Chapter 3: More than he bargained foir
The taste was a thick paste on his tongue, metallic and sour, the physical proof of his surrender. He breathed through it, each inhalation a rasp against the leather band at his throat. The door had been closed for what felt like hours, but the clock on the nightstand showed only twenty minutes. Time had become glutinous, slow. He tested the ropes at his ankles. They held, of course. He was theirs. The words cycled in his head, a awful mantra.
The door opened again.
Michelle entered alone, carrying a small tray. On it was a glass of water, a plain white bowl, and a washcloth. She set it on the nightstand. Her movements were efficient, devoid of ceremony. She didn’t look at his face, focusing instead on the knots at his ankles. Her fingers worked them loose with a practiced ease that sent a fresh chill through him. Where had she learned that?
“Sit up,” she said, not unkindly.
He winced, pushing himself upright. The steel plug shifted inside him, a brutal reminder. She handed him the glass. “Drink. You’ll need your strength.”
The water was cool and clean, washing away the lingering filth. It was a small mercy that felt like a trick. He drained the glass. She took it back, then picked up the bowl. It contained a shallow pool of warm water and lemon-scented soap. She wrung out the washcloth.
“Hold still.”
She began to wash him. Starting with his face, wiping away the tear tracks and dried saliva. She moved down his neck, over his collarbones, across his chest. Her touch was clinical, a groomer tending to an animal. The washcloth passed over his nipples, his stomach. She cleaned his flaccid cock with the same detached attention she might use to wipe a counter. The humiliation of this sanitizing care was a new layer of violation. He was being prepared for further use.
“Rachel’s in the shower,” she said conversationally, rinsing the cloth. “She’ll be staying for a while. We have a lot to discuss. The rules.”
“Michelle—” he started, his voice gravel.
“Ah.” She held up a finger. The gesture was quiet, absolute. “You don’t speak unless asked a direct question. That’s rule one. You’re learning it now.”
She knelt then, between his legs. He flinched, expecting her to remove the plug. Instead, she simply washed around it, the cloth brushing the sensitive, stretched skin. “Rule two,” she continued, her eyes on her work. “There are no limits. Not yours. Not anymore. Ours are the only ones that matter, and we’re still discovering what they are.”
She stood, dropped the cloth into the bowl. “Rule three. There is no safe word. The concept is obsolete. Your consent was permanently granted when you let her buckle that collar on you in a restaurant while I was on the phone.” She picked up the tray. “Your body, your mouth, your ass, your obedience—it’s our property. We might loan it out to each other. We might test its durability. You don’t get a vote.”
She left, taking the cleansing tray with her. The door remained open. He heard the shower stop, the murmur of voices again from the living room. Laughter, shorter this time. A decision being made.
They returned together, dressed now. Rachel in a pair of Michelle’s yoga pants and a t-shirt. Michelle in fresh jeans. They looked like friends after a sleepover. They each carried a glass of wine, even though it was not yet noon.
“On your knees beside the bed,” Michelle said.
He moved stiffly, lowering himself to the floor. The carpet bit into his kneecaps. The plug felt enormous. They sat on the edge of the mattress, looking down at him. A tribunal.
“We’ve been talking about utility,” Rachel said. Her voice was stronger, infused with a new authority borrowed from Michelle’s sanction. “A slave should be useful. Beyond the obvious.”
Michelle sipped her wine. “Household chores, of course. You’ll do them all. To our standard. But we’re thinking of more specific functions.” She leaned forward. “Rachel’s husband, Peter, is largely impotent. Has been for years. She has needs. Complex ones.”
A cold dread pooled in Tim’s stomach.
“I’ve always wondered,” Rachel said, her gaze traveling over him, “what it would be like to train a man. Not just play. Really train him. To be a living, breathing toy. To see how much he can take before he breaks. And then to see what’s left after he breaks.”
“We’re curious about that too,” Michelle echoed. “So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to stay like that. On your knees. You’re going to watch.”
Rachel stood. She peeled off the yoga pants and the t-shirt. She lay back on the bed, head propped on pillows. She opened her legs. “Michelle? Would you like to?”
“I would,” Michelle said. She handed her wine glass to Tim. “Hold this. Don’t spill.”
He took the stem, his fingers trembling. Michelle fetched the sleek black vibrator. She knelt on the bed between Rachel’s spread legs. She didn’t rush. She turned the vibrator on, a low hum, and traced it along Rachel’s inner thigh. Rachel sighed, arching her back.
“Watch his face,” Rachel murmured, her eyes on Tim.
Michelle looked over her shoulder at him. She smiled. It was her real smile, the one that used to warm him. Now it froze his blood. She pressed the vibrator to Rachel’s clit.
Rachel cried out, a sharp, genuine sound. Her hips came off the bed. “Oh god, right there. Yes.”
Michelle worked her with a focused intensity. She knew what she was doing. She watched Rachel’s face, adjusting the pressure. Tim was forced to watch, the wine glass held stiffly in his hand, his own nakedness and kneeling position a grotesque contrast to their focused pleasure. This was a demonstration. Of power, of intimacy, of his total exclusion from anything other than servitude.
“I’m close,” Rachel panted. “I’m so close. Don’t stop.”
“Come for us,” Michelle said, her voice soft. “Let him see what he exists to facilitate.”
Rachel’s climax was a violent, shaking thing. Her whole body convulsed, a series of raw, barking cries tearing from her throat. Michelle kept the vibrator steady until Rachel pushed her hand away, oversensitive and spent.
For a moment, the only sound was Rachel’s ragged breathing. Michelle turned off the toy. She took the wine glass from Tim’s numb hand and had a sip. She handed it to Rachel, who drank deeply.
“Now,” Michelle said, her eyes back on Tim. “The filthier part. You see, we’ve been thinking about waste. About using every part of the animal.” She stood up. “Rachel needs to pee. Don’t you, Rach?”
Rachel, still breathing heavily, nodded. A slow, dark excitement lit her flushed face. “I really do.”
“You’re going to kneel in the ensuite bathroom,” Michelle said to Tim, her tone instructive. “Rachel is going to piss in your mouth. You are going to swallow it. It’s a practical solution. And it will teach you, once and for all, that your limits are a fiction.”
Tim’s mind reeled. No. This wasn’t a fantasy. This was degradation. This was a line. He opened his mouth to speak, to beg, to say the safe word that no longer existed.
Michelle’s hand shot out, gripping his chin. Her nails dug in. “This is the test, Tim. The first real one. You can refuse.” She leaned close. Her breath smelled of pinot noir. “If you refuse, we will untie you, and you will leave. The marriage will be over. You will have nothing. Or you can accept that you are property, with no say, and you can open your fucking mouth and drink what your owner gives you. What’s it going to be?”
The choice was an abyss. He looked into her eyes, searching for the woman he loved, for any hint of mercy or play. He saw only cool, curious expectation. He looked at Rachel, who was watching him, her legs still spread, a lazy, victorious smile on her lips. The collar was a perpetual, heavy weight. He had dreamed of submission, of losing control. He had never dreamed of this.
A low, anguished sound escaped him. He closed his eyes. Then he opened them, and gave a single, slight nod.
“Good,” both women said, almost in unison.
They led him, on his knees, into the bathroom. The tiles were cold. Michelle positioned him before the toilet. Rachel stood over him. She placed a hand on his head, not gently.
“Open wide, property,” she said.
He did. He tilted his head back. He saw the ceiling, the light fixture. He heard the first sharp, liquid stream hit the porcelain behind him. Then she adjusted her aim.
The warm, acrid flow hit his tongue, filled his mouth. It was hotter than he expected. The taste was alien, bitter. He gagged instinctively, but she held his head in place.
“Swallow,” Michelle commanded from the doorway. Her voice was flat.
He swallowed. It was a violent, physiological rebellion he had to force. He swallowed again as the flow continued, steady and relentless. It coated his throat. His eyes streamed tears. He drank until she was finished.
Rachel stepped back. She looked down at him, a strange, soft expression on her face. Almost like pity. “You really are ours now, aren’t you?”
He knelt in the puddle of himself, the bitter aftertaste a seal on his fate. Michelle tossed him a towel. “Clean up. Then you can make us lunch. We’re thinking of having guests over tonight. We might need you to serve.”