[NC][HUML][DP][Public Risk][MMMf]

Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. All characters are 18+. The events depicted are not real and should never be attempted in real life without clear, enthusiastic, ongoing consent from everyone involved. CNC and non-con themes are fantasy only.

The party had thinned out.

Most people had left. Music still played low from a speaker in the corner. Empty bottles and plastic cups covered the kitchen counter. You had stayed longer than you meant to, talking to a few people you barely knew, finishing one last drink. The host had already disappeared upstairs with someone.

You went to the bathroom at the end of the hallway. When you came back out, three men were waiting for us.

You didn’t recognize them from earlier. One leaned against the wall. Another stood with his arms crossed. The third blocked the way back toward the living room.

“You’re the one who’s been walking around all night as if you belong here,” the tallest one said. His voice was calm. “We decided you don’t.”

You tried to step past them. A hand closed around your upper arm and pushed you back against the wall. Hard enough that your shoulder blades hit the paint.

“Don’t,” he said. “We’re not asking.”

The second man took your phone out of your back pocket before you could stop him. He held it up.

“Passcode.”

You didn’t give it. He slapped you once across the face — sharp, open-handed. Your ear rang. He asked again. This time you unlocked it. He scrolled for a few seconds, then pocketed it.

“Good. Now you understand how this works.”

They moved you down the hallway toward a side door that led to the garage. No one else was around. The music covered the sound of your shoes scuffing on the floor. One of them kept a hand on the back of your neck the whole way, steering you.

The garage was cold and mostly empty. A single work light hung from the ceiling. They closed the door behind you and locked it.

“Clothes off.”

You hesitated. The tallest one stepped in close, grabbed the front of your shirt, and tore it open. Buttons scattered across the concrete. He pushed the ruined fabric off your shoulders, then unhooked your bra and pulled it away. The other two watched without speaking while he shoved your pants and underwear down to your ankles. You stepped out of them because he told you to.

You stood there naked under the work light while they looked at you.

One of them walked behind you and pushed you forward by the shoulders until you were bent over the hood of the car parked in the garage. Cold metal pressed against your stomach and chest. Hands spread your legs wider. Fingers checked between them without any care for whether you were ready.

“Already wet,” someone said. “Figures.”

The first cock pushed into you from behind in one hard thrust. You gasped against the metal. He fucked you without rhythm at first, just taking what he wanted, hands locked on your hips. The other two stood close. One of them grabbed a fistful of your hair and turned your head so the third man could push his cock into your mouth.

They used you like that — one in your pussy, one in your mouth — while the third watched and waited his turn. When the man behind you finished, he pulled out and stepped aside. The one who had been watching took his place immediately. No pause. No words. Just another thick cock forcing its way into you while the first man held your head in place so the second could keep fucking your throat.

Your hands stayed flat on the hood. No one had tied you. They didn’t need to. Every time you tried to push up or close your legs, a hand shoved you back down or spread you open again.

They switched places more than once. At some point one of them came across your back. Another finished in your mouth and held himself there until you swallowed. The third lasted longest, fucking you hard enough that the car rocked slightly under you.

When they were done, they left you bent over the hood, breathing hard, cum running down your thighs and dripping onto the concrete.

The tallest one picked up your phone again and took several photos — your face, your body, the mess between your legs. He showed you one of them.

“These stay with us. You say anything to anyone, they go out. Clear?”

You nodded. Your throat was raw.

He dropped your torn shirt and pants on the floor near your feet.

“Get dressed. Go back inside as if nothing happened. If anyone asks where you were, you were outside getting air. Then you leave. Tonight. Don’t come back here.”

They unlocked the door and walked out first. You stayed bent over the car for another few seconds before forcing yourself upright. Your legs shook. You pulled the ruined clothes back on as best you could. The shirt wouldn’t close. You held it together with one hand.

When you stepped back into the hallway, the music was still playing. A couple of people stood in the kitchen talking. No one looked at you twice.

You walked straight to the front door, went outside, and kept walking until the house was out of sight. Your phone was still in one of their pockets. The photos existed. The taste of them was still in your mouth.

Your throat sore, and you could still feel the cum dripping from your used pussy, and the cum on your back slowly starting to crust over as you walked.

And a slight Tingle had started to form that you tried to push away, but it would stay right there, waiting for your hands to find it when you finally got home

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4

“Open.” He placed the handle of the leash sideways in my mouth as we arrived at the base of the staircase. “This is just far too short for me to hold while you climb the stairs. You’ll give it back to me at the top. And if you’re well-behaved for me in there, I’ll even carry you back down for dinner. Deal?” I nodded eagerly and started my clambering ascent. I blushed, remembering his instructions as I had crawled around the kitchen. Put on a show for Daddy. I arched my back and made sure to spread my knees a little wider than natural, peeking over my shoulder to make sure he was appreciating my efforts. He was.

In the upstairs hallway, he took the leash back in hand. He led me past what he explained was “our room”, which sent shivers down my spine. Ours. A physical space that belonged to both of us. I hadn’t been sure this day would ever come, and now I was mere feet away from a bed that we would share every night. Around the corner and past the railing overlooking the two-story entryway, we arrived at our destination. The other bedroom in the house. The playroom. The door was shut tight. He drew us to a stop directly in front of it, turning to stare down at me. 

“Your absolute best behavior, okay, puppy? In the playroom, you don’t speak unless instructed to, or if you need to use a safeword. You do not get off your knees unless I say so. And in there, I’m not Daddy or Sir, I’m Master. Am I understood? Words are fine in the hallway.”

“Yes, Master.” My gaze was settled around his thighs. He hadn’t banned eye contact yet, but I could feel myself settling into the set of strict protocols, arranging myself into my rightful place beneath him, and it just didn’t feel like the moment.

“What a good girl. My good girl.” The door swung open and I crawled inside, getting oriented while keeping my eyes on my own level. It was uncharacteristically bright inside for what was essentially a dungeon, with soothing sage green walls and dark wood flooring and fixtures. I could see there were curtains on these windows, but sheer enough to let in plenty of light. The air was lightly fragrant, woodsy and comforting. He immediately busied himself with an elaborate storage area in a tucked-in corner, and my eyes followed him. 

All manner of implements hung from a pegboard on the wall. Crops, canes, floggers. Of course, as I watched him stretching to retrieve a bin from a high shelf, his shirt rode up to expose what I knew to be his implement of choice: his brown leather belt. A shiver rippled through my body as I considered that whatever the rest of my life contained, still largely unknown to me, there was a nearly 100% chance it would involve taking a great many beatings from that very belt in this very room.

“Go kneel by the bed, pup.” He was rummaging in a drawer now, the sound of metal being pushed around raising the hairs on the back of my neck. There was a comfortable cushion on the floor at the foot of the bed where I assumed he wanted me. I folded my hands behind my back to wait, looking around. The bed had what looked to be a water-resistant sheet draped over it, but looked relatively comfy. It was canopy-style, though there were no drapes. Instead, the corner posts, headboard and footboard slats, and overhead bars provided a myriad of attachment points for restraints. 

He had a small desk in here, too, which I realized was the source of the fragrance; an incense stick burned low in a pretty ceramic container. The desk was otherwise pretty sparse, but a notebook and some pens sat on top, and were those… pictures of me? I flushed deeply. They were indeed pictures of me that I'd sent him over the years. Well, mostly. One was a screenshot from my old apartment security camera. I could see my phone pressed to my cheek, obviously mid play session, knees pulled to my chest, hand buried between my thighs. One was just a particularly artful shot of my tits, the heaviest clamps I'd owned in my previous life hanging from my nipples. And one of my face, makeup a mess, hair wild, as I lay facedown on my old bedroom floor, presumably just after we played. I looked so deep in subspace, like I couldn't be happier. If only that girl knew how happy we are now. 

I gasped a little in excitement as my eyes darted to the corner behind the desk. My crate. I couldn't see much, until I caught the reflection in the wall-mounted mirror opposite. I squirmed as I realized the mirror would let him see me from virtually any angle in the room, even though the crate had initially appeared to be placed to allow for some privacy. It was imposing, metal bars set into the same dark wood as the rest of the furniture in the room. I could tell that I would fit, but it would be tight. I spotted a soft, pink blanket and a few small pillows so that I'd be able to get comfy any way I chose. I could see one of his t-shirts in the corner, and… oh my God, he'd actually gone and gotten a–

“Open.” I hadn't even noticed him cross the room, I’d been so transfixed. I did, and he briefly showed me a sturdy harness, the centerpiece of which was an imposing red ball gag, then fitted it snugly into my mouth. “I promise you'll get to check out your crate just as soon as I'm ready to have you a set of bars removed from me, but that time has nowhere near arrived. Focus up. Show me yellow,” he ordered as he started in on the straps, and I delivered a clear ‘unh-unh’ past the intrusion. “Good girl, now show me red.” 

“Unh-unh-unh,” I grunted, adding an emphatic shake of my head. He seemed satisfied both with my ability to communicate and the tightness of the straps. 

“Alright, climb on up. On your back, right in the middle, feet flat on the bed. Wider. Good girl.” I felt a cuff close around my left ankle, then my right. I didn’t dare to look, but found I couldn’t close my legs any longer and knew he had put me in a spreader bar. He pushed my legs back, and I flushed as I felt cool air against my exposed holes. His hands circled my wrists now, clipping my existing cuffs to the center of the bar. “Remember to unh-unh if the position is too much, okay pup? You’re gonna be here for a bit.” I heard clinking as he affixed the apparatus to one of the bars above and behind me, effectively folding me in half. I squirmed, trying to determine if any position granted me less exposure, but every movement seemed to leave me more open, more exposed. 

The plug started to move again in my ass. I moaned through the gag, grateful for any stimulation, but the noise sharpened as he stretched me open to the maximum again. This was our largest plug, and I’d been wearing it since I’d gotten through security on my way here. By now, I couldn’t tell how long it had been, and I didn’t particularly care, but I was getting sore. 

“I know, puppy,” he crooned. “I know, we don’t normally make you wear this one this long. You’ve been such a good girl. You’ll get a break after this, just relax for Daddy.” Finally, he pulled it from me completely, and I did my best to let my tightest entrance gape open for him. His low noise of approval told me I had succeeded. A couple lubed fingers first stroked teasingly, then replaced the plug, wrenching a moan from my chest. We’d done plenty of anal play from a distance, but it had been mostly a series of increasingly large plugs and other toys. To have his fingers rubbing me, filling me, his breath fluttering over my dripping pussy…

Oh fuck. His breath was getting warmer, closer. My hips jerked in the direction of the sensation, colliding my slick folds directly with his bearded chin, drawing a chuckle from him and a yelp from myself. “Oh, what, you wanted something like this?” he teased, and I felt his lips brush the very outer edge of my opening. 

“Eeeeeeath,” I begged to the best of my ability, straining in my attempt to draw more contact, though he knew better than to be taken by surprise a second time and evaded me easily. His fingers were working in and out of my ass effortlessly with the involuntary movement of my hips. I strained against the cuffs to no avail. I needed more. I needed more now. I was going to die if he didn’t– 

His lips closed around my clit, sucking hard and flicking his tongue gently over it. My hips jerked against him, and I ground myself hard against his beard as a strangled scream escaped the gag. He took the opportunity to replace his fingers with the head of a thick dildo, slick with lube that I was grateful for. Many times over the years, I’d been informed that the best lube I could hope for was whatever I could generate from deep within my throat. This was a rare kindness.

“You see,” he muttered against my skin, “I have to make sure this hole can eventually take everything I want to give it. But my cock wants that pussy first. I can’t help it, sweet girl, it’s just so pretty. So pink and it stays so drippy for me.” Every few words were punctuated by a deep thrust with the dildo, massaging the thin wall between my ass and pussy maddeningly. Each time, his tongue teased my clit again, driving me two steps closer to the brink before drawing me another step back. 

“I knew you being here would test my self control,” he continued. “What I wouldn’t have given to just keep you tied to this bed all day today, filling you again and again until I just couldn’t anymore. But it’s so important to me we do this right, puppy. We have forever for me to use you in every way I desire. Right now, I need to be your responsible Master and make sure you understand that every single part of this body belongs to me.” 

The toy was moving inside me more urgently, now, and I was groaning with wanton pleasure into the gag. My mind slipped to the space we used to exist in, over the phone, across time zones, toys working in and out of my holes at his orders. Even as his mouth tortured me, letting my clit flirt with the edge before leaving it sensitive, aching, to drive his tongue deep between my folds, I began to feel the dildo as if it were his real cock. I worked my hips shamelessly, desperate to please him. My efforts didn’t go unnoticed.

“Look how nice that ass takes a cock,” he marveled. “What an eager whore. Good girl.” His mouth hovered over my clit again. I reached for him, whining, but he drew back, the thrusting in my ass slowing to a stop as I felt him shift away from me, reaching for something. “I like you exactly this worked up for now. Can’t let you get too carried away. Remember your unh-unhs if the pain is too much, okay puppy?” That was the only warning I had before a cruel clamp bit down directly on my clit, and I screamed into the gag, eyes flying wide open. His groan of pleasure in response was low, but audible, and butterflies erupted low in my tummy at the knowledge that my suffering was making him hard. 

Then he was pounding me again, and the painful pressure of the clamp surrounding my clit on all sides made the sensation of the toy significantly more intense. And as my hips moved, was that…? It was. My face heated as I heard the jingling of a little bell fixed to the clamp fill the room. I felt the headspace that allowed me to cum from anal become available to me, as I became something… else. Something simpler. I felt my humanity slip away, my only motivation now to take anything and everything he would give me. The ache from being stretched for so long, the force with which he drove the toy into me, the distinct feeling of being used. Fuck. I was going to cum.

“Aaath errrrr, aaaath errrr eeeeath,” I begged, but I knew I had to hold it back as my unintelligible pleas went unacknowledged. But the more I tried to ground myself in my body, the harder it got. The jingling. The burning pain turning into a dull, numb sort of ache. The way the toy stretched me open. His eyes on me. I couldn’t see, not the way he had me bound, certainly not around my tits, but I could feel the heat of his gaze. I had tumbled over the edge without permission only a handful of times in our distance days, and I knew I wouldn’t be in nearly as much trouble as if I did it while he used my pussy. Still, the drive to be nothing but perfectly obedient was overwhelming, keeping me balanced on the precipice.

“You look so, so pretty like this, puppy,” he breathed. “I can see how close you are. You’re turning pink, right here on your chest. And this tight little cunt, I like that I can see how it quivers when I need to stop if I’m not ready for you to cum yet. I love learning all your little tells, puppy. Soon you won’t be able to hide anything from your Master, huh? Don’t worry, I wouldn’t make you cum on a toy when you could have my cock.” He slowed the onslaught, then stopped completely, letting me rest, full, for a moment. The chain running from the spreader bar to the bars above the bed relaxed, and he briefly freed my wrist cuffs from between my ankles before securing them around one of the slats in the headboard, stretching me vertically. Finally, I felt him ease the toy from my ass, leaving me buzzing, but empty, and then the spreader bar was gone, too, and I gingerly relaxed my legs flat, mindful of the miserable way the clamp would bite into my clit further if I wasn’t careful.

He appeared quickly above me, tilting my head forward to release the necessary straps. I knew immediately what he expected, and when the gag left my mouth I kept it wide open, relishing the pride in his eyes as he worked the dildo over my tongue and quickly back into my throat. I squirmed as I tasted my ass and choked on the intrusion, my wrists fighting against the headboard; my knees falling to one side, then the other. I was relieved when he let me breathe without waiting for me to tap out. He pumped the toy back into my throat a handful of times to clean it more thoroughly before setting it down on the bedside table.

Now he was settling in next to my bound form on the bed, turning my face physically towards him. “Look at me, puppy.” His eyes were scanning my face, calmly but carefully. “You took that so, so well. Master’s so proud of you. Yeah, look at that smile. Nod for green, shake for not green?” I nodded emphatically, leaning into him as much as my restraints allowed for. “Do you need anything different, like the clit clamp off, or the cuffs different?” No? Alright, pup, sip some of this water for me.” There was the pink bottle again. “I’m gonna put the gag back in, then. Head up. I just love the way you look in it, all these straps, the way your lips stretch around it…” I swore he was buckling it tighter this time. He traced my lips with a single finger, and I whimpered at not being able to taste his skin again. 

He straddled my hips and I squirmed, half out of need and half from struggling under his weight. Finally, there was the sensation of healthy fear bubbling in my stomach. For just about the first time since I arrived, I was not only at his mercy because I chose to be. Even when my hands were restrained behind my back in the living room, I could have at least tried to crawl away, futile as it may have been. Now I was well and truly trapped. He leaned back, drinking in the way my tits moved as I pulled the cuffs weakly against the headboard. Not that they felt significant in any way compared to the way his body effortlessly pinned me to the bed, seeming more like a convenience for him than anything else as he shrugged off his t-shirt. I took in the sight of his barrel chest with its smattering of reddish hair, the Celtic knot tattoo I knew he had sat nine hours for in one sitting, his broad shoulders that had gently held my body with ease in his dining chair not an hour ago. Now, I saw only the way the muscles would ripple as he held me down. Not that his tree trunk legs needed much help, he had begun to press me harder against the bed, thighs squeezing in on my own, and my squirming slowed to a stop. Helpless.

His eyes glittered with something a little feral. I knew of this side of him, had experienced it over the phone through his groans of satisfaction as I cried real tears, begging him to stop, please, Daddy, I can’t, you’re hurting me. The times he used to come home, frustrated from work, and my phone would ring. Get the belt, he would say in a dangerous tone the moment I picked up. Daddy needs to hit something. Make it hurt. 

Now, I had no doubt he was about to show me how powerless I really was. How little I’d been making it hurt all these years, compared to what he could and would do to me. Needed to do to me. He reached with one hand for my right tit, idly, like a cat toying with a mouse as if it weren’t about to eat it. He squeezed, groaning, grinding his bulge into me, then pinched my nipple, hard. I yelped into the gag.

“Fuck, I love these. And they’re all mine.” His voice was slow and steady, lower than it had been up to this point. I knew he was ready to cum again, after playing with me for hours, but also knew his iron self control wouldn’t allow him to give me the satisfaction just yet. He gave me a light smack, his appreciation at the resulting jiggle making itself known from deep in his chest. Harder now. Now his other hand was groping me, too, and I couldn’t control my pathetic noises, all whimpers and huffy sighs when he would temporarily pull a hand away, punctuated with staccato yips of surprise when his fingertips would meanly pinch and prod my flesh, or his open hand would find purchase. I could feel his handprints beginning to layer themselves onto my flesh, the literal heat growing. 

“I really do hate this part, pup.” I looked at him with some reproach, somewhat disbelieving when I could feel evidence to the contrary pressed against my thighs. “I mean it. I love you. I hate hurting you. But the fact that you’re mine to hurt. That I’m the one you trust to hurt you. It’s like a drug, I can’t not,” He leaned into me now, and I shifted my hips in kind, still hoping beyond hope that he’d lose that iron grip and bury himself deep inside me. But the only indication of his base instincts getting the better of him was the way he sunk his teeth into the flesh around my nipple before sucking, hard, wrenching a scream from me, my eyes flying wide open. More slaps, and his teeth were trailing up my neck now, until he was growling directly into my ear.

“You look so fucking beautiful when you suffer for me.” I believed him. That I was beautiful to him, and that he hated how much he needed this. I could hear the torture in his voice. I nuzzled against his cheek as much as I could, trying to tell him it was okay. I was okay. I loved that sadistic glimmer in his eye. I loved that I could please him in so many different ways; by giving him what he needed, by letting him take what he needed, by suffering. And more than I even loved giving him pleasure this way, I loved what it did to me, to feel him hurt me and then feel him grind against me only a beat later. To take pain from him, and a second later be praised for it. The contrast, in quick succession, made my head spin, and made me so sure that I belonged exactly where I was.

He leaned back again, and made quick work of his belt through the loops. I should have known. It really was his favorite. The first thing he’d ever openly fantasized about using on me. He folded the end of it over and tested it against his forearm a couple times. Something inside me melted as I realized he was testing out a variety of different grips and strikes, trying to dial in how much pain he was looking to inflict.

His other hand reached out to steady his target, my right tit, then the belt cracked down hard, catching plenty of my nipple in the process. Screaming into the gag yet again, I thrashed as much as his body and the cuffs allowed me, although the effort of wriggling my lower body only reminded me how securely my clit was still clamped, eliciting a secondary whimper. “Good girl,” he murmured, smoothing his fingertips over the places I could feel the redness blossoming, then struck again quickly. “Sometimes I’ll make you count, like for certain punishments, but I think you find the gag comforting right now, don’t you?” 

I really did. It let me think about something other than not breaking his rules about no speaking unless directed. It turned off a whole section of my brain. Speaking was unavailable to me, there was no need to keep the lights on in that particular lobe. My current state made me simpler, more authentically my base self. And it let me scream, really scream, and flex my lips around the thick silicone, and struggle against something that wasn’t the headboard. These things helped enormously as he striped lash after lash over and across my right tit at varying angles, more often than not catching my nipple in the crossfire.

I counted in my head, anyway, wanting to practice his expectation. Three, four, five. Fuck, his hands feel good after, though. Six. Seven. Eight.

“Good job, puppy. You’re doing so, so well. You’re gonna take ten total on each side, so you’re halfway there already, and look how well you’re doing.” Another lash, and he seemed to be hitting harder now. I was starting to feel more of the thuddy impact behind the initial burning sting. Nine. Wait, halfway? A whine of indignation burst from my chest. Only one more would make ten. “I know, so exciting! Four more.” Ten. Was that one harder than the others? He said ten, I should be done. I pleaded with my eyes, tears springing as the belt came down again, letting myself feel the fear that came with his unrelenting eyes. Eleven. I could see, even from my angle, some of the places where bruises would blossom, my skin naturally sensitive and pale. His thumb caressed one now. “So close, sweet girl. Here’s the ninth, ready?” 

Twelve. The waiting made it worse, and the tears started to fall down my cheeks as the leather kissed my skin. My face and chest burned, I didn’t want to be crying. I wanted to take it perfectly. To always be ready to beg him for more. I didn’t want him to see me crying. He cupped my cheek in his hand, angling his gaze across my face, scanning for something that he didn’t find. Seeming satisfied, his thumb wiped a tear from my cheek that was quickly replaced by more.

“What a good girl. My estimate was allllmost right on the money. Ten was going to be however many it needed to be for me to knock those tears loose. I bet they feel pretty good, huh puppy? You’ve had a long, long day and your life is so different. Yeah, you needed to cry. You have one more, and then I’ll give the other one the same attention, okay? Ready?” Ten. He said it was ten, so it was ten. I felt the thud, and the sting, and the burn. And I screamed, and the tears continued. But I was so grateful for his effort spent in favor of putting me in my place, and for the valuable lesson he had just imparted, the answer key provided to succeeding in my role. Master is right, even if you don’t think he’s right.

While the same red, blue, and purple marks blossomed across my left tit, he smoothly replaced his belt around his waist before gently reaching between my thighs. I had forgotten about the clamp, my clit having long since gone numb. That changed when he gripped it, locking eyes with me against my own will, but I couldn't look away.

“One last thing, puppy. I know, it’s been on there awhile. Look at me. Just give me this one last brave moment.” He eased the clamp from my tender flesh, and a split second later I felt the intense ache of the pressure disappearing hit me like a freight train. His fingers rubbed it away, though the interim sensation was almost too much to bear. I was too weak by now, though, to struggle against my bonds or his grip on me. 

My hands were free a moment later; still cuffed, but the short chain dangling from my left wrist alone. And then he was at my side again, and though I was free, I couldn’t picture wanting to be anywhere else. Turning onto my own side, I cupped his cheek with one hand, getting a truly extended look at him for the first time today, right on his level. I could feel his eyes boring straight into my soul, and I felt the heat climb my chest and into my cheeks as I flushed deeply. How was it that I felt shy? The other hand shamelessly palmed his chest, fingers tracing his pectorals and down, until they flirted with the waistband of his jeans. I was desperate for him to know that his sadistic streak didn’t scare me, that I had loved every moment of what he’d just put me through. How desperately I still wanted him. 

“Not now, puppy.” His voice was rumbling impossibly low. “But I know. Good girl. Are you ready for your voice back?” I nodded, and was instantly tucked against his bare chest, savoring the warmth and the feeling of my skin on his while his fingers worked at the straps of the harness. I opened and closed my jaw a couple of times, reacquainting my back teeth with each other. He massaged both sides of my cheeks again, and I giggled a little at the doting gesture. “Sweet girl, I need a color.”

“Green, Master.” He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I mean, it was close at the end there. Maybe chartreuse?” He snorted a little, despite himself. “I don’t know, I’m okay, just please hold me.”

“Water first.” The pink bottle was back, and while I sipped slowly from it, he was wiping the drool from the sides of my face, my neck, and my upper chest with a washcloth that he had produced from the bedside table. The water was so cool, and my entire body was so hot. With heat from my core that was still spreading, all of my potential climaxes having been denied, and the transferred kinetic energy of a recent beating. I emptied the tumbler, and he quickly set it aside. “There’s more where that came from, I promise, but I don’t want you to go too fast and make yourself sick. Now, into my arms, please.”

Something about him saying “please” to me had always melted me. This was no different. I knew if I said anything about it, he would just insist it was proper manners. But I knew, given our roles, that he was under zero obligation to say “please” to me. It made me want to obey. Not that I needed much persuading to oblige. He was warm, too, but it felt like a balm on my sore skin. Between his warmth, the masculine scent of his exertion, and the feeling of being trapped yet again, but this time in his embrace, I was asleep before my brain even knew it was coming.

~~~

Author Note: Ugh, I'm very sorry for the delay with this installment. Between work stuff and my real life Daddy being unwell, I just didn't have the bandwidth to give this the editing pass it deserved. Hopefully this being a pretty long and dense chapter helped to make up for it. This is not the end of the story by a long shot, so keep your eyes peeled for more in the coming weeks!

Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. All characters are 18+. The events depicted are not real and should never be attempted in real life without clear, enthusiastic, ongoing consent from everyone involved. CNC and non-con themes are fantasy only

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You were already on your knees when he came home.

He didn’t say hello. He dropped his keys on the counter, walked past you, and pointed at the living room.

“Position.”

You knew which one. Hands and knees on the thick rug in front of the couch, back straight, ass up, thighs spread. Head down. He used you like this most evenings — as a footrest while he watched TV, as a surface for his drink, as a hole when he felt like it. Tonight he sat down, put his feet on your lower back, and turned on the screen.

You stayed still. The weight of his feet pressed into you. Every few minutes he shifted, grinding his heels a little harder. Your arms started to shake after twenty minutes. He ignored it.

When the show ended he stood up, walked behind you, and pushed your underwear to the side. Two fingers slid into you without warning. You were already wet. He always made sure of that earlier in the day with the remote-controlled plug he left in you while he was at work.

He fucked you with his fingers for a while, slow and deep, then pulled them out and wiped them on your thigh.

“No coming,” he said. “You know the rule.”

You nodded against the rug.

He left you there while he made a drink. When he came back he set the cold glass on your lower back like you were a table. Condensation ran down your spine. He sat again and put his feet back on you.

An hour later he finally pulled you up by the hair, bent you over the arm of the couch, and fucked you hard. He lasted a long time. Every time you got close, he stopped completely, held still inside you, and waited until the feeling faded. Then he started again. By the time he finished, your legs were shaking, and your face was wet with tears of frustration.

He pulled out, slapped your ass once, and told you to clean him with your mouth. You did. When you finished he pointed at the floor again.

“Stay. I’m packing.”

You stayed on your knees while he moved around the apartment, throwing clothes into a bag. He didn’t explain. He never explained until he was ready.

An hour later he clipped a short leash to the collar he kept locked around your neck and led you out to the car. You were still naked under the long coat he threw over you. He put you in the passenger seat, clipped the leash to the headrest so you couldn’t sit up straight, and started driving.

The city lights moved past the windows. You stayed bent forward, leash short, coat open so he could reach between your legs whenever he wanted. He did it often — slow circles on your clit, two fingers inside, then nothing. Every time you started breathing harder, he stopped.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said once, eyes on the road.

You didn’t answer. You weren’t allowed to speak unless he asked a direct question.

After two hours, he pulled into a cheap motel off the highway. He checked in alone, came back, and led you inside by the leash. The room was small and smelled like old smoke. He locked the door, took the coat off you, and pointed at the foot of the bed.

“Knees. Face down. Ass up.”

You obeyed. He cuffed your wrists to the metal frame under the mattress so you couldn’t move your arms. Then he pushed a thick plug into you — larger than the one from earlier — and taped a small vibrator against your clit. He turned it on low and left it there.

He sat in the only chair and watched you for a long time while he drank from a bottle he’d brought. Every few minutes he raised the vibration. Your hips jerked. You tried to stay quiet. The cuffs rattled against the bed frame.

“You’re not allowed to come,” he reminded you. “If you do, I leave the vibrator on high all night and go sleep in the car.”

You held on. Your thighs shook. Sweat ran down your back. The pressure built until it felt impossible, then he turned the vibrator down just enough to keep you right on the edge without letting you fall over it.

He did this for almost an hour.

When he finally stood up he pulled the plug out, pushed into you in one thrust, and fucked you hard while the vibrator stayed on. You came within minutes — hard, helpless, crying into the mattress. He didn’t stop. He kept going until you came a second time, then a third, the orgasms turning sharp and almost painful. Only then did he finish inside you.

He left the vibrator on while he cleaned up. You lay there twitching, oversensitive, still cuffed to the bed.

Eventually he turned it off, unlocked one wrist, and pointed at the bathroom.

“Clean yourself up. Then get back on the floor by the bed. You’ll sleep there tonight. Tomorrow we drive further. I haven’t decided yet if you get to come again.”

You crawled to the bathroom on shaking legs. In the mirror, your face was flushed, eyes red, collar still locked around your throat. You cleaned up as best you could and went back to the floor beside the bed as he told you.

He turned off the light. You heard him settle onto the mattress above you.

In the dark, you stayed on your knees, the taste of him still in your mouth, the ache between your legs deep and constant. Somewhere outside, a truck went past on the highway. You closed your eyes and waited for morning, knowing he would decide everything again when the sun came up.

Links to previous parts:

Proluge

Setup Pt. 1

Author’s Note:

Hi everyone, I'm back to writing and posting on the subreddit after a very long time. Since the last time I guess a lot has changed in me and I have turned into a very different individual in terms of my kinks. I think I have reached this level where I am the only person who can satisfy myself. Thus I had no other idea than to write a story myself and share it with the ones who share similar thoughts with me.

I am really sorry to all my readers and to all who are loving this story so far. I genuinely wanted to add BDSM and wanted the real story to start from this chapter. Turns out I got so obsessed in the writing process of building up before the first scene. That I ended up adding so much detail into this. But I can assure you something nice is coming up next for y’all… Just trust me!

Disclaimer:

This is a completely fictional story and over the course of time as you read, you might feel it is getting insanely violent and graphic. If you ever feel like backing off, please do that. If you feel that this isn't for you, then please stop reading right there because I think it's not for the faint-hearted.

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By the time I made it back to the dressing room, my palms were red, my thighs ached, and the balls of my feet felt as though somebody had spent the last three hours hammering them with a screwdriver.

I dropped into my chair in front of the mirror.

"Remind me why we do this again?" Jenna asked from two seats down, staring at her reflection while she tried to scrape a stubborn clump of eyelash glue from her eyelid.

"Rent," Roxy answered immediately.

"Rent, groceries, electricity, and the occasional delusion that one day I'll have enough money to disappear into an i and never speak to another man again," I added.

Roxy pointed at me. "See? That's financial planning."

Jenna laughed, finally managing to pull the false eyelash free. "I'm serious. I spent forty minutes tonight listening to a man explain cryptocurrency to me. Forty minutes. He kept saying he could teach me how to become financially independent."

"Was he wearing a wedding ring?" I asked.

"Two."

"Then maybe he should start by becoming emotionally independent from his wife."

Roxy nearly choked on her water.

I leaned closer to the mirror and began working a cotton pad over my eyelids, loosening the glitter and dark eyeshadow that had accumulated around them. The first swipe left a grey streak beneath my eye. The second caught a stubborn patch of shimmer near the corner. I rubbed more gently, careful not to drag the skin, until the makeup began to dissolve into the cotton.

Under the stage lights, my face always looked sharper than it did in daylight. The eyeliner made my eyes appear larger, the glitter caught every movement, and the foundation hid the little things I'd rather not have customers noticing. Here, under the flat white bulbs around the mirror, everything looked more ordinary. The tiredness around my eyes was easier to see.

"At least you got paid to listen," Roxy said.

"Not enough to listen to that particular man."

"That's the problem with this job," Jenna said, reaching for a makeup wipe. "They think because they've paid for a dance, they've bought the right to tell you their entire life story."

"Or yours," I said.

"Exactly. One guy asked me if I had a boyfriend tonight. I said yes. He asked if my boyfriend knew what I did for work. I said he did. Then he spent five minutes explaining why no respectable man would ever date a stripper."

Roxy stared at her. "And you let him finish?"

"I wanted to see how long he'd keep talking before he realised the irony of giving relationship advice to a woman he was trying to pay to flirt with him."

That earned a round of laughter.

I folded the used cotton pad and reached for another. There were still traces of glitter along my lower lash line, tiny silver flecks that refused to come off no matter how much remover I used. I dabbed at them until my eyes watered, then blinked a few times and leaned back.

People had all sorts of ideas about this job. Some imagined we loved every second of it. Others thought we must hate ourselves to do it. Most seemed to believe there were only two possibilities: we were either desperate or secretly in love with every man who handed us a few notes.

The truth was less interesting to them.

Sometimes I liked the work. Sometimes I hated it. Sometimes I had a brilliant night and went home feeling like I could take on the world. Other nights, I sat in my car for ten minutes before starting the engine because I couldn't bear the thought of speaking to another human being.

The money helped. It paid my bills, kept food in my fridge, and gave me a degree of independence I wasn't willing to surrender just because somebody else had opinions about how I earned it.

But the money didn't make every customer tolerable. It didn't make my feet hurt less or stop a stranger from confusing professional friendliness with personal interest. And it certainly didn't mean I owed anybody a piece of myself.

"What's your plan, then?" Roxy asked, pulling her hair into a loose ponytail. "When you're finally rich enough to escape us?"

"First, I'm buying a house with a bathroom big enough that I can turn around without hitting my elbow on something."

"Ambitious."

"Then I'm getting a job where I can sit down whenever I want, eat lunch without somebody calling my name, and wear shoes designed by people who understand that feet are supposed to be comfortable."

Jenna looked at my towering platforms beneath the bench. "You voluntarily put those things on."

"For money. That's a very important distinction."

"And after that?" Roxy asked.

I shrugged, smoothing a little moisturiser over my cheeks now that most of the makeup was gone. "I don't know. Maybe I'll travel. Maybe I'll go back to studying something. Maybe I'll figure out what I actually want to do when I'm not busy trying to pay for everything."

For a moment, nobody joked.

It was a strange thing about working nights. You saw the same people almost every day, knew their routines, recognised their moods, and could tell from the way somebody dropped her bag whether she'd had a good shift. Yet there were whole parts of their lives you only learned about in fragments, usually somewhere between removing false eyelashes and looking for a missing sock.

Roxy wanted a house of her own. Jenna wanted to stop worrying about money every time her car made a strange noise. I wanted the freedom to make plans without calculating how much each one would cost.

None of those things sounded particularly glamorous.

They sounded like life.

"Speaking of money," a voice called from the far end of the room, "can someone explain why we're wearing this ridiculous outfit again?"

I looked over.

Tasha was standing beside her locker, tugging at the hem of her stage costume with an expression of deep personal betrayal. She was tall and broad-shouldered, with warm brown skin, long black braids gathered into a high ponytail, and gold hoops that swung whenever she shook her head. She had a habit of speaking as if she were delivering a closing argument in court, even when the subject was something as ordinary as a missing hairbrush.

Tonight, the subject was our schoolgirl outfits.

The club had introduced them a few months ago as a themed look for certain nights: crisp white shirts, plaid miniskirts, knee-high socks, and enough little details to make the whole thing look deliberately overdone. The customers loved it. The dancers, for the most part, had rather different feelings.

"Because apparently, grown men will throw money at a woman in a pleated skirt," Jenna said.

Tasha looked down at herself. "I have paid taxes in this country for years. I have signed rental agreements. I know how to cook three different curries. Why am I dressed like I have homework due tomorrow?"

Roxy burst out laughing.

"Because the homework is making rent," I said.

"Well, I'm failing that class emotionally."

Across the room, a petite redhead named Chloe turned around on her stool. Her freckles stood out beneath the makeup she'd only half removed, and her copper hair had fallen loose from its bun, leaving strands stuck to her cheeks. She was still wearing her white blouse and tartan skirt, though she'd already taken off her shoes and was rubbing her heels with both hands.

"Don't complain too loudly," she said. "I made more in this outfit tonight than I did during my entire shift last Tuesday."

Tasha pointed at her. "That's exactly what I hate about it. It works."

"Works beautifully," Chloe corrected. "I had a guy tip me just because I told him I was old enough to rent a car."

Jenna stopped wiping her face. "Please tell me you charged him extra for the conversation."

"I should have. He spent ten minutes telling me about his first car."

"Was it a Ferrari?" Roxy asked.

"No. A Honda Civic."

I looked up from my bag. "What's wrong with a Honda Civic?"

"Nothing. That's what made it worse. He was talking about it like he'd personally invented the automobile."

I laughed, and Tasha threw her hands up.

"See? This is what I'm talking about. They don't even want the outfit. They want the fantasy attached to it. You could walk in wearing a bin bag and some of these men would still find a way to make it weird."

"Don't give the manager ideas," Jenna said. "Next week, we'll be wearing bin bags with matching knee-high socks."

"At least bin bags would be cheaper to replace."

Chloe leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "Honestly, though, I hate the socks most. They leave these marks around my legs, and by the end of the night, I'm itching like I've been attacked by a thousand mosquitoes."

"Then stop scratching them," Tasha said.

"I'm not scratching. I'm trying to restore circulation."

"You look like you're trying to start a fire."

The room filled with laughter again.

I glanced at my own outfit hanging over the back of my chair. I'd worn the schoolgirl look more than once, and I understood the appeal from the customers' perspective. It was familiar, instantly recognisable, and just theatrical enough to turn a normal night into a theme. The club knew that. The manager knew that. And the numbers on our pay slips made it difficult to pretend we hadn't noticed.

Still, there was something absurd about spending hours perfecting our makeup, choosing shoes that could break an ankle, and squeezing ourselves into clothes we would never wear outside the club, all to sell a version of ourselves that had very little to do with who we actually were.

"I hate the skirt," I admitted. "The waistband never sits right, the pleats get caught whenever I sit down, and I spend half the night checking that everything is still where it's supposed to be."

"Thank you!" Tasha said, pointing at me as though I'd finally provided evidence for her case. "Someone understands."

"But," I continued, "I made enough in it last Friday to cover my car insurance and groceries for the week."

Tasha's expression fell.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Bring facts into my complaint."

Roxy laughed so hard she had to put her water down.

Chloe pulled one knee towards her chest and rested her chin on it. "That's the thing, isn't it? We can hate the outfit and still be glad we're wearing it. Both can be true."

The room quieted a little.

She shrugged. "I mean, I hate the whole performance sometimes. The smiling, the small talk, pretending a man is fascinating because he bought me a drink. But I like being able to pay my bills without calling my parents every time something goes wrong. I like being able to buy my own things. I like not having to ask permission."

"Exactly," I said.

It was the simplest way I'd heard anyone put it.

The job wasn't a fairy tale, and it wasn't a tragedy either. It was work. Some nights were good, some were bad, and some left you wondering whether the money was worth the headache. But it gave us options, and options mattered when you didn't have much else to fall back on.

Tasha sighed dramatically and began unbuttoning her stage blouse. "Fine. I'll wear the stupid skirt. But if one more man calls me a schoolgirl, I'm charging him a fee for emotional damages."

"Put it on the menu," Jenna suggested. "Extra charge for making us listen to your opinions."

"That would bankrupt half the club."

"Then we'll finally have enough money to disappear into the mountains," Roxy said.

I laughed, reaching for my stage outfit, which I'd folded over the back of my chair. The black fabric had lost some of its shine beneath the harsh dressing-room lights, and the inside was still damp from the heat of the performance. I turned it inside out, checked that nothing had been left in the pockets, and folded it into my bag.

Then I pulled off my black thigh-high stockings.

The fabric resisted slightly around my knees before sliding down my calves. I rolled each stocking carefully rather than leaving it tangled on the floor, then tucked them into a separate compartment of my bag. My legs felt strangely bare without them. There were faint lines where the elastic had pressed against my skin, and I rubbed one of them with my thumb while flexing my ankles.

Next came the heels.

I undid the silver buckles at my ankles and loosened the straps, then carefully stepped out of the black patent-leather platforms. The shoes landed beside my chair with two heavy clunks. Nine inches of heel and a massive front platform had seemed perfectly reasonable when I'd put them on earlier. Now they looked like instruments of torture.

I rolled my ankles, stretched my toes, and pressed the soles of my feet against the cool floor.

"Oh, that's better," I murmured.

"Every single night," Jenna said, looking down at her own shoes. "We put ourselves through all this, and then we complain about it like we didn't know what was coming."

"That's because tomorrow we'll forget how much it hurt," Roxy replied. "Then we'll put them on again and make the same terrible decisions."

I laughed and reached into my bag for my clothes.

First, I pulled out my white crop top. I shook it open, found the neckline, and slipped it over my head, guiding my arms through the short sleeves. The fabric settled against my shoulders, and I tugged the hem down over my ribs before adjusting the front. Its deep V-neckline left the upper part of my chest exposed, while the two front panels met at a small knot in the centre. I tightened the tie, then loosened it slightly when it felt too restrictive.

I checked the result in the mirror, pulling one sleeve straight and smoothing a crease near my waist.

The top was casual enough for the journey home, though the bright white fabric looked almost startling against the darker clothes scattered around the dressing room.

My blue plaid miniskirt came next. I stepped into it carefully, pulled the low waistband up over my hips, and adjusted the fabric until the red and yellow tartan pattern sat evenly across the front. The pleats had become slightly flattened in my bag, so I ran my hands over them, separating the folds until the skirt flared properly again.

I turned sideways to check the waistband in the mirror, tugged the hem into place, and made sure the fabric wasn't caught beneath itself. It was a simple outfit, but after hours in my stage clothes, even ordinary cotton felt like a luxury.

I picked up my jacket and draped it over the back of my chair while I sorted through the rest of my things. My phone was where I'd left it. My wallet was zipped into the small inside pocket of my bag, and the cash I'd earned was tucked safely away. I counted the notes once more, mostly out of habit, then secured them before putting everything back.

That was when somebody knocked on the door.

"Sorry? Can I come in for a second?"

It was Daniel.

I knew his voice before I looked up. He was one of the younger members of the floor staff, tall and lean, with thick brown hair that never quite stayed in place and a narrow face that made him look younger than he probably was. He usually wore a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, black trousers, and a little staff badge clipped near his chest. Tonight, his collar was slightly crooked, and he had a clipboard tucked beneath one arm.

He pushed the door open before anyone answered.

Then he stopped.

For one second, he looked straight at the room. His eyes caught the scattered clothes, the women sitting in various stages of changing, and the row of open bags beneath the mirrors.

His face went bright red.

"Oh, God. I'm so sorry!"

He spun around so quickly that the clipboard nearly slipped from his arm.

"I didn't know you were changing! I knocked, but I thought—sorry. I'll come back!"

"Daniel!" Roxy called.

He froze in the doorway, still facing the corridor.

"You're fine, sweetheart. Nobody's going to arrest you."

"I'm really sorry," he repeated. "I didn't know you were changing. Marcus asked me to bring you the revised rota, and he said you were all in here. I should've waited for somebody to answer."

"Well, yes," Jenna said. "That's generally how doors work."

"Jenna," I said, laughing.

"What? I'm teaching him."

Daniel covered his face with one hand. "I'm never going to hear the end of this, am I?"

"Not a chance," Roxy replied. "Come on in. We're decent enough."

He glanced over his shoulder, clearly uncertain whether that was a trap.

I had just finished adjusting my skirt, so I waved him in. "It's okay, Daniel. You can turn around now."

He stepped inside cautiously, keeping his eyes firmly on the clipboard as though it contained the most fascinating document ever written.

Up close, I could see the little details I'd never paid much attention to during a shift: the faint freckles across his nose, the slight crease between his eyebrows when he was concentrating, and the way his fingers kept rearranging the edges of the papers even though they were already perfectly straight.

"Marcus wants everyone to check next week's schedule before leaving," he explained. "There are a few changes because two people requested different shifts. He asked me to make sure nobody misses them."

"That's all?" Roxy asked.

"That's all."

"You walked into a room full of half-dressed women to deliver paperwork?"

"I didn't know you were changing!"

"Daniel, darling, we are literally in a dressing room."

He groaned. "I know that now."

Jenna leaned back in her chair, grinning. "You should've seen your face. You looked like you'd accidentally walked into a police raid."

"I was trying to be professional!"

"Nobody said you weren't."

"You all keep laughing at me!"

"Because you're easy to tease," I told him.

He looked at me, finally allowing himself a small smile. "I'm beginning to realise that."

Roxy patted the empty chair beside her. "Sit down. Tell us something interesting. We spend all night listening to men talk about themselves. It's only fair that somebody else gets interrogated for a change."

"I have work to do."

"So do we. Look how well that's going."

Daniel glanced towards the door again, but the corner of his mouth had started to lift.

"Fine. One minute."

He sat on the very edge of the chair, still clutching the clipboard.

"First question," Jenna announced. "What's the strangest thing you've seen at this club?"

Daniel thought about it.

"Do you want the answer that won't get me fired?"

"Now we're interested," Roxy said.

He laughed. "A man once asked me whether the dancers accepted payment in cryptocurrency."

I stared at him.

"No."

"Yes."

"What did you say?"

"I told him I'd have to ask the manager."

Jenna slapped her knee. "You should've told him the blockchain doesn't accept bad decisions."

Roxy burst out laughing, and I shook my head.

"Imagine trying to buy a lap dance with imaginary internet money," I said. "I'd pay good money to see Marcus's face."

"Please don't give him ideas," Daniel replied. "He's still annoyed about the time somebody tried to pay for a bottle of champagne with a gift card."

The conversation drifted from ridiculous customers to the staff's own lives. Daniel told us he was saving for a place of his own but had discovered that rent in the city seemed designed for people with three salaries and no need to eat. Jenna offered to teach him how to make cheap meals that didn't consist entirely of instant noodles. Roxy told him that moving in with a partner was wonderful until you discovered how many opinions two people could have about where to put a toaster.

"Is that a real argument?" he asked.

"It becomes a real argument when the toaster is on the wrong counter for the fourth time," she said.

I laughed. "Wait until you argue about the thermostat. That's when you find out whether you truly love someone."

Daniel looked horrified. "I live alone. I can set the temperature to whatever I want."

"Enjoy that while it lasts," Jenna told him.

For a little while, the dressing room felt less like the place where we wiped off our makeup and packed away our stage clothes and more like any ordinary room where people happened to be tired at the end of a long day.

That was one of the things I liked about the girls. The job could be exhausting, and the world outside could be quick to judge us, but in here we could complain about money, relationships, bad customers, and our uncertain futures without having to explain why any of it mattered.

Daniel glanced at the clock on the wall and jumped to his feet.

"Oh, I really do need to get back. Marcus is waiting for me."

"Go on, then," Roxy said. "Before he sends a search party."

Daniel gathered the clipboard and stood near the door. "Again, I'm sorry about earlier. I genuinely didn't mean to walk in while you were changing."

"It's fine," I told him. "Just wait for an answer next time."

"I will. Promise."

"And Daniel?" Jenna called.

He looked back warily. "Yes?"

"Next time you want to see us, just say so."

He stared at her, his face turning pink all over again.

"Goodnight, Jenna."

"Goodnight, sweetheart."

He disappeared into the corridor, and we heard him laughing to himself as he walked away.

Roxy leaned back in her chair, satisfied. "That boy is never going to survive working here."

"He'll be fine," I said. "He's probably the only man in this building who apologises when he accidentally opens the wrong door."

"Give him time," Jenna replied. "We'll ruin him yet."

I smiled and reached for my shoes.

My green New Balance 9060s were buried near the bottom of my bag, beneath a makeup pouch and a tangled charging cable. I pulled them out, sat down, and slid my feet into them one at a time. The thick soles felt soft beneath my heels, and the cushioning took the pressure off the tender spots near my toes. I laced them up, tightened each knot, and stood to test my balance.

After hours in the platforms, I felt almost absurdly short.

I picked up my black heels and tucked them into the bag, then checked my reflection one last time. My face was clean of most of the glitter, my hair had begun to lose its shape, and a faint line from the stockings remained around one thigh. I brushed a few loose strands away from my face and zipped up my jacket.

"See you tomorrow," I said, lifting my bag.

"Don't let any idiots ruin your night," Roxy called.

"No promises. Apparently, they're everywhere."

Jenna laughed as I pushed open the door.

The corridor was quieter now. The bass still thudded through the walls, but the club sounded distant, as if somebody had closed a door between me and the last few hours of my life. I passed the bar, nodded to the security guard, and headed for the back exit.

The night air touched my face as soon as I stepped outside.

I pulled my jacket closer and reached into my pocket for my cigarettes. I hadn't always smoked. In fact, I'd hated it when I was younger. I hated the smell that clung to clothes, the bitter taste it left in my mouth, and the way people seemed to reach for a cigarette whenever they didn't know what else to do with their hands.

Then my ex had introduced me to it.

One cigarette became something I tried when I was stressed, then something I reached for when I was angry, and eventually something I bought without thinking. He'd made it seem harmless back then, one of those things couples did together. We'd been over for a while now, but some habits outlasted the people who gave them to you.

I tapped a cigarette out of the packet, placed it between my lips, and flicked my lighter. The first drag scratched the back of my throat. I coughed quietly, annoyed with myself, then kept walking.

My phone vibrated inside my pocket. I took it out to check the time.

2:04 a.m. ;  2 percent battery

The display was cracked across one corner, a thin web of fractures stretching towards the middle of the screen. A deeper line ran along the bottom, and sometimes the touch stopped responding near the edges. But the phone still worked, and that was enough for now.

My wallpaper was an old photograph of the three of us. Mum sat in the middle, smiling at whoever had been holding the camera, while Dad stood beside her with one arm around my shoulders. I was younger in the picture, my hair untidy, my smile too wide, my face caught in that awkward stage between childhood and growing up. Dad looked as though he'd been trying not to laugh. Mum, as usual, looked like she knew exactly what was going on.

I kept that picture there because I was afraid of forgetting the little things. The exact shape of Mum's smile. The way Dad's eyes narrowed when he was trying not to laugh. The version of myself who hadn't yet learned what it meant to lose someone and continue living as though the world hadn't changed.

I knew they weren't inside the phone. I knew a photograph couldn't bring anybody back. But having them together on my screen made it feel as though some small part of my family still existed in one place. I could carry them with me, even if all I had left were pixels and memories.

Mum died when I was nineteen.

For a long time, I thought losing her was the worst thing that could happen to me. I was old enough to understand what death meant, but not old enough to understand how to live with it. The house felt different afterwards. Quieter in places where it shouldn't have been. Even ordinary things became difficult. I'd catch myself wanting to tell her something that had happened during the day, only to remember that there was nobody on the other end of that conversation anymore.

Dad was still there, though. He was the one person who understood what it meant to miss her in the same way I did. We didn't talk about it as much as we probably should have, but sometimes that wasn't necessary. We could sit in the same room, watching television without paying attention to it, and the silence between us didn't feel empty.

Then Dad died when I was twenty-three.

There were four years between losing Mum and losing him. Four years in which I'd somehow convinced myself that the worst thing that could happen had already happened. Losing Mum had changed the shape of my life. Losing Dad took away the last person who made the world feel remotely familiar.

I locked my phone and slipped it back into my pocket.

Replacing it had been on my mind for months. Every time I looked at the cracks, I reminded myself that I was saving for a new one. I'd started putting money aside whenever I could. A little from a good night, a little more when my expenses were lower than expected. I'd even made myself a rule not to touch those savings unless something genuinely urgent happened.

My next birthday was the deadline I'd set. I wanted to buy myself a decent phone, something with a clean screen and a battery that didn't threaten to die halfway through the day. Nothing ridiculously expensive. Just something nice that I could buy without feeling guilty about it afterwards.

It wasn't a particularly exciting dream, but it was mine.

I took another drag from the cigarette and continued towards the parking area.

The street was almost completely empty. The club's back entrance opened onto a stretch of pavement beside an open parking lot, with no walls or gate separating the parked cars from the road. A handful of vehicles sat scattered beneath the streetlights, their windscreens reflecting patches of yellow light. Beyond them, the road stretched into darkness, lined with shuttered shops and closed businesses. Their metal grilles were covered in old posters and faded advertisements.

A plastic bag scraped across the pavement in the wind. Somewhere far away, a dog barked twice and fell silent. There were no crowds, no impatient horns, no people rushing past with somewhere to be. Just a distant engine now and then, the low hum of the city, and the sound of my own shoes against the concrete.

The streetlight above the parking area blinked.

It glowed for a moment, turning the pavement a sickly yellow, then went out.

I slowed down.

For a few seconds, the parking area disappeared into darkness. The cars became bulky shapes without faces, their windows black, their outlines barely visible against the road. I could still make out the faint glow coming from the club behind me, but the stretch of pavement ahead seemed to have swallowed every other source of light.

I hated the dark.

It was an embarrassing thing to admit at my age, so I rarely admitted it. I could walk into a club full of strangers, stand on a stage beneath a hundred watching eyes, and deal with men who thought money entitled them to things that had never been offered. But put me somewhere dark and quiet, somewhere I couldn't see what was around me, and some small, stubborn part of me became nineteen again.

My fingers tightened around the cigarette.

I remembered my ex telling me to close my eyes. Then the blindfold. The darkness pressing against my face, thick enough that I couldn't tell whether he was standing in front of me or behind me. I'd thought it was a game at first. I'd trusted him enough to let him do it.

Then I'd told him to stop.

He hadn't.

The memory came back in fragments: the fabric against my skin, my own voice growing sharper as I tried to make him understand, the sickening realisation that he had heard me perfectly well. That he knew I didn't want it and had decided that what I wanted didn't matter. I remembered trying to pull away, the panic of not being able to see, and the helplessness of knowing that someone who claimed to care about me was the reason I was afraid.

I dragged in a breath that didn't seem to reach my lungs.

The cigarette trembled between my fingers. I wanted to throw it away and run back inside, though I couldn't have explained what I thought might be waiting for me in the darkness. I knew I was standing in an empty parking lot. I knew he wasn't there. I knew all of that, and my body didn't seem particularly interested in what I knew.

Then the streetlight flickered back on.

The sudden yellow glow caught the silver roof of my Civic, the faded white lines painted on the ground, and the cigarette smoke curling past my face. A car alarm chirped somewhere behind me before going quiet again. The ordinary world returned so abruptly that I almost felt stupid for being frightened.

I stood still until my breathing settled.

Then I took one last drag, dropped the cigarette, and crushed it beneath my shoe.

My car sat a little farther down the open parking area, beneath the unreliable streetlight. It was a faded, scratched silver 2002 Honda Civic, old enough to have a few problems and unremarkable enough that nobody looked at it twice. The windows were tinted so dark that you couldn't see inside. One hubcap was a slightly different shade from the others, and the rear bumper still carried the small dent Dad had always promised to fix.

The paint looked almost white whenever the streetlight came back on. In the darkness, the whole car seemed to vanish.

It wasn't beautiful. It wasn't new. The driver's seat had a permanent crease where Dad used to sit, and the steering wheel had worn smooth in the places where his hands had rested for years. The engine complained whenever I started it on a cold morning, and there was always something the mechanic said needed attention.

But it was the last substantial thing Dad had left me that I could use every day.

I was twenty-two when I got the car. Dad had owned it for years, long enough for the paint to fade and the driver's seat to develop that permanent crease. He'd always insisted it was perfectly fine as long as I looked after it.

I could still hear him saying it.

It's an old car, not a dead car. There's a difference.

I'd laughed at him that afternoon. I hadn't known how much I'd miss hearing him say ordinary things.

After Dad died, the Civic became something I couldn't quite explain to anyone else. It was transportation, obviously. A way to get to work and back without depending on buses or strangers or the kindness of people who might change their minds. But it was also something familiar. Sometimes, when I got inside, I could almost imagine Dad having just stepped out to buy something and being about to return.

I liked knowing that nobody could take it away from me because I'd missed a payment. I didn't owe a bank anything for it. I didn't owe anyone an explanation for where I was going or when I'd be back.

After his death, I started working at the club. At first, it was simply the job I could get that paid enough to keep me going. Rent didn't care about grief. Neither did electricity bills, groceries, or the mechanic who kept telling me the Civic needed another repair. I learned quickly how to make money, how to save what I could, and how to keep going even on days when getting out of bed felt like an unreasonable request.

I hadn't planned for my life to turn out this way. Then again, I wasn't sure anybody's life followed the plan they'd made at nineteen.

I reached the driver's side, unlocked the door, and climbed inside.

My duffle bag landed on the passenger seat with a soft thud. The car smelled faintly of old upholstery and the vanilla air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror. A few receipts were scattered near the gearshift, and an empty water bottle rolled beneath the passenger seat when I shut the door.

I settled into the driver's seat and let my head rest against the headrest for a moment.

For the first time all night, nobody wanted anything from me.

I hadn't even put the key in the ignition yet. I just sat there, listening to the quiet, with my hands resting loosely in my lap. Outside, the streetlight flickered again, throwing an uneven patch of yellow across the windscreen.

Then my phone lit up in my pocket.

I took it out to check the time again. The cracked display flickered before settling, showing the battery percentage in the corner.

2:47 a.m. ;  1 percent battery

I stared at it for a moment, wondering and thanking its makers that they made this box of technology survive till I reached my car.

I'd meant to charge it before leaving home. I'd meant to do a lot of things, actually.

I placed it on my lap and reached for the duffle bag on the passenger seat. Unzipping the main compartment, I began moving things around, pushing aside my work clothes, a small makeup pouch, and the tangled earphones I'd been meaning to replace for months. My fingers caught on a loose thread near the bottom. I pulled it free and kept searching.

The power bank had to be in there somewhere.

I was almost certain I'd packed it. Or maybe I'd left it charging beside my bed. I couldn't remember. The last few hours had been a blur of music, customers, changing clothes, and trying not to think about the things I didn't want to think about.

I checked the smaller pockets. Tissues. Loose change. A lipstick without its cap. An old receipt folded into quarters.

Nothing useful.

Outside, the streetlight flickered again, throwing the inside of the car into alternating patches of yellow and shadow. I glanced up at it, then returned to the bag, digging a little deeper this time.

My phone vibrated against my thigh, the screen lighting up with another low-battery warning.

"Yeah, yeah. I know," I muttered.

I set it carefully beside me and pulled the duffle bag closer, turning it just enough to see beneath the clothes. The power bank wasn't where I thought it would be, and I was beginning to wonder whether I'd imagined packing it at all.

The car remained silent around me. I hadn't even put the key in the ignition.

I kept searching.

Something tightened around my neck.

I felt the zip tie before I understood what was happening. It was pulled tight from behind, and my head was forced back against the headrest. A burning sensation spread across my neck. I tried to turn, but the tie tightened further, and I stopped. It felt as though one wrong movement could cut my throat.

“Ne dvigaysya, blyat!”

A gun appeared beside my face in the rear-view mirror.

I looked at the reflection and I immediately recognized him.

 

There's a story about a hitchhiking ghost--Resurrection Mary--who appears outside her titular cemetery. Clad in white. Phantasmal and slight as she hovers along Archer Avenue, waiting for a ride.

I thought of that ghost when I saw you, doing almost exactly the same thing, in your wavering white dress with your hair falling in rippling waves over your shoulders. It was a different cemetery. Mercy Hollow: massive and sprawling along the quiet edge of suburban sprawl, where the halogen lights cast darkened halos and the nearest sign of civilization was a weathered baseball field.

So I stopped.

Rolled down the window of my brown Chevy K10.

Reached over.

Unlocked the door.

"Need a ride?"

"I'm fine on my own," a defensive reply.

"C'mon, sweetheart. It's dangerous out here."

"Why? Because of you?" You kept walking and I rolled alongside.

"You're funny. I'll take you wherever you're headin'. No questions asked."

You stopped. Turned to face me. Tongue in your cheeks as the car idled loudly, "Fine."

You slid onto that tanned leather bench seat, eyes carefully avoiding mine. I watched your hands pull at the hem of your dress, trying to push it back down below your knees.

"Leave it." I drove with one hand on the steering wheel and my other arm resting out the open window. "You'll stretch it out."

Something unsaid hanging in the air. I turned down a road that even the halogen lights didn't reach. The lampposts faded away, replaced by towering oaks.

There was a former development down this road. The skeletons of half-built houses slowly weathering after funding fell through.

"Where are you going? Isn't this a dead-end?"

"Not sure," I shrugged. "Guess we can find out."

It was indeed a dead-end. I pulled into a cul-de-sac--the road existed but not even the beginnings of homes. Nothing but an asphalt circle surrounded by swaying weeds. I parked along the curb, turned the engine off, but left the radio humming.

"What are you doing? Aren't we going?" You looked a little concerned now.

"We didn't discuss payment." I leaned against the window, my eyes roaming along your body.

"I just thought this was a favor..."

"Don't do favors."

"Well, I don't really have any money on me. I can pay you when we get to my house." You crossed your arms, looking annoyed.

"Nah. Don't like that."

"Well, what do you want me to do then? I can just walk." You reached for the door handle.

"Don't like that either." I reached over and pulled the door shut.

"You can't keep me in here against my will."

"Pay me and we'll be square. No issues."

"How? I told you I don't have any money--are you thick?"

"Hm." I clicked my tongue. "Attitude, huh? I've got a solution for us." My cock began to throb against my jeans.

"I'm not blowing you, if that's what you have in mind."

"I'm sure you've sucked plenty of cocks."

"What's that got to do with--"

"Losing my patience here, sweetheart. Are you going to make this easy or hard?"

You looked flustered, a little defeated, "You offered me the ride, you never said you were--"

"I never said it was going to be free." I shoved you face first into my lap, your lips grazing against my zipper.

"Mmph, sto--" your sentence cut off as I unbuckled my belt, unzipped my jeans, and rapidly thumbed my black boxer briefs down, other hand twisted in your wavy hair, holding you tight as I shoved my cock into your mouth. It was already three-quarters hard and quickly growing as I pushed it against your palate.

"See? It isn't so hard is it? I mean, it is hard, but it isn't so hard to suck, right? I'm sure you've done it plenty of times. Probably a lot better at taking cock than talking back anyway." I held your hair in a ponytail as I pumped you in my lap. I could already feel drool running along the underside of my shaft, pooling just above my sack.

Gluck, gluck, gluck.

"Mhm, you know what? I was right. Not surprised. When I saw you walking by Mercy Hollow, I said to myself, "That little slut looks like she knows how to take a big dick. And now here you are, gagging on mine like such a good girl."

I felt a cool breeze through the open window. You must have felt a cool breeze on the backs of your thighs. I noticed that with you hunched over me like this, your dress was really starting to ride up. It was loose fitting, so easy for me to slide a hand down along your spine and draw the hem towards my palm. If I tilted my head right, I could see your ass--clad in a white thong--in the passenger side mirror.

Crickets chirped outside. The dead leaves swirled in the dead-end cul-de-sac. I pulled the seat lever so I could lean back a little further, my eyes locked on your ass in the mirror. I could feel your gaze one me as I forced you to throat my cock, as if you were looking for a sign that it would be over soon.

"You know, when I was driving up, I thought about passing you by." I held you down, holding my cock as far down your throat as I could. You gagged against me, but I didn't let up. "But then I saw the way that dress hugged your ass. I could almost see through it in the moonlight, you know? Had to stop then. Had to have you. Wouldn't have mattered what choice you made. I woulda had my way."

Your spit bubbled around the base of my shaft. Finally, I let you up to take a heaving breath.

"You can't--"

Cut you off. My cock down your throat again. I was getting close. My cock perked up, grazing against the roof of your mouth and I sank my hand beneath the slight fabric hiding your pussy. Teased my index and middle fingers along your labia. Dripping.

"Can't what? Get you so fucking wet?" I was pumping you like a fleshlight, the radio crackling "Jeepers Creepers" while I started to graze my fingertips in a come hither motion against your slit. Slowly, you opened for me. I pushed in, now filling you from both ends. The wet, sticky noises from your pussy almost competed with those coming from your throat.

I sped up.

More.

Deeper in both holes.

Harder.

Shoving you down. Your eyes squeezed shut as I shot a rope of cum against your uvula.

More.

Another rope.

"Take it like a good little slut."

Pulsing against your tongue.

"Swallow all of it."

Filling your mouth, your throat clenching as you swallowed desperately around me.

My fingers still working your cunt.

The last drops.

Flexing my thighs.

Finally letting go.

I let you sit up, pulling my fingers from your pussy and smearing the wetness along your ass. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, looking both mad and needy.

A beat of silence. Then you sat back in your seat, "Can we go now?"

My cock laid against my boxers, still thick but soft. It pulsed again, letting out a small droplet of cum. "Lick that up," I pointed nonchalantly towards my groin.

"Wh-what?" You seemed taken aback.

"Lick. It. Up." My tone now more menacing.

You considered it for a moment, staring at my flaccid cock, but then leaned forward, wrapping your tongue around my reddened cockhead and sucking.

"Good girl."

I zipped up but didn't turn the ignition on. Instead, I stepped out of the car, walked around the front-end, and opened your door.

"What are you--?"

I grabbed you by the hair, shoved you forward onto your stomach, spreading you across the bench seat, and hiked your dress back up.

"Now it's your turn to cum." I wrapped my calloused fingers around your thong, yanking back until I heard that satisfying snap.

Fingerfucking you again.

Making you lay prostrate while I pumped inside your dripping slit.

"Why's your cunt so wet?"

"I--ah--I don't know." Your voice a mix of whimpering and frustration as you bucked your hips against my hand.

"Is it because you're a little slut?" Fingers sliding in and out, the other fist tight in your hair.

"I'm not a---fuuuu--a slut. St-sto--"

"A slut who loves having her tight little holes filled, hm?"

"No I'm--"

I shoved your face into the leather. Kept going. Felt you squeeze your thighs, your ass jiggling as you came around my knuckles.

"Ah! Ah!" You bucked your hips wildly, humping the seat as I kept fingerfucking you. You tried pushing your hands downward, trying to bat me away. I relented, slowly pulling out of you, my fingers syrupy with your juices. I wiped them on your ass again. Let you sit there, pussy still out, glistening under the moonlight.

Closed the door.

Got back into the driver's seat.

"Pick your thong up off the floor."

You sat up slowly, thighs still quivering. "You ruined it."

"I'll get you a new one. You know that."

Leaning down, you grabbed the shredded white fabric and held it like a delicate flower in your palm. "Next time, you should fill my pussy too. Make me take it."

I smiled at you, tossing the car in drive, "You know I will. Now, let's go home."