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Seven

Sebastian

“Should I do it now?”

Ophelia’s image moves in crystal clear high definition as she thumps on my door. I’ve hardly moved from this spot for the last few hours, captivated by the figure on the screen. When she crumbled, I had a moment where I almost felt bad for her. But then I remembered my sister sobbing over a toilet in much the same way, and the guilt evaporated, turned to vapor by the burning memory.

Jacob didn’t even try to be polite when he insisted on working out a plan to tame Ophelia. “You’ll fuck this up, and she’ll eat you alive. I’m helping.”

Together, we came up with something much nastier than I’d have managed on my own.

She hammers on the door again, yelling so loud it echoes through my apartment. Jacob, seated on my swivel chair at my desk like a security officer while I pace the room, shakes his head. “Nope. Don’t let her think you run on her schedule. You’ll communicate with her when you’re good and fucking ready. Another couple of hours at least. ”

Jesus. I’m already about to claw my own skin off to let the nervous energy out. Two more hours will be worse for me than for Ophelia.

Two hours later, Ophelia has given up shouting and sits on the bed, shoulders slumped. She investigated my room more thoroughly, pulling out all my clothes and throwing them on the floor. Jacob snorted when I winced. “Count yourself lucky. Quinn would probably have pissed on them by now out of spite.”

Yuck.

It didn’t take long, though, before she gave up and sat on the bed, staring at her hands. She’s been there for over an hour.

“Do it now.” I jump when Jacob speaks. He’s so good at sitting statue-still; he blends into the furniture. “She looks like she’s about to pass out. You want the idea in her head before she does.”

Right. The first small step toward turning her into what I need her to be.

I open the folded piece of paper one last time.

Ophelia,

If you want to leave the bedroom, you have a task to perform. The second drawer down in the closet contains your new clothing. Choose any outfit from the selection—underwear too—and I’ll open the bedroom door. We’ll have dinner together. You have one hour.

If you refuse, you’ll get another chance tomorrow at breakfast.

Sebastian

The note feels heavier than it has any right to. I walk to the bedroom door, pause outside, stare at the smooth wood, and imagine Ophelia inside. She has to be starving by now and bored as all hell. I picture her staring morosely at her knees and slide the note under the door. I give a short, loud knock and race back to my desk and its monitors.

“That made her jump.” Jacob glances at me then back to the monitor. She’s on her feet, staring at the piece of paper but making no move toward it. Does she think it’s poisoned? Or going to explode?

Minutes drag on as she watches the paper, then inches closer. She’s so patient. I’d have grabbed it the moment it came under the door, just to relieve the tedium. Finally, she picks it up. I lick my lips, surprised to find my mouth dry. Why am I so anxious? She’ll do as she’s told sooner or later. No rush.

She frowns as she reads it, then carries it back to her spot on the bed and sits. I let out a long breath. It’s anticlimactic, though I’m not sure what I’d been expecting. My apartment is too quiet, all of a sudden. I have to break the silence.

“What’s the bet?” I whisper, though there’s zero chance she’ll hear.

Jacob turns away from the screen, pure incredulity etched into his face. “You want to bet? On this?”

Is it inappropriate? Yes. But talking helps the tightly coiled tension in my muscles as I stare at the woman on the screen. The woman I own. The woman I’m in charge of. The gravity of the situation is choking the life out of me.

“Yes. I think she’ll do it.”

“You're a disgrace.” Jacob shakes his head, and I regret ever saying it in the first place, but then he adds, “You're so wrong, mate. How can you not read her well enough to know she's tougher than that?”

Not inappropriate, then. He just thinks I’m wrong. Par for the course.

Jacob returns his attention to the screen, studying Ophelia. “She’ll hold out until tomorrow, but I'll take your bet. Once this is settled, you have to let Quinn pick an outfit for you and wear it for a whole day.”

Oh, hell no. No way I'm wearing what Quinn picks out, but it doesn't matter. Jacob's wrong. I know Ophelia better than he thinks. “She'll do it. You watch. You'll have to come with me on a night out to the country club and not complain once.”

Jacob snorts. “Deal.”

Ophelia crumbles the note into a ball, throws it across the room, pulls the covers back, and climbs into bed.

Shit.

***

I sleep in the guest room, though “sleep” is putting it strongly. All night, I alternate between watching Ophelia on the night vision cameras, pacing the apartment, and staring at the ceiling, wondering just what the hell I’ve got myself into. When the sun starts its slow creep up the wall, I can’t wait any longer. Jacob said to wait until seven, but screw that.

I’m doing it now.

Ophelia’s night went better than mine. She passed out around ten and didn’t stir until just after four. She must be absolutely ravenous by now, so I order a breakfast buffet from the kitchen, check all the knives and scissors are locked away, and push through the second note.

Ophelia,

Get dressed in your new clothes, and you may join me for breakfast.

Sebastia n

A dark shiver runs through me at the words. Power. It’s a dark lake, and I’m sinking into it. Power over someone who deserves every bit of this. All of it and more.

In late-night, alcohol-fueled conversations, both Jacob and Gabriel confessed to fantasizing about the very situation we have found ourselves in, but I never did. Kinky role play? Sure. But having another person under my control twenty-four hours a day? Far too much work.

Watching Ophelia pick up my note, though, I can’t deny the thrill. What will she do? I lean closer, not wanting to miss a single expression on her face. Her pretty face. It’s true, she is, and I’m seeing it more every moment.

She wraps the note in her hand, crushing it, then closes her eyes. What is she thinking? Is she wondering how far I’ll go? Whether I’ll really let her starve? The answer, of course, is no, but Jacob assures me she’ll crack long before we reach that point.

She uncrumples the note and reads it again. No throwing it straight in the trash this time. She stares at it, then throws it to the floor and stomps to the closet.

She yanks open the drawer, digs her hands in, and dumps the contents on the floor.

God, I had fun picking these clothes. Nothing in the whole pile cost more than forty dollars. I chose cheap, stretchy fabric and brassy, clashing colors, and made sure everything is as short, tight, and low-cut as possible.

She picks through the pile, examining each item, then throwing it down again. To most people, this would seem petty and ridiculous. Someone like Quinn wouldn’t have given half a shit. But Ophelia? I recognize her type. She’s like Kendrick. Like me. She works hard to present the face she wants to the world, and this is going to rip it to shreds .

Petty for some people, but agony for her.

Good.

The available underwear is just as tacky and cheap as the rest of the clothes—push-up bras that will have her almost spilling out of the tops. She picks up a lacy red one and holds it up, frowning. She rubs the material between her fingers. Is she imagining how she’ll look in it?

Minutes pass as she studies every single piece of clothing. Then, finally, she bundles up some items and heads to the bathroom. Does she actually think I won’t have cameras in there? Silly girl. Privacy is a thing of the past for Ophelia, and I’ll make sure she knows it.

In the bright bathroom lights, sequins glimmer on the outfit she’s picked out. It’s probably the least offensive option, but I still smile. A miniskirt, black flecked with silver, designed to sit low on the hips. And a bright red top with spaghetti straps and gaudy sequins across the bust. The bottom will stop just under Ophelia’s tits, and hideous tassels hang from the bottom.

She’ll look like a stripper in a cowboy-themed strip joint. I should get her a matching hat.

She starts to undo her silky blouse, and my amusement fades. Gabriel watched Eve for months on camera before he collected her. Did it make him feel like a creep? I do, but it doesn’t stop me from leaning closer as she peels off the blouse and folds it neatly before setting it on the vanity.

God, her body is perfection. Of course it is. She wouldn’t allow it to be anything less. Her height gives grace to her curves, a willowy elegance, but her breasts are fuller than I expected. She hides them under sensible clothing, but now they’re all I can see.

It’s been a while. Months of flirting with beautiful women but never taking it further has me on a hair trigger, ready to explode. I love women. I wouldn’t call myself a playboy, exactly, but the thrill of the chase, and the fun that comes after, is my favorite pastime.

I don’t have the patience for all the tedious gym work my friends use to work out their frustrations, so I mostly just watched porn and complained. Now, the real thing is right in front of me, and she’s reaching behind her to undo her bra.

Jesus. It’s like being fourteen all over again.

Her breasts spill free, and oh, I wish I was in there with her. They’re natural, no implants, full and heavy.

You hate her.

Yes, I know, but just look.

You own her.

Oh, God. I do.

I could walk in there right now. Force her to remove the rest of her clothes. Tie her to the bed. Do whatever I want. And no one, not a single person in the Compound, would hold it against me. There it is again, that black lake. The lure of unshackled power. The temptation to dive in is almost too strong.

She picks up the cheap bra she selected from the drawer and shrugs into it in a rush. She must suspect I’m watching. How does that make her feel? My blood races faster as she squeezes into it. It’s the right size but designed to shove her tits upward, and that’s exactly what it does.

The top doesn’t help her at all. The neckline skims the top of the bra, leaving oceans of exposed cleavage. She tugs at it, shifting it this way and that, but nothing helps. My lip curls up as I watch her struggle, the rush of lust mingling with something darker. This is all part of her punishment. The more uncomfortable she is, the better .

Finally, she gives up. Her hands fall to her sides, and she stares at herself in the mirror, biting her lip. All dressed up for me. How she must hate it.

The skirt next. She unzips the sensible suit skirt, folds, it and places it on top of the blouse. Her round ass juts out as she rips off the pale blue panties she was wearing and drags on the barely-there black thong. The flimsy black line circles her hips, and I’m almost sad when she steps into the miniskirt, yanking it over her hips.

She shifts it down as far as she can without exposing the line of the panties and turns to survey herself in the mirror again. She tilts her head to the side as she studies her own reflection and closes her eyes. Then she opens them again, as if what she’s looking at will have magically changed.

Christ, she’s like a different person. She looks at least five years younger, her actual age, stripped of the overly sensible power suit. Her hair falls around her shoulders, and she pulls it in front, as if it will help hide the cleavage. All it does is enhance the cheap sexiness of the outfit, and she must see the same thing I do, because she pushes it back behind her shoulders again.

She gives herself a long, hard look in the mirror and strides from the room. My skin flushes hot as I realize what comes next. She did as she was told, like the obedient little pet I’m going to turn her into.

I take a minute to straighten my own outfit—refined and elegant, of course, to provide the best contrast possible.

Time to greet my guest.