Chapter 22: The Morning After the Collar
The collar had become a second skin. Catriona stood before her own wardrobe, fingers hovering over a high-necked blouse. The butter-yellow cotton was soft, innocent. Perfect. She slipped it on, buttoned it to the top. The leather band sat beneath, a secret contour against her throat, noticeable only to her. Every swallow, every turn of her head, was a reminder. She smoothed the blouse down over her A-line skirt, her movements methodical. The librarian uniform was her armour, but today it felt like a disguise.
In the kitchen, Aidan was burning toast. The smoke alarm was beeping a sporadic, frantic rhythm. He waved a tea towel at it, scowling. “Bloody thing.”
“You have to watch it,” she said, her voice carefully even. She poured herself coffee.
“Aye, well, I was distracted.” He abandoned the towel, grabbed the charred slices, and dumped them in the bin. He turned, leaning against the counter, his eyes travelling over her. There was no lewdness in it, just assessment. “Can you feel it?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He pulled a clean plate from the dishwasher, started buttering a new piece of bread. “Normal day. Story time for the toddlers at eleven?”
“Mmhm. ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar.’”
He chuckled, a low, warm sound. “Right. Well, you just think about last night while you’re turning the pages. Think about the welts on your arse when you’re sitting on that tiny little stool.” He took a bite. “And remember who put them there.”
A shiver, hot and private, coiled in her belly. She took a sip of coffee to hide her expression.
“Dave texted,” Aidan said, his tone shifting to something more casual, though his gaze sharpened. “Wants to know if we’re still on for the pub quiz next week.”
Dave. The third point of their former, simpler triangle. Aidan’s best mate, who had, for months, been circling Catriona with a hopeful, puppy-dog persistence she’d gently deflected. The guilt was a faint, stale taste in Aidan’s mouth, she knew. For her, it was a distant concern, buried under the immediate, consuming reality of the collar.
“You should say yes,” she said.
“Should I?”
“It’s normal. We should do normal things.” She set her mug down. “It’ll be a test.”
He studied her, a slow smile spreading. “You’re a devious one, aren’t you? Sitting there in your pretty blouse, with my collar locked on you, planning how to sit through a pub quiz with the lad who fancies you.” He stepped closer, not touching her, but his presence filled the space. “What’s the goal? To see if you can behave? Or to see if you’ll squirm, knowing what I know?”
“Both,” she whispered.
He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice a quiet rumble. “Then we’ll go. And you’ll be polite to Dave. And you’ll laugh at his jokes. And every time you do, you’ll remember this.” His finger traced the hidden line of leather under her collar. “And you’ll know you’re lying to him. And you’ll like it.”
He pulled away, returning to his toast as if he’d commented on the weather. “Now off you go. Don’t be late.”
The library was a cathedral of quiet. Sunlight streamed through high windows, illuminating motes of dust dancing over the non-fiction stacks. The familiar smells of paper, glue, and mild disinfectant usually calmed her. Today, they were just a backdrop to the pulse beating against the leather at her throat.
Her colleague, Martin from Local History, waved as she passed. “Morning, Catriona! Big caterpillar day!”
She smiled, the expression feeling practiced on her face. “The biggest.”
At her desk, she processed returns. A biography of Churchill. A dog-eared romance novel. A guide to beginner’s yoga. Each stamp, each scan, was a robotic action. Her mind was in the grimy bedroom, feeling the cold lock click shut. She crossed her legs under the desk, the slight pressure a poor imitation.
Her phone buzzed in her skirt pocket. A single message from Aidan.
Remembering. x
Two words. They lit a fuse. She put the phone face down, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached for the next book.
Story time was a surreal pantomime. She sat on the brightly coloured stool, a circle of eager, sticky-faced children looking up at her. Parents lingered at the periphery. She opened the book, began to read in her clear, modulated story-time voice.
“‘In the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf.’”
On the bed. Under the light of the lamp. His hands on her waist.
“‘One Sunday morning, the warm sun came up and—pop!—out of the egg came a tiny and very hungry caterpillar.’”
The pop of the flogger. The heat rising on her skin.
She turned the page, showing the bright illustration of the caterpillar eating through one apple. The children giggled. A little boy pointed.
“‘But he was still hungry!’”
Aidan’s voice, rough against her ear. You begged so beautifully.
She continued, the beloved words a script running parallel to the film reel in her mind. The caterpillar’s feast, the stomach ache, the cocoon. The transformation.
She felt transformed. Here, in public, performing a role of nurturing innocence, she was vividly, acutely aware of the marks on her body and the lock at her throat. The dichotomy was not a fracture, but a charge. It made her feel powerful in her deception, sleek in her secrecy.
As the children applauded the beautiful butterfly, she closed the book with a soft smile, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The afternoon was interminable. She reshelved travel guides in the 910s, the silence now oppressive. Every time she reached for a high shelf, the collar pressed. Every time she bent to a lower one, the ghost of the welts on her backside whispered. She was a live wire in a calm sea.
At ten minutes to five, as she was tidying the returns cart, a shadow fell over her. Not Martin. This presence was larger, more focused. She knew before she looked up.
Aidan stood between the stacks, leaning against Philosophy, his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans. He wore a plain grey t-shirt that strained slightly across his shoulders. He looked utterly, casually out of place. He was smiling.
“Alright. Fancy a coffee? I was in the neighbourhood.”
She blinked, the cart handle cool under her palm. “What are you doing here?”
“Said. In the neighbourhood.” His eyes gleamed. “Wanted to see you in your habitat.”
This was new. This was a violation of the unspoken boundaries. Their world was the flat. This was hers. And he’d just walked into it.
“I finish at five,” she said, her voice hushed.
“I’ll wait.”
He didn’t move. He just watched her as she finished slotting the last books into place. Her movements felt scrutinized, performative. She was suddenly conscious of the way her skirt swung, the practical ballet flats on her feet, the neat bun at the nape of her neck—right above where the collar lay.
When the clock ticked over, she fetched her cardigan and bag from the staff room. He fell into step beside her as she walked out, nodding a goodbye to Martin, who eyed Aidan with friendly curiosity.
Outside, the evening air was cool. They walked a block in silence before she spoke. “That was reckless.”
“Was it?”
“Someone could have seen.”
“Seen what? Your roommate popping in to say hello?” He nudged her shoulder with his. “Relax. It’s just life. Besides, I wanted to see if you could do it.”
“Do what?”
“Be her. Be Catriona the librarian, with all that other stuff sitting right underneath.” He stopped walking, turning her to face him beside a shuttered newsagent. “You were perfect. Reading that story. All sweet and patient.” His thumb brushed the sensitive skin just below her ear, above the collar line. “And the whole time, you were mine. Weren’t you?”
The street was not empty. An elderly woman passed with a shopping trolley. A cyclist whizzed by. Yet the space between them crackled.
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Good.” He let his hand drop. “Now, I’ve been thinking. About our arrangement. About making it… more tangible.”
A bus rumbled past, drowning his words for a second. She waited, a new kind of tension knotting her stomach.
“Dave’s always going on about his cousin. The photographer. Does boudoir stuff, arty nudes, that lot. He’s got a proper studio. Good kit.” Aidan’s voice was practical, like he was discussing a home improvement project. “I was thinking we could use him.”
The world seemed to tilt slightly. “Use him… how?”
“To make a record. Of you.” Aidan’s eyes were dark, intent. “Not some shitty phone pic. Something proper. To see what we’re doing, from the outside. A project.”
It was a leap, a vault over a chasm she’d only peered into. From private acts to a recorded image. From a shared secret to a potential artefact.
“You want to photograph me? Like… that?”
“I do. And I want it to be good. I want it to be beautiful and filthy, all at once. I want to see the librarian on her knees, with her back marked up. I want a permanent record of the collar.” He took her hand, his grip firm. “It’s the next step, Cat. If you want to take it.”
She thought of the camera’s eye, impartial and capturing. She thought of her own face, not in a mirror’s fleeting reflection, but frozen in a state of surrender. The vulnerability was absolute. It was also a form of truth.
The leather around her throat felt heavier, an anchor.
“Yes,” she said, the word leaving her as both a surrender and a claim. “I want to take it.”
He brought her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles, a shockingly old-fashioned gesture. “Then I’ll talk to Dave. We’ll set it up.” He grinned then, the light-hearted mask slipping back into place. “Now, let’s get that coffee. I’m parched.”