Chapter 3: They fight in the quad
The quad was sun-drenched and busy, a post-class hum of chatter and rustling backpacks. Ben found her near the granite bench, the one they’d argued over last semester for a poli-sci project. She was with Sarah and Chloe, both laughing at something on her phone. His stomach tightened. It was them, in the gym. The video.
He didn’t plan it. The anger just boiled over, a geyser of hot shame from two days of carrying her books, of smiling on command, of feeling every glance in the hallway like a physical blow. He dropped his own backpack on the grass with a thud.
“Miller.”
Patricia looked up, her expression shifting from amusement to cool interest. “Ben. You’re early. I didn’t summon you yet.”
“I’m done,” he said, the words feeling brittle. “No more. Post whatever you want.”
A slow smile spread across her face. She handed her phone to Sarah without looking. “See? I told you he’d break. The leash was too long.” She stood, rolling her shoulders. She was in shorts and a tank top, fresh from the gym, a light sheen of sweat still on her skin. “You think you’re done because you feel a little brave in the sunshine?”
“I’m not your pet,” he snarled, stepping closer. A few students nearby paused, sensing a scene.
“You are whatever I say you are,” she said, her voice dropping, meant only for him. “You signed the contract when you kissed my foot. You renewed it when you took my books. You want a rematch? Here? Now?” She opened her arms, gesturing to the open lawn. “Fair play, Ben. No points, no rules. Just you trying not to lose. Again.”
He couldn’t stop himself. He lunged. It was messy, fueled by pure humiliation, not technique. He got a hand on her shoulder, tried to force her down. For a second, it seemed like he might.
Then she moved. It was all hips and leverage, a fluid twist he’d felt before but never seen coming in open air. His ankle hooked, his balance vanished, and the world tilted. He hit the grass with a grunt, the air rushing from his lungs. Before he could even process the fall, she was on him, one knee pinning his arm, her other leg across his chest. The sun haloed her blonde ponytail, blinding him.
A small crowd had gathered now. Sarah had her phone up, recording. Chloe was giggling, hand over her mouth.
“You thought the gym was bad?” Patricia breathed, leaning close. Her sweat had a sharp, clean scent. “This is so much better. Better lighting.” She adjusted her weight, pressing down on his ribs. He bucked, but she was a statue. “Still think you can take me, debate champion? Chemistry whiz? What was it you called me after the midterm? ‘A brutish jock with a lucky streak’?”
She shifted her hips, settling her weight directly onto his sternum. Then, with a deliberate, casual control, she tilted her pelvis back towards his face. The seat of her shorts was damp with sweat.
“You wanted a rematch,” she said, her voice loud enough for the growing ring of onlookers. “You get the full victory tour. Inhale, Ben. Deeply. This is what three miles on the treadmill smells like. This is what your inferiority complex smells like.”
A low, involuntary sound escaped him as the intimate, musky odor filled his nose. It was profoundly personal, a smell of utter physical dominion. Heat flooded his face, tears of frustration pricking his eyes.
“Pat, you’re killing him,” Chloe laughed, not sounding concerned at all.
“He’s not dead,” Patricia said, rocking slightly. “He’s learning. Say it, Ben. Say ‘I’m Patricia’s pet.’”
He clenched his jaw, turning his face to the side into the grass.
Patricia sighed, as if dealing with a stubborn child. She looked over at Sarah. “Sarah, be a doll. My feet are throbbing from those sprints.”
Sarah, grinning, stepped forward. She knelt and untied Patricia’s right sneaker, peeling off the damp, grey athletic sock. She held it out. Patricia took it, a wad of soft, sweat-darkened fabric.
“Open up, Ben,” she said, her tone conversational.
“No.”
“Open. Or the video goes to the Dean, the team, and my personal favorite, your little brother’s Instagram. He looks up to you, right?”
The fight drained out of him, replaced by a cold, sinking dread. He opened his mouth, a protest dying on his lips. She stuffed the sock in, not gently. The taste was a shocking salt-bitter tang, the fabric dense on his tongue. A muffled gag erupted from him.
“Now,” Patricia said, leaning down so her face was inches from his. “The words. And speak clearly.”
Tears streamed freely down Ben’s temples into his hair. He choked around the cotton, the syllables barely recognizable. “I’m… Pathrisha’s… pet.”
“Good boy.” She patted his cheek. “Now, the feet. You remember how this goes.”
She raised herself off him just enough to swing a leg over, planting her bare foot squarely on his chest, then sliding it up to his face. Her soles were pink, damp, with the faint imprint of her shoe’s tread. She pressed her toes against his lips. “Kiss. Like you mean it.”
He did, his lips moving against her skin, the taste of salt and grass mixing with the sock.
“Other one,” she commanded, switching feet. He complied, a hollow automaton.
“Chloe, get over here,” Patricia said, not taking her eyes off Ben’s broken expression. “Your man Todd bailed on you for concert tickets, right? Come get a foot rub from my pet. He’s eager to please.”
Chloe hesitated for only a second before a wicked smile took over. She kicked off her sandal and placed her bare foot on Ben’s shoulder. “Make it good, Fido.”
Ben, moving like he was underwater, turned his head and pressed his mouth to Chloe’s arch. A fresh wave of laughter rippled through their audience.
“See?” Patricia announced to no one and everyone. “A useful pet. Still has his uses.” She finally stood, brushing grass from her shorts. She reached down, hooked a finger into the corner of his mouth, and pulled the sodden sock out. It dropped onto his cheek with a soft plop.
“Keep it,” she said. “A souvenir.
The leash, a crude braid of blue nylon, was a live wire against Ben’s skin. It lay hidden under his hoodie, a secret loop of pressure around his throat, as Patricia led him across the darkened campus. Every few steps, she’d give a gentle, reminding tug, and a fresh wave of heat would flood his face. She didn’t speak. The only sounds were their footsteps on the pavement and the distant echo of a party from a fraternity house.
She led him not to the parking lot, but to the side entrance of her dorm, a modern building mostly empty for the weekend. Her grip on the rope was casual, proprietary. In the elevator, she finally looked at him, her eyes scanning his shattered expression with clinical interest.
“You’re thinking about running,” she stated, not asking.
He stared at the numbers lighting up. “No.”
“Liar. But you won’t. The photos are already uploaded to my cloud. One text to the team group chat and you’re a meme forever.” The elevator dinged. “Heel.”
Her room was a testament to controlled chaos—textbooks stacked with precision, medals hanging from a pinboard, clothes neatly folded on a chair. It smelled like her: citrus shampoo, clean sweat, and victory. She closed the door, the lock clicking with finality. She unwound the leash from her hand but left the loop around his neck.
“Hoodie off. Let’s see it.”
Ben moved slowly, pulling the fabric over his head. The rope stood out against his t-shirt, a bizarre and degrading necklace. Patricia circled him, a slow predator.
“We need to establish the rules,” she said, her voice light. “Rule one: When we’re alone, the leash stays on. It helps you remember your headspace.” She stopped in front of him. “Rule two: You speak when spoken to. Rule three: You obey immediately. We’re working on immediate.” She tapped his cheek, not quite a slap. “Understood?”
“Yes,” he muttered.
“Yes, what?”
He swallowed. “Yes, Patricia.”
“Mmm, we’ll work on a better title later.” She walked over to her desk and picked up her phone, scrolling. A cruel smile touched her lips. “Look at this one. This is my new lock screen.”
She turned the screen to him. It was the photo from the gym, her sitting backwards on him as he crawled, a peace sign flashing, his face a blurred mask of misery beneath her. Ben looked away, his stomach clenching.
“Nuh-uh,” she chided. “Look. Admire my composition.”
He forced his eyes back to the glowing screen. The humiliation was somehow more potent here, in the quiet of her room, than it had been in the noisy gym.
“I want a new set,” she announced, tossing the phone onto her bed. “More… intimate. Before you shower off the evidence.” Her eyes glittered. “Take off my shoes. The wrestling shoes you kissed.”
Ben knelt. It was easier this time, the resistance sanded away by the leash and the locked door. His fingers fumbled with the tight laces. The shoes were damp, warm from her skin. He set them aside.
“Now the socks.” Her voice was a playful command.
He peeled them off, revealing her feet. They were athletic, high-arched, and visibly sweaty, dusted with blue mat chalk. The scent, musky and salty, filled the space between them.
“Alright, up on the bed. On your back.”
He obeyed, lying stiffly on her comforter. She stood at the edge, looking down at him. Then, with deliberate slowness, she put one knee on the mattress, then the other, straddling his chest. She didn’t sit fully, just hovered, her face inches from his.
“You smelled it from a distance in the gym,” she said, her tone conversational. “But that was crowd-sourced. This is a private tasting.”
She shifted her weight, lowering herself until she was sitting fully on his chest, her weight pinning his ribs. Then she leaned back, bracing her hands on his thighs, and raised her legs. She brought her right foot up, slowly, and placed the sole directly over his nose and mouth.
The smell was immediate and overwhelming. It was sweat, yes, but also the ghost of rubber, leather, and pure, concentrated Pat. It filled his nostrils, clogged his throat. He jerked his head to the side, sputtering.
“Ah, ah, ah,” she sang, gripping his hair with one hand to hold him still. She ground her foot against his face. The sweat was slick, the texture of her skin rough. “Breathe it in, Ben. This is what you lost to. This is the smell of your defeat. Inhale.”
He gagged, his eyes watering. “Stop… please…”
“Please, what? Please stop? Or please, more?” She laughed, a bright, beautiful sound that clashed horribly with the moment. She swapped feet, pressing the left one against his mouth. “Kiss it. Properly this time. None of that gym-floor peck.”
Tears of frustration and shame blurred his vision. He pressed his lips tight.
Patricia sighed, feigning disappointment. She raised her foot and brought it down in a soft, patting motion on his cheek. “So stubborn. Still thinking you have a choice.” She reached for her phone on the bed beside them, never lifting her weight from his chest. She tapped the screen a few times, then held it up.
On speakerphone, it rang once before a female voice answered. “Hey, conqueror! What’s up?”
“Hey Sarah. You and Maya still in the quad?”
“Yeah, just getting back. That was insane tonight!”
“It’s about to get more insane,” Patricia said, her eyes locked on Ben’s wide, panicked ones. “Come to my room. I’m doing a victory photoshoot with the spoils of war. Bring your good phone. The one with the night mode.”
“Oh my god, yes. Be right there.” The call ended.
Patricia tossed the phone aside. “See? Now you have an audience again. You can be defiant for me, Ben. But for them?” She leaned forward, her face close to his. “You’ll be a good pet. Because if you’re not, these photos go wider than the team. They go to every pre-law group, every professor, everyone. You’ll be the guy who got ridden around like a pony and liked it.”
A hard knock came at the door. “Pat! It’s us!”
“It’s open!”
The door burst open and Sarah and Maya spilled in, their cheeks flushed from the night air. They froze for a second, taking in the scene: Ben pinned on the bed, Pat’s dirty foot planted on his face, the rope around his neck.
Maya let out a low whistle. “Damn, Pat. You weren’t kidding.”
“Told you,” Patricia said, grinning. She finally lifted her foot from Ben’s face, leaving a shiny, damp print on his skin. “He’s still a little disobedient. Needs to learn his place properly.” She shifted, turning so she was sitting on his stomach, facing his feet. “Get that camera ready, Sarah. Let’s get some classic shots.”
Sarah fumbled with her phone, her eyes wide. “What do you want him to do?”
“First, we need a better pose. Ben, on your hands and knees.” Her voice lost its playful edge, turning sharp.
Shaking, humiliated beyond thought by the presence of the two smirking girls, Ben rolled over and pushed himself up. The leash dangled.
“Now,” Patricia said, moving behind him. She put a hand on his back, pushing down until his head was low. “Stay.” She looked over at her friends, her smirk triumphant. “Get this.”
She then did exactly as instructed. She wiggled her ass, still clad in the tight blue competition shorts, right in front of his lowered face. “Smell that, Benny? That’s two hours of making you my bitch. Get a good whiff.”
Ben clenched his eyes shut, trying to retreat into some mental space, but the scent was inescapable—musky, intimate, a physical assertion of her dominance. He held his breath.
“I said smell it,” Patricia commanded, her voice dropping. She reached back and grabbed a handful of his hair, pulling his face forward into the fabric. “Breathe.”
A choked, involuntary gasp escaped him as his nose and mouth pressed against her. Sarah’s phone camera clicked rapidly.
“Oh, that’s a good one!” Sarah giggled.
“Now,” Patricia said, letting go of his hair and standing up. She pointed to the floor in front of her. “Here. Kiss it. And I mean kiss it. Show my friends how sorry you are for ever thinking you were my equal.”
Ben remained frozen, trembling on all fours. The rope felt like it was burning into his neck.
“Ben,” Maya said, her voice a mix of mockery and faux-sympathy. “Just do it. It’s easier.”
Slowly, as if every joint ached, Ben leaned forward. He pressed his lips against the curve of her ass through the shorts. He held it for a second, then recoiled.
“Pathetic,” Patricia sighed. “Again. And this time, make it count. Like you mean it. Or Sarah starts broadcasting live.”
A low, broken sound came from Ben’s throat. He leaned in again, this time planting a longer, more deliberate kiss against the sweaty fabric.
“Good boy!” Patricia cheered, patting his head condescendingly. “See, girls? He’s trainable.”
“What about the feet?” Maya asked, engrossed in the spectacle.
“Oh, right!” Patricia sat on the edge of the bed and pointed at her feet. “Ben. Come clean these. With your tongue.”
“You’re joking,” he breathed, his voice raw.
“Do I look like I’m joking?” she said, her amusement gone, replaced by cold command. “You kissed them before. Now you’re going to lick them. Every toe. Consider it your penance.”
The room was silent except for the hum of the mini-fridge. Sarah held her phone up, recording now, the red light a glaring eye.
Defeated, utterly hollowed out, Ben crawled the few feet to her. He took her right foot in his hand, the skin still damp and salty. He stared at it, his mind screaming. Then, with a shudder that racked his whole body, he leaned down and ran his tongue along the arch.
Sarah giggled. “Ew. And also, wow.”
Patricia threw her head back and laughed, a full-throated, joyous sound. “See? He’s a natural!” She wiggled her toes under his tongue. “Don’t forget the tops. And between the toes. I want them spotless.”
He did it. Mechanically, miserably, he licked and cleaned her feet, the taste of salt, sweat, and mat a permanent brand on his tongue. Tears dripped from his face onto her skin, and she just sighed contentedly.
“Okay, I’m bored of that,” she announced, pulling her feet away. “New pose. Ben, lie flat on your back. Arms at your sides.”
He did.
Patricia stood over him, then stepped one foot onto his chest, planting it firmly like a hunter with game. She struck a triumphant pose, hands on her hips, chin held high. “Get this, Sarah! This is the money shot.”
The flash went off multiple times.
“Now, Maya, your turn. Stand on him. He’s a rug.”
Maya, after a hesitant glance, stepped onto his abdomen, then put her other foot on his thigh, laughing nervously. “He’s kinda wobbly!”
“He’ll hold,” Patricia said, and Ben grimaced but held still under the extra weight. More photos.
“My turn again,” Patricia said. She ordered him back onto his hands and knees. She sat sideways on his back, crossing her legs, as if he were a bench in a park. She scrolled through her own phone, ignoring him completely, while Sarah and Maya took selfies with the human furniture in the background.
“You know,” Patricia mused, not looking up from her screen, “I think this is going to be a regular thing. This pet project. We have a lot of training to do.” She finally looked down at the back of his head. “Don’t we, pet?”
Ben didn’t answer. He just stared at the weave of the carpet beneath his hands, the le