Chapter 1: The First Confession: Toilet Slut
The candle flame shivered. It bled a weak, jaundiced light over the ledger’s open page. The ink there was black, but in this light, it looked like old blood.
Rhys didn’t look at her. He picked up the heavy book. The chains around her ankles felt like ice. The polished obsellite floor bit into her knees. She kept her eyes on the intricate pattern of veins in the marble between his shoes. His leather shoes. She could smell the polish. Under that, the whiskey he’d been drinking. Under that, him.
He cleared his throat. The sound was like gravel shifting.
“Subject Seven,” he read, his voice flat, professional. “Proposal for Consumption. Author: Seraphina.”
A shudder ran through her. He never used her full name. It was always ‘girl’, or ‘pet’, or worse. The formality was a weapon. It was worse than a slap.
He began.
“I want to be nothing. For two nights and two days. I want to be a fixture in the club’s lowest room.The porcelain room. The wet room.”
Rhys paused. She heard the slow, deliberate turn of the page. The chain between her ankles clinked as she trembled.
“Chain me to the toilet in Stall Three. The one at the end. The pipe leaks. There’s always a cold drip from the ceiling. It smells of bleach and stale men and despair.”
He was reading it so calmly. He might have been reading a stock report. Her words, the secret, feverish words she’d scratched into this very book, were now just data. Her breath hitched.
“Silence,” he said, without looking down.
“My wrists should be cuffed behind the cistern. My ankles secured to the base of the bowl itself. A short chain. No room to stand, only to kneel, or to curl on the damp tiles. A collar, of course. A ring in the wall for the leash, so any Master who enters can pull my head where he wishes.”
The image was perfect. She’d dreamed it. Now, hearing it in his cool, detached voice, her stomach clenched with a hot, sick thrill. This was really happening.
“This will be my function: To be used. Not for pleasure, but for utility. A drain.A receptacle. The club will be busy. It’s Fight Weekend. Men will drink. Their bladders will be full. They will come in, one after another. They will see me. They will use me.”
Rhys shifted his weight. The leather of his chair sighed.
“Their piss will be my only sustenance. Let it be my water. Let it be my wine. I will open my mouth for it. I will not close my eyes. I will watch them. I will thank them. If they spit on me afterwards, that will be my seasoning. My salt. If they curse me, that will be my prayer.”
A droplet of sweat traced a path between her shoulder blades. It tickled. She didn’t dare move to shake it off.
“The floor will grow slick. My skin will grow cold. The smell will soak into me. I will become the smell. I will hear the din of the club above, the bass, the shouts, and it will be a world away. My world will be the flush, the zipper, the grunt, the bitter stream. The laugh as they leave. The silence between them.”
He turned another page. The candle guttered, throwing a monstrous, leaping shadow of his hand against the wall.
“I will be hungry. My stomach will cramp. That is the point. The emptiness will make space. The thirst will make me grateful for every drop. By the second day, I will not think of food. I will only think of the next time the door opens. The next offering. I will worship the sound of a belt buckle.”
Her mouth was parched. She imagined the taste. Copper and ammonia. Her throat worked, trying to swallow nothing.
“When you come to retrieve me, Master, I will be different. The girl who wrote this will be gone. Washed away. What remains will be simpler. Cleaner. Hollowed out and ready. I will be what you have made me. A thing that exists only for use. I will have proven I can take it. I will have proven I want it. Nothing else will matter.”
The last sentence hung in the air. The study was silent except for the soft hiss of the candle.
Rhys closed the ledger. The sound was final. A verdict.
He set the book down. Slowly, he leaned back in his chair. The leather creaked. He took a sip of his whiskey. He swirled the amber liquid in the glass, watching it catch the light.
Finally, he looked down at her.
She felt the weight of his gaze like a physical press on the back of her neck. She kept her eyes lowered, on his shoes. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
“Look at me.”
She forced her head up. His face was in shadow, the candlelight carving out the hard line of his jaw, the pitiless curve of his mouth.
“This is what you want?” he asked. His voice was soft. Curious.
“Yes, Master.”
“You understand the club will be open to all members. Not just me. Any brute, any sadist, any drunk with the price of admission. They will not be kind. They will read the sign on the door. They will understand your purpose.”
“Yes, Master.”
“You understand you will be alone. For forty-eight hours. In the dark, mostly.In the cold. With the rats. With the shit on the floor that isn’t yours.”
A new fear, sharp and animal, speared her gut. She hadn’t thought about the rats.She swallowed. “Yes, Master.”
He finished his whiskey. Placed the glass on the desk with a precise click. He stood up. He was so tall. A monolith blocking the faint light. He walked around the desk until he was standing over her. She could see the fine weave of his trousers, the glint of a belt buckle.
He crouched. His fingers, cold from the glass, gripped her chin, forcing her head up further. His eyes searched hers. She tried to show him everything. The fear, the yes, the desperate want.
A slow smile spread across his face. It wasn’t warm.
“Good,” he said. His thumb traced her lower lip.“We start tomorrow night. The club opens at nine.”
He released her chin and stood. He walked to the study door. Opened it.
“Get out,” he said, not looking back. “Go to your room.Sleep. It’s the last comfortable sleep you’ll get for a while.”
She shuffled to her feet, the chains heavy and awkward. She didn’t look at him as she hobbled past, out into the dim hallway. The door closed behind her with a solid, echoing thud.
Alone in the corridor, she let out a shaking breath. It was done. It was real.
She began the slow, chained walk to her room. The metal links scraped the floor. The sound was a promise.A sentence. Her heart was a wild, frantic drum against her ribs.
Tomorrow, the porcelain room.Tomorrow, the drip. Tomorrow, the first stranger’s zip.