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I step out of the car, the cool air folding over me like a second skin.

The lock clicks softly, the sound almost reassuring. I press the button again, needing the confirmation beep, the small punctuation that says everything is secure, everything is in its place.

My purse hangs lightly at my side, and I think about leaving it behind, but the thought won’t stick. What if I need something?

The question loops, nonsensical but insistent, its weight heavier than the bag itself. The walk to the front door stretches, each step feels choreographed, my body carrying me forward while my mind stalls in place.

The faint glow from inside frames the door like an invitation, and I pause, my hand hovering just shy of the wood. The knock feels heavy in my chest before it even lands.

Nathan opens the door almost instantly, as if he’s been waiting just beyond it, his silhouette etched in the frame like it’s part of the architecture. He’s casual in a way that feels practiced—dark jeans, a grey sweater with its sleeves pushed up to his elbows. “You’re on

time,”

he says, his voice low, edged with faint amusement, as

though my punctuality surprises him. He steps aside, and the

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space opens behind him. “Come.”

I nod, the words caught somewhere between my chest and my mouth. I step inside, and the scent hits me first: polished wood, faint cologne, and something colder, sterile, like an echo of something recently scrubbed away. The house is immaculate, each object curated, the kind of cleanliness that feels untouchable. The air is still, oppressive in its order.

“Follow me,”

Nathan says, his voice a steady current that pulls me along. I obey without hesitation, my feet moving automatically, my purse swaying lightly at my side. His gaze flickers to it, a quick tilt of his head that sharpens the weight of it against my arm. He doesn’t say anything, but I feel the disapproval settle in the quiet between us.

He leads me down the hallway, the shadows pooling in the corners, softening the edges of the pristine walls. The room at the end is just as I remember. The cage sits waiting, its metal bars gleaming faintly in the soft light, unapologetic in its presence. My chest tightens, my breath shallow as the reality of this night presses down on me.

Nathan turns to me, his face unreadable, his expression carefully calibrated. “Give me the purse,”

he says, the command laced with a calm finality that leaves no room for argument.

I hesitate, my fingers gripping the strap like it’s the only thing tethering me to my real life. Slowly, I hand it over. He takes it. “You’ll get this back in eight hours,”

he says, and then lifts it up and down as if he is weighing it. “Is your phone in here?”

I nod, the motion small.

“Good,”

he replies, a faint nod of acknowledgment. Then, his gaze sharpens, cutting through the air between us. “Now undress down to your underwear.”

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The words land like a weight. My hands move before my mind catches up, trembling as they pull off my jacket, and then pull at the hem of my shirt, and then my pants. I fold them into a neat pile, an attempt to impose control on a situation where I have none. When I’m left in just my bra and underwear, I cross my arms, my body folding in on itself like it’s trying to disappear.

Nathan watches me with a detached focus, his movements like liquid as he pulls the collar from his pocket. Black leather, silver studs, a piece of art in its own right. He steps closer, and I hold still, my breath catching as he wraps it around my neck. The buckle snaps shut in a way that feels intimate, his fingers lingering just long enough to make the air between us feel too full.

“Kneel,”

he says, the word cutting through the moment like a blade.

I drop, my knees meeting the floor with a dull thud, my palms resting flat against my thighs. He circles me, his steps soft, the floor creaking faintly beneath his weight.

“No standing, no speaking, no human behavior,”

he begins, his tone steady, authoritative. “You are to remain in character unless I say otherwise. Understood?”

I nod.

“Speak,”

he commands, his voice sharper now.

“Woof,” I reply.

“Good,”

he says, a flicker of a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “You’ll get better.”

He gestures toward the cage, the door swinging open with a faint groan. “Inside,”

he says simply, stepping back to watch.

I crawl forward, my movements slow, as I step into the small space. Nathan closes the door behind me, the latch clicking into place with a sound that feels final, unyielding. “Good girl,”

he says. “This is your bed for the night,”

he says, his voice even, as though

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he’s pointing out something mundane, like a coat rack or a spare chair. “Get comfortable.”

I lower myself onto my stomach, the mat beneath me thin and unkind, the cage bars pressing cold and rigid against my skin whenever I move. My first position doesn’t work—the collar catches awkwardly at my throat, and the angle feels wrong. I turn onto my side instead, curling inward, my knees pulling tight to my chest. The collar shifts slightly, settling in a way that feels no less strange but at least doesn’t constrict. I close my eyes, but my mind won’t quiet. It moves instead, rapid and analytical, replaying every detail of his instructions, every nuance in his tone, every flicker of expression that might’ve hinted at what’s next.

He lingers for a moment, watching me, his shadow cutting across the soft light. When he leaves, the sound of his footsteps fades slowly, each one an echo of presence retreating into absence. The house hums faintly around me, a low, constant vibration that settles like static in the corners of the room. I breathe evenly, counting the inhales, holding the exhales, trying to tether myself to the rhythm. Eight hours, I think. I can do this.

The cage is too small, the mat barely a buffer between me and the hardness of the floor. Every time I shift, a new ache blooms—my knees pressing against steel, my back stiff from the forced curvature of the space. Still, I stay as still as I can, my breath shallow, my body compliant. I tell myself it’s part of the work, part of the deal, but my thoughts loop, circling back to the thinness of this arrangement and the weight of it all at once.

Time stretches and contracts in uneven increments, elastic and unmeasured. Every so often, I hear the faint creak of footsteps in the distance, a signal that Nathan is near. My chest tightens with each approach, and when he finally returns a few hours later, the anticipation solidifies into something sharp and unrelenting. The

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cage door swings open with a sound that feels louder than it should, and he clips a leash to my collar, the cold metal brushing against my neck. “Come,”

he says, his voice calm.

I follow on all fours, the leash pulling taut but never jerking. My hands and knees move in time with the rhythm of his steps, each one anchored to the soft pad of his soles against the hardwood. He leads me to his bedroom, the space a study in masculine—deep greys and blacks, clean lines, an absence of warmth.

“Up,”

he says, gesturing toward the bed. I hesitate for a fraction of a second, then climb onto the mattress, my movements careful, my body hyper-aware of his gaze. He watches me with a focus that doesn’t waver, his expression unreadable as he begins to undress. His movements are deliberate, unhurried, as though this is more ritual than routine. When he joins me, his touch is firm but gentle, his voice steady as he murmurs, “Good girl,”

the words soft but charged.

The sex surprises me. I had expected something rough, something unkind, but instead, it’s careful, intimate in a way that feels almost romantic. He doesn’t rush. His hands are sure, his movements measured, and the repeated cadence of “Good girl”

punctuates every moment, a refrain that threads itself through the air, making it heavier, denser. I don’t hate it. That fact alone catches me off guard, a realization that settles somewhere I can’t quite reach.

When it’s over, he doesn’t leave me to clean myself up. He disappears into the bathroom and returns with a warm, damp cloth, his hands precise as he wipes me down. His touch is impersonal, detached, as though this is just another part of the arrangement. Still, there’s something jarring about it, the intimacy of being tended to even in the absence of care.

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“Good girl,”

he says again when he’s finished, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. The leash clicks back into place, and he leads me down the hallway again, the cage waiting like an inevitable destination.

“Sit,”

he says once we’re back in the study, his tone sharp but even. I drop to my knees, my body moving before my mind catches up. My hands rest on my thighs, my posture stiff, waiting.

“Beg,”

he says next, gesturing with his hand. It takes me a moment to understand, but then I raise my hands in front of me, mimicking the motion of dogs I’ve seen on the videos I watched. He watches closely, his gaze intent. “Higher,”

he says, and I adjust, lifting my hands closer to my chest.

“Good girl,”

he says again, the words landing differently each time, shifting from praise to command to something else entirely. He moves through more instructions—“roll over,”

“crawl to me,”

“stay”—each one executed without question. His approval follows every act, consistent, predictable, and I find an odd kind of solace in the structure of it, in the absence of ambiguity.

When it’s over, he gestures toward the cage again, and I climb in without hesitation. The latch clicks shut, the sound final, and I curl up inside, my body folding into the tight space. The bars press against me in uneven intervals, and the thin mat beneath me does little to ease the ache, but I stay still, my breath shallow, counting each exhale as though it might tether me to something solid.

The house hums again, low and steady, and the light above me feels sharp, cutting through my closed eyelids. I think about asking him to turn it off, but the thought loops in my head, circling until it exhausts itself. I stay silent; unmoving.