Chapter 1: The Claiming
The bell above Josephus’s apartment door jangled violently, like it had been struck by a hurricane rather than a person. Nana, his landlady—a woman so small she could’ve been mistaken for a particularly angry garden gnome—barely came up to Brittany’s hip. She craned her neck upward, her usual scowl faltering for just a second as she took in the sheer presence of the woman now filling the cramped entryway.
Brittany didn’t even have to say anything. The air around her hummed with quiet authority, the kind that made people instinctively step back. She smelled like expensive leather and something faintly floral—jasmine, maybe—cut through with the sharp tang of oil paint. Nana’s nostrils flared, her grip tightening on the rent notice she’d been waving in Josephus’s face moments before.
“He’s behind on rent! Again!” Nana’s voice, usually a weapon, came out thin and reedy. “I swear, that boy thinks money grows on—”
Brittany cut her off with a single raised hand. “Josephus is no longer your concern, Nana.” Her voice was smooth, effortless, like she was stating an obvious fact rather than negotiating.
Nana’s face turned a shade of purple that clashed horribly with her neon pink cardigan. “What do you mean, not my concern?” she squawked. “He lives here! He owes me money!” Her tiny fists clenched at her sides, but she didn’t dare step closer.
Brittany’s gaze drifted downward, slow and deliberate, like she was observing a mildly interesting insect. A smirk played at the corner of her lips. “Think of it as… a debt transfer,” she said, rolling the words around like they were a fine wine. “Josephus now belongs to me.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Nana’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly, her eyes darting between Brittany and the man currently kneeling at her feet. Josephus, blissfully unaware of the standoff, was too absorbed in his task—his entire world narrowed down to the supple leather of Brittany’s thigh-high boots.
The polish tin was nearly empty, but he worked with the fervor of a man possessed. Each stroke of the rag was deliberate, reverent, his fingers trembling slightly as he buffed the toe to a mirror shine. The scent of leather conditioner mixed with the faint musk of Brittany’s skin, and he had to bite his lip to keep from sighing.
Nana finally found her voice again, though it cracked halfway through. “Belongs to you? What is this, the dark ages?” She jabbed a finger in Brittany’s direction. “I’ll call the cops!”
Brittany chuckled, low and rich, the sound vibrating through the room like a bass note. “Waste of time, darling,” she said, not even bothering to look at her. “Josephus is here of his own free will.”
As if on cue, Josephus glanced up, his eyes wide and shining. “Absolutely, Nana,” he said, breathless. “This is exactly where I want to be.”
Nana threw her hands up, the rent notice fluttering to the ground like a defeated flag. “You’re both crazy!” she screeched. “He’s got potential! He could be—I don’t know—a librarian! Or something!”
Brittany’s smile widened, slow and predatory. “Josephus has found his calling,” she purred, running a hand through his hair like he was a particularly well-trained pet. “And I assure you, it’s far more… stimulating than shelving books.”
Josephus shivered under her touch, his fingers tightening around the rag. His pulse was a wild, erratic thing, thrumming in his throat, his wrists, the backs of his knees. He could feel the weight of her gaze, heavy and expectant, and it made his stomach swoop.
Nana, realizing she was hopelessly outmatched, took a step back. “Fine!” she snapped, though her voice lacked its usual bite. “But when this blows up in your face, don’t come crying to me!” She turned on her heel and stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the framed movie posters on the walls.
The silence that followed was thick, charged. Brittany exhaled through her nose, shaking her head slightly before turning her full attention to Josephus. “You may rise, pet,” she murmured, her voice dropping into something huskier, more intimate. “It’s time we discussed your new duties.”
Josephus swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. He set the polish aside and stood, his knees protesting after so long on the hardwood. The top of his head barely reached Brittany’s chin, and when she tilted his face up with a single finger under his chin, he had to resist the urge to melt into her touch.
Her thumb brushed over his bottom lip, slow and deliberate. “Well?” she murmured. “Aren’t you going to thank me?”
Josephus didn’t hesitate. “Thank you,” he breathed, the words barely more than a whisper.
Brittany’s smile was sharp. “Good boy.”
Brittany stepped back, surveying Josephus with a predatory tilt of her chin. The hem of her dress whispered against her thighs as she circled him, boots clicking on the hardwood. “But let’s be clear—boot polish is amateur hour.” She paused behind him, her breath warm on his neck. “You’re going to learn what real service feels like.”
Josephus’s fingers twitched against his thighs. The air smelled like her now—jasmine and leather and something darker, like wet ink. He swallowed. “Whatever you want.”
She laughed, low and throaty. “Oh, I know.” Her nails scraped the back of his neck, just shy of painful. “Your old life? That weak little librarian fantasy?” A dismissive flick of her wrist. “Gone. Your thoughts belong to me. Your hands. Your mouth.” She leaned down, lips grazing his ear. “Say it.”
His throat worked. “I’m yours.” The words tasted strange—like truth and bourbon.
Brittany straightened, satisfied. “Look at me.” He obeyed, tilting his head back until his neck ached. She was haloed by the yellowed ceiling light, all sharp cheekbones and smudged eyeliner. “You’re shaking,” she observed. Her thumb pressed against his pulse. “Scared?”
“No.” Lie. He was terrified.
She smirked, stepping closer until her knees bracketed his thighs. The heat of her seeped through his jeans. “Liar.” Her fingers traced his jaw, down his throat, over his collarbone. “But I like that. Keeps you interesting.”
Josephus inhaled sharply as her nails bit into his shoulder. “I—I want—”
“Wanting’s cheap.” She clicked her tongue. “I need you starving for it.” With that, she stepped back, leaving him swaying on his knees. The sudden absence of her touch burned worse than the grip she’d had on him.
She gestured to the couch. “Kneel. Properly this time.”
He scrambled forward, knees hitting the floorboards with a thud. The old couch smelled like dust and spilled tea. Brittany watched, arms crossed, as he adjusted his posture. “No,” she said. “Lower.”
Josephus pressed his forehead to the ground. The wood grain left imprints on his skin.
“Crawl.”
He moved like a broken marionette, limbs stiff with adrenaline. The floor creaked under his palms. Every inch forward felt like crossing a border into some uncharted country. Brittany didn’t move, didn’t speak—just watched with those heavy-lidded eyes.
When he reached her boots, he froze. The toe of one lifted, tilting his chin up. Her expression was unreadable. “Lick.”
Josephus closed his eyes and obeyed. The leather was bitter with polish, warm from her skin. His tongue dragged along the arch, the toe, the heel—methodical, reverent. Somewhere above him, Brittany sighed.
“Good,” she murmured. Her boot pressed harder against his mouth. “Now beg.”
The words settled between them like a blade. Josephus’s throat worked, his tongue still tasting leather and something metallic—fear, maybe, or just the ghost of her boot polish. He swallowed, but his mouth was dry.
Brittany didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched him with those heavy-lidded eyes, her fingers tapping a slow rhythm against her thigh. The silence stretched, taut as a wire.
A whimper escaped him before he could stop it—high, ragged, pathetic. His face burned.
Her boot pressed harder.
He could feel every ridge in the leather now, the way the stitching bit into his tongue. The scent of jasmine wrapped around him, thick and cloying, mixing with the musk of sweat and the faintest tang of street dust clinging to her heel. His breath hitched.
“P—” The word caught, choked. He tried again. “Please.”
Brittany shifted her weight, just enough to make the heel dig into his lower lip. A sharp, bright pain flared, and then the coppery taste of blood bloomed across his tongue. His fingers twitched against the floor.
“Louder,” she murmured.
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Please, Mistress.” The title felt alien, clumsy in his mouth, but something in his chest unknotted as he said it.
A slow smile curled her lips. The pressure eased—just a fraction, just enough to make him gasp.
“Again.”
His pulse hammered in his ears. “Please, Mistress,” he repeated, louder this time, the words raw. “I beg you.”
Silence. Then—
“Good.” Her voice was soft, almost tender. “You’re learning.”
She lifted her foot, and he swayed forward, suddenly unmoored. The air rushed back into his lungs, cold and sharp. When he looked up, she was kneeling in front of him, her face inches from his. Her thumbs brushed the hollows of his cheeks, smearing blood and spit.
“Rent,” she said, so quiet he almost missed it.
Josephus blinked.
“Nana wants her money.” Her fingers tightened, just for a second. “You’re going to get it for her.” A pause. “By any means necessary.”
She released him and stood, leaving him kneeling there, lips throbbing, heart racing.
“Consider it your first lesson.”