For John Gasp

Gabrielle’s screams ricocheted off the basement’s stone walls until her throat was sore and every echo seemed to mock her helplessness. She jerked her arms against the ropes, the scratchy hemp biting into her skin, her wrists swelling with each failed attempt at freedom.

Overhead, a single bulb stuttered with a yellow glow, the light so harsh it burned her retinas and left disorienting afterimages every time she squeezed her eyes shut. The air was heavy with a pungent bouquet of mildew, rotting plaster, and the metallic tang of fear and sweat. Breathing through her nose stung more with every inhale, but the mounting panic wouldn’t let her stop.

She angled her chin upward, every muscle in her neck tense, and locked eyes with her captor. “Let me go, you crazy bitch!” Gabrielle howled.

Hannah stood at the other end of the room, statuesque amid the scattered detritus of the half-renovated division, which included such things as a battered stepladder, cracked paint cans, and a jumble of electrical cords. She was motionless, her crimson silk blouse an incongruous splash of expensive color against the basement’s grimy backdrop.

The late-twenties vixen wore a tailored black pencil skirt and stiletto heels that suggested she belonged in a Manhattan boardroom rather than this dark subterranean prison. Her long, black hair was pulled into a severe chignon, emphasizing her sharp cheekbones and the unwavering intensity of her gaze.

Those eyes - almost black and laser-focused - never left Gabrielle’s face, and were somehow more terrifying than a visible display of anger.

“You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be,” Hannah said. A manicured hand adjusted the delicate pearl earring dangling from her left ear.

“Fuck you! I want out! LET. ME. OUT!” Gabrielle insisted.

The captive woman had seen better days. Her tangled hair hung in greasy strands around her face. Gabrielle’s olive skin, normally warm and vibrant, now looked pale and sallow under the dim light. Though she stood six inches taller than the woman who had imprisoned her, her body was depleted, muscles weak from the lack of movement.

She winced at the sharp pain in her shoulder, trying to remember the last time she had felt strong. Her mixed heritage never showed in her appearance, and now, trapped and exhausted, she looked like a shadow of herself - neither her mother’s Latina roots nor her father’s Anglo features, just a broken version of something in between.

Hannah rolled her eyes and returned to work. She was rolling out a crisp white bedsheet onto what looked like a homemade screen. Each tug and pin of the fabric was performed with precision, as if she’d rehearsed this ritual a hundred times in her mind. Even as Gabrielle yelled, Hannah ignored her, humming as she clipped the sheet into place and smoothed the wrinkles with slow strokes.

It floated in the cold air like the sail of a phantom ship, an omen of the voyage still ahead. Then Hannah crouched by an old projector, vintage and scavenged from a thrift store or school auction, and connected it to a humming power strip.

“Not until you learn your lesson, sweetie,” Hannah purred, never once glancing back. She flicked a switch, and the projector whined to life, casting a shifting, blurry rectangle on the bedsheet’s surface. “You’re going to help me whether you want it or not.”

“Not in a million years!” Gabrielle spat, but her defiance sounded thin, worn out already.

“You say that now, but I bet by the end of the day, you’ll be seeing things differently…”

“You are insane! No wonder he dumped your sorry ass the moment he had the chance!”

Hannah clicked her heels, her dark eyes glinting with amusement. “You think this is just about him? It’s not. This is about you thinking you could waltz into my world and play the role of the perfect girlfriend, while I was left in the dust.” Her voice lowered, becoming a velvety whisper that dripped with venom. “When I’m done messing with your head, you’ll be a vindictive bitch, and you’ll make him pay on my behalf.”

Gabrielle watched as the projector’s image sharpened. It wasn’t playing an ordinary movie, but a slow spiral of colors: electric blue, neon pink, radioactive yellow, all swirling together, shifting and recombining like living oil. At first, it was only mesmerizing, a warped screensaver that seemed almost silly in its simplicity. But as Gabrielle stared more intently, the colors began to pulse, throbbing and stretching across her field of vision until she was dragged toward the center of the screen, unable to look away.

Hannah walked toward her prisoner, her shadow eclipsing the colorful spectacle that lay before her. She positioned herself behind Gabrielle, close enough for her to smell the faint scent of her expensive perfume. It was quite sweet, like overripe fruit, and almost as disorienting as the images on the screen. Gabrielle tensed, trying to twist away, but Hannah pressed an arm down onto her shoulder and held her steady with effortless strength.

Suddenly, a heavy rubber ball gag appeared in Hannah’s free hand. She worked the ball between Gabrielle’s teeth, her grip gentle but irresistible, and buckled it tight at the base of Gabrielle’s skull. “There we go,” Hannah murmured, lips near her ear. “Now you won’t spoil the fun. Just relax and enjoy the show.”

Every sound Gabrielle tried to make after that was but a garbled, wet moan. She bit down on the gag and glared up at Hannah, but her captor only smiled.

The spiral on the screen began to shift, the colors fracturing into new shapes - now, they resembled faces. At first, glimpses: a flash of crimson-painted lips, the glint of stiletto heels, the smolder of kohl-rimmed eyes. Then the faces resolved into entire bodies: women clad head-to-toe in glossy latex, corsets, and boots that reached the thigh. They strutted and posed, every gesture radiating a savage, magnetic confidence. They were beautiful, but not in the gentle way Gabrielle was used to. This beauty was fierce and weaponized. As the slideshow flickered, the women began to move, their motions exaggerated and predatory, like lionesses surveying prey.

“Look at them, Gabrielle,” Hannah intoned, squatting so she was level with Gabrielle’s face. There was a fanatic gleam in her eye, a kind of religious fervor. “Do you see how they move? How do they control the space around them? Can you see the power radiating from them? They don’t ask for permission to exist. They don’t wait for validation from anyone else. They don’t go with the flow of the day. They seize it! They make it their own. They take what they want and crush whoever stands in their way. That’s power. You’re going to learn to be like them. You’ll become a vixen, too.”

Gabrielle tried to shut her eyes, but every time she did so, a sharp slap landed on her cheek. “No napping,” Hannah admonished. “You need to pay attention if you’re going to take it all in.”

The projected images grew bolder as the minutes passed, the women becoming ever more dominant. Now they were laughing at men who grovelled at their feet, or forcing them to serve as human furniture, or parading them on leashes like pets. The camera panned over elaborate scenes: a leather-clad goddess reclining on a throne, a line of kneeling supplicants awaiting punishment, a pair of latex-clad goddesses crushing tumescent balls without a care in the world. At the bottom of the screen, slogans flashed in black, blocky letters:

EMBODY YOUR DARK SIDE.

UNLEASH THE QUEEN WITHIN YOU.

DOMINATE THE WEAK.

Hannah’s voice accompanied the messages, whispering in Gabrielle’s ear, a relentless chant: “Do you see how they command attention? How they refuse to pretend to be less than what they are? They don’t play at being nice, or soft, or sweet. They know men are weak and that’s why they exist - to be used, discarded, and made to crawl. Peter said I was a control freak and that I was always trying to bring him to his knees. Imagine how he’ll react when he finds out his perfect new girl is just like me…” Hannah flashed a seductive smile.

At the mention of his name, Gabrielle was taken by a spike of rage so sudden it left her dizzy. He’d left Hannah for her, after all. Broken things off in a single, cowardly text, then ghosted Hannah without another word. Gabrielle had always felt guilty about it - a lingering shame, a belief that she’d done something wrong by being chosen. Now Hannah’s words pressed on that guilt, kneading it into an unfamiliar shape. She wanted to turn her anger into an irresistible weapon at her service.

The spiral sped up, the images strobed faster, and the slogans on the screen overlapped, words cramming together, fighting for space. Gabrielle’s vision began to blur; her brain scoured clean and raw. She told herself to resist, to ignore the parade of leather and power, but the flashes kept coming, burning new pathways into her mind. If she closed her eyes, the images persisted, replaying in negative behind her eyelids. If she kept them open, the spiral dragged her deeper, the insistent colors melting her will away.

Hannah’s hand stroked down Gabrielle’s cheek, then curled under her chin. “This is not just about Peter,” she repeated. “He’s just a catalyst. What I want is for you to see who you are. You think you’re so good, so sweet. But you’re not. Deep inside, you’ve always been like me. A bitch with no mercy, just waiting to be blessed with real power.”

Gabrielle whimpered into the gag, the rope digging deeper into her wrists. Her sense of self was flickering, being stretched thin. In her mind’s eye, she saw the women on the screen, their faces warping into her own. She was the one wearing the boots now, the one holding the leash, the one smirking as men crawled to her. The words on the screen kept flashing:

SEIZE YOUR POWER.

CONTROL THOSE BENEATH YOU.

YOU DESERVE TO BE ADORED AND OBEYED.

Somewhere above the spiral, Hannah loomed with a look of hungry anticipation. “I’m not going to break you, Gabrielle. I’m going to liberate you. And when you’re done, you’ll love the new you.”

Gabrielle’s sense of time evaporated in the potent, shifting light show. She began to lose track of what room she was in, of who she was, of what she’d ever wanted. All that mattered was the screen - the spiral, the slogans, the parade of powerful women. The world shrank to that singular, inescapable desire: to command, to dominate, to win.

As her resistance faltered, the swirling images began to appear less foreign and more like home. The humiliation she’d once dreaded became a badge of pride; the thought of Peter crawling at her boots, sobbing for mercy, ignited a hot, delicious thrill in her belly. She stopped struggling and leaned forward, hungry for more.

Her resolve withering away, Gabrielle absorbed every single insidious message, a hint of drool forming on her lips. Powerful. Dominant. Cruel. Those were all the things she needed to be from now on. Peter would kneel. Peter would beg and do whatever the fuck she told him to, for he was but an inferior maggot who was lucky to have her in his life. Complaints would be obliterated on the spot. Hmm…

“Yes…” Hannah purred as the once-innocent woman’s eyes became glassy. “Take it all in. That’s your true self, awakening. Let go of that weak facade you’ve built. You’ve been playing the role of good girl for far too long.”

More insidious visuals cascaded across the screen - Women towering over their counterparts, snatching power from the unsuspecting hands of men who had always assumed authority belonged to them. They laughed and rejoiced as they commanded their servants to lick their heels and used their gaping mouths as living ashtrays. Men weren’t people. They had never been people. They were objects, mindless sex toys, and nothing more.

“This is what you’ll do to Peter,” Hannah commanded. “You’ll turn him into your slave and humiliate him every chance you get. You’ll do it for me… but also for you. It’s the only way you can be free.”

Gabrielle’s head lolled forward, her willpower a laughable thing, snapped and discarded at her feet. The spiral on the screen owned her, its colors digging bright talons into the softest and darkest corners of her mind. The last remnants of her old self - shy, self-effacing, afraid to cause pain - started to evaporate like sweat under stadium lights.

It was outrageous, dizzying, and even funny in a twisted way: all her life, she’d been programmed to apologize, to ask for permission, to smooth over any trace of anger or need. Now, she was a blank canvas, and the only paints were hunger, rage, and an unflinching sense of entitlement. Every image on the screen was a fresh injection of confidence, a new permission slip to do whatever the hell she pleased. She wanted to hurt, to own, to devour. It was so right and so natural that she wondered how she’d ever lived any other way. Maybe she never had.

Inside her, the transformation was not so much a tidal wave as a slow, inescapable flood. Her old values dissolved, replaced by a single, pulsing mantra: You are the one in control. You decide how the world bends. All others exist for your pleasure, your amusement, your conquest.

She wouldn’t just break Peter; she would remake him, mold him into the perfect toy, a living monument to her victory over every asshole who had ever dared overlook or underestimate her. She would rule him. She would rule them all.

Gabrielle’s face slackened, her mouth open and drooling, but her eyes burned with an alien, merciless focus. The change was visible in her posture, in the way she tilted her chin and glared straight through the screen, as though she was about to step into it and take command of her new domain.

“Wonderful,” Hannah giggled. “There’s just one more thing, Gabrielle. This liberation comes with a price. You’ll take what you want, but you’ll also serve me. You’ll thank me by doing as I say when I say it. That’s all I ask. You will not resist me ever again. To control everyone else around you, all you need to do is obey me, and you will obey, won’t you?”

For Gabrielle, the proposition was so logical that it was almost holy. If Hannah could worm her way into her soul, then what right did Gabrielle have to object? There was no shame in bending to a superior will. The very notion of resistance seemed not only childish but embarrassing.

Yes, Hannah was the stronger animal. She possessed the vision and the appetite to actually seize power, and not just fantasize about it. Gabrielle’s transformation- her rebirth as a beautiful, ruthless creature - was Hannah’s gift, and the only reasonable response was gratitude. She pictured herself kneeling before Hannah, proud and eager, waiting for new instructions.

This vision left Gabrielle giddy with relief. Her limbs relaxed, and her breathing grew deeper and steadier, as if she’d just been released from a centuries-long curse. To be owned, to be remade - these were not punishments but privileges, the highest possible honors. Hannah would command, and Gabrielle would obey, and in the space between order and execution, the new vixen would find her true self at last.

With this acceptance came a rush of pride, a savage loyalty that made Gabrielle want to rend the world in half for her new mistress. She wasn’t weak anymore - she was unbreakable! Her sense of self was no longer her own. It belonged to Hannah, and she was fiercely and deliriously happy to keep it that way.

“Perfect!” Hannah thought, her plan coming into fruition. The best acts of revenge are those you don’t expect, and Peter would never see it coming until Gabrielle whipped his sorry ass. She couldn’t wait.

((to be continued))