Chapter 10: Ritual Preparation
The incense Puck had lit hours ago – a cloying blend of patchouli and something vaguely sinister – hung thick in the apartment air, catching in her throat. Outside, rain lashed against the grimy windowpane, distorting the neon glow from the laundromat sign across the street into watery smears of colour. Inside, chaos reigned.
Every surface in the cramped living space was a testament to frantic preparation. Discarded outfits – a slithery red dress, leather leggings, a lace top that looked like shredded cobwebs – lay heaped on the worn velvet couch, half-burying art books and a snuffed-out candle. Makeup palettes were splayed open on the coffee table, powders dusting the wood grain. The air vibrated with manic energy, radiating from Puck herself.
She stood naked in the center of the bathroom, steam still curling from the shower. The mirror was fogged except where she’d wiped frantic circles. Her reflection stared back: skin flushed pink, raven hair plastered dark and wet to her skull, eyes wide, pupils dilated. In her hand, a razor.
"Everywhere," she hissed at her reflection, the words barely audible over the drumming rain. "Smooth. Perfect. He deserves perfect." Her voice trembled. She started meticulously, with surgeon-like precision, dragging the razor down her calf. Long, smooth strokes. Then faster. Harder. The scrape of the blade was loud in the tiled room. "Stupid! Stupid!" she muttered, nicking her ankle. A bead of crimson welled. She ignored it, dabbing it carelessly with a damp towel already streaked with pink. "Can't be clumsy. Can't be anything less than flawless." She moved higher, contorting, the muscles in her thigh standing out taut as she shaved with obsessive thoroughness. The sensation was raw, almost painful, a necessary purge. "Raw for him. Clean for him."
She finished her legs, her underarms, the meticulous curves. Then, with a breath held, she tackled the sensitive skin of her bikini line. Each stroke was agony, a sharp sting followed by a dull burn. Tears pricked her eyes, blurring the reflection. "Stop whining," she snarled, gripping the sink edge until her knuckles turned white. "He asked you. He chose you. After the ghost… after that pathetic nothing..." A choked sob escaped her. "Prove it. Prove you're worthy." She scraped harder, leaving angry red tracks. Finally, she dropped the razor into the sink with a clatter, breathing hard, staring at the raw, stinging landscape she’d created. Perfectly smooth. Perfectly bare. Herself, meticulously prepared territory.
She stumbled back into the living room, the cold air hitting her damp skin, making her shiver violently. Her gaze swept the clothing carnage. "No," she declared, kicking the red dress aside. "Too desperate." She held up the shredded lace top. "Too… obvious." The leather leggings felt constricting, harsh. "Not right. Not him." She rummaged frantically, pulling out a simple black silk camisole she’d buried. Held it against herself. Soft. Fluid. Elegant, almost. Yes. Paired with tailored black trousers – sharp lines, but forgiving. Professional, yet… accessible. His kind of accessible. "Yes. Okay. Okay." She nodded, rapid-fire.
Dressing was a ritual. Slow. Deliberate. The silk whispered against her hypersensitive skin, a constant, thrilling reminder of the raw flesh beneath. The trousers zipped smoothly. Then came the makeup. Not the office war-paint, not yesterday's vinyl-strapped assault. Something softer. A dusting of taupe shadow to deepen her eyes, a subtle contour, a rose-tinted stain on her lips instead of the crimson armour. She blended meticulously, leaning so close to the vanity mirror her breath fogged the glass. "Smile," she whispered, forcing her lips upward. Too wide. Creepy. She relaxed it. A hint of teeth. Better. Approachable. "Hi, Ron." Her voice sounded brittle, rehearsed. "No. Too high." Deeper. Warmer. "Hello, Ron." Better. "I like your… shirt?" She groaned, burying her face in her hands. "Awful. Pathetic. Talk about the rain! The coffee! Anything but his shirt, you idiot!"
She paced, the silk top catching the dim light. "Just… be calm. Be you. The real you he likes." But who was that? The confident designer? The office predator? The trembling, obsessive creature currently tearing her apartment apart? The dissonance clawed at her. She caught sight of the delicate silver chain, lying coiled like a sleeping serpent beside her discarded harness from the day before. Her breath hitched. His collar. The symbol. Her fingers trembled as she picked it up. The metal felt cool, alive. Carefully, reverently, she fastened it around her throat. The clasp clicked shut with a tiny, definitive sound. She touched the smooth silver, the pressure against her throat a grounding weight, a promise. A claim. "Master Ron," she breathed, the words tasting sacred, forbidden. A shiver ran through her, not from cold this time, but pure, electrifying anticipation. "Okay. Okay. With this… I can do this."
She checked the time on her phone. Fifteen minutes. A fresh wave of panic crested. "Hair! Hair’s a disaster!" She attacked her damp hair with a dryer and a round brush, the roar of the appliance drowning out the rain. She tugged, cursed, smoothed frantically. Finally, she let it fall in loose, dark waves around her shoulders, framing the silver chain. One last look in the full-length mirror leaning precariously against a wall of books. The image reflected back was startling. Soft silk, sharp trousers, vulnerable makeup, eyes blazing with an intensity that bordered on feverish. And the collar. The unmissable, gleaming statement at her throat.
A sudden, visceral memory hit her: Ron’s stunned face in the elevator, the heat in his cheeks, the rough sound of his voice asking her out. He’d asked. After she’d shown him the truth of her hunger. He’d still asked. A choked sound escaped her – half-laugh, half-sob. The pressure was too much. Too bright, too sharp. She stumbled back, the backs of her knees hitting the edge of the couch. She sank down onto the pile of discarded clothes, burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook. Not violent, hysterical tears like the celebratory breakdown, but a raw, silent convulsion of sheer, overwhelming terror and hope. A single, ragged sob tore free. "Please," she whispered into her palms, the word muffled, desperate. "Please let him see. Please let him want… all of it."
She stayed like that for a minute, maybe two, breathing in the scent of silk and dust and her own fear. Then, abruptly, she dragged her hands down her face, smudging the carefully applied under-eye concealer. She didn’t care. She stood up, spine straightening. The vulnerability was gone, replaced by a fierce, almost feral determination. She grabbed a small black clutch, shoved her phone and keys inside. One last look in the mirror. She touched the collar again, a possessive caress.
The rain had eased to a steady drizzle. Puck opened her apartment door. The humid city air, thick with the smell of wet pavement and distant exhaust, rushed in, clashing with the incense. She took a deep, shuddering breath. Her hand trembled slightly as she locked the door behind her. Then she turned, shoulders squared, chin lifted, the silver collar gleaming against her throat like a challenge in the dim hallway light. She walked towards the stairs, the click of her boot heels on the linoleum echoing with purpose. Ready or not, Master Ron was getting everything she had.