Chapter 51: The New Pet
The marble was cold beneath her bare feet.
Emma descended the staircase slowly, one hand trailing along the iron railing, her hair still damp from the shower and leaving dark spots on the shoulders of her black silk robe. The grand foyer opened up beneath her—a cavern of white stone and gold light, the chandelier overhead scattering fractured rainbows across the floor.
She heard the chain before she saw it.
A soft metallic clink. A whimper. And then Caron's voice, low and amused, drifting up from the sunken living room beyond the foyer.
"Come see what Hector sent us."
Emma reached the bottom of the stairs. Crossed the marble. Stopped in the archway.
Caron sat on the leather chesterfield in the center of the room, legs crossed, a glass of champagne in one hand. In the other she held a braided leather leash, the kind trainers used on dogs. The leash ended at a collar around the neck of a girl kneeling at Caron's feet.
The girl was young. Maybe sixteen. Maybe younger, though Emma had learned that youth was hard to judge in this world—Malik had looked forty when he died, and he'd been twenty-three. This girl had wide dark blue eyes, wet with tears or something like them. Her hair was honey blonde and long, tangled around her shoulders. She wore nothing. Not a stitch. Her skin was pale, unmarked except for the collar, and her thighs trembled where they pressed against the cold marble.
Emma felt her cunt clinch.
"Pretty thing, isn't she?" Caron said. She tugged the leash, and the girl's head jerked forward. "Hector's reward for Vancouver. He said you earned a pet."
Emma didn't answer. She walked closer. The girl looked up at her—those wide dark blue eyes, that trembling mouth—and Emma saw the fear there. The confusion. The desperate, animal need to please.
She'd worn that look once. In a motel room in Surrey. In the back of a car. On her knees in front of a man who'd promised her the world and given her a needle instead.
"What's her name?" Emma asked.
"She doesn't have one yet. You get to choose."
Caron extended the leash. Emma took it. The leather was warm from Caron's hand.
"Kneel," Emma said.
The girl obeyed. She was already kneeling, but she sank lower—forehead nearly touching the marble, ass raised, her whole body a question mark.
Emma looked at Caron. Caron smiled that slow, knowing smile.
"Upstairs," Emma said. "The penthouse. Now."
The girl crawled. Emma led her by the leash, up the stairs, through the corridors, past the windows where the forest pressed close and green. The girl's knees scraped against the marble. She didn't complain. Didn't make a sound.
The penthouse suite was warm. The shutters were half-closed, the bed unmade, the tray from last night still on the nightstand—syringes, mirror, empty vial. Emma walked the girl to the center of the room and dropped the leash.
"Stay."
She went to the bathroom. Ran cold water over her wrists. Looked at herself in the mirror—the dark circles under her eyes, the hollows in her cheeks, the faint track marks on her inner arm that she'd stopped hiding months ago.
She thought about the motel. The girl who'd been her, once. Fifteen years old and hungry and already knowing that her body was the only currency she had.
She didn't feel sorry for the girl on the floor.
She felt hungry.
When she came back, the girl was exactly where she'd left her—kneeling on the marble, head bowed, arms loose at her sides. Emma circled her once. Twice. Looked at the curve of her spine, the C cup breasts, the smooth shaved cunt lips between her legs.
"You ever been with a woman?" Emma asked.
"No, ma'am."
The voice was soft. Southern, maybe. A drawl that made Emma think of cheap motels and cheaper men.
"You ever done heroin?"
A pause. Then: "No, ma'am."
Emma smiled.
"Today's your lucky day."
She crossed to the nightstand. Opened the drawer. Inside: a fresh syringe, a small bag of China White, a silver spoon, a lighter, a tourniquet. The kit she'd assembled months ago, when she'd first started shooting up in this room. She hadn't used it since Vancouver.
She measured a dose. Small. The girl was young, underweight, probably hadn't eaten in days. Too much would kill her. Emma didn't want her dead.
Not yet.
She cooked the heroin in the spoon. Drew it up through a cotton ball. Tied off her own arm first—the familiar ritual, the vein rising like a river under her skin. She slid the needle in and pushed the plunger down.
The rush hit her like a train. Warm. Soft. A blanket wrapping around her bones.
She breathed out. Let the wave wash over her. Then she turned to the girl.
"Give me your arm."
The girl obeyed. Emma tied the tourniquet just above her elbow. Slapped the inside of her arm twice to raise the vein. It was there—thin and blue and fragile, the vein of someone who'd never done this before.
"Hold still."
The needle slid in.
Emma watched the girl's face as the heroin hit. Watched her pupils blow wide, her mouth fall open, her whole body go slack. The trembling stopped. The fear stopped. Everything stopped except the warmth.
"Oh," the girl breathed. "Oh, wow."
Emma pulled the needle out. Wiped the blood away. Held the girl's face in her hands and looked into those wide, drugged eyes.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Emily.”
“Emily.” Emma rolled the name around on her tongue. "You belong to me now. You understand that?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"If I tell you to do something, you do it."
"Yes, ma'am."
"If I tell you to hurt someone, you hurt them."
"Yes, ma'am."
"If I tell you to die, you die."
Emily blinked. Slow. Dreamy. "Yes, ma'am."
Emma let go of her face. Stood. Untied the belt of her robe and let it fall.
She was naked underneath. Still damp from the shower, still sore from last night, her cunt still heavy and aching from Caron's mouth. She looked down at Lila—kneeling, high, drooling a little, utterly adrift—and felt something twist in her chest. Something dark and possessive and hungry.
"Come here," she said.crawled forward. Emma guided her between her legs. Spread her own thighs. Pressed Emily’s face to her cunt.
"Lick."
Emily licked. Tentative at first. Unsure. Her tongue dragged up Emma's slit in a clumsy line, and Emma shuddered.
"Again. Softer."
Emily licked again. Softer this time. Her tongue found Emma's clit and circled it—hesitant, questioning, like she was learning the shape of a new word.
"That's it," Emma breathed. "Right there."
She tangled her fingers in Emily’s hair. Held her in place. Began to rock her hips—slow, steady, fucking Emily’s face with her cunt. Emily made a small sound, half-moan, half-swallow, and the vibration went straight to Emma's spine.
From somewhere behind her, Emma heard a chair creak. Caron had followed them up. She was sitting in the armchair by the window, smoking, her skirt hiked up around her waist, her fingers working between her legs.
"Train her good," Caron said. "I want to watch."
Emma closed her eyes. The heroin was singing in her veins. Emily’s tongue was warm and wet and learning. Her clit ached with every stroke.
She opened her eyes and looked down at the girl. Emily’s pupils were blown. Her mouth was slick with Emma's cunt. Drool ran down her chin. She looked ruined already.
"Harder," Emma said. "Use your whole mouth."
Emily obeyed. She sucked Emma's clit between her lips. Flicked it with the tip of her tongue. Slid her tongue down to Emma's entrance and pushed inside, tasting her from the inside out
Emma gasped. Her hips bucked. Her fingers tightened in Emily’s hair.
"Fuck," she whispered. "Fuck, that's good. Keep going. Don't stop."
Emily didn't stop. She couldn't have stopped even if she'd wanted to—the heroin had her wrapped in cotton, floating, empty, her whole world narrowed to the cunt in front of her and the woman above her and the endless, mindless rhythm of her tongue.
Emma felt the orgasm building. Low in her gut. Spreading outward. She looked at Caron—sitting in the chair, fingers buried in her own cunt, eyes half-closed, watching with that predatory satisfaction that made Emma's heart race.
"Come for me," Caron said.
Emma came.
It hit her like a wave—crashing, drowning, dragging her under. She clenched around Emily’s tongue. Her whole body shuddered. She heard herself moan, low and raw and filthy, and she didn't care who heard.
When she opened her eyes, Emily was still between her legs. Still licking. Still hungry.
Emma pushed her away. Emily fell back onto the marble, her chest heaving, her mouth wet, her eyes glassy and unfocused.
“Good girl," Emma said.
Emily smiled. A dreamy, drugged, devoted smile.
"What do you say?" Caron prompted from the chair.
Emily’s voice was slow. Slurred. "Thank you, ma'am."
Emma looked at Caron. Caron looked at Emma.
"He'll send more," Caron said. "Hector. Once he sees how well you train this one. He'll send more and more, and you'll break them all, and you'll love every minute of it."
Emma knelt beside Emily. Wiped the come off her chin with her thumb. Lifted the thumb to Emily’s lips, and Emily sucked it clean without being told.
"Maybe," Emma said.
Caron stood. Her skirt fell back into place. She walked to the bed, picked up the third syringe from the tray, and held it up to the light.
"But first," she said, "we have one more left."
She looked at Emma. Emma looked at Emily. Emily looked at nothing at all.
"Shall we?" Caron asked.
Emma stood. Held out her arm.
"Shall we."
All characters are 18 years or older.