Chapter 31: The Dinner Protocol
The walk back from the sex shop was a study in silent tension. The plain black bag swung from Liberty’s hand, each slight jostle a faint, plastic rustle that screamed its contents to her alone. The city seemed to watch her with a thousand indifferent eyes, the earlier humiliation curdling into a numb ache. Alan and Emma walked ahead, their conversation a low, casual murmur about work and a mutual friend’s upcoming wedding, the normality of it a bizarre counterpoint to the weight in her grip.
They turned into The Rustic Hearth, a sprawling chain restaurant with faux-wood paneling and the scent of grilled meat and fries. It was aggressively neutral, a place of family dinners and first dates that wouldn’t dare judge anyone’s appearance. A bored hostess led them to a dimly lit booth near the back, swathed in faded red vinyl. The tabletop was scarred, the leather seat creaked, and a life-sized portrait of a grinning cowboy with a peeling mustache watched over them.
Alan slid in first, then Emma, leaving Liberty to sit opposite them, her back to the mostly empty dining room.She placed the bag on the seat beside her like a sleeping animal. A young waiter appeared, dropping laminated menus with a practiced smile that didn’t linger on anyone’s face.“Special today is the chipotle chicken pasta. Can I get you started with drinks?”
“Two pale ales, whatever’s local on tap,” Emma said. “And a glass of tap water with extra lemon for her.” She nodded toward Liberty without looking.The waiter vanished. The second he was out of earshot, the atmosphere in the booth shifted, compressing. Alan leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his kind eyes intent. “Take the small plug out of the bag.The teardrop one.”
Liberty’s breath caught. She fumbled with the bag’s handles, the sound unbearably loud in the booth. Her fingers closed around the cool, smooth silicone. She placed it on the table between the salt shaker and a bottle of steak sauce.It looked innocuous and utterly obscene.
Emma picked up her menu, glancing over the top.“Now.You’re going to put it in. Right here.”
Liberty’s gaze flicked to the restaurant around them. A family with two young kids was several booths away.An elderly couple was by the window.It was public, but private. Shielded by the high back of the booth, but exposed to anyone walking past to the restrooms. “Here?” The word was a dry croak.
“You heard her,” Alan said, his voice calm, inexorable.“Use the lubricant from the bottle. Don’t be shy with it. We want this to be comfortable for long-term wear.”
Her hands trembled as she unscrewed the cap on the large bottle, squeezing a cold, clear dollop onto her fingertips. The smell was clean, clinical. Under the table, she wrestled with the tight yoga pants, tugging them and her underwear down just enough.The vinyl was cool against her thighs. Every movement was clumsy, hidden yet profoundly visible to the two people watching her with detached interest. She slicked the plug, her face burning.
She leaned to the side, partially turning her back to the room in a pathetic attempt at modesty.The initial pressure was a sharp, intimate intrusion. She closed her eyes, focusing on her breathing, on the instruction.Slowly, steadily, she worked the widest part past her resistance. A soft, choked sound escaped her as it settled into place with a final, yielding pop. The full, stretched feeling was immediate and alien. She quickly pulled her clothes back into place, the fabric now pressed against the flared base, a constant, unmistakable presence.
She sat up, her face flushed, her eyes slightly glazed. The plug shifted minutely as she settled against the seat.“Good,” Alan said, as if she’d just properly folded a napkin. “You’ll wear that until bedtime.You will sleep with it inside you. Your body needs to learn to accept it as a normal state.” He took a sip of the water the waiter had just delivered, his demeanor relaxed.“Now, the other items are for specific training sessions. But this,” he tapped the table near where the plug had been, “is for your continual improvement. It’s foundational.”
Emma sipped her beer, a smile playing on her lips. “How does it feel?”
Liberty swallowed.“Full,” she whispered.“You’ll get used to it. You’ll even come to miss it when it’s out.” Emma’s tone was matter-of-fact.“Now, Alan’s got some new house rules for you. While we wait for the nachos.”
Alan leaned back, steepling his fingers. “The overnight conditioning is one thing.But structure during waking hours is equally important. So, rule one: You will address us formally at all times unless instructed otherwise. It’s ‘Alan’ and ‘Emma,’ not ‘hey’ or ‘you guys.’ It maintains the dynamic.”
Liberty nodded, the plug making her hyper-aware of her own posture. “Yes, Alan.”
“Rule two: As we’ve already laid out, at home you will usually be in lingerie. The lingerie is decorative on you and keeps nakedness as a special state.”
“Yes, Alan.”
“Rule three,” Emma cut in, taking a french fry from the basket the waiter had just set down.“Bedtime.You sleep on the floor under our bed. You have a thin mattress, but it is not your bed.It’s your place. And before you settle, you will kneel and ask each of us if we have any need of you. If we do not, you will thank us for the day and for your place. Verbally. You will sleep with your ankles cuffed to the bedposts to maintain your wide-legged position. Legs spread widely must become your most normal comfortable position, the organs between your legs are the main purpose of your life now.”
The simplicity of it, the brutal dismantling of even the privacy of sleep, landed harder than any sexual command. Liberty felt a lump form in her throat.This was the machinery of her objectification, being assembled piece by piece. It was one thing to be used in moments of passion or humiliation; it was another to have it codified into the daily liturgy.“I understand,” she said, her voice thin.
Alan’s expression softened, not with pity, but with something like approval. “This is what you wanted, Liberty.A complete relinquishment.We’re just providing the framework. It’s for your benefit as much as ours. It gives you clarity.”
The food arrived—a towering plate of nachos for Emma, a club sandwich for Alan, a simple salad for Liberty. The normality of eating, of the clatter of cutlery and the exchange of “pass the salsa,” was surreal. Every bite Liberty took, every shift in her seat, was accompanied by the quiet, internal reminder of the plug.It was a secret she carried in plain sight, a truth known only to their table.
As they ate, Emma’s foot found Liberty’s under the table, not aggressively, but possessively, resting on top of her instep. “You did well today,” Emma said, her voice conversational.“With the shopping, with this.Even when you were practically dripping in the street. It’s a good start.”
The casual mention of her public arousal, paired with the gentle pressure of Emma’s foot, sent a confusing pulse of warmth through her. The shame and the thrill were now inseparable strands of the same cord. She looked down at her salad, her appetite gone, replaced by a hollow, accepting ache.
She looked down at her salad, her appetite gone, replaced by a hollow, accepting ache. The plug within her was a constant, gentle pressure, a physical truth that overshadowed the taste of lettuce and vinaigrette. Alan cleared his throat softly, drawing her gaze back up from the plate.
“There’s one more structural element,” he said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.“It concerns your upkeep. Your big breasts and that round arse are a key part of your value to us. You cannot allow yourself to become too thin.”
Liberty blinked, the vulgarity of the statement in this bland setting momentarily stunning her.Emma nodded, swirling a nacho in cheese. “He means you’ll eat well.Proper meals, not rabbit food.And you’ll attend the gym regularly. We’ll get you a membership. Strength and shape, that’s the goal.”
“But…” Liberty began, then stopped herself.She had no ‘but’.This was the deal.
Alan leaned in, his voice low but clear.“You will also continue your art. You agreed at the outset you’d earn five hundred pounds a month from painting. It keeps you from becoming a boring, sullen drudge. It keeps a part of you alive, which is important to us.”
The mention of her painting, the one thread of her independent self she’d thought they might discard, sent a confusing rush of gratitude through her.That confusion deepened with his next words.
“However,” Alan continued, “that five hundred pounds will be spent entirely on your gym membership, your art supplies, lingerie, and sex toys. Any other expenditure will result in punishment.”
The word hung in the air, heavier than any other he’d used.Punishment. It was a cold, sharp term amidst all the talk of care and maintenance. Emma’s foot pressed down more firmly on Liberty’s instep under the table. “Emma and I have had no cause to punish you yet,” Emma said, her tone almost cheerful.“But you should expect to be punished. Your body is the interface between you and us.So your body will be used to deliver it. Makes sense, right?”
Liberty gulped. A hard lump formed in her throat, a cocktail of dread and a dark, thrilling curiosity.Her face grew hot. And as always, traitorously, a deep, involuntary squeeze fluttered low in her belly, a secret, wet echo of excitement about what being punished might mean.
She looked from Alan’s calm, expectant face to Emma’s knowing smirk. The hollow ache was gone, replaced by a buzzing, nervous anticipation that tightened her skin. She nodded once, a short, sharp movement.“Yes,” she said, her voice barely her own. “It makes sense.”