Chapter 4: Chapter 4
The dry lecture on macroeconomic theory blurred into static as my phone vibrated against the scarred desktop. The screen lit up with a number I didn’t recognize, followed by a message: “Dis is Pooch. Out front in a black Tahoe. 5 mins after class, We shopping.”
I shoved the phone deep into my bag, the professor’s droning voice fading into a distant hum. My chair screeched against the linoleum as I stood, joining the stream of students flooding into the hallway.
The black Tahoe was idling at the curb, exhaust curling into the damp afternoon air. Pooch leaned against the driver’s side door, a skinny black young man in expensive sneakers and a puffy jacket, his eyes hidden behind mirrored aviators.
“You her?” he asked, not moving to open the door.
“I’m her,” I said, forcing a small smile. “You Pooch?”
He just nodded toward the passenger seat, his jaw tight. The door locks clicked open with a heavy thunk. The interior smelled like new leather and pine air freshener, undercut by something sharper, like bleach.
I slid in, placing my backpack carefully at my feet. He didn’t speak, just pulled into traffic, one hand resting casually on the wheel.
“So,” I started, trying to sound light. “You do this often? Escort service for new hires?”
Pooch glanced at me, his expression flat behind the glasses. “I do what Bey tell me to do. Today, that’s you and a credit card. Don’t make it more than that.”
He turned up the radio, bass throbbing through the speakers, ending the conversation. We drove in silence through blocks of row houses with boarded-up windows, then into a part of downtown with neon signs advertising lingerie and adult novelties.
He parked outside a place called “silk desires .” “Let’s go pick you some outfits “ he says getting out of the car, clearly he’s going to
follow me inside.
The bell above the door jingled as we stepped inside, the scent of synthetic perfume and cheap plastic assaulting my senses. The store was a gaudy explosion of neon and lace, mannequins in various stages of undress posed along the walls. A older woman with too much makeup on her wrinkled face looked up from behind the counter, her eyes flicking between Pooch and me with practiced disinterest.
"Help you kids find something?" she asked, her voice like sandpaper.
Pooch didn't even look at her. He just pulled a black Amex out of his pocket and slapped it on the counter. "She needs sexy outfits” he said, his voice a little excited.
The woman looked shocked clearly not used
to such directness. She looked at me and then back at Pooch. “You the one who’s gonna be wearing them?” she asked, her voice dripping with false sweetness and curiosity.
I could see the gears turning behind her eyes—calculating, assessing, wondering if this was some kind of illegal setup. She wasn’t wrong to be suspicious. A young black guy in designer sneakers and a puffy jacket, his face hidden behind mirrored shades, and a white girl who looked like she belonged in a sorority, not a strip club. We didn’t exactly scream *legitimate customers.*
I decide to pretend that he’s my boyfriend to
. I grab Pooch’s hand and pull him close to me. He stiffens but doesn’t pull away.
“Oh, we’re just shopping for our anniversary,” I say, batting my eyelashes at the woman behind the counter. “He’s so sweet, he wants to surprise me.”
The woman’s eyes relaxes . “Well, isn’t that romantic? What kind of outfits are you looking for, sweetheart?”
the woman asked, her voice suddenly smoother, like she’d flipped a switch. She stepped out from behind the counter, her high heels clicking against the linoleum. “We’ve got everything from schoolgirl to dominatrix. What’s your style?”
I forced a giggle, squeezing Pooch’s hand tighter. “What do you think honey?” I asked, turning to Pooch with a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. His grip on my hand tightened slightly, fingers pressing into my palm like he was measuring my bones. The woman watched us with the calculating gaze.
“Schoolgirl sounds good but we wanna try out a lot we’re buying multiple outfits and as slutty as possible ” Pooch said with a smirk.
I rolled my eyes at him. The woman behind the counter’s eyes lit up like she had just won the lottery. “Oh, you two are *adorable*,” she cooed, her voice dripping with fake sincerity. “Let me show you some of our most popular items.” She grabbed a handful of outfits from the racks and led us to a dressing room. The fabric felt cheap and tacky in my hands, but I forced a smile. “This one’s perfect for you,” the woman said, holding up a skimpy schoolgirl outfit that barely covered anything. I took it, my fingers brushing against the lace trim.
Pooch leaned against the wall outside the dressing room, arms crossed, his mirrored shades reflecting the neon lights of the store. He didn’t say a word, just watched me with that same detached expression.
I stepped into the dressing room, closing the door “Keep it
open” Pooch said.
I hesitated, then left it open. The outfit was worse than I expected—tiny pleated skirt, a white blouse that barely buttoned over my chest, and a pair of white knee-high socks that looked like they’d been stolen from a kindergartener. I held it up, the fabric scratchy against my fingers.
“This is what you want?” I asked, my voice flat.
Pooch didn’t answer. He just stood there, arms crossed, his mirrored shades reflecting the neon lights of the store.
I sighed, stepping out of my jeans and pulling on the skirt.
The fabric was so tight it barely covered my ass, the pleats mocking the idea of modesty. The blouse was worse—two sizes too small, the buttons straining against my chest. I adjusted the collar, my fingers trembling slightly. I turn around and look at Pooch
, his eyes are glued to my body. I smirk at him and turn around showing him my ass. He licks his lips and adjusts his pants. I walk out of the dressing room and the woman behind the counter gasps. She looks at me and then at Pooch. She looks like she’s about to say something but then stops herself. She looks at me and smiles. “You look amazing,” she says, her voice dripping with fake sincerity. “You two make a great couple.”
I roll my eyes and look at Pooch. “What do you think?” I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
“You like what you see, baby?”
Pooch’s jaw tightened behind his mirrored shades. He didn’t answer, but his fingers flexed against his thigh like he was fighting the urge to reach out.
“This outfit was made for you, sweetheart. Let me grab you some shoes to match.”
The woman disappeared into the back room, leaving me standing there in the ridiculous schoolgirl outfit, Pooch’s eyes burning holes into my back. I turned slowly, letting the skirt ride up just enough to make his breath catch.
“You like what you see, baby?” I asked, my voice dripping with honeyed venom.
Pooch’s jaw tightening, “You know I’m allowed to fuck you?” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Avon said you’re ours now. That means you belong to us.”
I smirked, rolling my eyes. “Oh, please. You couldn’t handle me.” I turned back to the mirror, adjusting the too-tight skirt. The fabric dug into my hips, the pleats barely covering my ass I could see Pooch’s reflection behind me, realizing that I made a mistake . I shouldn’t have taunted him. He was a predator, and I’d just waved a red cape in his face. The air between us thickened, charged with something violent and unspoken. Pooch’s fingers twitched at his sides, his breath coming faster now. I could see the hunger in the way his throat worked.
The way his fingers flexed like he was imagining what they'd do to me. My mistake was thinking he'd be like the other boys back home - all talk, no action. But this wasn't some frat boy with a fake tough-guy act. This is a man who'd spent his whole life in the game.
The kind who didn't just talk tough—he *was* tough. Every scar on his knuckles, every flicker of his eyes told a story of violence. And I'd just handed him a loaded gun.
The woman returned with a pair of white platform heels that looked like they belonged on a Barbie doll. "These will complete the look," she said, her voice too cheerful for the tension choking the air. I took them, my fingers brushing against Pooch's as I did. He didn't flinch, but his breath hitched just enough to tell me he was thinking about what those fingers could do.
"Try them on," he said, his voice rougher than before.
The command hung in the air between us, thick with implication. I hesitated, then slipped my feet into the heels. The plastic soles squeaked against the linoleum as I took a step forward, the skirt riding up even higher. Pooch's eyes tracked the movement like a hawk watching prey.
"Turn around," he said. It wasn't a request.
I did, slowly, letting the skirt flare out just enough to give him a good look at what he wasn't getting. His jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek twitching. I could almost hear the gears turning behind those mirrored shades.
"You got something more slutty ? Make her look like a cheap whore? “ he said his voice low and dangerous .
The woman hesitated, her eyes flicking between us. She wasn’t stupid. She knew what was happening here. Knew the kind of men who walked into her store with that look in their eyes. The kind who didn’t ask—who took.
“Of course,” she said finally, her voice too bright, too fake. “Let me grab something more... *revealing* for you.” She disappeared into the back room, leaving us alone in the store.
The silence between us was thick, suffocating. Pooch’s gaze burned into my back, heavy with something I couldn’t quite name. Not just lust—something darker. Something that made my skin prickle.
The kind of look that said he was punishing me for my remarks . The kind of look that said he was going to make me pay for it later.
The woman returned with a scrap of red fabric that could barely be called an outfit. "This should do," she said, her voice too chipper for the situation. The fabric was so sheer I could see my own skin through it. Pooch's fingers twitched at his sides like a man barely restraining himself.
"You like this one?" I asked, holding it up with a smirk. "Think it'll get me good tips?"
Pooch didn't answer. He just stepped closer, his breath hot against my neck. "Try it on," he said, his voice rough as gravel. The command sent a shiver down my spine. I turned to face him, our bodies almost touching.
The air between us was thick with something dangerous, something that made my pulse kick up a notch. Pooch's mirrored shades reflected my own wary expression back at me, but his face was unreadable. The woman behind the counter cleared her throat, suddenly very interested in rearranging a display of fishnet stockings.
"Try it on," Pooch repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "Now."
I held his gaze for a beat too long before turning back to the dressing room. The red fabric was barely more than a few strategically placed straps of lace and sheer mesh. It took me longer than I wanted to admit to figure out how the damn thing went on.
The straps were designed to leave nothing to the imagination, and the way they crisscrossed my back made it impossible to hide the way my hands trembled as I fastened them.
"Hurry up in there," Pooch called, his voice rougher than before. "Ain't got all day."
I took a deep breath, steeling myself, then stepped out. The fabric clung to my skin like a second layer, the mesh doing nothing to hide the way my nipples hardened in the cool air. Pooch's breath hitched, his fingers tightening around the credit card in his hand.
The woman behind the counter made a sound like she'd been slapped. "Oh my," she murmured, her eyes wide.
"That's... hot..,."
I ignored her, keeping my gaze locked on Pooch. His jaw was clenched tight enough to crack bone, his fingers flexing around the black Amex like he wanted to snap it in half. The air between us crackled with something electric, something dangerous.
"You like?" I asked, my voice dripping with false sweetness. I turned slowly, letting the sheer fabric ride up my thighs, giving him a full view of what he wasn't getting. The way his throat worked told me everything I needed to know.
Pooch exhaled sharply through his nose, his nostrils flaring. "Yeah," he said finally, his voice rough.
“It’s good, you also got something more submissive ? Leash ? Collar? Something that makes her look like a trained bitch?” Pooch’s voice was low, deliberate, like he was savoring the words.
The woman behind the counter froze, her fingers tightening around a hanger. Her eyes darted between us, calculating. She knew what he was asking. Knew the kind of man who would say those things. The kind of man who wasn’t just dangerous—he was *enjoying* being dangerous.
I kept my face blank, but my stomach twisted. This wasn’t just shopping anymore. This was a test. A power play. And I’d just stepped into the ring with a man who knew how to fight dirty.
The woman behind the counter cleared her throat, her fake smile slipping just a fraction. "Well, we do have some... *specialty items* in the back," she said, her voice suddenly strained. "Let me see what I can find."
She disappeared into the stockroom, leaving us alone in the store. the tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife.
She returned with several collars and matching leashes
. She held them up for us to see. The woman’s eyes flicked between Pooch and me, her fake smile slipping just a fraction. "Here we go," she said, her voice too bright, too fake. "We've got leather, we've got velvet, we've got ones with degrading little tags on them if that's what you're into." She held up a black leather collar with a small silver tag that had the word "SLUT" engraved on it. The metal glinted under the store lights, cold and unyielding. Pooch's fingers twitched at his side, his breath coming faster now. He stepped forward, his mirrored shades reflecting the collar like a promise. "That one," he said, his voice rough. "And the matching leash, got a matching lingerie set with fishnets stockings and high fuck me boots ? " Pooch asked, his voice a low growl. The woman hesitated, her professional veneer cracking under the weight of his stare. She glanced at me, then back at Pooch, and nodded quickly. "Yes, of course. I'll grab those for you." Her heels clicked nervously against the floor as she hurried to the back.
The air between us was thick with something unspoken. Pooch's fingers flexed at his sides
I turned to face him fully, letting the sheer fabric of the outfit cling to my curves. I forced my voice to stay light. "You really think this is necessary?" I asked, "I mean, I get the whole stripper thing, but this is just... excessive." I forced a laugh, but it came out too sharp, too brittle.
“Stripper? Nah, you ain’t just a stripper no more,” Pooch said, his voice low and deliberate. “You belong to the organization now. That mean you do what we say, when we say it. And this,” he picks up the collar , letting the silver tag dangle between his fingers, “Is what you gonna wear on the way to your home . You gonna walk outta here with this on. And if you don’t, I’ll drag you out like a dog on a leash. You understand me?”
Pooch’s voice was low, the threat coiled tight in his words. The collar dangled from his fingers, the silver tag glinting under the store lights like a warning.
I met his gaze, my pulse hammering in my throat and nodding slowly . "Yeah, I understand," I said, my voice steady despite the way my stomach twisted. I could see the hunger in his eyes, the way his fingers twitched around the collar like he was imagining how it would feel around my throat.
The woman returned with the
rest of the outfit—a matching set of black lace lingerie, fishnet stockings , and a pair of fuck-me boots with heels so high they would made my calves burn. She laid it all out on the counter like an offering, her eyes darting between us like she was watching a predator circle its prey.
“ try it on” She said apparently enjoying the show.
I picked everything up
, the fabric of the lingerie cool and slick against my skin. The fishnets were so fine they felt like spiderwebs, the boots heavy in my hands.
I hesitated for just a second before stepping back into the dressing room. The door clicked shut behind me, the sound too final. I took a deep breath, steeling myself, then began to undress. The red lingerie set falling to the floor in a whisper of lace. My fingers trembled as I stepped into the black lace g- string. The fabric was so thin it might as well have been air. The matching bra barely contained me, the cups cut so low they exposed more than they covered. I hooked the fishnets to the garters, the elastic biting into my thighs. The boots came last, the leather stiff against my calves. I zipped them up, the sound loud in the small dressing room.
I took a deep breath, my heart hammering against my ribs. This was more than just an outfit. It was a uniform. A statement. A declaration of ownership.
The door was still open, just as Pooch had ordered. I could see his reflection in the mirror, his mirrored shades reflecting my image back at me.
Then it was time for the collar . The black leather was cool against my throat as I fastened it, the silver tag with the word "SLUT" pressing into my collarbone. It felt like a brand. A mark of ownership. My fingers trembled as I clipped the leash to the D-ring.
AsI stepped out. Pooch's eyes flicked down to the collar, then back up to my face. His jaw tightened, but he didn't say anything. Just held out his hand for the leash.
I hesitated, then placed the leather strap in his palm. The moment his fingers closed around it, I felt the shift in power.
"Walk," he said, his voice low and rough.
I took a step forward, the heels making my calves burn. The leash pulled taut, forcing me to keep pace with him as he strode toward the door. The woman behind the counter watched us with wide eyes, her professional veneer completely shattered now. She opened her mouth like she wanted to say something, then thought better of it.
The bell jingled as we stepped outside.
The afternoon sun hit the chrome of the Tahoe, making the world glare in sharp edges. Pooch didn’t let up on the leash, forcing me to walk beside him in those ridiculous boots. Every step sent pain shooting up my calves. The collar dug into my throat with every breath.
"Get in," he said, yanking the door open.
I hesitated just long enough for him to give me a look that said *don’t test me*. I slid into the passenger seat, the leather seat sticking to my bare thighs. The leash went slack as he walked around to the driver’s side. The collar stayed on.
The engine roared to life.
Pooch didn't even glance at me as he peeled out of the parking lot, tires screeching against wet pavement. The collar bit into my throat with every turn, the silver tag cold against my skin. I could feel his eyes on me when he thought I wasn't looking, but he didn't say a word.
I can handle anything they bring I tell myself. I let the terrorist choke me unconscious while fucking me to get the bastard to talk. I can handle this. I can handle this.
The Tahoe’s engine growled as Pooch hit the gas, the collar around my neck tightening with every sharp turn. The silver tag with the word *SLUT* dug into my collarbone, a constant reminder of who was in control. I kept my face blank, my fingers digging into the leather seat to steady myself as we tore through Baltimore’s streets.