Fiona

I want to go home.

I’ve never felt this lost. Even the lowest of the low, even those literally reduced into slavery, still have a place of succour and continuity, within themselves. I would know.

The girl I used to be - confident, combative, ambitious - has been reduced, humbled, cut down to size, but she’s found refuge in the most secretive corners of my psyche. A part of me has always held out. Always refused to let go completely… no matter how much Maggie chastised me for it.

But when you can’t even trust your own mind anymore, that’s when you are truly lost.

The days blur together. Sleep bleeds into wake. The sunrises join the sunsets. I’m fucked, toyed with, then fucked some more. The mansion is the maw, and the maw is my world, the entirety of my perception. I don’t even know how long it’s been, since Mistress loaned me to Lene. I miss Margaret so terribly that every fibre in my body aches with the pain. And… yes, I miss Mistress, too.

I really would like to go home now, please, please, please… I promise I’ll behave. I won’t be stubborn anymore. I’ll fall in step with my owner when leashed. I’ll never let go of Maggie’s hand again. I swear, I swear, I swear.

Have they forgotten I exist? Have I spent an eternity in Lene’s service, and failed to notice?

That’s not the only thing bothering me, though. Something… isn’t right.

It’s hard to put my finger on what it is, though. It’s like looking at a familiar photograph, and getting this sense of wrongness, but you can’t tell which detail is out of place. It’s the uncanny valley.

The familiar is the foreign.

When was the last time Lene went to the office for work?

I blink, slowly. What a weird question to ask myself. What do I care? I don’t have a clue how Black Opal works from the inside. Maybe she’s just working from home. And anyway, it is hardly any business of mine. I’m just a dog. A girl made of clay.

I’m a girl adrift in a river of raw, pure, distilled feeling. Lene has wrung so much pleasure out of me that I feel hollowed out. Feverish.

You can’t trust a dog’s judgement. I definitely can’t trust mine.

So why do I have this insistent sensation that something is amiss?

I haven’t seen the overseer in a while. The buzzer hasn’t really been ringing. I spend most of my time in Lene’s quarters…

And so does she.

That must be what feels wrong to me. I feel like it’s a pattern that I should recognise, by association it makes me think of Ragnaring… except I don’t know what the association is. Not consciously, anyway, not yet.

Mistress Lene is just really dedicated to breaking me in, I know that. Yes, that must be all there is to it.

And yet, she doesn’t seem that harsh anymore. She seems pretty… relaxed. And of course, she’s right to be, I represent no threat. There is not one ounce of resistance left within me. I hide no secrets from her, and I should be glad that she’s finally satisfied that it’s the truth.

It makes sense that she wants to enjoy the fruits of her hard labour. Now that I’ve been successfully acted upon, she gets to lie back, and enjoy my service, my ministrations. It only makes sense.

But when was the last time she went out to work?

She’s here. I’m on my knees, and she’s crouching before me, nursing me the way someone would nurse a porcelain vase they themselves have shattered into a thousand pieces. Her long, sleek fingers trace the line of my jaw.

"You truly are a prize, Fiona," she says, running her fingers through my purple hair. "Clever, beautiful… wasted, really, on a pup like Elizabeth."

The words make me shiver. They cut, like jagged ice. I can’t trust my perception. She’s the Lene I’ve learned to know, clearly, entitled and proud, ambitious and commanding, and nothing is amiss. Nothing at all.

Yet, her hands tremble slightly as they caress every curve of my body. There’s a… tremulous quality to her, now.

I don’t know how long it’s been, or when it’s started, but I know it’s there.

Her moods shift more frequently, her desires less predictable. Sometimes she still uses me roughly, making me shrivel under the cold radiance of her blue eyes. Other times she lies back and has me service her gently, almost reverently, her eyes distant and melancholy.

I am confused by her caprice, the waxing and waning of her moods. Slaves prize clarity very highly. When your life is in someone else’s hands, understanding the rules to live by can make all the difference. I find myself watching her carefully, attuned to each subtle shift in her demeanour and direction.

Lene seems...needy, somehow. And distracted.

At times, she obsesses so utterly with me that nothing else in the world could hold her attention. At times, I wonder if she has forgotten I am here. She stares right through me, even as I kneel naked before her. It is as if she sees something else, something beyond this room, this moment. Her attention drifts further away with each passing day. Then, it suddenly refocuses, like a lens… but it’s distorted, somehow.

I tell myself it is not my place to understand. But I can’t really stop the questions from coming.

The weirdest thing of all is that, no matter how long I spend looking deep into her cold, hypnotic blue eyes… sometimes I get the impression that she’s looking into mine.

Right now, she’s looking into my eyes from below.

That only makes sense. She’s lying back, resting luxuriantly, like a goddess in a Renaissance painting, reclining languidly upon silken sheets, ready to enjoy the fruits of her hard labour.

My hands see to her needs, massaging fragrant oils into her pale skin. She sinks deeper into the mattress, almost like she’s enjoying a cozy, warm bath. Her body is pliant, relaxed.

Free of tension.

"Kiss me, pet," she says softly, and I comply, my lips meeting hers in a gentle caress. I let her tongue push its way past my lips, exploring my mouth, but when she breaks the kiss, I know to follow my training. I trail kisses down her neck, across her collarbone. She sighs as I lavish her body with affection, arching into my touch like a cat stretching in the sun.

My hands glide over her soft skin, rubbing the oil deeper in as I bend to take a tight pink nipple into my mouth. She sits up with a soft gasp, tangling her fingers through my hair to pull me closer.

I look up at her through hooded eyes as I gently suckle at her nipples. She’s watching me with an intent that I do not understand.

Her grip on my hair falters for a moment, when her eyes meet mine. A flicker of something like concern passes over her face. Concern about what? What could possibly worry her? But then, the doubt seems to dissipate from her mind. She runs her hand through my hair again, clutching it tighter, like a set of makeshift reins.

Lene guides me lower and I comply, kissing down her taut stomach until I end up between her legs.

I begin to lap at her, like a well-trained dog, not over-eager, but not lax, either. She lets out quiet moans, gripping the sheets with trembling hands, her hips bucking against my mouth.

I’ve been such a silly girl, doubting her. Why shouldn’t an exalted lady like Lene get to enjoy this kind of service? She doesn’t need to grind my face into the floor all the time. She’s already put in the work to make me fit her specifications. Now, she gets to lie still and get sexually pampered.

Her moans grow louder as I flick her clit with my tongue, her hands tangling in my hair, her body tensing and relaxing in waves. I’m eliciting such… reactions, out of her. Almost like I’m the one wringing pleasure out of her, this time.

But that’s only in appearance. It’s only because she wants it. I am still just a tool for her pleasure, a means to an end. She guides me where she wants me, presses down when I've found the right spot, and then her thighs clench around my head, drawing me deeper into her cunt.

"Oh yes, just like that," Lene pants, grinding her pussy against my face. "Don't stop, pet. Make your mistress come."

I obey, my tongue aching now from the exertion. But I don't dare slow down, not when she's so close.

I feel her climax building, her moans growing louder, more desperate. With a sharp cry she crests the wave, shaking, bucking, arching off the bed. I keep going, prolonging her pleasure as spasm after spasm wracks her, drawing out every last tremor, until she collapses back into the mattress, spent.

I sit back on my heels, face glistening with her juices, quietly marveling at the intensity of her climax. She lays there, looking… spent. She’s panting, and her chest is heaving.

Someone in Lene’s position is used to sexual control, and to the pleasure it can bring. It’s odd to see that this seems to have tired her out. She looks dazed, eyes glazed over. For a long moment she just lies there. Then, she sits up and focuses on me again. I see a spark of her old imperiousness in those beautiful, blue eyes.

But I also see something else. It almost looks like confusion. She briefly licks her lips, and then gestures for me to get closer, speaking only one word out loud.

“Again.”

***

Good dogs fetch.

They don’t question what they fetch. They just do as they’re told. But I still feel my fingers tremble, as I fumble with the strap on.

Lene watches me with hooded eyes as I secure the harness around my hips. Her gaze travels down my body and lingers on the strap on. She licks her lips slowly, eyes dark with lust. As if she needs this, craves it with every fiber of her being.

I crawl onto the bed between her splayed legs.

"Fuck me," she hisses. “Get me off, slave.”

“Of course, Mistress,” I say. This isn’t something we ever discussed as she trained me and broke me down. She never mentioned enjoying penetrative sex, and I don’t know the details of what will please her… I’ll just have to improvise, and hope it’s good enough.

My heart pounds as I guide the tip to her slick sex. Lene lets out a soft moan as I push inside. I move slowly at first, letting her adjust to the fullness. Studying her reactions closely, as any attentive slave girl would do.

I see no signs of discomfort, so I guess I should proceed. Gradually I pick up the pace, rocking my hips to drive the strap-on deeper with each thrust. She moans loudly as I settle on a steady rhythm, her body meeting mine, melding closer.

"Harder," she gasps. “Do you know how long it’s been? Too fucking long. God, I should have gotten you or any of my slaves to do this much sooner. Don’t slack around. You’re my prize, and you will behave as such. Get into it. Pleasure me!”

I blush, and flinch, and squirm, but most importantly, I obey. I accelerate my pace, the strap on plunging deeper inside her with each thrust. Our bodies move together, skin slick with sweat.

Lene grasps the sheets, knuckles white. Her breath comes in short gasps, with the occcasional throaty whimper of pleasure. She seems to be enjoying it. I’m doing good. I’m being good, compliant clay.

Right?

“You’re my…” she whispers, almost delirious. “Prize. Slave. My…”

Lene writhes beneath me, clamping down on the shaft. Coated and lubricated by her slick arousal, it glides effortlessly into her, now. My tempo increases, I lose myself in the wet smack of our colliding flesh. She digs her nails into my back as I fuck her, angling her hips up to take me deeper.

I squeal in pain, and my reaction is instinctual, thoughtless. It catches even me by surprise.

I close my hands around her wrists, and pin them down above her head, against the mattress.

I taste fear.

How could I ever dare do something like that to a superior? How could I ever presume? So many hours of agonising training and sexual deconstruction, and my body betrays me like this? I brace myself, ready for Lene’s fury to smite me into the ground.

But she doesn’t say a word.

I lean forward. Our faces are just inches apart now. Lene's eyes meet mine, unfocused. It’s so odd to see. Her eyes are always focused. The hard, jagged blue of chipped ice is now melting in the rippling, boundless blue of flowing water. Her lips part, soft whimpers escaping with every thrust of my body into hers.

Something about this feels so wrong. The familiar and the foreign.

A crease of confusion mars her brow and her lip trembles. It's like she's experiencing some deep internal struggle even as her body responds. She tries to say something, now, but it’s like she’s reduced to monosyllabic utterances and non-verbal grunts of pleasure, at this point.

I don't understand.

Neither can she.

I pause, buried to the hilt within her quivering cunt. I sense a, I don’t know, a trap of some sort. Maybe she’s testing me. Maybe my actions have just earned me a terrible punishment. Or maybe I’m just losing my grip on reality.

I don’t trust my judgement, but without it, what else do I have left to guide my thinking? I wish Mistress was here, to tell me what to think. I…

Lene bucks her hips impatiently, silently begging for more. I comply, tentative strokes gradually regaining momentum. Her mewls rise to keening wails - her climax is fast approaching.

I study her closely. She’s biting her lower lip, and in her dilated pupils I glimpse something unexpected - fear. She grasps for me like a drowning woman clutching at flotsam.

I can spot the moment when the tide finally shifts. Her body winds up and hitches on the cusp of a deep breath she doesn’t take. The moment stretches on and on, and then, at last, time unfreezes, and Lene comes undone. She arches her back, her climax pulsing through every muscle of her body. Her moan morphs into a broken wail that sounds almost like a sob. The light in her eyes seems to grow dimmer with every new shudder.

And a sudden headache lances through my head.

Lights dance before my eyes even as I close them. I find myself panting, nauseous, as if the bed is bucking and roiling beneath me. My body trembles as my muscles act of their own volition, independently of my will.

I watch myself in slow motion, like I’m having some kind of out-of-body experience. I open my mouth, even though I didn’t choose to. My eyes widen in surprise, as I hear unbidden words tumble freely from my lips.

“You were wrong. The word you’re looking for is, queenmaker,” I say.

Lene sits up at that, and I can tell that it takes her so much effort to do that, like she’s swimming against a current. Lifting a weight much larger than her own. Like there’s a pull trying to drag her back down into the mattress.

My own words didn’t make any sense to me, but Lene is clearly reacting to them. She wraps one hand around my throat, making me shudder - but not flinch away. I’m too well-trained for that. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“Queenmaker,” I repeat, even though I’ve never heard this word before. Even though it’s the last thing I should be saying, right now.

Well, it’s not really me, saying it, but I doubt Lene will care for that distinction…

I don’t know why, but Lene seems to briefly spring into alarmed action. She starts to stand up, her eyes darting left and right, alight with urgency and…

Fear?

“No no no,” I hear her whisper. “I made sure there was nothing in there. In… you. This isn’t funny. Stop it.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about, but when I open my mouth to say just that, the words that come out are different, once again.

“I’m not your prize. I’m not your slave,” I say, slowly, robotically. “I’m the queenmaker.”

And this time, Lene's eyes snap to mine, wide and unseeing. She drops back down, against the sweat-soaked sheets, as if all strength has been sapped from her. Her lips part slightly, and the panic, the urgency, it all seems to bleed out of her eyes. She looks at me in a drunken, empty stupor.

No… not stupor.

It’s an expression I’d recognise anywhere. It can’t be. And yet it undeniably is, because I’ve seen that look before.

I’ve looked that way before.

She’s… blank. Open. Receptive. Slack-jawed, vacant, reduced to a drooling, docile mess.

Holy shit.

I stare in shock at what I've done. Holy shit!

It was a trigger. A trap whose jaws have just snapped shut around her.

How did it spring to my mind? What has it done to her? What else is hidden inside my own brain, without my knowledge?

Fuck, fuck, fuck. What if the staff finds us like this? What will happen to me? I slowly withdraw from her, unbuckling the harness with trembling hands, letting the glistening strap on drop to the floor. What do I do, what the fuck do I do now?

I don’t know… but, apparently, my body does.

I’m little more than a wide-eyed passenger as I find myself rifling through Lene’s purse, retrieving her phone, and dialing a number I’ve never memorised before. At least, not consciously.

Three rings play out, followed by a sharp click and the breath of the person on the other side of the phone call.

"Mistress," I hear myself saying, the word slipping unbidden from my lips. And of course, of course, how stupid am I? Who else could it possibly be?

The puppeteer reveals herself at last.

"It is done,” I say. “She’s ready."

"Well done, my loyal little pup," Mistress says with a slow purr. “You’ve carried out your task perfectly. I knew you wouldn’t fail me.”

The dam of my pent-up emotions buckles, threatening to break. God, her voice. I’ve never been so happy to hear her voice. And she’s praised me! My knees nearly go weak with relief. My eyes sting with tears of joy.

Oh, God. Mistress.

She must have planted the trigger in me, and made me forget. A… honeypot, something. All this time, Lene was affecting me, but I was affecting her, even if I didn’t realise it.

I was looking deep into her eyes, and she was looking deep into mine.

Elizabeth chuckles, a rich and throaty sound. "Just in case you’ve been triggered into silence… you may speak now, doggie.”

“No, Mistress, I…” I say, marvelling at the sheer awe in my own voice. “I just…”

“Come now,” she says, with the condescending patience she must feel when talking to a leser creature such as I. “Did you really think I would simply loan you out with no plan in mind? You should know your mistress better than that by now."

My cheeks burn at the gentle chastisement. I feel so over-awed that it’s an almost transcendent experience, but really, I should have seen this coming. She has weaponised Lene’s obsession with me… just like she weaponised my obsession with Margaret, back at Ragnaring, to bag us both.

I look at the docile, vapid woman, sitting in wait where Mistress Lene used to be, and I recall something I thought of during our very first meeting… even if it means something completely different now.

And this one makes three.

“Worry not, slave,” Mistress says. “I’ll be there shortly, to collect my prize. And then… the wait is finally over. You’re coming back home. But first… well, I would say little doggie has earned a treat. Have some fun with our newest… inducteee… before I arrive. Go, fetch."

Good dogs fetch without question, and my obedience is unfaltering. But as I turn to look at Lene, there’s something else I feel stirring within me, something that I haven’t felt in a long, long time.

When was the last time I got to have my way with a girl? Not since Ragnaring, definitely. Not since I still lived under the illusion that Margaret would be mine.

I know better, now. But, it sure would be nice to revisit some of those old emotions, once more.

Some fun with our new inductee, Mistress says?

I run my fingers across Lene’s lower jaw, taking in the sight of the glassy shroud that’s fallen over her eyes. Some fun, indeed.

My mouth stretch into a hungry, devilish smile.