Chapter 7: Training
The stale office air still clung to Puck’s skin like cheap perfume as she slammed her apartment door shut. The bohemian chaos of her space – overflowing bookshelves, mismatched velvet cushions, the faint, lingering ghost of sandalwood incense – usually felt like armor. Tonight, it was just a stage. The fluorescent flicker of the overhead bulb felt harsh compared to the office tubes, throwing stark shadows across the pile of sketchbooks spilling off the worn couch and the collection of bizarre glass figurines on the windowsill. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the muffled city hum outside.
Nice. Kind. Normal. Ron’s hesitant words echoed, twisted and amplified in the hollow space behind her sternum. Easygoing. Loyal. Master. The accidental brush of his arm against her shoulder replayed in a loop, a phantom brand. She needed to feel it. Properly. Not just the fleeting accident, but the weight, the intention.
She dumped her oversized black leather bag onto the crowded kitchen counter, ignoring the clatter of keys and loose pens. Her fingers, trembling slightly, dug past crumpled receipts and a half-eaten protein bar until they closed around the small, unassuming black box tucked at the bottom. The cardboard felt flimsy, cheap. She ripped it open.
Inside, nestled in tissue paper, lay the choker. Simple. Wide, smooth black leather. No buckles, just a sturdy clip closure. It felt heavier than it looked. Cool. Serious. His choice. Her choice for him.
With quick, almost angry movements, Puck swept her dark hair aside. The cool leather settled against the front of her throat. She fumbled with the clip at the nape of her neck, her breathing already hitching. Click. The sound was final. A lock sliding home. The pressure was immediate, firm, encircling. Not enough to restrict breath, just enough to be there. Constant. Defining.
She didn't hesitate. The worn carpet fibers pressed against her knees as she crawled towards the full-length mirror leaning precariously against a cluttered bookcase. Her reflection swam into view: raven hair tangled, kohl-smudged eyes wide and fever-bright in her pale face. The stark black band around her throat was the focal point. Obscene. Beautiful. His.
Her fingers traced the cool leather. She leaned closer to the glass, her breath fogging a small circle. Her reflection stared back, pupils blown wide. She swallowed, felt the collar press against her larynx.
"Good girl," she whispered, the words rasping out. The sound was alien, yet it vibrated through her bones. "Good girl."
It wasn't enough. Words were air. She needed proof. Tangible surrender.
She scrambled back from the mirror, not rising, staying low. On hands and knees, she moved to the battered wooden chest shoved under her cluttered desk. Inside, beneath sketchpads filled with frantic drawings of Ron – Ron watching, Ron frowning with a hint of possession, Ron's hand resting lightly on a sketched collar – lay the other purchase. Thick, veined silicone. Realistic weight. Uncompromising.
Puck hauled it out. The cool, yielding material felt alien and right in her hand. She didn't need foreplay. The collar was the ignition. The thought of Ron’s flustered kindness, his quiet need for a ‘normal’ companion who belonged, was the accelerant.
She shoved aside a stack of design magazines, clearing a patch of threadbare rug. She didn't undress fully, just wrenched her tight black skirt up around her hips, yanked her underwear down past her knees. The cool air hit her skin. She positioned herself on her knees, back arched, facing the mirror again. Her reflection showed the collar stark against her throat, the swell of her breasts beneath the thin black fabric of her top, the desperate hunger in her eyes.
She didn't tease. She guided the thick silicone tip to her entrance, already slick with anticipation. A low groan escaped her as she pressed down, impaling herself in one fierce, downward thrust. The stretch burned, deliciously. She gasped, head falling back, the collar pressing hard into the tendons of her neck. His.
"Good girl," she gasped again, the words catching. She started moving. Slow, deliberate rocks at first, feeling every ridge, every inch. Her eyes locked onto her reflection. On the collar. On the flush spreading up her chest. On the raw need twisting her features. Nice. Kind. Normal. The internal mantra morphed into a rhythm. His nice. His kind. His normal.
Her pace quickened. Knees grinding into the rough rug, hips pistoning. The slap of skin against silicone filled the small space, mingling with her ragged breaths and choked whimpers. She rode it hard, driving herself down onto it with bruising force, chasing the pressure of the collar, the phantom weight of his approval. Her hands clawed at the rug, then flew to her breasts, squeezing roughly through the thin top, pinching her nipples until pain flared bright and sharp, indistinguishable from pleasure. The collar felt tighter with every thrust, every gasp.
"Good girl! Oh fuck, good girl!" she cried out, the words tearing from her throat, raw and desperate. Her reflection was a blur of movement and dark hair and that stark, defining band of leather. She saw Ron’s kind, flustered face superimposed over her own. Saw his hesitant smile. Saw his hand reaching out, not to stop, but to guide. To own.
The first orgasm hit like a sucker punch, ripping through her core, blinding and violent. She screamed, back arching impossibly, her body seizing around the thick intrusion. Wave after wave crashed over her, leaving her trembling, gasping, vision speckled. But she didn’t stop. Couldn't stop. The emptiness after the peak was an affront. She needed to be filled again. To be claimed again. To hear it again.
She slammed back down onto the dildo, her movements becoming frantic, almost feral. Her hair whipped around her face. Sweat slicked her skin. She fucked herself with abandon, chasing the next peak, the next affirmation. "Yes! Good girl! Master's good girl!" The words spilled out in a guttural chant, punctuated by gasps and moans. The collar was a vice now, a beautiful anchor. Her body was a vessel, used, claimed. His.
Another climax tore through her, sharper than the first, stealing her breath, making her toes curl against the rug. She collapsed forward onto her elbows, forehead pressed to the rough pile, body convulsing. Still, she ground herself down, chasing the last fading sparks, the dildo still buried deep. A third peak followed, weaker but deeper, a shuddering aftershock that left her limp, panting, her muscles jelly. Spit slicked her chin. Sweat plastered her top to her skin, outlining the curve of her implants, the scars beneath hidden but felt. Her reflection in the mirror was a wreck. A used thing. Collared. Owned.
She stayed there for long minutes, sprawled on the rug, the silicone still inside her, catching her breath. The frantic energy had bled out, replaced by a deep, liquid warmth, a profound sense of… rightness. The collar no longer felt restrictive; it felt like a fundamental part of her. Like gravity.
Slowly, trembling, she pulled herself off the toy, wincing at the sudden emptiness. She left it lying on the rug, a stark, glistening monument to the frenzy. With shaky hands, she reached back and unclipped the choker. The sudden absence of pressure around her throat felt wrong. Vulnerable. Like being unmoored.
She clutched the leather band tightly. It was warm now from her skin. She brought it to her nose, inhaling the faint scent of new leather and her own sweat. His.
Standing up on unsteady legs, she walked back to the mirror. Her reflection looked hollowed out, peaceful in a way she rarely felt. Red marks circled her throat where the collar had bitten in. She traced them with a fingertip, a small, secret smile touching her lips.
Methodically, ignoring the sticky mess between her legs, she picked up the dildo. She carried both it and the collar to her tiny, cluttered bathroom. She washed them meticulously under warm water – the silicone slick and smooth, the leather needing more care. She patted the collar dry with a soft towel, handling it with reverence.
Back in the main room, she opened her underwear drawer, pushing aside lace and cotton. At the back, beneath a silky negligee she’d never worn, lay the sketchbook. The one filled with Ron. She placed the clean, slightly damp choker carefully on top of the closed book. A promise. A contract signed in sweat and need.
She finally peeled off her damp clothes, dropping them in a heap. Naked, the marks on her throat stark against her pale skin, she crawled into her unmade bed. The scent of sex and sweat and leather clung to the sheets. She pulled the duvet up, curling onto her side, her hand resting protectively over the phantom weight of the collar around her neck.
Outside, the city hummed its indifferent night song. Inside, the silence was thick, charged. Puck closed her eyes. Ron’s face filled the darkness behind her lids. Shy. Kind. Hers. He’d set the parameters. Nice. Kind. Normal. Her body ached pleasantly, a testament to her commitment to the role. She just needed to show him how perfectly she fit the mold he’d unwittingly cast.
The hunt was over. The training had begun. And Puck was an exceptionally fast learner. She drifted towards sleep, the echo of her own voice the last conscious thought: Good girl. Tomorrow, she’d show him just how good she could be. How perfectly normal. He wouldn’t know what hit him.