Chapter 3: Alice's Playtime
The bathroom was small and white-tiled, the kind of clean that came from neglect rather than effort. A single toothbrush sat in a chipped ceramic holder. The mirror above the sink had a crack running through one corner, splintering Erin's reflection into fractured pieces.
Erin closed the door behind them and leaned against it, her arms crossing. The leash dangled from her hand, still wound twice around her knuckles.
"Go ahead," she said.
Carrie looked at the toilet, then back at Erin. "You're going to watch?"
"I'm going to make sure you don't do anything stupid." Erin's voice was calm, almost bored. "Like try to run. Or hurt yourself. Or figure out the lock on the window."
"I wasn't going to—"
"I know." Erin's lips curved, just barely. "But I don't know you yet. So I watch."
Carrie turned away, her face hot. She used the toilet as quickly as she could, hyperaware of Erin's eyes on her back, on her thighs, on the way her hands trembled when she reached for the toilet paper.
When she was done, she stood at the sink and washed her hands. The soap was unscented, utilitarian. She caught a glimpse of herself in the cracked mirror—short black hair sticking up at odd angles, dark circles under her eyes, the collar a stark black band against her pale throat.
She looked like someone else. Someone she didn't recognize.
"Done," she said.
Erin nodded and tugged the leash. "Come on. Alice's been waiting."
Carrie's stomach dropped. "Waiting for what?"
"You'll see."
They found Alice in the living room, bouncing on the balls of her feet like a boxer warming up. She'd changed into shorts and a tank top, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail that swished when she moved.
"Finally," Alice said. She grabbed the leash from Erin's hand and gave it a sharp tug that made Carrie stumble. "I've been planning this all morning."
"Planning what?" Carrie asked.
Alice grinned. "Puppy play."
She led Carrie through the kitchen, past the table where the bowl still sat on the floor, and out a sliding glass door onto a small concrete patio. The backyard was a patch of scrubby grass surrounded by a chain-link fence, the kind of yard that belonged to rental properties and college students who didn't care about landscaping.
A kiddie pool sat in the corner, half-filled with murky water. The plastic liner was cracked and peeling, and a few forgotten toys floated on the surface—a rubber duck missing an eye, a plastic shovel, something that might have been a frisbee before the sun bleached it white.
"Perfect, right?" Alice said. She unhooked the leash from Carrie's collar and tossed it onto a lawn chair. "Morgan said I could have you for the afternoon. She's watching from inside, though. Making sure I don't break you."
Carrie glanced at the kitchen window. Morgan stood behind the glass, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Behind her, Erin had settled at the table with a notebook open in front of her.
"Break me?" Carrie asked.
"Figure of speech." Alice walked to the kiddie pool and nudged it with her foot. The water sloshed against the sides. "Mostly."
She picked up a tennis ball from the ground and held it up. It was old and grimy, the yellow felt matted with dirt.
"You know how to play fetch?" Alice asked.
Carrie's face burned. "I'm not a dog."
"No," Alice agreed. "You're better. Dogs don't understand what's happening to them. You do." She tossed the ball across the yard. It bounced once, twice, and rolled to a stop near the fence. "Go get it."
Carrie didn't move.
Alice's smile didn't waver. If anything, it widened. "I said go get it."
"I don't—"
The hose was in Alice's hand before Carrie finished the sentence. She hadn't seen her pick it up, hadn't noticed the nozzle attachment until it was aimed at Carrie's chest.
The water hit like a fist.
Carrie gasped, her body convulsing as the cold slammed into her. The spray was relentless, hammering her face, her chest, her stomach. She stumbled backward, arms flying up to protect her head, but Alice followed her, laughing.
"This isn't—" Carrie choked on the water. "Stop—"
"Fetch," Alice said. "The. Ball."
She punctuated each word with a fresh spray. Carrie's teeth chattered. Her skin prickled with goosebumps. The water ran in rivulets down her legs, pooling around her feet.
She ran.
The grass was cold and wet beneath her bare feet. The tennis ball sat by the fence, mocking her. She scooped it up with her hand.
"No hands," Alice called. "Mouth."
Carrie's jaw tightened. She looked at the ball—the grime, the dirt, the faint smell of mildew rising from the wet felt. Then she looked at Alice, who had the hose raised and ready.
She bent down and picked up the ball with her teeth.
"Good girl!" Alice clapped. "Now bring it here."
Carrie walked back across the yard, the ball clamped between her teeth, water dripping from her chin. She stopped in front of Alice and dropped it at her feet.
"Was that so hard?" Alice picked up the ball and tossed it again. "Again."
They played fetch for ten minutes. Carrie fetched the ball. Carrie dropped it at Alice's feet. Alice threw it again. Each time, Carrie had to run through the wet grass, the cold water clinging to her skin, her breath coming in short gasps.
"Okay," Alice said finally. "Now the fun part."
She pointed to a patch of concrete near the patio steps. "Sit."
Carrie hesitated.
The hose came up.
She sat.
"Roll over."
Carrie stared at her.
"Roll. Over." Alice's voice was bright, teasing. "Come on. It's not complicated. You just—" She made a spinning motion with her finger. "Roll."
The concrete was rough against Carrie's back, scraping her shoulder blades as she turned. She kept her arms tight against her body, her knees bent, her face turned away from the hose.
"Good!" Alice crouched down beside her, the hose still in her hand. "See? You're a natural."
Carrie lay on the concrete, wet and shivering, staring up at the sky. It was pale blue, cloudless, the kind of sky that belonged to better days.
"Now," Alice said, "I want to try something else."
She stood and walked to the patio, where a coil of rope hung from a hook on the wall. She cut a length with a pocketknife she pulled from her shorts, then returned to Carrie.
"Hands," she said.
Carrie held out her hands. Alice tied them together—not tight enough to cut off circulation, but tight enough that Carrie couldn't pull them apart. Then she looped the rope around the patio railing, forcing Carrie's arms above her head.
"Comfortable?" Alice asked.
"No."
"Don't care." Alice stepped back and admired her work. "You know what I like about this? You can't cover yourself. Can't hide. Everything's right there for me to look at."
Carrie's face burned. She was still wet, still naked except for the collar, her body stretched out like a display. The position made her ribs stand out, made her small breasts flatten against her chest, made the curve of her hips seem sharper.
"You're pretty," Alice said. "In a scrawny kind of way."
She reached into her pocket and pulled out something small and soft—a feather duster, the kind you'd use on bookshelves. The feathers were dyed pink, fluffy and ridiculous.
"What are you—" Carrie started.
Alice dragged the duster across her stomach.
The sensation was electric. Light and teasing, barely there—but somehow worse than the hose. Carrie's muscles clenched. She tried to twist away, but the rope held her in place.
"Stop," she gasped.
Alice didn't stop. She moved the duster lower, down Carrie's stomach, across her hips, along the inside of her thigh.
"I said stop—"
"I heard you." Alice's voice was soft, almost gentle. "You're not in charge, though. You don't get to say stop."
The feathers traced a slow circle on Carrie's inner thigh. Her breath caught. Her legs trembled. The sensation was unbearable—too light, too soft, too much.
"Please," she whispered.
"Please what?"
"Please stop."
Alice laughed. "Wrong answer."
She moved the duster higher, feather-light touches that made Carrie's skin crawl and her stomach flip. She traced the curve of Carrie's hip, the line of her waist, the underside of her breast.
Carrie's wrists burned against the rope. She pulled, twisted, tried to escape—but there was nowhere to go. The railing was solid. The grass was wet. The water dripped from her hair into her eyes.
"Your body's betraying you," Alice said. "Look at your nipples. Look at the goosebumps. You hate this and you like it. That's so interesting."
"I don't—"
"You don't have to admit it." Alice traced the duster along Carrie's collarbone, up her neck, across her jaw. "I can see it."
She stepped back and looked at the house. Morgan still stood at the window, arms crossed, watching. Erin was writing in her notebook, her pen moving steadily across the page.
"They're watching you," Alice said. "Morgan's been watching this whole time. Erin's taking notes. You're a science experiment."
Carrie's throat tightened. The thought of them watching—of Morgan's steady gaze, of Erin's clinical observations—made her stomach twist. The rope cut into her wrists. The water dripped from her chin.
"One more game," Alice said.
She set the duster aside and stepped closer. Her bare foot lifted, pressed against Carrie's inner thigh, then slid higher.
Carrie's breath hitched.
"You know what I want," Alice said. "I want to see you lose control. I want to watch you come apart."
Her foot pressed harder, the ball of it grinding against Carrie's vulva, rough and demanding. She held it there, waiting.
The rough sole of Alice's foot pressed against her, the texture of it catching on slick, swollen flesh. A sound escaped Carrie that wasn't quite a gasp and wasn't quite a moan—something strangled and broken, pulled out of her like a fishhook. Her hips bucked once, instinctively, trying to escape the pressure, but Alice pressed down harder.
"Stop," Carrie whispered. Her voice was thin, barely audible.
"You don't mean that." Alice's voice had lost its bright, teasing edge. Now it was lower, softer, almost hypnotic. "I can feel that you don't mean it."
Carrie's face burned. Her cheeks, her throat, her ears—everything was on fire. She was wet, but not from the hose. A different kind of wet, a different kind of heat. Her arms strained above her head, rope biting into her wrists. The railing behind her was solid, unrelenting. There was nowhere to go.
“Yes, you can,” Alice murmured.
She moved her foot in a slow, deliberate circle—barely any pressure at all, just enough friction to make Carrie's thighs clench, her stomach tighten, her breath catch in her throat like a snagged thread.
“It’s just you and me out here,” Alice said. “Well. And them.” She tilted her head toward the house. “But they can’t hear you. The glass is thick. And even if they could, they wouldn’t stop me."
Carrie squeezed her eyes shut. She tried to think of something else—the oatmeal, the collar, the way Morgan had wiped her face clean. But the sensation was overwhelming, a steady pulse building between her legs, unspooling heat through her belly, her chest, her fingers.
“Look at me,” Alice said.
Carrie didn’t open her eyes.
Alice’s foot moved lower, pressing against her entrance, teasing, circling. “I said. Look. At. Me.” Her voice was sharp now, cracking like a whip.
Carrie opened her eyes.
Alice’s face was very close, her amber-flecked green eyes bright. “There you are,” she said softly, and the words felt like a trap closing. “Now be a good little puppy and hump my foot. Yes, just like that.”
Carrie’s hips rolled forward. She couldn’t stop them. The motion sparked white behind her eyes, a wildfire she couldn’t control. Alice grinned, wide and predatory.
“That’s it,” she said. “You’re a natural. My little bitch.”
The words were a slap. They should have made Carrie recoil, made her pull away, made her fight. Instead, they lit a fire in her belly.
She moved faster. Harder. Her knees scraped the concrete. Her wrists burned. The collar pressed against her throat.
“So good,” Alice whispered. “You’re doing so good.”
The heat built inside—a fire she couldn’t control. Shame and pleasure tangled together, indistinguishable. Carrie’s head fell back. Her mouth opened. A sound escaped—not a word, not a scream, just a raw, broken cry she couldn’t swallow.
Release came like the hose, cold and sudden, leaving her trembling and gasping.
Alice pulled her foot back and laughed. A bright, delighted sound, like wind chimes in a storm. “Oh my god. That was perfect.”
Carrie slumped against the railing. Her arms ached. Her knees throbbed. Her body hummed with a strange combination of relief and shame.
Alice crouched beside her and untied the rope. Carrie’s arms fell limp to her sides, blood rushing back into her fingers.
“You did good,” Alice said. She patted Carrie’s cheek, twice, light and mocking. “Really, really good.”
Carrie stared at the grass. At the wet blades bent under her knees. At the shadow she cast, small and crumpled.
“Let’s get you inside,” Alice said. “You’re a mess.”
At the sliding glass door, Morgan waited, arms still crossed. Erin stayed at the table, pen poised above her notebook. Neither spoke as Alice led Carrie past them, dripping and shivering, the concrete of the patio leaving raw pink marks on her bare knees.
The kitchen smelled like coffee and something citrus—cleaning spray, maybe, or one of those plug-in air fresheners that tried too hard. Carrie's feet left wet prints on the tile, each step a small confession of where she'd been. Her knees stung, the raw skin pulling with every movement.
Morgan hadn't moved from the window. Her arms were still crossed, her hip cocked against the counter, her expression somewhere between amusement and assessment.
Erin had closed her notebook.
That was the thing that made Carrie's stomach drop. The notebook was always open—Erin's pen always moving, her eyes always tracking. Closed meant something. Closed meant she'd seen enough.
"Get her dried off," Morgan said. "She's dripping on my floor."
Alice grabbed a dish towel from the counter and tossed it at Carrie. It landed on her shoulder, rough and damp, smelling faintly of lemon.
"Dry yourself," Alice said. "But not the important parts. I want to see those."
Carrie's hands moved automatically, patting down her arms, her chest, her stomach. The towel was thin, barely absorbent. Water still beaded on her skin, catching the overhead light.
"Good enough," Morgan said. She pushed off from the counter and walked toward Carrie, her bare feet silent on the tile. "Kneel."
The floor was cold. Carrie's knees protested—the raw skin scraped against the grout, sending a spike of pain up her thighs. She bit the inside of her cheek and stayed still.
Morgan circled her. Slow. Deliberate. The way you'd inspect a used car, looking for scratches, for hidden damage.
"Alice tells me you did well outside," Morgan said.
"I didn't—"
"I wasn't asking you." Morgan stopped behind her. Her voice came from above, from everywhere. "Alice. Tell me."
Alice hopped onto the kitchen counter, her legs swinging. "She fought at first. Hesitated. Wouldn't fetch the ball until I hosed her down."
"And then?"
"And then she got it. Rolled over. Took the rope. Whimpered when I used the duster." Alice's grin was sharp as a knife. "Came on my foot like a good little bitch."
Erin made a sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a cough. When Carrie glanced over, her face was neutral, but her eyes were bright.
"Interesting," Morgan said.
She crouched behind Carrie, her breath warm against the back of her neck. Her fingers found the collar, traced the leather, tugged once—testing the fit.
"You didn't fight the rope," Morgan said. "You didn't fight the duster. You didn't fight when Alice put her foot between your legs."
Carrie's throat tightened. "I—"
"I'm not asking for an explanation." Morgan stood, walked around to face her. "I'm telling you what I saw. You didn't fight. You just... let it happen."
The words landed like stones. Carrie wanted to argue, to explain that she had fought, that she'd said stop, that she'd tried to pull away. But the truth sat heavy in her chest, undeniable.
She hadn't fought. Not really. Not when it mattered.
"Why?" Morgan asked.
Carrie looked at the floor. At the wet prints her feet had left. At the reflection of her own face in the polished tile—pale, hollow, unfamiliar.
"I don't know," she said.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
Morgan was quiet for a moment. Then she reached down and cupped Carrie's chin, tilting her face up. Her thumb brushed across Carrie's cheekbone, light and almost tender.
"You're going to figure it out," Morgan said. "That's what today is for. That's what every day is for."
She released Carrie's chin and stepped back.
"Erin. She's yours for the afternoon."
Erin stood, her chair scraping against the floor. She picked up her notebook and tucked it under her arm. When she looked at Carrie, her expression was the same as always—calm, patient, unreadable.
"Come," Erin said.
She didn't tug the leash. She didn't need to. Carrie crawled after her, out of the kitchen, down the hallway, past the sketches that lined the walls like silent witnesses.
Erin's room was at the end of the hall.
It was smaller than Morgan's, but neater—bookshelves packed with paperbacks, a desk covered in papers, a bed made with military precision. The walls were bare except for a single poster: a black-and-white photograph of a rope, coiled and knotted, suspended against a white background.
Erin closed the door and locked it.
"Sit," she said, pointing to a patch of floor beside the bed.
Carrie sat. The wood was warmer than the kitchen tile, but not by much. She folded her hands in her lap and waited.
Erin didn't sit. She walked to her desk and opened a drawer, pulling out something that glinted in the light—metal, silver, small.
"Hands behind your back," Erin said.
Carrie hesitated. Erin waited.
The cuffs clicked into place a moment later. Cold metal against her wrists, snug but not tight. Erin tested the fit with two fingers, then nodded.
"Better," she said.
She sat on the edge of the bed, facing Carrie, her legs crossed at the ankle. For a long moment, she just looked.
"You're wondering what I'm going to do," Erin said.
"Yes."
"I'm not going to do anything. Not yet." Erin leaned back on her hands, her posture relaxed. "I want to talk."
Carrie blinked. "Talk?"
"About why you're here. About what you want. About what you're afraid of." Erin's voice was soft, almost gentle. "The others play games. I don't. I want to understand you."
The words settled between them like dust. Carrie stared at Erin—at the short amber hair, the steady gaze, the complete absence of malice.
"Why?" Carrie asked.
"Because understanding is the first step to control." Erin smiled, just barely. "And control is what I'm good at."