Chapter 1: The First Command
The rug was disgustingly soft against her knees. Deep, lush velvet the color of a bruise. Kim Possible kept her head down, staring at the intricate pattern, willing her breathing to slow. She could feel the cool, dry air of the penthouse on every inch of her exposed skin. Her wrists were fused together in the small of her back, held by cuffs of shimmering, sickly-green energy that hummed with a low, threatening power. They didn’t burn, but they pulsed, a constant reminder of their unbreakable hold.
She heard the clink of ice in a glass, the slow, measured footsteps circling her.
“Look at you.”
Shego’s voice was a smokey purr, dripping with amused contempt. It slid over Kim’s skin like a physical touch. Kim flinched.
“The great Kim Possible. Savior of the world. Professional cheerleader.” A foot, clad in a sharp, black heel, entered Kim’s field of vision. “Reduced to a naked little thing on my floor. I gotta say, Princess, the view is an improvement.”
Kim’s cheeks burned. She kept her eyes on the foot, on the perfect arch. “Go to hell, Shego.”
The laugh was soft, close. Shego had crouched in front of her. Kim smelled her perfume—something expensive, spicy, and underneath it, the crisp, electric scent of her plasma. A gloved finger, cool and smooth, hooked under Kim’s chin and forced her head up.
Shego’s eyes were pits of dark amusement. Her jet-black hair framed a smirk that was all sharp edges and promised cruelty. “Language, sweetheart. We’re past the witty banter stage. This is my stage now. And you’re not here to fight.”
Kim tried to jerk her head away, but the finger held firm. “Why am I here, then?”
“Because you want to be.” Shego released her chin and stood, taking a slow sip from her tumbler. She walked a slow circle around Kim’s kneeling form, her gaze a palpable weight. “All that good-girl heroics, all that perfect positivity… it’s exhausting, isn’t it? Holding the world up on your perky little shoulders. Don’t you ever just want to drop it? To let someone else make the decisions? The ugly, dirty, selfish decisions?”
Kim’s mouth was dry. Her heart hammered against her ribs. The words slithered into a part of her she never acknowledged in daylight. A secret, shameful chamber where she was tired of being in charge.
“No,” she whispered.
“Liar.” Shego stopped behind her. Kim stiffened, waiting for a blow that didn’t come. Instead, she felt the heated line of Shego’s body just inches from her back. Her breath stirred the hairs on Kim’s neck. “You dream about this. About being told what to do. About being put in your place. I’ve seen it in your eyes every single time I’ve had you pinned. That little flash of ‘what if’. Well, Kimmie… ‘what if’ is now.”
Shego’s gloved hand trailed down the length of Kim’s spine, a slow, possessive stroke that made Kim’s muscles jump. “Crawl to me.”
Kim froze. “What?”
“You heard me. On your hands and knees. Crawl to the front of the rug. Now.”
Humiliation, hot and sharp, lanced through her. This was worse than any trap, any public failure. This was intimate debasement. “I won’t.”
The energy cuffs on her wrists flared, sending a jolt of paralyzing heat through her nerves. It wasn’t pain, not exactly. It was overwhelming sensation, a total overload that melted her resistance into a boneless shudder. A choked gasp escaped her lips.
“I wasn’t asking,” Shego said, her voice calm. She had walked to the front of the large rug and stood there, a dark silhouette against the floor-to-ceiling windows full of city neon. “Crawl.”
Trembling started deep in Kim’s core. She lowered her shoulders, the movement feeling alien and degrading. With her wrists bound behind her, her balance was precarious. She got her knees under her, then her palms flat on the velvet. The pose arched her back, thrust her ass into the air. She heard Shego’s low, appreciative hum.
She began to move. Each shift forward was a surrender. The carpet fibers scratched her palms and knees. Her hair fell around her face, a red curtain hiding her expression. The distance to Shego’s boots seemed miles long. Time stretched, filled only with the sound of her own ragged breathing and the soft rustle of her movement.
Finally, she reached the pointed toes of Shego’s shoes. She stopped, head bowed, body trembling with exertion and shame.
“Look up.”
Kim lifted her head. Shego looked down at her, a goddess of menace. She slowly, deliberately, finished her drink and placed the empty glass on a side table.
“Good girl.” The praise was a mockery, and it sparked something dark and warm in Kim’s gut. “Now. Beg me for it.”
Tears of frustration pricked Kim’s eyes. “For what? Just get it over with.”
Shego’s heel came to rest lightly on Kim’s thigh, not pressing, just a threat of ownership. “Beg me to use you. To degrade you. To prove to you just how much of a filthy little pretender you are behind that good-girl smile. Say the words, Possible. Or I put you back in your boring little bed and you never get to feel this again.”
This. The electric fear. The crushing weight of submission. The terrifying freedom of having no choices left to make. It was a drug, and Shego was holding the needle.
Kim’s resistance shattered. The words fell from her lips, broken and wet. “Please… please use me. Please… degrade me. I’m… I’m just a pretender.”
“Louder.”
“Please!” Kim cried out, the sound echoing in the vast room. “I’m filthy! I’m nothing! Just use me!”
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Shego’s face. “Since you asked so nicely.”
In one fluid motion, she shed her glove. Her bare hand, palm glowing faintly with contained emerald energy, grasped Kim’s hair and pulled her head back sharply. Kim cried out at the sharp sting in her scalp. Shego’s other hand, still gloved, gripped her hip, nails digging in.
“Open your mouth.”
Kim parted her lips, a sob catching in her throat. Shego guided herself forward, pressing the sleek, cool material of her pants against Kim’s face. “You want to serve? Serve. Use that famous determination for something actually worthwhile.”
The explicit act that followed was slow, methodical, and utterly dehumanizing. Shego used her, talking all the while in that corrosive, smoky voice.
“That’s it, Princess… no fists flying now, are there? Just take it… you’re so eager for this, it’s pathetic… all that strength and you’re just a hole to be used…”
The words carved into Kim’s soul far deeper than any physical act could. They named the shame, gave it form, and fed it to her. She was reduced to pure, shuddering sensation—the ache in her scalp, the cruel grip on her hip, the degrading, rhythmic use of her mouth. She was an object. A thing. And a terrible, shocking part of her sang with relief.
Shego’s control was absolute. She dictated the pace, the depth, the very air Kim gasped for. When she finally allowed her own release, it was with a low, guttural sound of victory, her glowing hand tangling tighter in Kim’s hair, holding her in place. Kim choked, tears streaming down her face, her body convulsing with violated sobs.
Shego released her. Kim collapsed forward onto the rug, coughing, her bound wrists useless behind her. She felt empty and full at once, stained inside and out.
Shego adjusted her clothing, her breathing barely elevated. She looked down at the wreckage of a hero at her feet. “Not so possible now, are you?”
She snapped her fingers. The green energy cuffs vanished. Kim’s arms fell limp to her sides, screaming with renewed circulation.
“Get out,” Shego said, her voice bored now. “The elevator will take you down. Remember this feeling, Kimmie. It’s the real you.”
Kim scrambled to her hands and knees, then stumbled to her feet. She didn’t look back. She ran, naked and broken, across the cold marble floor toward the elevator doors, the sound of Shego’s soft laughter chasing her like a curse.
Kim woke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in her own bed. The cheerleading trophies on her shelf gleamed in the morning sun. Her green eyes were wide with panic, her body slick with a cold sweat. She clutched her comforter to her chest, her heart trying to batter its way out of her ribs.
It was just a dream. A horrible, vivid, shameful dream.
She threw back the covers and swung her legs out of bed, heading for the shower. She needed to scrub her skin raw. As the hot water hit her, she leaned her forehead against the cool tile, trying to steady her breathing.
But the feeling wouldn’t leave. The phantom ache in her wrists. The echo of that degrading praise in her ear. The terrifying, intoxicating weight of absolute surrender.
She punched the shower wall, the pain in her knuckles a clean, simple, familiar thing. A hero’s pain.
She clung to it.