Chapter 4: The Basement Reveal
The basement smelled like cedar and old secrets.
Xenia stood at the bottom of the stairs, her bare feet cold against the concrete floor, and tried to process what she was seeing. The Winslow house dungeon wasn't just a room. It was a cathedral.
Dust sheets covered most of the furniture, but here and there, the sheets had slipped. She caught glimpses of dark leather, polished steel, the dull gleam of chrome. The walls were lined with display cases, each one lit from within, holding restraints and implements that looked older than her grandmother. The amber glow turned everything soft, golden, almost holy.
"Forty years," Priscilla said, moving past her into the room. "Mrs. Winslow started collecting in the seventies. Her husband was a diplomat. They traveled everywhere. She picked up pieces from London, Berlin, Tokyo. Some of this stuff is museum-quality."
Xenia walked to the nearest display case. Inside, a leather collar sat on a velvet cushion. The leather was cracked with age, dark with oil from decades of use. A small card beside it read: Kyoto, 1982.
"She used all of this?"
"Every piece. Multiple times." Priscilla pulled a dust sheet off a large piece of furniture in the corner. "She told me once that the secret to a long marriage was never letting the mystery die. Her husband tied her up every Sunday for forty-three years. Right up until the week before he died."
Xenia's throat tightened. "That's..."
"Beautiful? Romantic? Completely insane?"
"All three."
Priscilla laughed. She gestured to the uncovered furniture—a massive leather bench with adjustable straps, padded cushions, and a frame of dark steel. It looked like something from a Victorian asylum, except cleaner. More intentional.
"This is the bench," Priscilla said. "Custom-made in 1985. Italian leather. Steel frame rated for eight hundred pounds."
"You checked my weight?"
"I checked everything." Priscilla ran her hand along the bench's surface. "Mrs. Winslow was six feet tall. Her husband was smaller. They needed something sturdy. But it's adjustable. It'll fit you."
Xenia approached the bench. Up close, she could see the details—the reinforced stitching, the padded cuffs at each corner, the mechanism that allowed the center section to tilt or elevate. The leather was worn smooth in places, the marks of years of bodies pressing against it.
"It's a milking bench," Xenia said.
"It's a lot of things. Milking. Bondage. Suspension. Whatever you need it to be." Priscilla turned to face her. "But tonight, it's a test."
Xenia's pulse quickened. "Another test."
"The first one was to see if you could submit. The second was to see if you could commit." Priscilla stepped closer. "This one is to see if you can surrender."
"I don't understand the difference."
"Submission is a choice. Surrender is what happens when choice stops." Priscilla's green eyes were steady, serious. "I need to know if you can let go. If you can trust someone else with your body, your pleasure, your limits. Without fighting. Without controlling."
Xenia's jaw tightened. "I've never had a problem with that."
"Haven't you?" Priscilla tilted her head. "You've been with dozens of women. But how many of them have been in charge? How many times have you let someone else decide what happens to you?"
The question landed like a slap. Xenia didn't answer.
"That's what I thought." Priscilla walked to a display case and opened it. She pulled out a pair of leather gloves—long, elbow-length, soft and black. "The community charter is clear. Before you can close on this house, you have to demonstrate both sides. You have to prove you can give and receive."
"And you're going to be the one who tests me."
"I'm the HOA president. It's my job." Priscilla pulled on the gloves, flexing her fingers. The leather creaked. "But if you want someone else, there are others. The Delacroixs. The Kims. Mrs. Chen has volunteered more than once, though I think she just wants to see you naked."
Xenia snorted. "Mrs. Chen is seventy-three."
"Age is just a number. Her words, not mine." Priscilla walked toward her, the gloves gleaming in the amber light. "So. Do you want me? Or someone else?"
Xenia looked at the bench. The cuffs. The evidence of decades of use. She thought about all the women she'd left behind, all the times she'd been the one in control. The one who decided when and how and how much.
She'd never been on the other side. Not really.
Not the way this room demanded.
"You," she said.
Priscilla smiled. "Good answer." She gestured to Xenia's clothes. "Strip."
Xenia pulled off her shirt, her jeans, her underwear. She folded them neatly and set them on a chair near the stairs. When she turned back, Priscilla was watching her with an expression that was part hunger, part calculation.
"Lie down on the bench. Face up."
Xenia sat on the edge of the leather, then swung her legs up and lay back. The leather was cool against her skin. She shifted, trying to get comfortable, but the bench wasn't designed for comfort.
Priscilla moved around her, fastening straps. First her wrists, pulled above her head and cuffed to the frame. Then her ankles, stretched wide and secured to the corners. The position left her exposed, legs spread, arms useless.
"You okay?" Priscilla asked.
"Yeah."
"Wrong answer. I need a safe word."
Xenia thought about it. The obvious words—red, stop, enough—felt too clinical. Too easy to forget. She wanted something that would stick.
"Pineapple," she said.
Priscilla laughed. "Pineapple?"
"It's memorable. I won't say it by accident."
"Fair enough." Priscilla ran her gloved hand along Xenia's thigh. "Pineapple it is. If you say it, everything stops. No questions. No negotiations. We're done."
"Got it."
"Do you have any hard limits I should know about?"
Xenia considered. "Don't break the skin. I don't like blood. And don't do anything with my face. I like my nose the way it is."
"No face. No blood. Got it." Priscilla's hand moved higher, gliding over Xenia's hips. "Anything else?"
"No permanent marks."
Priscilla nodded. She moved to a cabinet against the wall and opened it. Inside were rows of bottles, tubes, devices—a pharmacy of pleasure and pain. She selected two items: a jar of lubricant and a device that Xenia didn't recognize at first.
Then she saw the tubes. The motor. The collection container.
The milker.
"You're really doing it," Xenia said.
"I'm really doing it." Priscilla returned to the bench and set the device on a small table beside it. "This is a closed system. No mess. No cleanup. It'll pull until you come, then keep pulling until you come again."
"How many times?"
"That depends on you." Priscilla uncapped the lubricant and poured some into her gloved palm. "The record is seven. Mrs. Winslow set it in 1991. No one's beat it since."
Xenia's cock twitched. Despite the situation—or maybe because of it—she was getting hard. The exposure, the restraints, the cold leather beneath her back. The way Priscilla looked at her like she was a puzzle to be solved.
"This is the first part," Priscilla said. She wrapped her lubed hand around Xenia's cock and began to stroke. Slow, steady, professional. "I need you hard. All the way hard. Then I'm going to attach the milker."
"And the second part?"
Priscilla's free hand disappeared between Xenia's legs. Xenia felt a lubed finger press against her ass.
"The second part is this."
Xenia tensed. The pressure was unfamiliar—not unpleasant, but intense. She'd done this before, but always on her own terms. Always in control.
"Relax," Priscilla said. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm going to open you up."
"That's what worries me."
Priscilla's finger pushed inside, just past the first ring of muscle. Xenia's breath hitched. She forced herself to relax, to let her body accept the intrusion.
"Good," Priscilla murmured. "That's good. You're doing well."
"Reserve judgments for later."
Priscilla laughed softly. She worked her finger in and out, slow and patient. The lube made it slick, easy. After a minute, she added a second finger, then a third. By the time she was done, Xenia was breathing hard, her cock rigid, her body humming with a tension that had nowhere to go.
"Ready?" Priscilla asked.
"For what?"
"For this." Priscilla pulled out a dildo—long, thick, dark silicone—and lubed it generously. Then she pressed the head against Xenia's entrance.
Xenia's whole body clenched.
"Breathe," Priscilla said. "I'm not going to move until you tell me."
Xenia breathed. In through her nose, out through her mouth. The pressure was immense—painful, but not quite. On the edge. Right on the edge.
"Okay," she managed. "I'm okay."
Priscilla pushed forward, slow and steady. The dildo slid in inch by inch, filling her. Xenia's hands clenched into fists, her wrists straining against the cuffs.
"How's that feel?"
"Full."
"Good full or bad full?"
"Good." Xenia's voice was strained. "Keep going."
Priscilla pushed until the base of the dildo was flush against Xenia's skin. Then she stopped. Let Xenia adjust. Let her feel the weight of it, the stretch, the strange intimacy of being filled.
"Now the milker," Priscilla said.
She picked up the device and fitted it over Xenia's cock. The tube was soft silicone, lined with tiny nubs that promised friction. Priscilla adjusted the seal, made sure it was tight, then flipped a switch.
The motor hummed to life.
The first pull hit Xenia like a punch. The suction was strong, rhythmic, a steady pulse that dragged her toward the edge. The nubs inside the tube massaged her shaft with every cycle, and the collection container began to fill with a thin trickle of pre-cum.
"Holy shit," Xenia gasped.
Priscilla watched her face. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Priscilla didn't move. She stood beside the bench, one gloved hand resting on the dildo lodged inside Xenia, the other on the milker's controls. She watched as the machine worked, as Xenia's hips began to twitch, as her breath came faster.
"Don't come yet," Priscilla said.
"I can't—"
"You can. Hold it."
Xenia gritted her teeth. The suction pulled at her, constant and unrelenting. She could feel the orgasm building in her balls, spreading up her spine. She tried to think about something else—anything else—but her mind refused to cooperate.
"I can't," she said again.
"You can." Priscilla's voice was calm, almost bored. "Think about something else. Count backwards. Recite a poem. Whatever it takes."
Xenia tried to remember the words to anything. Her mind was blank. The suction kept pulling, pulling, pulling.
"I'm going to come."
"No, you're not."
Priscilla adjusted the dildo, pushing it deeper. Xenia's whole body convulsed.
"I'm going—"
"Not yet."
Priscilla pulled the milker off, breaking the suction. Xenia gasped, her cock twitching in the cold air. The frustration was immediate and overwhelming.
"You—"
"Trust me." Priscilla lubed her hand and wrapped it around Xenia's cock. She didn't stroke. Just held. "You okay?"
"I hate you."
"You don't."
"I do. I really, really do."
Priscilla smiled. She leaned down and kissed Xenia's forehead—a surprisingly gentle gesture. Then she replaced the milker and turned it back on.
The suction resumed. Xenia's hips bucked off the bench.
"I need you to surrender," Priscilla said. "Not just submit. Surrender. Let go of the idea that you're in control. Let go of the plan. Let go of everything except what I'm giving you."
"I'm trying."
"Don't try. Do."
The dildo moved inside her—Priscilla's gloved hand working it in and out, slow and steady. The milker pulled at her cock, relentless and mechanical. Xenia's whole body was shaking, her breath coming in short, sharp gusts.
She wanted to come. Needed to. But Priscilla's voice in her ear kept her on the edge.
"How does it feel?" Priscilla asked.
"Like torture."
"Good torture?"
"Fuck you."
"Maybe later." Priscilla pushed the dildo deeper, hitting something that made Xenia's vision go white. "Right now, you're going to come for me. Not for yourself. For me."
"I can't—"
"You can. Let go."
The words unlocked something. Xenia felt the orgasm rise—a wave she couldn't stop, couldn't control. It crashed over her with a violence that made her scream. Her cock erupted into the milker's tube, pulse after pulse, her whole body convulsing against the restraints.
And the milker kept pulling.
"Keep going," Priscilla said.
"I can't—"
"You can."
The suction continued. The nubs massaged her oversensitive shaft. The dildo moved inside her, slower now, gentler. Xenia's second orgasm built like a fever, almost painful, almost too much.
"I can't," she gasped.
"You can. One more."
The second wave hit. She came again, harder than before, her voice breaking on a sob. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes—not from pain, not exactly, but from the sheer overwhelming everything of it all.
Priscilla turned off the milker. She removed the tube, set it aside, and removed the dildo with a gentle twist. Then she unfastened the straps and helped Xenia sit up.
Xenia's body was trembling. Her wrists were red from the cuffs. Her ass was sore. Her cock was limp and oversensitive.
But she was smiling.
"That was—" She couldn't find the words.
"Intense?" Priscilla suggested.
"Yeah. That."
Priscilla cupped her face in her ungloved hands. "You did good. Really good. Three orgasms on your first time. That's rare."
"Three?"
"The milker caught two. The third was just now, while I was taking it off. I saw your face."
Xenia's cheeks burned. "You were watching?"
"I was watching very closely." Priscilla kissed her, soft and slow. "Welcome to the neighborhood, Xenia. You passed."
Xenia leaned into the kiss. Her body ached. Her mind was floating somewhere above her. The basement smelled like leather and sex and something that might have been pride.
"Now," Priscilla said, pulling back, "there's one more thing."
"What?"
Priscilla gestured to the far wall. Xenia hadn't noticed it before—a row of cabinets, each one locked with a combination padlock.
"Mrs. Winslow's personal collection," Priscilla said. "Her favorite pieces. She left instructions in her will. The new owner gets one item of their choosing, as a housewarming gift."
Xenia slid off the bench, her legs barely holding her weight. She walked to the cabinets, her fingers brushing the locks.
"What are the rules?"
"You pick one. Any one. And you use it on me. Tonight."
Xenia turned. Priscilla was standing by the bench, still fully dressed, the gloves still on her hands. She looked calm, untouchable.
But there was a flush on her cheeks. A quickness in her breath.
"You want me to use something from that cabinet on you?"
"I want to see what you choose." Priscilla walked toward her, her heels clicking on the concrete. "You've been on the receiving end all night. Now it's my turn. You choose. You decide. And you show me what you learned tonight."
Xenia looked at the cabinets. The padlocks. The secrets inside.
Then she looked at Priscilla. The honey-blonde waves. The green eyes. The dress that hid nothing.
She reached for a lock and pulled it off. The cabinet door swung open.
Inside, on a rack, was a flogger. The handle was braided leather, worn smooth by decades of use. The tails were long, dark, weighted at the tips.
Xenia picked it up. It was heavier than she expected.
"This one," she said.
Priscilla's smile widened. "You're full of surprises."
The night air crept in from somewhere, a draft drifting down from the open basement door, carrying the scent of fall leaves and a distant barbecue. Xenia flexed her grip on the flogger, tested its weight, felt the heft of it shift from the handle to the tips and back again.
Priscilla was already unbuttoning her dress.
The dress pooled at her feet.
Priscilla stood in nothing but heels and those elbow-length gloves, her body a study in contradiction—soft where Xenia was hard, curved where Xenia was angular. Stretch marks silvered her stomach and breasts, evidence of children Xenia had never asked about. The candlelight from upstairs caught the gold in her hair and turned it molten.
"You're staring again," Priscilla said.
"You're worth staring at."
Priscilla's smile flickered—something genuine beneath the practiced poise. She reached for the flogger in Xenia's hand, but Xenia pulled it back.
"No," Xenia said. "You gave me the choice. I'm choosing."
"Then use it."
"I will. When I'm ready."
Priscilla's eyebrows rose. This was new territory—the Amazon who'd submitted so beautifully moments ago now standing tall, flogger in hand, eyes steady. The shift was palpable.
"You're going to top me," Priscilla said. Not a question.
"I'm going to give you what you need." Xenia stepped closer. "You've been in control all night. Every touch. Every command. Every test. And you loved it."
"I did."
"But now you want to know if I can do the same." Xenia circled her slowly, the flogger trailing through the air behind her. "You want to feel what it's like to let go."
Priscilla's breath quickened. "And if I don't?"
"Then you say pineapple." Xenia stopped behind her, close enough that her breath warmed Priscilla's ear. "But you won't."
"You sound sure."
"I am."
The first strike landed on Priscilla's ass—light, testing. The leather tails splayed across her skin with a sound like a whisper. Priscilla gasped, more from surprise than pain.
"Too much?" Xenia asked.
"No."
"Good."
The second strike was harder. The third harder still. Xenia found a rhythm, a steady cadence of impact and release. She watched Priscilla's skin flush pink, watched her hands clench and unclench at her sides.
"You're holding back," Priscilla said.
"I'm warming you up."
"I don't need warming up."
Xenia laughed—low, warm. "You've been running this neighborhood for years. Testing people. Breaking them in. You think I don't know you want someone to do the same to you?"
Priscilla's silence was answer enough.
The next strike landed with a crack. Priscilla cried out, her body arching. But she didn't say pineapple. She didn't say anything at all.
"Turn around," Xenia said.
Priscilla turned. Her eyes were bright, her lips parted. The flush on her chest matched the one on her ass.
Xenia set the flogger aside. She reached for Priscilla's face, cupped her jaw with both hands, and kissed her—soft, gentle, a stark contrast to the sting still radiating through her skin.
"You did good," Xenia murmured against her mouth.
"I didn't do anything."
"You took it. That's something."
Priscilla's laugh was breathless. "You're going to be insufferable, aren't you?"
"Probably." Xenia kissed her again, deeper this time. "But you'll like it."
She guided Priscilla to the bench—the same one she'd been strapped to minutes ago. It was still warm from her body, still marked by her sweat. She pressed Priscilla down onto it, face up, and arranged her limbs with the same care Priscilla had shown her.
"Do I get a safe word?" Priscilla asked.
"You already have one."
"Pineapple feels ridiculous."
"It's memorable." Xenia fastened the cuffs around her wrists, her ankles. "You said that yourself."
Priscilla tested the restraints. They held firm. "What now?"
"Now I fuck you."
Priscilla's laugh died in her throat. Xenia was already hard—stiff and heavy, the weight of her cock visible even in the low amber light.
"You're serious."
"I'm always serious about this." Xenia climbed onto the bench, settling between Priscilla's spread legs. Her hands found Priscilla's hips, her thumbs tracing slow circles on the inside of her thighs. "You've had me in your mouth. You've had me strapped down. You've made me come until I cried."
"And?"
"Now I make you come until you forget your own name."
Priscilla's breath hitched. The confidence in Xenia's voice was new—not the cocky flirt she'd met at the door, but something deeper. Something earned.
Xenia leaned down and kissed her—long, slow, thorough. Her cock pressed against Priscilla's cunt, hard and warm and waiting. She didn't push inside. Not yet.
"You want this?" she asked.
"God, yes."
"Say it."
"I want it. I want you. Xenia, please."
The word please hung in the air between them. Priscilla Vandermeer, HOA president, keeper of secrets, queen of this suburban underworld, was begging.
Xenia pushed inside.
The first inch stole her breath. Priscilla was wet—soaking, dripping—the lube from earlier and her own arousal making the slide easy. But she was tight, too. Tight and hot and gripping Xenia like she was trying to pull her deeper.
"Fuck," Xenia breathed.
"Keep going."
Xenia pushed further. Another inch. Another. She watched Priscilla's face—watched her eyes go wide, her mouth fall open. Watched the moment she felt the stretch, the fullness.
"How does it feel?"
"Full." Priscilla's voice cracked. "So full."
"That's the point."
Xenia pulled back, then thrust forward. Hard. The bench creaked beneath them. Priscilla cried out—not pain, not quite pleasure, something between. Something raw.
Xenia set a pace. Slow at first, deliberate, letting Priscilla feel every inch. Then faster, harder, her hips finding a rhythm that matched their breathing. Her braid had come loose, dark hair spilling over her shoulders, sticking to the sweat on her back.
"You're—" Priscilla couldn't finish.
"I'm what?"
"Perfect. Fuck. You're perfect."
Xenia laughed—breathless, strained. "That's the first nice thing you've said to me."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late."
She thrust deeper, hitting something that made Priscilla's whole body arch. The restraints held. Her wrists strained against the cuffs. Her legs wrapped around Xenia's hips, heels digging into her back.
"Harder," Priscilla demanded.
"You sure?"
"I'm not fragile."
Xenia complied. She drove into her with a force that made the bench shudder. The sound of skin against skin echoed off the concrete walls. The dust sheets had slipped from more furniture—Xenia caught glimpses of strange shapes, leather and steel, the silhouettes of things she couldn't name.
She didn't care about any of it. Her whole world had narrowed to this: Priscilla's body beneath her, Priscilla's cunt around her, Priscilla's voice crying out with every thrust.
"I'm close," Priscilla gasped.
"Hold it."
"I can't—"
"You can." Xenia slowed, just enough to keep her on the edge. "You made me wait. Now I make you wait."
Priscilla groaned in frustration. "You're enjoying this."
"Immensely."
"Sadist."
"Tender sadist." Xenia kissed her neck, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat. "That's the difference."
Priscilla's laugh turned into a moan as Xenia thrust again. Faster now, deeper. The rhythm was frantic, desperate. Both of them chasing something they couldn't name.
"Don't stop," Priscilla said.
"I won't."
"Don't pull out."
Xenia froze. "What?"
"I said don't pull out." Priscilla's eyes locked on hers. "I want to feel it. All of it."
"You know what happens if I don't."
"I know." Priscilla's voice was steady, certain. "I'm on the pill. I want to feel you come inside me."
Xenia's brain short-circuited. "That's—"
"Do it. Please."
The please again. That word, twice in one night, from a woman who'd made Xenia say it zero times.
Xenia moved. Hard. Fast. No more control, no more rhythm. Just instinct, just need. She drove into Priscilla with everything she had, her breath ragged, her muscles burning.
Priscilla came first—a shuddering, choking climax that seemed to go on forever. Her cunt clenched around Xenia, pulling her deeper, demanding more.
Xenia followed.
The orgasm hit her like a wave. She poured into Priscilla—pulse after pulse, hot and thick and endless. She felt it fill her, felt it spill out around her cock, felt the slick heat of it dripping down onto the bench.
Priscilla's eyes fluttered closed. Her body went limp.
Xenia stayed inside her, breathing hard, forehead pressed to Priscilla's shoulder. The bench creaked as she shifted, trying to find a position that didn't involve moving.
"That was..." Priscilla couldn't finish the sentence.
"I know."
They lay there—Xenia on top of Priscilla, still inside her, still leaking. The basement was quiet except for the hum of the furnace and the distant hiss of something mechanical.
After a while, Xenia pulled out. Slowly. Carefully. Priscilla made a small sound of protest, but it was momentary. Then she felt empty. She felt the fluid—it was leaking out of her in a slow, steady trickle, pooling on the leather beneath her.
"I should get a towel," Xenia said.
"In a minute." Priscilla reached up and touched her face. "Stay here."
"Okay."
They lay in the aftermath. On the far wall, some old tool rack caught the dim light, floggers and straps dangling like a collection of implements and secrets. The milker's empty tube sat where Priscilla had left it. The flogger Xenia had used leaned against the bench, its tails resting on the floor.
Priscilla stretched. "If I wasn't on the pill," she said, conversationally, "you would have just knocked me up."
Xenia choked on a laugh. "That's—"
"True? Yes. Very true. I could feel it." Priscilla's hand drifted to her stomach. "Still can."
Xenia didn't know what to say. So she said nothing.
Priscilla turned her head and kissed her. Soft. Tender. The kind of kiss that said more than words.
Xenia kissed her back.
When they broke apart, Priscilla was smiling. Not the sharp, calculating smile from before. Something softer. Something almost vulnerable.
"Well," she said. "That's the best test I've ever failed."
"You didn't fail."
"I definitely failed. I wasn't supposed to enjoy it that much." She traced Xenia's jaw with one finger. "But I did. Every bit of it."
Xenia felt something shift in her chest. Something warm and uncomfortable. Something she didn't want to name.
"Good," she said. "I'm glad."
Priscilla studied her face. Whatever she was looking for, she seemed to find it.
"I'm keeping you," she said.
"I told you not to let me get attached."
"I'm not attached." Priscilla stretched, a lazy cat in a sunbeam that didn't exist. "You're just... convenient. And hung. And the things you do with your hips should probably be illegal in several states."
"Careful," Xenia said. "You're going to give me a big head."
"Too late for that." Priscilla patted her cheek. "But seriously. The house. The community. The whole package. You're in."
"I'm in."
"Good." Priscilla closed her eyes. "Now get me a towel. And then we're going to take a shower. And then we're going to do it again. Because I'm not done with you."
Xenia laughed. "You're insatiable."
"And you're a breeder with a breeding kink. We're perfect for each other."
The word breeder sent a flicker through Xenia's chest. She thought about Priscilla's stomach, the way her hand had rested there. The way she'd said if I wasn't on the pill like it was nothing.
It wasn't nothing. Not to Xenia.
But she didn't say that. She just stood up, found a towel in a cabinet, and brought it back. Priscilla cleaned herself off with slow, deliberate strokes. Then she stood and took Xenia's hand.
"Shower," she said. "Now."
They walked up the stairs together, naked, leaving the basement behind. But Xenia felt it calling her back—the bench, the cuffs, the milker, the flogger. All of it. Everything.
This was her house now. Her dungeon. Her community.
And Priscilla was going to be a part of it. A big part. The kind of part that made Xenia's chest hurt in ways she didn't want to examine.
The shower was hot and steamy and too small for two people of their combined size. They made it work anyway.
And in the wet, glistening dark, with Priscilla's mouth on her neck and Priscilla's hands on her cock, Xenia thought about what it meant to stay. To plant roots. To stop running.
It scared her. More than any flogger or milker or bench ever could.
But she didn't say that either. She just closed her eyes and let Priscilla take her again—soft this time, slow, the two of them tangled together under the spray.
When they finally stumbled out, wrapped in towels, the sun was rising over Maple Grove. The neighborhood was quiet. The monsters were sleeping. And Xenia was home.