Chapter 5: The Waxing
The chaise had left a permanent ache in Gina’s lower back, a stiff counterpoint to the strange, hollow emptiness in her core. She stood in the bathroom at seven o’clock sharp, as instructed. The peeling floral walls seemed to curl inwards, watching. The air was thick with the scent of melting wax and lavender oil, steam from the small portable wax warmer fogging the mirror.
Fiona stood beside it, her face blurred in the glass. She dipped a wooden spatula into the pot, swirling it, testing the consistency. The sound was gluey, thick.
“Strip and sit on the edge of the tub,” Fiona said, without turning. “Legs spread. Arms behind you, grip the rim.”
Gina’s hands went to the tie of the thin robe she’d been wearing. It was Fiona’s, silk again, but a cheaper one. A practical one for mess. She let it fall. The morning air was cool on her skin. She sat on the porcelain lip of the old tub, the cold biting into her thighs. She leaned back, her hands finding the slick rim, gripping until her knuckles whitened. The position forced her pelvis forward, exposed her completely.
Fiona finally turned. Her grey eyes were clinical. She surveyed Gina’s nakedness, the thatch of dark hair at the junction of her thighs. “Baseline,” she murmured, almost to herself. She brought the spatula over, laden with a glossy amber dollop. “This will hurt. The first time always does. Breathe out as I apply it. Don’t flinch.”
The wax was hotter than Gina expected. A searing, wet slap against her most sensitive skin. She gasped, her body trying to arch away, but her grip on the tub held her in place. The pain was immediate, a bright, shocking bloom. Fiona worked quickly, spreading the wax in efficient, overlapping strokes, coating the mound, skirting the outer lips, laying a thick, hot blanket over her pubic bone.
“Think of the pain as an erasure,” Fiona said softly, her focus on her work. “Every strip will pull away the old you. The unkempt you. The wife who hid in sweatpants and forgot what her own skin felt like.” She laid a strip of muslin cloth over the wax, pressing it down firmly, smoothing it with her palm. Gina whimpered at the pressure.
Fiona’s fingers traced the edge of the cloth, a mock tenderness. “In a few weeks, this will just be smooth, blank skin. A playground. When Adam wants to fuck you on the kitchen counter while I make coffee, there’ll be no barrier. Just his cock sliding into his slick, hairless slut. When I want to taste you on the living room floor in the afternoon sun, there’ll be nothing in my way. No hiding.”
She took a firm hold of the cloth’s edge. “Breathe out.”
She ripped.
It wasn’t a sound. It was a sensation that tore straight through Gina’s nervous system—a lightning bolt of searing, deep-pore agony. A raw, burning sting followed instantly. Tears sprang to her eyes, a sharp cry ripped from her throat. The strip came away, thick with coarse, dark hairs. Fiona held it up, examining it like a curious specimen, before dropping it into a wastebin.
Gina panted, the aftershock vibrating through her. The exposed skin felt bizarre—hyper-alive, tingling, burning, and cold all at once.
Fiona was already applying the next patch, lower, to the left of her labia. The heat was somehow more intense on the newly traumatized skin. “You’ll get used to it,” Fiona continued, her voice a calm, narrative drone against Gina’s hitched breathing. “Soon, you’ll associate this burn with the feeling of being chosen. Of being prepared. You’ll wake up on waxing days already wet, knowing you’re about to be made clean for us.”
Another press of cloth. Another rip. This one yanked a new, higher-pitched sob from Gina’s chest. The pain was clarifying, brutal. It forced every bit of her consciousness into the present moment, into the humiliating position on the bathtub, into Fiona’s absolute control.
“Now, the fantasy,” Fiona said, her tone shifting, becoming conspiratorial, vivid. She dipped the spatula again. “Picture a Tuesday. Nothing special. You’ve done your stretches. Your body is toned, lean. You’re wearing a little silk camisole, no panties. You’re kneeling by the sofa, painting my toes. Adam comes home early.”
She applied wax to the tender skin of Gina’s inner thigh, so close to her core. Gina flinched violently.
“Hold still,” Fiona chided, pressing the cloth. “He doesn’t even say hello. He just sees you there, on your knees, the curve of your ass, that perfect, smooth cunt on display. He unzips his pants. His cock is already hard. He doesn’t guide it. He just pushes the head against your lips, and because you’re always ready, always slick, it just… slides in.”
The rip was a punctuation mark. Gina saw stars.
“You keep painting my toes,” Fiona whispered, leaning close now, her breath on Gina’s tear-stained cheek. “You don’t stop your work. You take his fucking, your hips moving just enough to meet his thrusts, your hands moving the brush. I’m watching from above, sipping wine. You’re our gorgeous, living furniture. A fuck-toy with a purpose. And when he comes inside you, you feel it flood you, and you whisper ‘thank you’ without missing a stroke .”
The fantasy was obscene. It was dehumanizing. Yet, a treacherous pulse of heat throbbed between Gina’s legs, a disgusting echo beneath the raw sting. The shame of that response was a worse pain than the wax.
Fiona moved between her legs, applying the wax directly to her labia. The intimacy was profound, violation as routine maintenance.
“Then there are the parties,” Fiona mused, her touch methodical. “Small gatherings. Our friends. People who… understand our dynamic. You’ll serve drinks. In a beautiful dress, backless, so low it barely covers your ass. No underwear, ever. Everyone will know. They’ll see the collar. They’ll watch how you move, how you kneel to offer a canapé. And later, when the whiskey has flowed… maybe Adam will have you on the pool table. Or I’ll feed you grapes from the floor while someone else fucks you. You’ll be the evening’s entertainment. Our beautiful, shared secret weapon.”
The final rip was the worst. A sharp, shattering yank that left Gina gulping for air, her body sheened with sweat and tears. Fiona stepped back, surveying her work. Gina’s pubic area was now a landscape of angry red skin, utterly bare, swollen and vulnerable. It looked younger. Girlish. And utterly exposed.
Gina sits there, panting, the sting radiating outward from her bare mound in slow, pulsing rings. She tried to close her legs, but Fiona's hand was already there, pressing her knee aside.
"Not done."
Gina's eyes flew open. "What?"
Fiona had already turned, lifting the warmer. The spatula clinked against the rim, a small, deliberate sound. "The lips are cleaned. The surface is prepared. But there's a seam you haven't considered. A place hair grows that you've never thought about because no one's ever required you to."
She set the spatula down, waited. The silence stretched.
"Turn around," Fiona said. "Hands and knees. Press your chest down. And spread yourself for me."
Gina's throat tightened. "No. That's — no one asked for that."
"They're not asking. I'm telling."
Gina stared at her, a flare of the old defiance flickering in her chest — the woman who'd argued with contractors, who'd negotiated her own salary, who'd had opinions. "I didn't agree to this. Not this part."
Fiona's grey eyes were patient, almost amused. "You agreed to the collar. You agreed to the waxing, the diet, the barre. Every small yes has been a door, and each door has opened onto this one. The only question is whether you walk through it yourself, or whether I carry you."
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to something almost kind. "One is easier on your dignity. The other isn't."
Gina's breath came shallow. She could feel the cool air on her bare skin, the ache between her legs, the weight of the collar. Somewhere in the house, she heard Adam's footsteps overhead, oblivious.
Slowly, reluctantly, she moved.
She turned, lowering her chest to the floor, her hips rising. She reached back with both hands, fingers finding the cleft, hesitating. Her cheeks burned with shame.
"Wider," Fiona said.
Gina's fingers trembled as she pulled herself apart, feeling the cold air hit a place that had never known sunlight, never known another's gaze.
The wax was warm as it touched her, a shocking heat against the cold air of the room. Gina flinched, her fingers still stretched wide, holding herself open. She could feel Fiona's careful, deliberate strokes — painting the rim, pressing the liquid into every crease and fold, working her way inward in slow circles.
"Hold still," Fiona murmured. "You're clenching. That only makes it worse."
Gina tried to obey, but her body wouldn't listen. Every brush of the spatula made her flinch, made her think of yesterday — Fiona's slick fingers pressing against her from behind while Adam watched her, the burning intrusion, the way she'd screamed around his cock. This was that same place, that same violation, but somehow more intimate. More exposed.
Fiona paused, reading her tension. "What are you remembering?"
Gina's face burned against the tile. "Nothing."
"Liar." Fiona's voice was soft, almost amused. She set the spatula down, and Gina felt a cool, gloved finger trace the seam of her ass, pressing gently against the waxed rim. "Yesterday, I put a finger here. You cried. You came anyway. Your body learned something that day — that this hole is not a boundary. It's a door I can open whenever I choose."
The finger pressed deeper, and the waxed skin pulled, a raw, oversensitive stretch that made Gina gasp. The sensation was entirely different from yesterday — the hair was gone, the skin beneath newly bared and tender. Every nerve was exposed, hyperaware. She could feel the texture of Fiona's glove, the subtle ridges of her fingerprint through the latex. It was like being touched with a naked, electric nerve.
"Test if it's clean," Fiona said, withdrawing her finger. She picked up the spatula again. "Lift your hips higher. I need to see the whole field."
Gina obeyed, her cheeks spread, her body trembling. She felt the warm wax resume, painting the tender skin around her anus with slow, meticulous strokes. It was worse than the front — the flesh there was softer, less accustomed to exposure, and the heat seemed to sink deeper, throbbing in time with her pulse.
"Good," Fiona said, her voice flat and satisfied. "Now we let it cool. And then we rip away the last hair you have that belongs to you."
Gina closed her eyes, feeling the wax harden, feeling the weight of what was happening settle into her bones. Yesterday, the violation had been a shock. Today it was a promise — and her body, traitor that it was, had already started to ache in anticipation.
“Stand up. Look in the mirror.”
Gina got up. She stood on trembling legs and shuffled to the fogged mirror. Fiona wiped a clear swath with her forearm.
The woman reflected was a stranger. Flushed face, puffy eyes, a permanent-looking diamond collar. And below, a sheer, hairless mound that seemed to draw every ounce of light in the dim room. It was humiliating. It was also a transformation. The first physical evidence of the new rules.
“See?” Fiona said, standing behind her, her chin on Gina’s shoulder. “Baseline is gone. The work has begun.” Her hands came around, one cupping a breast, the other sliding down over the quivering, waxed skin of her belly, lower. “This belongs to us now. Every inch. And you’ll learn to love it. To crave the attention it brings.”
Her fingers found Gina’s slit, prodding the swollen, sensitive lips. Gina’s hips twitched forward, a helpless reflex. She was wet. The pain and the degrading words had funneled straight into a deep, shameful arousal.
“You’re already loving it,” Fiona breathed into her ear, her fingers sliding inside, finding her slick and clenched. “Your body knows the truth. It wants to be an object. A beautiful, used thing.” She fingered her with short, rough strokes, not to bring pleasure, but to demonstrate ownership. “Tonight, Adam will inspect my work. He’ll feel how smooth you are. And he’ll use this freshly waxed, empty cunt because it’s his right. And you’ll thank him for it.”
Gina’s head fell back against Fiona’s shoulder. She was crying again, but the sobs were mixed with soft, ragged moans as Fiona’s fingers worked her crude, deep. The mirror fogged over again, obscuring her reflection, leaving only the blur of two shapes merging into one in the damp, lavender-scented heat.
Fiona turned her, pushing her back against the cold tiles next to the mirror. "Stay." She left the bathroom. Gina heard a murmur in the hallway. A moment later, Adam stood in the doorway. He'd been listening. His eyes were dark, hungry.
Fiona returned behind him, stepping past him into the room. She didn't speak. She knelt beside Gina, took hold of her ankles, and pushed. Gina's legs folded back, her knees driven up toward her shoulders, her hips tilted off the floor. The position was sudden, brutal, her freshly waxed mound and ass presented directly into the light, the raw skin stretched taut.
"Hold her," Adam said, his voice gravel.
Fiona pressed Gina's knees against her own chest, pinning her in place. Gina gasped, her hands scrabbling at the tile, her vision swimming. She was folded nearly in half, helpless, open.
Adam unbuckled his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a hiss. He stepped close, the head of his cock nudging against her inner thigh. He reached down, his fingers tracing the smooth skin of her mound. It was tender; she winced. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over the bare skin, then lower, parting her, feeling the wetness that Fiona had coaxed forth.
"Oh fuck," he breathed, his voice thick. "You are gonna come from this. You are gonna come from being turned into my bare and smooth canvas. After all these years."
He didn't enter her. Instead, he stroked himself over her, the first hot splash landing across her freshly waxed mound, painting the tender skin in thick, milky ribbons. He dragged the head along her seam, down over her asshole, coating every inch of the work Fiona had done.
Gina gasped at the shock — the external claim, the glossing of her surface. She felt it drip down her inner thighs, cool and sticky. Adam pressed his palm flat against her, grinding the come into her skin like a man working polish into wood. He nodded once, a craftsman examining a finished coat.
"There," he said. "Now you look like mine."
Fiona's hands stayed locked on Gina's knees, holding her open. "Don't wipe it off," she said softly. "I want the smell on you a while longer."
Fiona's grey eyes traveled the length of her — the red, hairless flesh, the sticky white ribbons catching the light, the trembling thighs that hadn't been given a single release.
"Do you feel it drying?" Fiona asked softly. "Tightening on your skin. Becoming part of you."
Gina's breath hitched. She could feel it — the coolness fading, the come turning tacky, pulling at the raw skin with every small movement.
Fiona reached out, not to wipe, but to press two fingers flat against Gina's mound, spreading the drying fluid thinner, an artist smoothing the final coat. "That's my work under his. The wax made it smooth. The sealer made it his. And you —" her fingers withdrew, leaving the skin glistening — "you're the surface they both required."
She sat back on her heels, looking down at the folded older woman, the diamond collar bright against her flushed skin, her legs splayed, her body a finished piece still steaming.
"Don't move," Fiona said. "Let it dry. I want to see you like this for a while."
She didn't leave. She just watched — patient, appraising, a collector admiring a piece she'd commissioned. Gina lay pinned by that gaze, the come hardening on her skin, her cunt aching with a hunger that no one intended to feed.
“The diet starts at lunch,” Fiona said softly, as if discussing the weather. “Grilled chicken, steamed broccoli. No salt. Your ballet barre arrives this afternoon. We’ll start with first position before dinner.”
Gina looked up, Fiona still above her. Still holding her ankles. The baseline was gone. Erased. All that remained was the angry, clean slate of her skin, and the heavy, permanent weight of the locked collar. And a terrible, creeping certainty that the fantasy Fiona had painted wasn’t a threat.
It was a promise.
The smell of sex and lavender wax hung in the bathroom air, a cloying perfume Gina now wore on her skin. She dressed in the silence Fiona mandated, pulling on the simple cotton underwear and leggings laid out for her, each movement making the raw skin of her pubis burn.
The ballet barre arrived at three, two men in grimy t-shirts hauling the mirrored brass fixture into the living room. “Where you want it, lady?” one asked Fiona, who stood directing them with a pointed finger. “There. Centered on that wall. The light must fall from the north-facing window.” Gina watched from the kitchen archway, her body a tenderized ache.
Lunch had been precisely six ounces of grilled chicken, four florets of cold broccoli, and a glass of tepid water. Fiona had watched her chew each bite, timing her. Now, as the installers left, Fiona ran a hand along the smooth barre. “It’s not for art. It’s for architecture. We are redesigning your body’s lines.” Her grey eyes found Gina’s. “Come here.”
Gina approached, the hardwood floor cool under her bare feet. The mirror reflected a woman who seemed thinner already, paler, the diamond collar absurdly bright against her dull skin. “First position,” Fiona said, her voice losing its softness, becoming instructional. “Heels together, toes turned out. Not like that. Your rotation comes from the hip, not the knee. Don’t force it.”
Fiona’s hands were impersonal, corrective. She slapped Gina’s inner thigh. “Engage. This isn’t a casual stretch. It’s a restructuring.” She pushed Gina’s pelvis forward, then pulled her shoulders back until a strain sang through her spine. “Hold it. You’ll hold it for twenty minutes. While you hold it, you will think of nothing but the empty space between your thighs. The access. The availability that posture creates.”
The burn in Gina’s muscles was a different creature from the wax’s violence—a slow, deep ache that built tremors in her legs. Sweat beaded at her hairline. Fiona circled her, a critic assessing stone. “Adam likes a certain line. A long, exposed neck. A presented cunt. This posture gives him both.”
At dinner, a repeat of lunch but with asparagus, Adam watched her cut her food. His eyes kept dropping to the collar, then to the V of her shirt. “Skin looks sore,” he said, taking a swallow of beer.
“It’s tender,” Gina whispered.
“Good,” he said, as if she’d reported a successful stock dividend. He finished his steak, wiped his mouth. “Fiona says the barre’s up.
Show me after dinner.”
The holding had stiffened her. Every step back to the living room was a small agony. Fiona was already there, leaning against the barre. “First position again. For your husband.”
Gina assumed the stance, her muscles screaming in protest. Adam sat in the armchair, swirling a glass of amber whiskey. He looked at her, not as a wife, but as a problematic fixture being retrofitted. “Turn around. Let’s see the back.”
Fiona circled her, a critic assessing stone. "Hips forward. No — from the pelvis, not the waist. You're compensating."
Adam settled into the armchair, whiskey glass in hand, watching. He didn't look at her face. He was reading her body like a spec sheet. "High heels tomorrow. They'll force the arch, bring the calf muscle up, shorten the visual line."
"Already ordered," Fiona said. "Three-inch. I'm debating between a kitten heel and a stiletto. The kitten is more practical for the posture work. But the stiletto —" she tilted her head, considering — "the stiletto changes the geometry of everything. The cant of the pelvis, the presentation of the ass."
"Stiletto," Adam said immediately. "I want to see her struggle in them."
"You want pornographic. I want architectural." Fiona's voice was patient, correcting. "She'll get the stiletto later, once the muscles have learned to hold. For now, the kitten heel teaches discipline without distraction. You can't build a tower on a trembling foundation."
Gina's legs shook. The conversation washed over her like weather. They discussed her as if she were a renovation — load-bearing walls, sightlines, resale value. And worse, far worse, she felt a flush of heat between her thighs. Her cunt, hairless and raw and painted with the drying remnants of Adam's claim, clenched at being so thoroughly unseen.
"Which nail color," Adam mused. "I'm thinking something red. Cliché but effective."
"Rose pink," Fiona countered. "Barely there. A whisper. It says I'm not performing — I'm natural. The red screams effort. The pink lets everyone wonder what's actually underneath."
Gina's own hands, gripping the smooth wood of the barre, were bare. She remembered painting them months ago — a deep burgundy for a dinner party. She'd felt pretty. Now she wondered if she'd ever choose a color for herself again, or if it would simply be selected, applied, maintained. The thought made her stomach flutter.
"And the gag," Adam said, swirling his whiskey. "During training. I want her drooling on herself. Just standing there, mouth stretched open, spit decorating her tits. It's a good look."
Fiona hummed in agreement, moving behind Gina, pressing her pelvis forward with a firm hand. "Eventually. The gag is a reward, not a punishment. She has to earn the right to be that helpless. First she has to learn to hold still."
The words settled into Gina's skin like water into parched earth. She was a static object. A plan in progress. And beneath the shame, coiling low and hot in her belly, was a terrible thrill. They were designing her future, and she was alive in the process, being remade by their attention, their indifference, their care.
She wanted to hate it. She wanted to hate them. Instead, she held the position, and waited to be told what came next.
He took his glass and walked upstairs, his footsteps heavy on the treads. Gina remained in the position trembling. Fiona sat on the sofa.
The ballet barre’s mirror reflected the empty room behind them. “Sit here,” Fiona said, patting the space on the floor between her knees. Gina knelt, then sank onto her heels, the position forcing her to look up. Fiona’s fingers, cool and deliberate, traced the line of the diamond collar. “He sees the utility. The access. That’s good. But he’s thinking like a man. A narrow calculus.”
Fiona’s thumb pressed into the hollow of Gina’s throat, just above the collar’s lock. “I’m thinking about sovereignty. The total governance of a living thing.” She leaned forward, her grey eyes holding Gina’s. “The wax, the barre, the diet—they’re not for him. They’re for me. They’re my tools to remake you into something that needs my hand to function. He gets to enjoy the product. I own the factory.”
She stood abruptly, pulling Gina up by the collar. “Come on. It’s my turn.”
She led her not to the bedroom, but back to the master bathroom. The wax warmer was still there, the lavender scent now mingled with the lingering odor of sex. Fiona pointed to the closed toilet lid. “Sit. And watch.”
From the linen cupboard, Fiona withdrew a small black kit. She unzipped it on the counter, revealing neat rolls of leather straps, gleaming metal clips, and a long, tapered silicone object that was unmistakable in its purpose. Gina felt a cold sweat break out on her back. This was different. This was a new lexicon.
Fiona didn’t speak. She took Gina’s right wrist, looping a soft leather cuff around it, buckling it snug. She attached a clip to a D-ring. Then the left wrist. She pulled Gina’s hands behind her back, the motion practiced and efficient, and connected the cuffs with a short, sturdy strap. The restraint was immediate, profound. It rendered her upper body useless, shoulders pulling back, breasts thrust forward.
“Stand.” Fiona guided her up. She produced another strap, this one with a central clip. She knelt, buckling a cuff around Gina’s right ankle, then the left, leaving about eighteen inches of leash between them. “Walk.” Gina shuffled, the ankle strap forcing a short, restrained step. A hobble. Every movement ahora communicated restriction.
Fiona guided her to the full-length mirror on the back of the door. “Look. See what you are right now.” Gina saw a bound thing, a creature trussed and presented. Her own hazel eyes were huge with a fear that was rapidly mutating into a dizzying, terrifying submission. The diamond collar was no longer jewelry; it was the central tether point for a system of control.
“This is the architecture,” Fiona said, standing behind her, her hands on Gina’s pinned shoulders. “The posture is enforced. The access is guaranteed.” Her hands slid down, over Gina’s ribs, circling her waist, then up to cup her breasts. She squeezed, not gently. Her fingers found Gina’s nipples, pinching and rolling them until they were hard, pained points.
“He fucks the convenience. I,” Fiona whispered, biting Gina’s earlobe, “fuck the helplessness.”
She turned Gina away from the mirror and pushed her forward, out of the bathroom, across the hall. Adam’s office door was ajar. Light spilled from it. Fiona shoved it open with her foot.
Adam was at his desk, papers before him, his back to the door. He must have heard the shuffle, the hobbled step. He turned in his chair. His eyes widened, then darkened, at the sight of Gina bound in the doorway, Fiona a shadow behind her.
“Busy?” Fiona asked, her tone conversational, as if she were asking about the weather.
Adam leaned back. A slow smile spread across his face. He shook his head. “No. Not at all.”
“Good. I’m conducting a stress test. On your property.” Fiona propelled Gina into the room. The carpet was soft under her bare, hobbled feet. “On her knees. Facing him.”
Gina knelt, her movement awkward, inelegant with her wrists bound behind her. She was positioned directly before Adam’s chair, her face level with his belt buckle. She could smell his earlier whiskey, his cologne, the faint scent of her own body on him.
Fiona stood to the side, a director. “She’s going to suck your cock. But she’s not going to use her hands. Because she doesn’t have them. And you’re not going to help her. You’re going to sit there and read your… whatever that is. And let her work for it.”
Adam’s breath hitched. He said nothing, just gave a curt, eager nod. He unbuttoned his jeans, pulled himself out. He was already half-hard, thickening quickly under Gina’s gaze. He picked up a sheet of paper, pretended to look at it. His knuckles were white where he gripped it.
“Go on,” Fiona said to Gina. “Do your job.”
Gina leaned forward. The balance was precarious. She nuzzled him, her mouth finding his shaft, using her lips and tongue to coax him to full rigidity. It was clumsy, degrading work. She lapped at the head, took him into her mouth, but without her hands to guide him or steady herself, she couldn’t control the depth. He slid too far, hitting the back of her throat. She gagged, pulling back, saliva stringing from her lips.
“Don’t stop,” Fiona said, her voice cool. “No one cares if you gag. Swallow it.”
Gina tried again, bobbing her head, trying to find a rhythm. Drool dripped from her chin onto his trousers. She serviced him with a messy, desperate urgency, the only sounds her choked breaths and wet, sloppy suction. Adam’s paper trembled. He dropped it, his hands gripping the arms of his chair instead, his hips giving tiny, involuntary thrusts.
“See how her mind simplifies?” Fiona mused, walking a slow circle around them. “All her focus is on the mechanics. Take in the cock. Don’t choke. Pleasure the man. There’s no room for vanity, for thought, for anything but function. This is purity.”
Fiona stopped behind Gina. Her hands slid over Gina’s ass, spreading her cheeks. The cool air of the room hit her exposed, waxed skin. Fiona spat. Gina felt the wetness against her hole, a shocking chill. “He’s going to come in your mouth. You’ll swallow every drop. And while you’re doing that, I’m going to fuck this other hole. The one we’ve been preparing. Because it’s mine.”
Gina heard the click of a cap, the slick squirt of lubricant. Her whole body clenched in dread. Adam groaned above her, his cock pulsing in her mouth. He was close.
Fiona’s finger, slick and insistent, pressed against Gina’s anus. It was a relentless, gradual pressure, a burning, impossible stretch. Gina screamed around Adam’s cock, the sound muffled, vibrating through him. That seemed to undo him completely.
“Fuck, yes,” Adam snarled, his hips bucking up. He erupted into her mouth, hot, salty jets flooding her tongue and throat. She swallowed convulsively, gagging but obeying, taking every pulse as Fiona’s finger worked deeper, knuckle by knuckle, into the clenching, burning tightness.
Just as Adam finished, Fiona withdrew her finger. There was a pressure, then the blunt, wider intrusion of the silicone toy’s tip. It was relentless, a slow, catastrophic invasion that felt like it was tearing her in two. Gina sobbed, drooling Adam’s spend down her chin, her body trying to recoil but held in place by Fiona’s other hand on her hip.
“This is my turn,” Fiona breathed, her voice thick with a dark concentration. She pushed until the entire length was buried, a profound, awful fullness that stole the air from Gina’s lungs. Fiona began to move it, short, sharp strokes that scraped a wire of pain and shocking, forbidden stimulation directly through her core. “This is what control feels like. From the inside.”
Gina’s world dissolved into sensation: the taste of Adam, the brutal stretch of Fiona, the leather biting her wrists, the hobble straining her ankles. A monstrous, unwanted climax began to coil in her belly, fed by the sheer overload of violation. She was crying, shaking, impaled from both ends.
Fiona fucked her with the toy, hard and precise, until Gina’s screams dissolved into broken whimpers. Then, with a final, deep thrust that pressed against something that made Gina’s vision whiten, Fiona stopped. She held there. “Mine,” she whispered, a declaration into the sweat-damp skin of Gina’s back.
She slowly withdrew the toy. The emptiness was a new kind of shock. Gina slumped forward, her forehead resting against Adam’s knee, spent, trembling, utterly destroyed.
Fiona stepped back, setting the toy on the desk with a soft, final click. She unbuckled the ankle hobble, then the wrist cuffs. The blood rushed back to Gina’s fingers in a stab of pins and needles. “Stand up.”
Gina couldn’t. Her muscles were liquid. Adam, softening and tucking himself away, reached down and hauled her up by her elbow. She swayed, her legs useless.
Her knees buckled. She didn't hit the carpet — Adam caught her, one arm hooked under her armpits, hauling her upright like a sack of grain. He held her there, her weight sagging against him, and she felt the slow, deliberate way his thumb traced the line of her jaw, the collar's edge. Not tender. Inspecting. Checking that the prize was still intact.
"There," he said, and let go.
Gina swayed, steadied herself on the edge of his desk. Her fingers left prints on the leather blotter — she was sweating through every pore. The toy sat beside the keyboard, gleaming under the desk lamp, still slick. She couldn't stop looking at it.
You came. The thought arrived with a perverse, metallic clarity. He came in your mouth and she came in your ass and you came somewhere in between — you don't even know when. That's the part that undoes her. The point at which her body stopped suffering and started performing.
She tasted it still — the salt of Adam, the lingering lavender of Fiona's fingers. Her thighs were wet. Not from the wax, not from the drying come. From her own want, and she hates herself for how efficiently she can name it.
"Walk," Fiona said.
Gina took a step. Her legs trembled, a wire strung too tight, but she did not fall. She walked past Adam, past the bookcase, into the hallway. Each step sent a phantom ache through her — the ghost of the toy, the tender burn of the wax, the deep bruise of muscle where the barre had demanded new architecture.
She stopped at the top of the stairs, her hand braced on the banister.
"I don't know if I can do the stairs," she whispered. A confession. A test — of herself, or of them, she wasn't sure.
Behind her, Fiona's voice was unhurried. "Then kneel. And crawl. The carpet's soft — it will forgive you. So will Adam."
Adam's footsteps approached. He stopped beside Fiona, looking down at Gina's bowed head. Neither of them spoke. The silence was worse than an order. It was a decision being made about her, in front of her, without her.
"Let her crawl," Adam said. "I'll watch from the top landing."
Gina's throat closed. The shame was a physical weight — but beneath it, coiling low and hot, a flush of something else. The thrill of being so thoroughly owned that even her exhaustion was a gift they could direct.
She got on her hands and knees. The carpet smelled of dust. The collar clinked against her throat with each movement.
She began to crawl.
Adam's footsteps retreated up the stairs, heavy and certain. The landing creaked under his weight, and then there was silence — the particular silence of being watched. Gina kept her eyes on the carpet, on the dust motes floating in the shaft of hallway light, on the grain of the wood at the staircase's edge. Her knees found each stair in turn. The collar swung against her collarbone with each movement, a metronome counting out her descent into something she could no longer name.
Halfway up, her arms gave out. She caught herself on her forearms, cheek against the carpet, panting. The ache in her thighs was a scream; the tender burn of the wax was a low, persistent fire. She heard Fiona's breath behind her, close and patient, not rushing her, not offering help.
"You're doing well," Fiona said, and the words were worse than any punishment — because they were kind, and true, and Gina felt herself preen under them.
She crawled the rest of the way. At the top, Adam stood silhouetted against the bedroom light, arms crossed. He didn't move to help her, didn't reach down. He just waited until her hands found the landing, until she was level with his shoes.
"Good girl," he said, and Gina felt something crack open inside her chest — a lock, a valve, a door she'd been guarding for years. She bowed her head to his feet.
Behind her, Fiona's hand found the back of her neck, the collar, the lock. A final, proprietary touch.
"Now," Fiona said, her voice soft as silk over steel. "Let's get you cleaned up. We can't have you carrying yesterday's shame into tomorrow's training."
Adam stepped back, and Gina crawled after him, led by the light, the collar warm against her throat.