Chapter 7: Caught in the Act
The closet had vomited onto her bed.
Ava stood in front of the mirror in her underwear—plain black cotton, the least offensive pair she owned—and stared at the disaster sprawled across her duvet. Seven shirts. Three pairs of jeans. A dress she hadn't worn since freshman orientation. A skirt that still had the tags on it.
None of it worked.
She picked up a burgundy blouse. Held it against her chest. The color was nice. The fabric was soft. But the neckline plunged low enough to show the top of her sports bra, and she wasn't ready for that kind of exposure. Not tonight.
She tossed it aside.
The jeans were either too tight or too loose. The shirts were either too dressy or too casual. The dress made her look like she was trying too hard. The skirt made her look like she was trying too little.
She checked her phone. 5:47 PM.
Jake was picking her up at seven.
One hour and thirteen minutes.
"Fuck."
She grabbed a gray sweater. Too shapeless. A black tank top. Too plain. A striped long-sleeve. Too nautical. Who the hell wore nautical on a first date? What did that even mean?
She threw it on the floor.
Her reflection stared back at her. Small breasts. Narrow shoulders. The scars on her upper back were hidden by her hair, but she could feel them. Always. A roadmap of the worst night of her life.
She turned away from the mirror.
The curtains were drawn tight. The laptop screen glowed on her desk, her half-written essay mocking her. She'd been working on it for three hours and had written exactly two sentences.
The candle on her nightstand had burned down to a stub. Lavender and smoke. The smell used to calm her. Now it just made her think of Jake's hands on her skin, his mouth on her neck, the way he'd held her after she fell apart.
Two days. He'd given her two days.
She'd spent those two days replaying every moment. The gym. The locker room. The way he'd said her name. The way he'd stopped when she needed him to stop. The way he'd stayed.
She hadn't slept. Not really.
She'd texted him twice. Small things. Hey. And then Looking forward to Saturday. He'd responded both times. Quick.Warm. He'd sent a picture of his dinner—some fancy pasta dish he'd made himself—and she'd sent back a picture of her microwave ramen.
Chef Ava, he'd written.
Don't mock me, she'd replied.
Wouldn't dream of it.
She'd smiled at her phone for ten minutes after that.
But now, standing in her underwear surrounded by the wreckage of her wardrobe, the anxiety was back. Sharp and clawing.
What if he showed up and she wasn't ready? What if she wore the wrong thing and he looked at her differently? What if the restaurant was loud? What if there was a crowd? What if someone dropped a plate and she—
No.
She wasn't doing this. Not tonight.
She needed help.
She grabbed her robe from the hook on the door. Silk. Old. A gift from her mom three Christmases ago. She wrapped it around herself and cinched the belt.
Mia would know what to do. Mia always knew.
Ava padded down the hallway. The apartment was small—two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen that barely fit two people—but it was home. The floors creaked in familiar places. The walls were thin enough to hear Mia's music through.
But there was no music now.
There was something else.
A voice.Low. Muffled.
Ava stopped outside Mia's door.
The voice was Mia's. Commanding. Sharp.
"—that's it. Keep licking. Don't you dare stop."
Ava's hand hovered over the doorknob.
Another voice. Male. Whimpering.
"Please—"
"I didn't say you could speak."
A sharp crack. Leather on skin.
A yelp.
Ava's eyes went wide.
She should knock. She should turn around. She should go back to her room and text Mia instead of bursting in like some kind of—
Her hand turned the knob.
The door swung open.
The first thing she saw was Mia.
Her roommate was propped against the headboard, back against the pillows, legs stretched out in front of her. She was wearing a black lace bra and matching panties, the kind of lingerie that cost more than Ava's entire wardrobe. Black nylon thigh-highs hugged her legs, the lace tops biting into her thighs.
Her dark hair was loose. Her lips were painted red. Her eyes were fixed on her phone.
In her left hand, she held a leash.
The leash was connected to a leather collar.
The collar was around Marcus's neck.
Ava's brain short-circuited.
Marcus—the boytoy, the one Mia had been seeing for a month, the one who looked like he belonged on a surfboard somewhere—was bent over the foot of the bed. His wrists were bound to the footboard with thick rope. His ankles too. His naked body was stretched taut, muscles straining, skin flushed pink.
His ass was red. Deep red. The kind of red that came from repeated impact.
A riding crop lay discarded on the floor beside a ball gag. The gag was wet. The crop was worn.
Marcus wore a chastity cage. Small. Silver. Locked.
And a butt plug. Black. Flared base. The kind that looked like it took some effort to get in.
He was licking Mia's feet.
His tongue dragged up the sole of her left foot, slow and obedient, from heel to toe. He whimpered as he worked, a pathetic, desperate sound that made Ava's stomach flip.
Mia scrolled her phone with her free hand. Bored. Casual.
"Slower," she said. "You're not a dog. Use your tongue like you mean it."
Marcus whimpered again. Obeyed.
Ava couldn't move.
Her hand was still on the doorknob. Her mouth was open. Her brain was screaming.
Mia looked up.
Her eyes went wide. For a split second, there was surprise. Then it was gone, replaced by a slow, wicked grin.
"Ava." She didn't sound embarrassed. She sounded amused. "What's up?"
Ava tried to speak. Nothing came out.
Marcus turned his head. His face was flushed. His eyes were glassy. He looked at Ava and then looked away, cheeks burning.
Mia pushed his head away with her foot. Not hard. Just enough.
"Back to work," she said.
Marcus lowered his head. Resumed licking.
Ava finally found her voice.
"I—I need help."
Mia raised an eyebrow. "With what?"
"Outfit. For my date. I can't—nothing fits—I've been trying for an hour and I—"
She was rambling. She knew she was rambling. But she couldn't stop looking at the scene in front of her. The ropes. The cage. The way Marcus's tongue moved against Mia's skin.
"Hold on," Mia said.
She tugged the leash. Marcus's head jerked up.
"Break time," she said. "Go get me some water."
Marcus blinked. "But I'm—"
"Did I ask for your opinion?"
"No, Mistress."
"Then go."
She reached down and untied the ropes around his ankles. Then his wrists. Marcus rubbed his wrists, wincing, and stood up slowly. His legs were shaky. The cage glinted in the dim light.
He walked past Ava without looking at her. His ass was a mess. Red and welted.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Ava stared at Mia.
"What?" Mia asked.
"You—he—"
"He's my submissive." Mia shrugged. "We've been doing this for a month. It's not a big deal."
"Not a big—Mia, he was licking your feet."
"He likes it."
"And the—the cage thing—"
"Chastity cage. He doesn't get to come unless I say so. He hasn't come in eleven days."
Ava's brain was melting.
"Why?"
"Because he's a good boy who does what I tell him." Mia swung her legs off the bed. The leash dangled from her hand. "And because it makes him desperate. Desperate boys are obedient boys."
Ava didn't know what to say.
Marcus reappeared with a glass of water. He handed it to Mia without a word. She took a sip and set it on the nightstand.
"Back to position," she said.
Marcus crawled back onto the bed. Let Mia tie him down again. Submitted to the collar. The leash.
Ava watched in a daze.
"Anyway," Mia said, picking up her phone again. "Outfit. What's the vibe?"
"What?"
"The date. What's the vibe? Fancy restaurant? Casual drinks? Netflix and chill?"
"I don't—I don't know. He said dinner. He didn't say where."
"Classic." Mia rolled her eyes. "Okay. Give me a minute."
She tugged the leash. Marcus's head lifted.
"Lick," she said.
He obeyed.
Ava tried to look anywhere else. The posters on Mia's wall. The pile of laundry in the corner. The vintage mirror above the dresser.
But her eyes kept drifting back.
Marcus's tongue. Mia's foot. The way he moaned when she praised him.
"And you're okay with this?" Ava asked.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"I don't know. It's just—a lot."
Mia shrugged. "He's a good boy. He does what I say. He worships me. And in return, I give him exactly what he needs." She paused. "It's a power thing. Some people get off on giving it up. Some people get off on taking it."
"Which one are you?"
"Both." Mia grinned. "Depends on the day."
Ava shook her head.
"Okay," she said. "Forget I asked. Can you just help me find something to wear?"
Mia looked at her. Really looked.
"You're nervous."
"I'm fine."
"You're shaking."
Ava looked down at her hands. She was.
"I'm fine," she repeated.
"You're lying."
"I'm not—"
"Ava." Mia's voice softened. "It's okay to be nervous. It's a first date. With a guy you actually like. That's a big deal."
"I know."
"So stop pretending you're fine and let me help you."
Ava exhaled.
"Okay," she said. "Fine. I'm nervous. I'm terrified. I've been standing in my room for an hour trying to find something that doesn't make me look like a total disaster, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to fuck this up."
"You're not going to fuck it up."
"How do you know?"
"Because Jake's been texting me all week asking how you're doing."
Ava blinked. "What?"
"He wanted to make sure you were okay. After Saturday." Mia shrugged. "He didn't want to push. So he asked me."
"He—he didn't tell me that."
"Of course he didn't. He's not an idiot." Mia looked down at Marcus. "He's actually kind of sweet. For a playboy."
Ava didn't know what to do with that information.
"Okay," she said. "Fine. Help me."
Mia nodded. Then she looked down at Marcus.
"You," she said. "Stay."
She tugged the leash one more time and stood up. Marcus groaned against her foot.
"I'll be back in twenty minutes," she told him. "Don't move."
She walked toward the door. Ava followed.
"Wait," Mia said. She turned back. "One thing."
"What?"
"Your gym socks. From Saturday morning. The ones you were wearing."
Ava frowned."What?"
"Do you still have them?"
"I—yeah. Why?"
"Give them to me."
"Why?"
"Because I need them."
Ava stared at her.
"Just trust me," Mia said.
Ava shook her head. But she walked back to her room. Grabbed the socks from the hamper. They were gross. Sweaty. Stained.
She handed them to Mia.
Mia took them. Walked back to Marcus. Held them up.
"Open."
Marcus's eyes went wide.
"Please—"
"I said open."
He opened his mouth.
Mia stuffed the socks in. Wadded them up until they filled his cheeks. Marcus gagged. Whimpered.
"You like that, don't you?" Mia said. "You like the taste of her sweat. Her feet. Her effort."
Marcus moaned.
"I thought so."
She turned back to Ava.
"Now come on," she said. "Let's find you something to wear."
They left Marcus behind. His whimpers followed them down the hallway.
The hallway smelled like Mia's candles—sandalwood and something sharp underneath, like ozone before a storm. Ava's bare feet stuck to the hardwood with each step. Her robe had come loose, the silk lapels gaping open to reveal the black cotton of her underwear.
Mia didn't notice. Or didn't care.
She pushed open Ava's door and stopped dead.
"Jesus Christ."
"What?"
"This." Mia gestured at the bed. "This is what you've been working with?"
The duvet was buried under a landslide of fabric. Shirts hung off the edges like deflated sails. A pair of jeans dangled from the desk chair, one leg inside out. A single sock—not a pair, just one—sat on the pillow like a threat.
"It's not that bad."
"Ava." Mia turned. "It looks like a TJ Maxx exploded in here."
"Okay, it's that bad."
Mia waded into the mess. She picked up a cardigan. Examined it. Tossed it over her shoulder without looking.
"This is moldy," she said.
"It's vintage."
"It's moldy." Mia held up another shirt. "And this? What is this?"
"Workout top."
"For a date?"
"It's comfortable."
"Comfortable." Mia said the word like it was a slur. She dropped the top and turned in a slow circle, hands on hips. "Okay. New plan. We're starting from scratch."
"From scratch?"
"From scratch." Mia pointed at the bed. "Everything goes. We're building from the ground up."
Ava opened her mouth to argue. Closed it. Mia was already sweeping armfuls of clothes onto the floor.
"Fine," Ava said.
The floor became a graveyard of bad decisions.
Mia worked fast. She held things up to the light. Rejected most of them. A few she set aside in a small, sacred pile on the corner of the desk.
"This one," she said, holding up a button-down.Blue. Oxford cloth. Simple.
"Too formal?"
"Depends on the shoes." Mia tossed it onto the pile. "Next."
She pulled a plain white t-shirt from the wreckage. Fingered the cotton. Nodded.
"And this."
"That's just a t-shirt."
"That's a t-shirt that fits you." Mia held it up to Ava's chest. "Shows off your shoulders. Keeps it simple. We can dress it up with jewelry."
"I don't have jewelry."
Mia blinked at her.
"Right," she said. "We'll fix that."
She dove back into the pile. Emerged with a gray sweater—soft, slightly oversized, the kind of thing that looked effortless but cost more than Ava's rent. And a plaid skirt. Red and black. Short but not scandalous.
"And this," Mia said.
"The sweater's too big."
"The sweater's supposed to be too big. It's cozy. It says 'I'm not trying too hard.'" Mia held up the skirt. "And this says 'but I still look good.'"
"What about tights?"
"What about them?"
"Do I need them?"
Mia considered. "Yes. Black. Opaque. It's March."
Ava looked at the three outfits laid out on the desk. Button-down and jeans. T-shirt and jeans. Sweater and skirt with tights. They were all... fine. All reasonable. All terrifying.
"I can't decide."
"You don't have to."
"What?"
Mia grabbed the outfits. All three. Bundled them against her chest.
"Come on," she said. "I have an idea."
The hallway felt shorter this time. Or maybe Ava was just moving faster, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Mia pushed open her door.
Marcus was still there.
Still tied to the footboard. Still bent over, his ass in the air, his cheeks a deep, angry red. The gym socks were still stuffed in his mouth, but he'd worked them partially free—they hung from his lips like a dog's tongue, slick with spit.
He whined when he saw them.
Not a word. Just a sound. High and thin and desperate.
"Hey, boy," Mia said. "Miss me?"
Marcus nodded frantically. The socks bobbed.
Ava stayed by the door. Her hand found the frame. She needed something solid.
"Okay," Mia said, dropping the outfits on the bed. "Here's the deal. Ava needs to choose an outfit. And you're going to help."
Marcus blinked.
"You're the only boy here," Mia continued. "So you're going to play the part. You're going to look at each outfit and tell her what you think. Honestly."
Marcus made a muffled sound.
"What was that?"
He spat the socks out. They landed on the floor with a wet thwap.
"Honestly," he rasped. "I'll be honest."
"Good boy." Mia patted his head. "Okay, Ava. Outfit one. Go change in the bathroom."
The bathroom was cold. Fluorescent. Ava stripped out of her robe and pulled on the button-down and jeans. The shirt was crisp. The jeans were dark. She looked like she was going to a job interview.
She stared at herself in the mirror.
"What am I doing?" she whispered.
She didn't have an answer.
She walked back into the bedroom.
Marcus turned his head. His eyes tracked her from the door to the center of the room. He was still bent over, still bound, still red.
"Well?" Mia prompted.
Marcus frowned. Or tried to. His face was flushed, sweaty, the collar digging into his neck.
"You look nice."
"Nice?" Mia repeated.
"Nice, yeah. Professional. Like you're going to a meeting."
Ava's shoulders dropped.
"That's what I thought," she muttered.
"Okay," Mia said. "Next. Outfit two."
Ava changed in the bathroom again. T-shirt and jeans this time. Simple. Clean. She looked like she was going to the grocery store.
Marcus's assessment was equally forgettable.
"Casual. Comfortable. You look like a normal person."
"Normal," Ava said.
"Normal's not bad," Marcus offered.
"Normal's not what she's going for." Mia sighed. "Okay. Last one."
The bathroom mirror showed her the same face. The same scars peeking above her collar. The same nervous eyes.
Then she pulled on the sweater.
It was soft. Impossibly soft. The gray wool draped over her shoulders and fell past her hips. The neckline was wide, showing the delicate line of her collarbone, the curve of her neck.
The skirt came next. Plaid. Red and black. It hit mid-thigh, swishing against her legs.
The tights were the hardest. Black. Opaque. She rolled them up her legs one at a time, smoothing out the wrinkles, tucking the waistband under the skirt.
She looked at herself.
And for the first time in years, she didn't hate what she saw.
Marcus made a sound when she walked back in. A small, strangled thing.
"That's it," he said. "That's the one."
Mia raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
"The sweater. The skirt. The tights." He was breathing harder now. "It's—you look like a painting. Like something soft. Touchable."
"Touchable?"
"I mean—" He swallowed. "I'd want to touch. If I could. If I was allowed."
Mia looked at Ava. Ava looked at Mia.
"Okay," Mia said slowly. "That's actually helpful."
"I told you I'd be honest."
"Shut up." Mia walked to the bed. Sat down. Patted the mattress beside her. "Come here."
Ava sat.
The sheets were still warm. Mia's heat, Mia's sweat, Mia's sandalwood perfume. It felt intimate in a way that made Ava's skin prickle.
"Here's the thing," Mia said. "I promised Marcus a reward if he was helpful."
"You didn't promise anything."
"I'm promising now." Mia looked at the bound man. "You did good. You helped her choose."
Marcus's breath caught.
"So here's what's going to happen." Mia gestured at the floor. "You're going to crawl over here. You're going to lick her feet through those tights. And if you do a good job, I'll fuck you."
Marcus's whole body shuddered. The cage between his legs strained uselessly.
"Through the tights?"
"Through the tights." Mia's voice was silk. "She's not taking them off. You don't deserve her skin."
"Yes, Mistress."
"Crawl."
He crawled.
It was awkward—bound ankles, bound wrists, the collar digging in—but he managed. Slid himself off the footboard. Dragged his body across the floor.
He stopped at Ava's feet.
Ava didn't move. Her heart was racing. The tights felt stretched too tight across her legs, the fabric pulling at her skin.
"Look at her," Mia said. "Ask permission."
Marcus lifted his eyes. They were brown.Glassy. Desperate.
"May I?" he whispered.
Ava didn't answer.
"Ava," Mia prompted. "It's up to you."
She should say no. This was weird. This was insane. This was—
"Okay," she said.
Her voice surprised her. Steady. Almost curious.
Marcus didn't hesitate. He pressed his mouth to her foot.
The warmth hit first. Hot and wet through the nylon. His tongue dragged up her arch, slow and deliberate, tracing the curve of her ankle, the dip between her toes.
It was strange. Not quite intimate. Not quite clinical. Something in between.
She watched him work. The way his shoulders tensed. The way his breath came in short, sharp bursts. The way he trembled with every stroke of his tongue.
"Good?" Mia asked.
"I—" Ava paused. "I don't hate it."
Marcus moaned. The sound vibrated against her foot.
"He likes that," Mia said. "He likes being appreciated."
She stood up. Moved to the nightstand. Opened a drawer.
The harness came out first. Leather. Black. Well-worn. Then the dildo. Purple. Realistic. Bigger than anything Ava had seen outside of a porn video.
Marcus looked up. His eyes went wide.
"Please," he whispered.
"Please what?"
"Please let me—I need—"
"You need to keep licking." Mia strapped in. Adjusted the harness. Let the dildo bob against her pelvis. "You haven't finished your reward yet."
Marcus returned to Ava's feet.
The tongue moved faster now. More desperate. He dragged his mouth up her left foot and down her right, alternating, sloppy with spit. The tights were soaked in patches.
Ava closed her eyes.
The whole situation was absurd. Her roommate, wearing nothing but black lace and a strap-on, standing over a bound boy who was drooling on her feet. It was the kind of thing that happened in other people's lives. Other people's bedrooms.
But there was something else. Something she hadn't expected.
The power.
It pooled in her belly. Hot. Heavy. The way Marcus looked at her—like she was the center of his world, like he'd do anything she said. She'd never felt that before. Never.
The scars on her back didn't itch. The memories didn't claw. She was here. Now. In control.
"Marcus," she said.
He looked up. Panting.
"Yes?"
"That's enough."
He stopped. Waited.
Mia chuckled. "Look at you. Bossing him around."
"It just—it felt right."
"It is right." Mia stepped closer. "Now scoot over. I want the bed."
Ava moved to the headboard, pulling her knees up to her chest. Mia gestured at Marcus.
"On the bed. Ass up. Face down."
Marcus scrambled into position. He was already shaking. Already moaning. The plug caught the lamplight as his ass went up.
Mia spread his cheeks. Pressed the dildo against him. Teased.
"Ready?"
"Yes. God, yes. Please."
She pushed in.
Marcus screamed.
Not pain. Not quite. Something louder. Something deeper.
Mia didn't stop. She drove in to the base, held, pulled back, drove in again. Slow at first. Rhythmic. Then faster.
Ava watched.
The muscles in Marcus's back rippled. Sweat dripped from his hair. The cage between his legs glinted with pre-cum, useless and ignored.
"Worship her," Mia ordered. "Don't stop."
Marcus reached for Ava's foot. Pulled it to his mouth. Licked.
Ava let him.
The tights were ruined now. Stretched and wet and clinging to her skin. But she didn't care. She leaned back against the headboard and watched her roommate fuck the boy who was drooling on her feet, and the power swirled in her chest like a rising tide.
"Faster," she said.
Mia's eyes cut to her.
"What?"
"Faster." Ava's voice was steady. "He can take it."
Mia smiled. Sharp.Cold. Beautiful.
"You heard her," she said.
And she drove in harder.
Marcus wailed. His hips bucked. The bed rattled. The leash swung from his collar, slapping against his chest with every thrust.
Ava pressed her foot against his mouth. Not hard. Just enough to make her point.
"Don't stop," she said.
He didn't.
Ava touched herself through the tights. Just a graze. Just a pressure. It was electric—the heat, the power, the slickness of his tongue through the ruined nylon.
She was getting off on this. And she wasn't embarrassed.
She should be. This was strange. This was wrong.
But it didn't feel wrong. It felt like something she'd been missing. Something that had been taken from her along with everything else.
Mia noticed.
"You like it," she said.
"So?"
"So nothing." Mia's hips snapped forward. "I'm just glad."
Marcus convulsed. A dry orgasm, she guessed, his whole body seizing around Mia's strap-on, the caged cock twitching uselessly. He moaned like he was dying.
"Good boy," Mia said. "Good, good boy."
He collapsed. Face in the sheets. Ass still up. Whimpering.
Mia pulled out. Unstrapped the harness. Tossed it aside.
"Okay," she said, breathless. "That was fun."
Ava stood up. Her legs were shaky. Her tights were destroyed.
"I have to get ready," she said.
"Right." Mia checked her phone. "It's six-thirty. He'll be here in half an hour."
"I need to change."
"I'll handle it." Mia gestured at Marcus's prone body. "He needs aftercare anyway."
"You're just going to leave him?"
"He'll be fine. He likes being ignored."
Ava shook her head. But she walked toward the door.
"Ava."
She stopped.
"You looked good up there," Mia said. "With your foot in his mouth. You looked powerful."
"It felt good."
"Good. Hold onto that." Mia smiled. Soft this time. "Now go. Jake's going to lose his mind when he sees you."
Ava walked back to her room. Her socks were gone—still stuffed wherever Marcus had dropped them—but she had another pair somewhere. Clean ones. Warm ones.
She pulled the sweater back on. Fixed the skirt. Replaced the tights.
In the mirror, she looked like someone else.
Someone who could do this. Who could sit through dinner and hold a conversation and not flinch when a server dropped a plate.
She grabbed her phone.
No new messages.
She typed one.
Something crazy just happened.
Three dots appeared. Then a response.
Tell me everything.
She smiled.
Not yet. But tonight.Hopefully.
She hit send. Set the phone down.
Thirty minutes.