sit at the table, blessedly alone, and eat the meal that was left for me. It’s a plate of roasted chicken and green vegetables. I’m hungry, but it’s hard to force down, so I end up dryly swallowing half of it and picking at the rest. Unable to remember if a lack of cleanliness would result in ‘correction’, I clean everything diligently when I’m finished, making sure it’s spotless.
Afterward, I refill my glass with another shot and take a self-guided tour of the first floor.
The house is undeniably historic, with period pieces scattered throughout. Stained glass windows, carved woodwork, antiquated built-in cabinets. The fixtures are a combination of old and new. A heavy glass chandelier hangs over the massive dining room table. An oil portrait of a man is mounted over the stone fireplace in the living room. Everything reeks of expensive old world taste. It’s all frankly way too elegant for Killian, Tristian, and Rath. Where are the pizza boxes? The industrial-sized boxes of condoms? The video games and bongs?
I figure that stuff has to be somewhere, so I head up to the second floor, stopping at the door across from my bedroom, curious about what’s inside.
I’m shocked to find the door unlocked, and I take a paranoid glance behind me before stepping inside. A familiar scent assaults my senses before I even turn on the light. It’s a mixture of soap and masculinity, sweat, and spicy cologne. My fingers flip the switch, and I instantly know that I’m in Killian’s room. Our rooms were adjacent when I lived at Daniel’s house, too.