Hi everyone 

Here’s the third chapter of Girls Don’t Play Fair.

And I hope you’re holding on tight 😈

***

September 2, 2014 — St. Aldhelm University (USA) — 10:25 a.m.

Mornings on the St. Aldhelm campus were, in many respects, similar to those on any university campus. Students moving between buildings, laughing groups, and various clubs gathering.

At this start of the year, stress had not yet appeared on the students’ faces. Exams were still far off, and everyone was still enjoying the end of summer.

Everyone? No. Not everyone. The apartment shared by Emily and Rachel, for its part, was in upheaval.

“Megan, I told you we needed to come back to campus at the same time,” Emily complained, seated on her bed in the corner of the room.

The apartment shared by the two roommates was far larger than Megan and Sabine’s, and better arranged. A large wardrobe, a private bathroom, two desks, and even a long curtain that could be drawn to divide the room in two.

The size of the place, obtained thanks to the slightly more favourable financial situation of the two fourth-year students’ parents, had therefore always made it the team’s meeting place.

“That’s nice and all, Em, but I don’t choose my return date based on comfort—I choose it based on plane ticket prices,” the redhead replied, leaning against the wardrobe with an irritated look.

“You could at least have been careful,” Rachel added, seated on her bed. “We lost eleven points in less than three days because of you.”

“Excuse me?” Sabine’s roommate reacted at once, straightening up. “Because of me? Remind me—who walked into a trap yesterday thinking they were setting up the ambush of the century?”

Emily opened her mouth to protest, but the redhead spoke again first. “The whole team has to be captured for them to score ten points. If you’d listened to me, you wouldn’t have been caught.”

“We wouldn’t all have been caught if you’d followed our strategy and kept your door closed,” Rachel protested, crossing her arms in irritation.

In truth, the three young women were frustrated. All still bore rope marks on their bodies, visible signs of their stinging defeats over the past few days. The fact that they had suffered what the game called a “full team” did nothing to improve their mood. The rule was clear: one point per capture—but ten if every member of a team was taken at the same time. And the fact that Emily’s team now had only three members changed nothing about that rule, to the latter’s great dismay.

“I already told you!” the redhead retorted, rolling her eyes. “Sabine opened it!”

“MMMMPPPPHHFF! MMPPHHFF!” The muffled cry, full of genuine outrage, came from Sabine herself.

She was in one corner of the room, seated on a wooden chair. And the fact that she remained in that position was obviously not due solely to her own will (though she would not have been standing in the middle of the room anyway) but to the considerable amount of rope holding her in place.

More precisely, her wrists were crossed behind her back over the chair’s backrest and bound with pink ropes (originally intended for Kayla, but reused). Additional ropes had, of course, been applied above and below her breasts to force her to keep her torso pressed against the backrest.

Her legs had also been tied after Sabine, once partially secured to the chair, had tried to defend herself—or retaliate—by delivering an instinctive kick. As a result, her ankles had been crossed and bound, and a rope had been knotted beneath her knees. And, to top it off, her shoes had been taken from her, to prevent her from making noise by striking the floor or landing a well-placed kick on one of the girls as they passed nearby.

This betrayal drove the young German nearly mad with rage, but the pink ball gag stuffed between her lips prevented her from giving shape to her thoughts in any way other than through muffled cries of fury and dark glares at the three other women.

In hindsight, she should have suspected they would pull something like this. When Megan had said “okay” to her request to join the team after Sabine had freed her from her bondage once the time limit had expired, she should have known it could not be that simple.

She probably should have sensed something as well when Megan had invited her to the first team meeting of the year.

But of course, none of that had crossed her mind at the time. And when she had stepped into the apartment, she had not had time to react. The three women had overpowered her, tied her up, and gagged her.

Very well tied and gagged, for that matter. Far better than her friends had ever managed during their little games in Germany. But that too, she should have anticipated.

“And I already told you,” Emily shot back in response to Megan’s latest defence, “that you should have stopped her!”

The redhead rolled her eyes and let out a small sigh. “Of course. I’ll just lock my roommate up in our bedroom. I’m sure the university would love that.”

“Mmmphff, mmphff mmphhf!” the German protested, eager to take part in the conversation—or rather to unleash a string of insults at the traitors.

Rachel rose from her bed and walked over to Sabine, who growled into her gag.

“I’ve already told you what I think,” the Korean American began. “She’s a spy.”

“Mmppff? Mmphff mphf mmphff!” the blonde replied, rolling her eyes at the absurdity of the statement.

Megan could not help sighing heavily as well. “Cut it out with the paranoia.”

Emily, still seated on her bed, crossed her arms and spoke up. “Rachel does have a few points in her favour.”

Sabine let out a sharp breath through her nose at such stupidity. Now she was being accused of being a spy, and on top of that these lunatics had apparently gathered evidence against her. It felt like a parody of a spy film—except that here, the bondage was expertly done.

“First,” Rachel began, turning away from the German, “she shows up in the U.S. out of nowhere, gets mysteriously assigned to your apartment, and less than three days after meeting you, asks to join our team.”

“That’s suspicious!” Emily added, nodding as if to underline the point.

“That’s because—” Megan started, only to be cut off as Rachel continued her list.

“Second, there’s her name.”

This time, Sabine could not help protesting indignantly into her gag. Discrimination—that was what this was. Her German name automatically made her a potential spy. It was ridiculous.

“What’s wrong with her name?” Megan asked with a casual shrug.

Emily and Rachel exchanged a look and could not help sighing in unison at their friend’s obvious lack of cultural awareness.

“Megan, have you ever heard of newspapers? Or even the internet?” Emily said, her exasperation plain.

Sabine and Megan exchanged a glance, equally taken aback. Sabine, because she knew the only time she had ever appeared in the press was in connection with a school play in which she had performed—according to the local paper—a particularly bold version of Little Red Riding Hood (punching the wolf when it wasn’t in the script had made quite an impression).

Megan, meanwhile, had absolutely no idea what her friends were getting at.

Seeing the redhead’s confusion, the Korean American shook her head impatiently and began to explain.

“Don’t you know the Saars or something? You know, the British multi-billionaire family with all those women and their ridiculous titles?”

Megan arched a brow and once again met Sabine’s gaze, just as surprised as she was. No—Sabine did not look merely surprised. If anything, she seemed more startled by the theory being advanced than by the mention of the Saar family.

“Of course I do,” Megan lied, folding her arms defensively. “I’m not completely ignorant. But I don’t see how that’s a problem!”

The leader of the group shook her head with faint irritation. “Megan, this girl has a lot more in common with the rich girls on the other team than with us.”

Rachel nodded. “Nothing about this makes sense. She shows up on campus and moves into a standard dorm room, then wants to join the game?”

“It’s too obvious,” the girl with the purple streaks added. “I’m sure she’s in with Ashley.”

“MMMPPPHHHHFFF!” Sabine protested from her corner, shooting an indignant look at the team leader.

Megan remained silent for a few seconds, watching Sabine. Then she turned back to her friends. “She doesn’t look like a billionaire’s daughter to me.” She paused. “For one thing, she’s not as well dressed as I am.”

“MMPPPHHHFF! Mmphhf, mmphfff!” Sabine burst out, writhing in her bonds.

The criticism was entirely unfounded in her view. She was wearing a blouse and black jeans as ordinary as they came, not the redhead’s unattractive Adidas tracksuit.

“I’m actually trying to help you here,” Megan shot back when she saw clearly that her roommate’s protests were aimed at her.

“Basic strategy,” Rachel replied seriously. “If I were a billionaire trying to pass myself off as broke in order to infiltrate somewhere, I wouldn’t bring my Gucci dresses.”

“But you’d keep your name?” Megan asked with sarcasm.

Tied up in her corner, Sabine listened to the conversation with mounting disbelief. Espionage operations, billionaire infiltrators. These three girls seemed to be living in a parallel dimension.

“Maybe she’s just a terrible spy. That’s all,” Rachel shot back, even though her expression showed that Megan had made a point.

Megan let out a small groan of annoyance and closed the distance between herself and Sabine.

“What are you doing?” Emily asked, rising to her feet as well.

“What we should’ve done from the start. I’m going to ask her.”

Rachel exhaled sharply, throwing her hands up in exasperation. Obviously, if Sabine were a spy, she wouldn’t admit it. Only Megan could think this was a solution.

That fresh display of irritation did nothing to change the redhead’s mind. Once she reached the chair, she bent down and unfastened the strap of her roommate’s ball gag.

The ball finally slipped from the blonde’s mouth, and now free to speak, she did not hesitate to voice exactly what she thought.

“You’re a bunch of paranoid psychos!”

“Are you a spy?” Megan asked, ignoring the insult.

“A spy for what, for God’s sake?” the German shot back, twisting against the chair. “What exactly do you think I’m spying on?”

Rachel, exasperated by Megan’s interrogation skills, stepped forward in turn and nudged the redhead aside so she could stand directly in front of Sabine.

“We know you’re working with Ashley!”

“I don’t even know any Ashley! Jesus!”

“You expect me to believe it’s just a coincidence that, despite your billions, you ended up rooming with Megan?”

“Yeah, sure. Secret billionaire. I’ve got three hundred and sixteen dollars in my account. Does that sound like oil money to you?”

“Oh, please. A broke Saar? You honestly think we’re that stupid?”

“For God’s sake, Saar as in the Saar River. The one in Saarland,” Sabine snapped, giving Rachel a look usually reserved for the terminally clueless. “It’s a regional name. Not some aristocratic brand. I have absolutely nothing to do with those Saars.”

For a few seconds, Sabine thought she had reached the end of this absurd interrogation. When Rachel stepped behind the chair, she even allowed herself to hope she was about to be untied.

A serious miscalculation.

Rachel did not untie her. On the contrary, she took advantage of the fact that Sabine’s mouth was still slightly open to push the pink ball gag back inside.

“Mmmmppphhfff!” the German protested as the pressure forced her to open wider so the ball could be lodged properly.

She tried to resist, but was quickly subdued. The strap was tightened once more behind her head, silencing her again.

She could only watch, powerless, as Emily bent down to retrieve her laptop.

“If she’s playing us, I swear she’s spending the day locked in our closet,” Rachel remarked as she sat down on the bed beside her roommate.

Megan, who had also stepped closer, saw Emily type “Saar” followed by “Germany” and “Name“ into Google.

The redhead couldn’t help snickering when the results appeared on the screen.

“Saar is a German surname derived from the Saar River and the region of Saarland in southwestern Germany. It is a geographic or toponymic name, referring to someone from that area,” she read aloud with amusement.

“Mmphfff!” Sabine added, rolling her eyes to indicate that if they had listened to her from the start, this pointless search could have been avoided.

“Fine,” Rachel conceded, crossing her arms, “but that doesn’t mean she isn’t a member of the multibillionaire family.”

Emily nodded and typed “Sabine Saar” into Google. The result made Megan laugh even more.

There were hundreds of Sabine Saars, apparently all located in Germany or the Netherlands, and above all no sign of any connection between those people and the Saars Rachel and Emily were referring to.

“Wow. Mystery solved,” Megan said dryly. “Germany’s rich because it’s crawling with billionaire Sabine Saars.”

“Shut up,” Emily and her roommate replied at the same time, blushing slightly with embarrassment.

Emily seemed ready to drop it, or at least to admit that Sabine might be telling the truth about her family.

Rachel was not.

“Type ‘Saar’ and ‘Billionaire’ into Google,” she said. “Then we’ll see whether it leads us to Sabine.”

The team leader complied at once, and moments later the search results appeared, with a Wikipedia page at the top. More precisely, the page for Lady Cressida Saar, Duchess.

Emily clicked the link, bringing up a photograph of the Duchess along with various details.

“Lady Cressida Saar, Duchess of Ashcombe and CEO of Saar Unlimited Responsibility,” Emily read aloud.

Megan, who had leaned slightly closer to see the screen, let out a low, appreciative whistle at the sight of the Duchess’s photo.

“Damn, she’s gorgeous. She doesn’t look forty-one at all.”

Rachel shot her a dark look. “Megan, we are not here to comment on her looks. And that’s a stupid remark anyway—we don’t even know when that photo was taken.”

“Buzzkill,” the redhead replied, rolling her eyes.

“Personal details,” Emily continued, refocusing their attention. “Born in London, United Kingdom, in 1973.” She skimmed quickly past the sections that were not relevant until she reached the entry labeled “Children.” “Children: Cybele Saar and Ciara Saar, both born October 1, 2004.”

Megan could not resist teasing Rachel. “So what, you think Sabine’s secretly one of the Duchess’s daughters pretending to be a college student? That would be very spy-like.”

“Shut up, Megan.”

The young woman with the purple streaks then clicked on the link to the page devoted to the Saar family. It listed, according to the author, every Saar connected to the ducal branch. And, unsurprisingly, no Sabine Saar appeared anywhere. In fact, every woman mentioned bore a first name beginning with the letter C, which seemed to exclude the young German by default.

“She seems clean,” Emily finally admitted. “At least on that front.”

Megan smiled and stepped closer to Sabine again. Once she reached her, she turned back toward her friends.

“She’s clean, she doesn’t look like a spy, and she wants to join us. What more do we need?” she asked with a grin.

“She could still be a spy,” Rachel corrected. “Just because she may not be a Saar and refuses to admit she’s a spy doesn’t mean we can rule it out.”

She never gives up, Sabine thought, shifting slightly in her chair.

“Except we’re getting crushed, in case you forgot,” Megan shot back. “We’re getting crushed because there are only three of us and they’re four. We can’t afford to turn down help over vague suspicions.”

“Maybe,” Emily conceded, sounding less defensive, “but there’s still one issue.”

“What?” Megan asked, impatience creeping into her voice.

“She’s terrible, damn it,” Rachel replied, putting a little more bluntly what she knew her roommate was thinking. “We overpowered her in under five minutes, without even trying.”

“Mmmmphhff, mmphfff!” Sabine attempted to defend herself, which her gag obviously did not allow.

“She’s just going to hand points to the other team.”

“No,” Megan countered. “She just wasn’t ready. We caught her off guard.”

Sabine nodded, pleased that her roommate was taking her side. In truth, she was anything but fragile. She held a black belt in judo and, if prepared, could likely have put up far fiercer resistance during the three girls’ attack. But she had assumed that beating up her future teammates at the first meeting was probably not the best way to start things off. And by the time she realized she actually needed to react, it had already been too late.

“Come on, Em,” Megan pressed. “What are we really risking?”

The leader exchanged a look with Rachel. The Korean American still appeared skeptical, but for the moment she lacked sufficient grounds to block Sabine’s integration. She shrugged.

Emily nodded and rose from her bed before positioning herself directly in front of Sabine.

“Alright, Sabine. We’re willing to take you on a trial basis,” she began, her expression serious. “But I’m warning you, playing with us isn’t easy.”

“Yeah. The game is demanding. And we can’t lose. There’s no way we’re letting that club room slip away,” Rachel added from her spot.

“Exactly!” Megan grinned. “It’s our club room. And the future global capital of The Properly Bound Club.”

“Megan, stop using that name! We haven’t agreed on the name of our future club!” Rachel protested.

“You still haven’t come up with anything better!”

The three girls began arguing, each explaining in turn why one name was better than another—or why another one was “complete crap.”

Still tied to her chair, Sabine watched the scene without being able to react. But one very clear thought was forming in her mind.

“For fuck’s sake. All this over a club room?”

***

At the same time, just beyond the St. Aldhelm campus.

10:45… No, 10:46 now.

The passing minutes had become an obsession for Amanda Weller.

The professor of international relations in the political science department—barely five foot three, with long, slightly wavy hair, blue eyes behind discreet glasses—was walking as fast as her heels would allow toward her destination, praying that the three traffic lights she still had to cross would be green when she reached them.

She checked her watch again. 10:47. A small cry of panic escaped her and she quickened her pace.

She had to make it. Heels or no heels. She had to arrive on time. At the time her counterpart had set, arbitrarily.

Amanda, forty-seven, known as a leading figure in her field and one of the most respected professors on campus, would never have imagined, six months earlier, that she would one day be reduced to leaving a class early, or even hiding on the campus where she had taught for more than ten years.

Least of all that she would be reduced to leaving on foot, abandoning her car and putting on a ridiculous hat to conceal her face from her students.

And yet that was precisely the situation she now found herself in.

Three times a week, sometimes more, she had to drop everything and hurry to the feet of the vile creature who tormented her.

Someone she had not distrusted. Someone she had thought harmless. No—not even that. She had never imagined this person could have the slightest leverage over her. Nor that she might try to acquire any.

She had been wrong. Deeply wrong. And she was now paying the price.

It had all begun in February.

At the time, Mrs. Weller still considered herself fully aware of her “power” on campus. An impeccable reputation, nationally recognized expertise, regular invitations to appear in the media, the goodwill of the university administration.

Above all, she believed firmly in the value of her courses. She had spent years studying politics and international relations. Long enough that she was no longer meaningfully challenged by her students.

Long enough to recognize a careless paper, one lacking any credible analysis, or entirely fanciful.

So when one of her students, in a presentation, defended a thesis that was profoundly subversive, she had naturally reacted.

Amanda Weller was not naïve. She knew that power struggles were commonplace between states. The world of international relations, after all, was not a gentle one.

But she had always advocated a rational approach to such relations and believed with absolute conviction that cooperation was the surest and most reliable way to achieve one’s goals.

The exact opposite of the thesis being defended. That thesis, which Amanda had almost taken as a provocation, asserted that espionage, blackmail, deception, intimidation, and an exacerbated use of power dynamics were not merely a solution to resolving conflicts, but the most effective and profitable one.

Amanda Weller had laughed. Laughed at that insolent student, ready to overturn the entire international order with her far-fetched theories.

The student, for her part, had not laughed. She had remained impassive, staring straight into her eyes with a look that now haunted her every night. Not the typical look of a student who had just realized she might fail a course. But that of an amused predator watching prey too foolish to understand it had just been singled out.

The blow came several weeks later, during the submission of an assignment.

Unlike the other students, the student had neither sent an email nor turned in a printed document, but had instead handed her a USB drive. Amanda accepted it without a second thought, without even considering that a virus might have been installed on it.

In hindsight, it was a mistake—but a mistake without consequences this time. Because the USB drive contained no virus. Nor, strictly speaking, did it contain an assignment.

But instead, Amanda Weller discovered more than five gigabytes of compromising material about herself:

Photographs of her kissing men she had no business kissing—affairs and conference one-night stands alike—during seminars in other states. Testimony from a former university student revealing that they had maintained an affair while he was enrolled, supported by video evidence secretly recorded by the young man during their encounters. Proof of her “creative” dealings with tax law, as well as copies of text messages she had sent, once or twice, to a dealer she knew to obtain small amounts of stimulants.

All of it accompanied by a note:

“Let’s see what you think of espionage, blackmail, and manipulation now.”

From that moment on, Amanda Weller was under the student’s thumb. And she was running. Running to reach her appointment on time, fearing what would happen if she were late.

She glanced at her watch. 10:49. One minute left to ring. Fortunately, the professor could already see the door of the woman who held her life in her hands.

It was a modest house. Or at least modest for its occupant. Two stories, clean white facades, a large garage, and a small garden opening directly onto the road that led to campus in less than five minutes.

A house purchased specifically for the student’s studies, since she had refused to live on campus. A house Amanda hated with every fiber of her being, yet one she had no choice but to return to again and again, even if the summer break had given her a brief respite.

She quickened her pace, hurried past the car of the two bodyguards who maintained a constant watch in front of the house, and reached the porch, slightly out of breath.

She took a few seconds to steady her breathing and pressed the doorbell.

10:51.

The door opened a few moments later, revealing the one who held her leash.

A  tormentor whose appearance did not reflect the malice that defined her—or at least, not entirely.

Long brown hair falling to her shoulders, pale skin, a height not exceeding five foot three, and a slender body with an almost fragile appearance.

But it was the details of her face that showed relying solely on her physique was a serious mistake. Her perfectly symmetrical features, which made her undeniably attractive at twenty, were paired with a deeply unsettling smile and large, piercing green eyes that revealed no trace of fragility. Only, at times, a faint amusement—as was the case now.

That smile and those eyes, Amanda now saw them at night. Elza Rain had managed, in addition to infiltrating her life, to infiltrate her dreams.

As always, she wore a type of outfit that set her apart from the other students. No jeans, T-shirt, or sneakers for the heiress of the Rain family. Instead, she wore a black Yves Saint Laurent jumpsuit whose value easily exceeded two thousand euros, and a pair of limited-edition Louboutin heels that only a woman belonging to the American elite could afford.

But it was not the sight of Elza herself that made the professor flinch immediately. She was more than used to her appearance and her style of dress. No, it was the fact that the heiress was holding her cellphone in her hands, the screen, visible from Amanda’s position, showing an email already written and ready to be sent to the university president’s address.

“Just in time,” the young woman said in a firm voice. “Ten seconds later and your career would have been over, Mrs. Weller.”

“I— I…” the professor stammered, her eyes fixed on the heiress’s finger still poised above the send button.

“Don’t waste my time with your problems, Mrs. Weller,” Elza replied before stepping aside from the doorway. “Inside.”

The professor clenched her fist tightly but obeyed at once. She knew she was defeated and powerless. Above all, she knew that Elza Rain carried out her threats.

She had learned that at her own expense when the twenty-year-old student had arranged for all the photographs of her affairs to be sent, from an anonymous source, to her husband, in response to her attempt to have the young woman’s computer hacked in order to obtain leverage and restore the balance.

Robert had left her. Her marriage had fallen to pieces. And Elza Rain still held documents that could end her career—or even send her to prison. She therefore had no choice but to submit.

The professor stepped through the doorway, rediscovering, after several weeks’ absence, the large main room of the house. It opened onto a spacious open kitchen and was decorated with taste, in a style surprisingly understated for what the Rain family could afford.

Elza closed the door behind her and moved past her farther into the house. She then went to sit on the large sofa that stood in the middle of the room. She remained silent for a few seconds, staring Amanda straight in the eyes.

“What are you waiting for?” she finally asked, her tone firm. “Go put on your outfit.” She finished the sentence with a sharp snap of her fingers, a habitual gesture she used to signal that her patience was reaching its limit and that it was time to comply.

Understanding the threat, Amanda hurried toward the stairs, which she climbed as quickly as she could. She entered the young woman’s bedroom with equal haste, without even paying attention to the new decor. She did, however, immediately notice the leather bag resting on the gray sheets of the queen-size bed and, her heart heavy, opened it quickly.

She took out one of the instruments of her humiliation: a black latex bodysuit made to measure for her, covering her entire body like a second skin from the ankles to the nape of the neck, fully enclosing her hands—fully, with the notable exception of her crotch, deliberately left bare of latex.

She had hoped, on the last day of the previous academic year, that all of this would be behind her. That Elza would leave for the summer and forget her. But Elza Rain did not forget—or at least, she was not yet finished amusing herself with her.

She removed her clothes entirely and, retrieving the bottle of talcum powder from the bag, prepared to put on the bodysuit, praying once more that this would be the last time she had to endure such humiliation. She already knew it would not.

Despite the expertise she had acquired against her will, it still took her a full ten minutes to get the suit completely on. When she finished, she looked at herself in the large bedroom mirror, smoothing out the creases until everything was perfect.

She hated herself in this outfit. But the worst was yet to come.

She bent over the contents of the bag again and pulled out a black latex hood. It too had been made to measure, molding to the shape of her face and leaving openings only for her eyes, her mouth, and her nostrils, as well as a space for her hair once it was tied back in a ponytail. Despite those openings, she knew that once the hood was on, she would be unrecognizable. She would stop being Amanda Weller and become nothing more than Elza’s latex doll.

Unfortunately, she did not have the luxury of hesitating. She would be punished if she went downstairs without her outfit complete. So she tied back her hair and began to pull it on. Laboriously, as every time. Slowly but surely, she watched her identity disappear. When it was done, she looked at herself in the mirror.

What she saw disgusted her, but she was no longer surprised by her own reflection. She sighed when she saw that the bag was not empty.

She retrieved the final item: a red ball gag. Her ball gag. It too was custom-made and bore a large R on the latex ball—the mark of the one who held her leash.

She opened her mouth and pushed the ball between her lips, making sure the R remained clearly visible. Mistress Elza required it to be perfectly centered, so that both she and Amanda could see it. So that the professor would remember her situation.

She then tightened the strap and fastened it behind her neck, completing her self-gagging.

She did not dare look at herself in the mirror again and instead, began to descend the stairs.

Elza Rain, for her part, was still seated on the couch. At first glance, one might have thought she had not moved. One small detail, however, showed she had not remained idle while Amanda was busy upstairs: another leather bag now sat beside her.

The heiress did not spare the professor a glance as she came down the stairs. There was no need. The professor knew the rules—and the routine the twenty-year-old brunette followed.

She walked past the couch and positioned herself in front of Elza, kneeling, hands behind her neck.

And she waited. She waited for Elza—scrolling through her phone—to deign to look up.

When she finally did, a faint smile appeared on her face. “Nice to see you again, Pet.”

Pet. Not Amanda. Not Mrs. Weller. Just those three letters—her only name when she wore the suit. The one she was required to answer to, on pain of punishment.

The green-eyed brunette then opened her bag and took out a pair of wide steel handcuffs. The bracelets were about two inches thick, and the chain—no more than eight inches—made the restraining device, marked with the letter R on each cuff, all the more threatening and restrictive.

Without another word, the green-eyed brunette rose from the couch and moved behind Pet. With a firm motion, she seized her wrists and drew them behind her back.

The professor felt the cuffs close around her wrists. First the left, then the right. The clicks told her she was now trapped.

Elza briefly returned to the bag and took out two more pairs of handcuffs. One was identical to the set locked around the latex-clad woman’s wrists. The other had a longer chain and much smaller bracelets—too small to secure a limb.

This did not surprise Pet. She knew these items well.

And just as she had expected, the heiress forced her to bring her ankles together before fastening the wide-cuffed pair around them. The other was used to link the chain of her wrist restraints to the one locked around her ankles, placing her in a near hogtie, though still kneeling.

Elza smiled faintly, then, still without a word, returned to sit on the couch. She picked up the remote and switched on the television behind the chained woman.

Pet knew it all too well. Often, her sessions involved nothing more than remaining there, motionless, for the simple amusement of her mistress. Sometimes she watched a film or chatted with her friends. Sometimes she spoke to her about her view of the world, her theories. And sometimes she mocked her. Pet could never respond. Her role was to endure—never to comment.

“I’m planning to invite a few friends over tonight,” the mistress said without even looking at her. “You’ll serve. And afterward, you’ll clean everything.”

Pet did not try to protest. She already knew how this ended.

Trapped.

Because for the Rain family, espionage, blackmail, and intimidation were never empty words. They were methods. Habits. Weapons.

The machinery behind a single, ruthless principle.

Power requires no consent.

End of chapter

Hello everyone,

Here is Chapter 5 of the story.

As you’ll see, the plot moves forward quite a bit here. I hope you enjoy it 

***

May 24, 1826 — London (Mayfair) — 3:30 p.m.

London… it had been a very long time since Lady Ashcroft had set foot there.

It had been even longer since she had any reason to go. Or at least any reason compelling enough to make the journey worthwhile, given what the city had to offer her now.

The Seasons had always bored her. All those insipid conversations, all those attempts at socializing. No, such formalities had never held the slightest interest for the Viscountess.

The Game, however, had given her, for nearly twenty years, the only worthwhile reason to come to the British capital. A game from which she had been deprived, at the same time as her impeccable bearing and her beauty—replaced by illness, a cane, and a tired face.

And yet, when Anne Hawthorne had contacted her, she had hoped that the arrival of a young woman with “particular interests” might restore a little of her youth. After all, had she not seen, during her years in the Circle, all those women in the prime of life laugh freely and flourish in the role of mentor?

Yes, the Viscountess had placed great hopes in her relationship with Lucy Hawthorne. Not because the brunette represented any strategic interest for her. Not because she saw in this an opportunity to play the Game again on her own ground, reclaiming the power that had once been hers in her prime. But simply because Lucy was young, and would, with her, gradually discover the world in which she herself had flourished for years.

But Beatrice Ashcroft had lost all illusions several days ago.

London high society had many qualities, but discretion was not one of them. Lady Ashcroft had understood, even before any arrangement had been concluded with Anne Hawthorne, that by “unusual inclinations,” one was meant to understand an interest in other women. But—and she knew this only too well—such inclinations were not incompatible with an attraction to the Game. In her experience, perhaps a biased one but still, it was often the case. That was why she had agreed to receive Lucy and her mother at her manor. And it was also why she had agreed to subject her to the test.

And when the Viscountess had finally grasped the truth—understood that Lucy Hawthorne would never be an** **enthusiastic pupil—she had kept her with her all the same.

Not to convince her of the Game’s appeal. Lucy, whom she had been training for eleven days, had none. But to try to help her salvage her reputation, because that mattered to her—and to her mother.

Even though, deep down, she knew the young woman would not find what she was looking for at the end of the road.

She let out a quiet sigh behind her fan. Now she was starting to feel anxious. You are nothing like a Chaperone anymore, my dear, she thought, giving her head a faint shake.

“Is everything all right, Lady Ashcroft?”

The voice belonged to her hostess, Countess Cornelia Reilly.

Lady Reilly, whom she knew quite well from having encountered her at numerous events hosted by the Duchess, was a beautiful woman of about forty-five with long curls. From her lineage she had also inherited graceful features, and above all a gaze that revealed a strength not to be underestimated.

The Countess had done her the honor of sitting beside her in the vast reception hall of the Reillys’ London residence, even though she had invited nearly all of high society and quite obviously had more interesting people to speak with.

An attention that only deepened the Viscountess’s faint unease, for she herself was the architect of a plan meant to deceive her hostess—and, above all, her daughter.

In truth, matters had unfolded very quickly. Certainly, from the outset her plan had involved bringing Lucy closer to Margaret Reilly, the one most likely to integrate her into the Circle. That plan, moreover, would have been the same even if the young Hawthorne had shown herself more enthusiastic about the Game.

But Beatrice had quickly understood that, despite herself, she would have to move far more quickly than expected.

To bring Lucy and Margaret together, the two young women obviously had to meet. And the events of the Season were the only moments that made this possible. The problem was that Lucy was no longer invited to such events.

The Viscountess had understood this clearly about a week earlier, when she had tried to obtain invitations for herself and Lucy to several gatherings where she knew from experience she might encounter the Reillys. Events scheduled for June, which would have given her time to prepare Lucy further.

She had received only refusals—or rather, invitations for one person: herself. Not for Lucy.

The rumor had spread too widely, and no one, or at least no one of interest to Beatrice Ashcroft, was now willing to invite the young woman.

She had therefore been forced to adopt another strategy and to aim for the only event still available to her: the reception Lady Reilly hosted each year toward the end of May.

She had been invited. And Lucy as well. Lady Ashcroft still retained sufficient influence within the Circle for that, quite apart from the fact that the Saars and their affiliates had, in truth, little concern for this sort of rumor. Whether true or false, for that matter.

It had therefore been necessary to accelerate Lucy’s training. And Beatrice was certain the young woman could very well ruin the entire operation.

But it was her only chance. Her only opportunity.

If Lucy committed a misstep, at least Beatrice Ashcroft would have tried. What followed would no longer be in her hands.

The eighteen-year-old young woman seemed perfectly aware of it. Dressed in a beautiful yellow gown her mother had sent to the hotel room Beatrice Ashcroft had reserved, she was speaking in one corner of the room with the daughter of another baronet. She smiled faintly and tried to keep the conversation going, but her attention was elsewhere.

The reception room was full. Around forty noblewomen and somewhat fewer men, all charming and well dressed. But of no interest to Lucy—or rather, with one exception: Margaret Reilly, who stood at the center of the room speaking with her friends.

The lively little blonde in a beautiful blue gown was perfectly at ease, moving from group to group, joking with the women and listening to the men while maintaining the dignity expected of her.

Lucy had even caught herself, after she began observing her, feeling a slight envy. Margaret seemed free and fulfilled. The Season amused her. Seeing all those gentlemen approach her appeared to please her. She was in her place, not forced to play a role for which she was not made.

The brunette once again turned her gaze away from her companion and met Beatrice’s eyes. She too was making conversation with her hostess without much conviction. The only difference was that the Viscountess could at least benefit from the excuse of her illness.

The patroness looked away from Lucy for a few seconds. Margaret had finally moved. The earl’s daughter had just joined a group of young women positioned not far from the door leading back into the corridor and toward the staircase—stairs that were visible from where she stood.

She turned her head back toward her protégée, who had not taken her eyes off her. Then she gave a slight nod.

It was time to act.

Lucy Hawthorne then set herself in motion. She offered a brief apology to the young woman she had been speaking with and moved toward Margaret. Her pace was slow, almost awkward, as she tried to catch the blonde’s eye. She succeeded halfway across the room, her green eyes meeting the blonde’s large, expressive blue ones. The first stage of the plan had succeeded.

But Lucy knew she had only completed the easiest part.

Drawing a breath that was a little too obvious for her patroness’s taste, she then veered off and headed straight for the door leading to the corridor—and, more importantly, to the upper floors.

The blonde, clearly surprised by the move, watched her for several seconds. She saw Lucy approach the door, then step through it.

Then Lucy reached the staircase. She placed one foot on the first step and paused before turning her head back toward Margaret Reilly.

Their eyes met again, and Lucy began to climb the stairs.

Then she disappeared.

From where she stood, Beatrice Ashcroft saw surprise appear on the Reilly heiress’s face. A moment later, the girl turned her head toward her mother.

Then she smiled, genuinely amused.

She had understood…

***

The boudoir of the Reilly family’s residence was in keeping with the rest of the house. Understated, yet elegant enough to subtly reflect the family’s prestige. Located on the first floor, as in any proper residence, it contained two sofas, a chaise longue, a small bookcase, and numerous wooden cabinets that matched perfectly with the room’s green wallpaper.

And it was there that Lucy now found herself. It was here, she knew, that everything would be decided. Beatrice Ashcroft, who knew the premises well, had planned everything: draw Margaret’s attention, surprise her by going upstairs, and finally make her way to the boudoir—easy to spot… and wait.

Wait as long as necessary, or until someone came to fetch her.

So Lucy waited, her eyes fixed on the bookcase without truly seeing the books.

It had been a full fifteen minutes since she had moved, her heart pounding from stress and the many questions crowding her mind.

What would happen if Lady Margaret did not come? What would become of her if she could not join the Circle? And what if she did succeed?

At last, she heard the door open and turned her head slightly, seeing Margaret enter from the corner of her eye.

“Miss Hawthorne,” the blonde said in a calm voice that nevertheless carried a hint of amusement—and perhaps even excitement—“I see you have found the boudoir.”

The mention of her name unsettled the eighteen-year-old brunette slightly, as she had not expected Margaret to have inquired about her. In hindsight, it had perhaps been naïve of her; the Countess’s daughter would never have followed a stranger. She had likely spent the last fifteen minutes questioning the guests—perhaps even Lady Ashcroft, with whom she had seen Lucy arrive at the residence without truly noticing her.

“Lady Margaret, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,” Lucy replied.

Her voice did not tremble. During her training with Lady Ashcroft, Letitia, and Frances, she had learned to appear more assertive, less fearful. It was, the three women had told her, a prerequisite if she hoped to have the slightest chance of achieving her goal.

Her tone therefore carried a feigned confidence—unusual for Lucy, but convincing enough for Margaret’s smile to widen.

The blonde stepped toward her, hands behind her back, swaying slightly from one foot to the other.

“You do realize it is very impolite to leave the reception room in the middle of an afternoon gathering, do you not?” she asked with a smile. “Some might even call it brazen.”

The green-eyed brunette did not reply. Instead, she turned her head toward the bookcase to hide her face and lightly bit her lower lip. She could feel it—it was about to begin.

Her gaze still fixed on the books, she heard Margaret open one of the cabinets and retrieve something. She did not dare turn around.

Surprise, the Viscountess had told her, was a central element of the Game.

So she waited, listening only to the soft sound of Margaret’s shoes lightly striking the floor.

Then… nothing.

The footsteps stopped. Even the faint sound of the blonde’s breathing seemed to vanish. Lucy frowned, slightly caught off guard.

After a few seconds, she finally considered turning her head to see what was happening. She did not have time.

Barely had her neck begun to turn when Lucy felt a piece of fabric drop over her head, darkening her vision and muffling the sounds around her. Startled, she spun and tried to bring her hands to her face.

She only partly succeeded and realized the fabric was nothing other than a bag. A small bag. One not meant for carrying vegetables, but for being placed over someone’s head.

She then felt the blonde’s hands come down on her, pushing away the hand that had just brushed the bag, depriving her of the possibility of removing it, and then beginning to force her arms behind her back.

Lucy, breathing heavily, immediately began to struggle while Margaret—surprisingly strong, or experienced—used all her technique to cross her wrists behind her.

The brunette could not stop the process—and in truth she was not really trying. Beatrice Ashcroft had told her: “Margaret Reilly likes it when one resists, so make sure you resist—and then yield.” So she yielded, even if, in truth, she might not have been able to free herself even if she had wanted to.

When the brunette’s wrists reached their destination, Margaret began to bind them with rope, using a technique similar to the ones Frances and Letitia had used on her during the test and the training sessions.

Rope, yes. That might have seemed surprising, since Margaret had entered the room empty-handed. But for Lucy, it was no surprise. On the contrary, it was expected.

Because the boudoir of the Reilly residence was not a room like the others. And still less a boudoir like any other. It was one of the play spaces Beatrice had told her about. One that one entered knowingly, in order to play.

It was precisely that notion of “knowingly” that explained the fifteen minutes during which Lucy Hawthorne had had to wait for Margaret’s arrival. The blonde had sought not only to learn about Lucy, but also to determine whether she knew what she was stepping into.

And Lady Beatrice Ashcroft had no doubt answered in the affirmative.

“There we go,” the blonde said with quiet satisfaction, snugging the rope tighter around her captive’s wrists.

Lucy, who was squirming slightly but not attempting to flee (which would have been foolish with a bag over her head), instinctively tested her bonds by pulling against them. They were tight. Very tight indeed. Margaret was likely more skilled than Letitia and Frances, despite her young age. A realization that was not particularly reassuring for the brunette.

She felt Margaret turn her, then give her a light push with the flat of her hand.

“Walk on, Miss Hawthorne,” she ordered, amusement in her voice.

“Take this thing off me!” Lucy protested faintly, her voice slightly muffled by the bag.

Here again, it was an attempt to please Margaret. She was not afraid and knew the blonde would not comply. The Charges, as they were called in the Saar circle, were not meant to be heeded in the middle of a session.

“Certainly not,” the young Reilly replied with a soft laugh. “It would be a crime to deprive you of a headpiece that suits you so well.”

Lucy did not respond. She could no longer stop what had begun—not without ruining her chances of entering the Circle. Panic, Beatrice had told her, would almost certainly bring the game to a halt, but for someone unknown to the Circle, it also risked exclusion from any future play. She could not allow such an outcome.

She then felt the blonde’s hand press lightly on her shoulder.

“Sit down, my dear.”

The brunette complied, finding herself seated on what she assumed was one of the sofas. In truth, she paid it little attention, because almost at once she felt Margaret’s grip on her ankles. The blonde crossed them and began to bind them, using the same practiced method she had used on her wrists.

“An eighteen-year-old young lady who wants to play with me,” the blonde said as she finished tying her, “and who even has the nerve to taunt me in front of everyone. That is most amusing.”

“I— I’m not taunting anyone,” Lucy replied weakly.

The countess’s daughter merely laughed and did not bother to answer. She was now far too busy binding Lucy’s elbows so tightly that they nearly touched.

“It’s too tight!” she complained, squirming in her bonds, this time with slightly more apprehension than before.

Margaret, of course, noticed nothing. “My poor Lucy. Caught in the wicked Margaret’s trap.”

The curly-haired blonde was laughing, and as Lucy felt the last of the ties being secured, she could sense the girl’s excitement in the way she moved behind her. Once again, Margaret was in her element. She was, without the slightest doubt, a true player—one of those for whom the Circle had been created in the first place.

Lucy then felt Margaret seize her legs and tip her onto the sofa. After a few more adjustments, she managed to roll her onto her stomach.

The brunette let out a faint sigh. She knew what was coming. The hogtie. By now she knew the position well, even if she liked it no better than before. In any case, it hardly mattered, because a few moments later Margaret was finished, and her ankles were firmly secured to her wrists, leaving her more helpless than ever.

“Isn’t this a bit excessive?” the brunette asked, squirming on the sofa.

Margaret let out another soft laugh and stepped away briefly, her footsteps once more becoming audible now that she knew her partner was going nowhere.

She seemed to rummage through a cabinet, then returned with a light, buoyant rhythm to her steps, as though she were almost skipping.

“One detail is missing,” she said at last as she came back near the sofa.

The bag was then lifted from the young woman’s head. Lucy blinked briefly, readjusting to the light. She opened her mouth to say something—or rather to try to influence what might happen next—but she was not given the chance. The instant her lips parted, the countess’s daughter took the opportunity to push a small sea sponge between them.

“Mmmmppphff?!” the young Hawthorne protested at once as she felt the object begin to expand inside her mouth.

The protest only made the pretty blonde laugh again. “That sponge suits you very well, my dear.”

Naturally, she made sure the gag would stay properly in place by tying the pretty white scarf she had brought with her across her prisoner’s mouth.

Satisfied, Margaret straightened and took up position in front of Lucy, hands on her hips. The brunette was now quite securely bound and gagged. True, little rope had been used, but by the standards of the Game, it remained acceptable.

And she knew she still had time to amuse herself with Lucy—and to tighten her bonds further. After all, no one would come looking for her for at least another hour.

She remained there for a few seconds, watching Lucy squirm in her bonds and whimper into her gag, savoring her victory. Lucy had been subdued in no time at all, and the blonde took quiet pleasure in noting her own progress. True, the green-eyed brunette had not truly resisted, but the speed with which Lucy had been overpowered was enough to make Margaret proud. Too often, during Circle gatherings, she was still regarded as easy prey. That was going to change—she could feel it.

Just then, she heard the boudoir door open. Startled, she turned her head toward it, echoing Lucy’s earlier movement.

Both young women then saw three maids enter the room: Mary, Sarah, and Emily.

The first two wore broad, mischievous smiles; the third looked determined.

“What is the meaning of this?” Margaret asked, genuinely surprised by the intrusion.

The maids exchanged a glance, then began to laugh softly and, without warning, rushed toward Margaret.

“Don’t even think about it!” the blonde protested at once.

But she reacted far too late. The boudoir was not especially large, and the distance to the door from where she stood was short—especially at a run.

She was quickly seized by Sarah and Mary, who, laughing openly, began forcing her down to the floor.

“Let go of me at once! Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something!”

The blonde’s voice rang through the room as she writhed, trying to escape the two maids’ hold, though without much success.

Lucy, for her part, watched the scene with clear astonishment in her eyes. The countess’s daughter—the very one who had just tied her up—was now being subdued by two maids, while the third was already approaching with rope. In her highly codified world, governed by rigid social hierarchies, it was, to say the least, unusual. Almost comical.

From where she lay, she therefore witnessed the thorough binding of the blue-eyed blonde, who, despite her struggles and protests, was quickly being trussed up.

Her hands were crossed behind her back and tied. Her elbows met the same fate after Sarah pointed out there was no reason she should not receive the same treatment as Lucy. Only to a point, however, because immediately afterward a rope harness—one Lucy did not have—was fashioned above and below her breasts to further immobilize her arms.

Next came the countess’s daughter’s legs, which were tied at the ankles, but also below and above the knees.

Margaret, furious, now found herself seated on the floor, bound even more tightly than her victim.

“You’re going too far! I was in the middle of a game!” she said, openly sulking.

Mary, the blonde with the mischievous gaze, smiled even wider. “Lady Margaret, really—you know perfectly well your mother has authorized us to play with you.”

“Yes,” Sarah added with an innocent look, “you’ve been so terribly bored without a playing partner.”

“And we saw you enter the boudoir,” the blonde went on with a nod. “A perfectly clear invitation, as far as we’re concerned.”

“Good heavens, I was following Miss Hawthorne. I did no such thing,” the countess’s daughter protested, twisting in her bonds with the firm intention of freeing herself.

She knew, however, that it was hopeless. Sarah and Mary were experts at binding, and now they also had Emily to assist them. Bondage, she had come to understand, could be applied far more meticulously when done by several people, especially when one could hold the person being tied in place. An urgent reminder of how necessary it was for her to find allies.

“So what do we do now?” Emily finally asked, her eyes fixed on Margaret. “Do we gag her?”

Sarah and Mary exchanged a conspiratorial glance, then nodded at the same time. Without warning, they lunged at their colleague, who let out a small cry of panic as she jolted in surprise.

“Traitors!” the brunette protested, struggling with all her strength against the more experienced maids. “You said we were teaming up!”

“We are teamed up,” Mary replied, as she and her friend forced Emily onto her stomach.

“That’s why we decided you deserved a little bondage break with Lady Margaret and her friend,” Sarah added with a laugh. “Think of it as a gift from us.”

“I told you not to trust them!” Margaret shot back, writhing from where she lay.

Emily had no chance to respond. Another sea sponge—one she had thought she’d brought for Margaret—was pushed into her mouth by the redhead. The other maid was already sitting on her and had begun tying her wrists, snickering.

Lucy, for her part, could only watch the scene with a mix of astonishment, faint unease, and confusion.

These women were playing. Truly playing. They were not pretending, not trying to pass themselves off as something they were not. They took real pleasure in tying one another up, in this game that blended pursuit, domination, and restraint. She let out a soft breath through her nose. She would probably never fully understand the world whose threshold she had crossed. A world she found herself, despite everything, wanting to belong to.

She remained there, silent, no longer even squirming, watching Mary and Sarah methodically bind their colleague.

She did not notice the boudoir door, now slightly ajar, nor the two women who had quietly come upstairs and were watching her.

“Is that the young lady everyone has been whispering about? The one said to have… particular tastes where women are concerned?” the first asked, her gaze resting steadily on Lucy.

“Yes, Lady Reilly. Lucy Hawthorne — daughter of Sir Edmund Hawthorne and Lady Hawthorne,” the other replied with a small inclination of her head.

A brief silence followed, broken only by Margaret’s muffled protests as she demanded to be released so she might resume her own game. Lady Reilly then turned slightly toward her companion.

“Send word to the Duchess,” she said in a lowered voice. “I believe we may have found what we were looking for.”

***

At the same moment — the Vanehurst residence (Mayfair)

The festivities were in full swing in the vast garden of the Vanehurst family’s London residence. Under the guidance of a woman of taste, the prestigious family had taken care to invite that afternoon all the most prominent figures of the British aristocracy. And she had achieved the remarkable feat of drawing in the great majority of them, leading many to decline other invitations.

Lady Vanehurst was therefore satisfied with her reception and moved among her guests, exchanging a few words and courtesies.

And among those guests, whom she had briefly greeted about an hour earlier, was Cyrilla Saar.

The young blonde, dressed in an outrageously expensive violet gown that further enhanced her beauty and natural charisma, stood facing a group of young women gathered not far from one of the garden’s large trees.

“Lady Cyrilla, tell them how you sent Lord Thornleigh packing!” asked a young woman barely older than eighteen, her eyes full of admiration for the Saar heiress.

Cyrilla smiled faintly and made an exaggerated gesture of boredom. “Ladies, really—have we not heard quite enough about men?”

A light laugh answered her remark, and a few moments later a pretty brunette, somewhat older, spoke up again.

“But after all, is that not why we are here?” she asked with a certain excitement, casting a brief glance toward the son of a count whose gaze she had just met.

Cyrilla noticed the look, and her smile widened further. She took a step toward the young woman, surprising her slightly.

“I am not here for that.”

The laughter faded a little, though the smiles remained. All except the brunette’s, whose eyes were now deeply caught in Cyrilla’s as the heiress watched her intently.

She felt herself flush despite herself, her heart beating a little faster without quite knowing why.

“Lady Emmeline,” Cyrilla began in a slow voice, savoring the effect she was having on the young woman, “you should come to our place one of these days.”

She paused and smiled even more before leaning in until her lips were level with Emmeline’s ear.

“I will show you why you have no need of men.”

The brunette flushed even more deeply, which drew laughter from the other girls in the group.

Her mind began to race, searching for something to say in answer to a suggestion that made no sense. Or perhaps it did—but one she could not conceive of. Or at least a meaning she should not have guessed.

But she did not have to reply, for a voice had just sounded behind her.

“Ladies, I should like a word with Lady Cyrilla.”

Every young woman gathered with Cyrilla knew that voice. It was Corvina Dunsmuir, Marchioness of Dunsmuir.

At forty-three, the marchioness was as admired as she was feared in high society. Her title, her natural authority—which extended even over her husband—and her friendships with the powerful all contributed to her reputation.

And then there was her appearance.

Lady Dunsmuir was tall for a woman, her posture so perfectly controlled it gave the impression of contained force rather than mere elegance. Her complexion was pale enough to throw her dark blue eyes into sharp relief—eyes that rarely softened and seemed to weigh everything they rested upon. Her brows were fine and precisely drawn, and her face, slightly more angular than fashion strictly favoured, lent her the unmistakable air of a patient predator

Yes, Lady Dunsmuir could be intimidating.

She was even more so to those who knew her lineage—and her preferred pastimes.

It took no more than those few words for the young ladies gathered around Cyrilla to nod lightly and withdraw with grace, leaving the blonde alone with the marchioness.

Lady Dunsmuir, in a dark blue gown that set off her eyes, stepped forward again. Her long dark brown hair was perfectly arranged, not a strand out of place, and she stopped less than a meter from the Saar heiress.

Corvina remained silent for a few moments, inwardly bristling at the Duchess’s daughter’s amused expression, before finally speaking.

“My dear child, certain rumors have reached my ears,” she began sharply. “Rumors that displease me greatly.”

Cyrilla gave a soft laugh.

“How distressing for you.”

The marchioness’s expression tightened further at Cyrilla’s insolence, which—clear in her eyes—showed she knew perfectly well what was at issue.

“In our family, young lady, we have rules—”

“Rules,” Cyrilla cut in smoothly, “that the Duchess enforces. Not her cousin.”

Corvina clenched her fist in irritation. Cyrilla liked to play that string. No—she relished using it. She knew exactly where Corvina stood within the family: second in the line of succession, after Cyrilla.

Corvina was a pure-blood Saar, closely tied to the family’s main branch, since she and Cassandra shared the same grandmother. A closeness that granted her a certain prestige—and a certain power. Power whose limits Cyrilla took pleasure in reminding her of, with an insolence that made Corvina seethe inwardly.

“Young lady, you are not the Duchess,” the brunette replied, fixing her gaze on the blonde.

“On that point,” Cyrilla said lightly, “I imagine you speak from experience.”

Corvina clenched her teeth but did not rise to the barb.

“The initiation, Cyrilla, must be accepted with grace by every young woman of this family,” she said in the same sharp tone. “And when it is concluded, she is expected to thank her chaperone for the instruction she has received.”

She paused.

“Under no circumstances is she to seek vengeance upon her chaperone.”

Cyrilla’s smile only widened, and she rolled her eyes with deliberate exaggeration, which further irritated the marchioness.

“What you are doing with Lady Farnham is unacceptable,” Corvina said at last, raising her voice further.

The heiress’s smile faded, replaced by something closer to irritation. She did not answer immediately and instead began to move, circling her mother’s cousin at a slow pace.

Corvina, for her part, remained firmly planted, ignoring the heiress’s movements around her.

The tension between the two women was now palpable, their gazes locking each time Cyrilla completed another circuit, neither seeming able to gain the upper hand.

After roughly five turns, the marchioness spoke again. “I am giving you two days to put an end to this childish little game of yours.”

“Or what?” Cyrilla asked, her voice sharp, almost threatening.

“I will take measures,” the brunette replied gravely.

Cyrilla Saar let out a faint breath through her nose at the marchioness’s threat and continued her slow circling, a mischievous look now playing about her lips.

“Has no one ever told you, Lady Dunsmuir, never to make a threat you cannot carry out?”

“Do not underestimate me, young lady,” the marchioness shot back.

“I am not underestimating you, my dear,” the blonde said, coming to a halt. “On the contrary, I am judging you at precisely your worth.”

Lady Dunsmuir clenched her fists and prepared to respond when another voice cut in.

“Lady Dunsmuir, what a pleasure to see you!”

Lord Vanehurst. Of course. He had to choose this moment to seek her out.

Cyrilla offered an innocent smile and, after a brief nod to the man, began to withdraw.

“Lady Dunsmuir, as always, it has been a pleasure speaking with you.”

She paused, suppressing a laugh.

“I look forward to your party next Tuesday. You may count me among your guests.”

With that, she slipped away, returning to the group of young women she had been speaking with earlier.

Corvina exchanged a few polite words with Lord Vanehurst, but her thoughts were already elsewhere.

For Lady Dunsmuir had not forgotten the rule: never issue a threat unless you are prepared to see it through.

End of chapter

Hello everyone 

Today, I’m happy to share Part 2 of Girls Don’t Play Fair.

I hope you’ll enjoy it!

***

September 1, 2014 — St. Aldhelm University (USA) — 6:45 p.m.

Emily Carter was not the kind to underestimate her opponents — nor, for that matter, to take them for idiots.

And yet, the nearly twenty-two-year-old fourth-year student had to admit it: when she discovered the location of Kayla Caldwell’s new apartment, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from laughing at such a display of stupidity — or carelessness.

After nearly eight months of being successfully targeted at least once a week by Emily’s team — which the previous year had consisted of Megan, Rachel, herself, and Harper (who had eventually betrayed them and dropped out) — Kayla had come up with the brilliant idea of changing apartments on campus.

Granted, Kayla had once again opted for a room in a premium dormitory that year. But she hadn’t chosen just any building. Nor just any apartment (and if it hadn’t been her choice, then fate itself seemed to be lending a hand to Emily’s team).

The easy prey of Ashley’s team — Ashley being Emily’s nemesis (and also her ex-girlfriend, a “minor detail” she liked to claim was insignificant) — had settled into the smallest and most isolated dormitory on campus, the one near the music club whose access was restricted after 6 p.m. The dormitory’s location meant that the area surrounding the building was almost deserted in the evenings. And as if that weren’t enough, not only did the dorm house just fifteen apartments in total, but Kayla had chosen — or been assigned — the only apartment located on the fourth and top floor.

She apparently had the largest apartment in the residence.

And also the most isolated.

A godsend for Emily’s team.

And tonight, Emily fully intended to take advantage of it.

She was pressed flat against the wall beside Kayla’s apartment door, waiting patiently for her to step out for her evening jog. Kayla was predictable—far too predictable not to be easy prey. She hadn’t even bothered to change her routine with the start of the new academic year.

Of course, Emily would never have risked going after her alone. As a fourth-year student, she considered intelligence her real strength, not physical prowess. Barely five foot three, with a slender build despite her half-hearted attempts at going to the gym, Emily knew she could not reliably win a straight fight against Kayla. Her light brown hair, streaked with a few purple highlights, and her delicate features — which, for reasons she had never quite understood, gave her a perpetually faintly blasé expression — were hardly the sort to inspire hesitation in an opponent.

So she hadn’t come alone.

Rachel Kim was there with her—her roommate and longtime friend—pressed against the wall on the right side of the door. Rachel was Korean American, a mix clearly reflected in her features. She was slightly taller than Emily, noticeably more athletic (lifting weights had actually worked for her), and she had a naturally severe face that could be genuinely intimidating. Her long dark hair, slightly almond-shaped eyes, and above all the small X-shaped scar beneath her left eye only reinforced the effect—so much so that Emily liked to introduce her as her “personal ninja.”

Rachel had, of course, pointed out more than once that ninjas were Japanese.

That had never been enough to make Emily give up on a good joke.

Rachel, meanwhile, was watching her from the other side of the doorway, her expression set with determination. A sports bag rested at her feet, innocuous at first glance, but heavy with everything they would need if things went according to plan. It was time to start scoring points—to begin closing the widening gap separating them from Ashley’s team.

The previous academic year had ended with a score of 180 to 223, in Ashley’s favour. The 400 points required to win the game were still a long way off, but Emily could feel victory slipping further and further out of reach.

Even last year, Ashley’s team had been steadily gaining momentum, managing to rack up twenty points in the final week alone, compared with just four for Emily’s team—points that had, incidentally, been handed to them by Kayla. And the new year was not off to a better start.

Megan had already been forced to concede a point.

As for Emily and Rachel, who had arrived back on campus on the twenty-ninth, they had spotted Ashley, Lauren, and Brittany prowling around their new apartment—making no real effort to hide either their presence or their intention to strike soon.

Something had to be done. Quickly. The balance needed to be tipped back the other way.

And that was precisely why Emily and Rachel were now waiting patiently outside the door of their favourite target’s apartment, fully intent on catching her the moment she stepped out for her evening jog.

The plan was, in truth, quite simple. It always was when Kayla was the target: jump her the instant she opened the door, overpower her, force her back inside the apartment, then tie and gag her. After that, Emily and Rachel would most likely settle in front of the massive flat-screen TV their victim owned, while Kayla struggled—vainly, they hoped—to free herself from her restraints. Once the point was secured, they would leave the apartment and savour their victory.

They would not be using cameras, unlike members of Ashley’s team, to validate the point and keep an eye on their captive. Not out of any principled refusal to use such technology, but simply because those cameras were expensive—far too expensive to be used routinely, as the game demanded. Proof of Kayla’s capture, and of her inability to free herself within the allotted time, would instead be established using the two young women’s phones. One video, carefully framed to show the time, would document the initial capture; a second would show the situation an hour later. To avoid any possible dispute, both videos would be uploaded to the small app Rachel had developed the year before.

That app—aptly named My Bondage Girls—had, since the game began, become a goldmine of content for anyone with an interest in bondage videos, fed indiscriminately by captures from both teams. It wasn’t lost on any of the participants that, were access to it ever commercialised, a small fortune could be made in no time.

But Ashley’s team was rich.

And Emily’s team had no desire to become bondage-film actresses.

So the app—and everything it contained—remained strictly private.

She cast a quick glance at her watch. Almost 6:50 p.m. — the precise time Kayla went out for her evening jog every single day. A habit that never varied, no matter what else might be going on.

One last determined look was exchanged. A nod in response — eager, ready.

Then the door opened.

Kayla appeared in the doorway, dressed in pink jogging pants and a grey Adidas T-shirt, earphones in, long hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“Now,” Emily hissed, launching herself forward almost instantly.

But Kayla, no longer easy to surprise after months of playing the game, sprang lightly backward, slipping just out of reach. She ended up a step farther inside what served as the main room of her studio apartment.

Emily followed her in at once, with Rachel right behind, already opening her sports bag.

Kayla, oddly calm, continued to retreat into her apartment, forcing them to follow.

That didn’t surprise them. Kayla tended to favor flight over confrontation — unlike Lauren, for instance, who was notoriously difficult to subdue and perfectly capable of turning seemingly hopeless situations around.

Everything seemed to be going according to plan. Both the leader and her “personal ninja” were already preparing to savor their first point of the year.

Then the bedroom door slammed shut behind them.

They froze almost instantly — startled as much by the sudden noise as by the smile that spread across Kayla’s face.

“Well, well,” a voice drawled behind them.

“Looks like you walked right into it.”

Emily would have recognised that voice anywhere.

Ashley Prescott.

She stood by the door she had just closed, blocking the exit — and more importantly, holding a massive neon-green paintball gun that clashed violently with her otherwise immaculate, expensive student outfit. She was smiling broadly, triumphantly, the barrel aimed straight at them.

Rachel had noticed her too — but her attention was fixed on the second figure.

Brittany.

She was aiming her own paintball gun with obvious confidence. Unlike usual, she had ditched her carefully curated, wealth-signalling wardrobe in favor of an old sweatshirt and faded jeans — clearly anticipating that things might get messy.

She was smiling just as much as her friend.

Rachel’s first instinct was to glance toward the door, now closed.

It was still close enough — close enough that she could reach it. She could probably even open it, since neither Ashley nor Brittany had bothered to lock it.

But the blonde seemed to read her thoughts. Her smile widened as she tightened her grip on the paintball gun.

“I’d forget that idea if I were you,” she said lightly. “One step toward the door, and I shoot.”

She let the silence stretch for a beat.

“And this isn’t the kind of paint that washes out,” she added, eyes flicking pointedly to Rachel’s leather jacket. “Say goodbye to it.”

Ashley laughed softly and nodded.

“She’s right,” she said. “Neon green paint and leather don’t mix very well.”

Then she turned back to Emily, raising her own weapon just enough to make the intention unmistakable.

“And for you,” she added calmly, aiming higher, “it’d be your hair. That stuff stains. For days.”

Emily shot her a furious look.

“That’s cheating!”

“Cheating?” Ashley repeated, eyebrows lifting in mock surprise.

“Yeah!” Rachel snapped, her gaze fixed on Brittany’s gun. “We said no weapons!”

Ashley burst out laughing.

“A weapon? Come on. We wouldn’t break the rules like that.”

She exchanged a quick, amused look with Brittany, who took over smoothly.

“This is classified as sporting equipment,” she said, in a tone that made it painfully obvious she’d rehearsed the line. “Perfectly legal. So don’t worry—no rules were harmed in the making of this ambush.”

Emily ground her teeth, torn between annoyance at her own oversight and the infuriatingly satisfied expression on Ashley’s face.

For a few seconds, she weighed her options. She wasn’t wearing anything expensive: black jeans, a plain dark blue T-shirt, and the blue sneakers she always wore when she went “hunting” as part of the game. A simple, inexpensive outfit—one she could afford to lose.

Getting splattered with fluorescent green paint in her hair, however, was a very different matter.

And it was even worse for Rachel, who had put on her lucky leather jacket—an item of inestimable sentimental value to her. Not to mention that starting the academic year with paint all over her head was not exactly what she had in mind.

They were beaten, then—and the soft, excited laugh coming from behind them made it clear that everyone in the room had already understood as much.

“It’s still against fair play,” Emily muttered, folding her arms.

“Don’t be such sore losers,” Kayla said, opening the huge wardrobe she had had installed in her room. Strangely, it was almost empty—except for the fluorescent pink gym bag where she kept her game accessories.

“So,” she added at last, grabbing the bag, “shall we get started?”

Ashley and Brittany nodded immediately.

“Hands behind your backs, girls,” Ashley ordered, the gun still trained on Emily. “You know how this goes.”

The young woman with the purple streaks exchanged a glance with her friend. They both let out a heavy sigh, then complied.

Kayla stepped up to Emily and, after adjusting her wrists so that they were crossed, began tying them with one of the white ropes she had just pulled from her pink bag.

She worked quickly, once again showing that she knew what she was doing. She was often the one captured by Emily, Rachel, and Megan, but that didn’t mean she was incapable of taking control herself when the situation called for it.

The rope was wrapped several times around the leader’s wrists, then cinched and knotted. The knot was probably less refined than what Ashley—or even Lauren, the true expert in such matters—could have managed, but it was more than enough to keep someone busy for an hour.

“Not too tight?” Kayla asked, checking that the rope hadn’t caused any circulation issues.

Emily rolled her eyes but didn’t answer. She simply shook her head to indicate that everything was fine—not because she wanted to, but because the rules required it.

The former captive then picked up a second rope, ran it across the young woman’s chest, and slowly but steadily continued the work of immobilising her.

Five minutes later, Emily was securely bound. Her wrists were tied behind her back, and several turns of rope above and below her breasts held her arms tightly against her body, severely limiting her movement.

Midway through the process, now confident that Emily was already far too restrained to try anything, Brittany had set aside her paintball gun and joined Kayla in tying up Rachel.

Rachel had tried to interfere with the binding as much as possible—most notably by positioning her wrists palm to palm rather than crossed—but the blonde let nothing slip by. The Korean American was now just as tightly bound as her team leader—if not more so. Brittany, after all, was more skilled at it.

Satisfied, Brittany gave Kayla a small nod. The girl caught the signal at once and bent down to retrieve two rolls of silver duct tape. She kept one and tossed the other to her teammate.

“Seriously? You’re going to pull the same stunt again?” Rachel asked irritably as she watched the blonde start to unspool the tape.

“Why mess with a winning formula?” Ashley replied with amusement.

She had taken up position in front of the door, blocking any possible escape, but she was visibly more relaxed now. She knew that tied up the way they were, Emily and Rachel weren’t going anywhere.

“Make fists,” Kayla ordered, letting out a small laugh.

“Enjoy it while you can,” Emily replied as she complied. “I’ll make sure to remind you of this when the opportunity comes.”

The girl in the pink jogging bottoms didn’t answer, now too busy wrapping the duct tape around one of Emily’s clenched fists.

She worked at it for nearly a minute, until opening Emily’s hand became completely impossible—and with it, any attempt at working loose even a single knot. The second fist of the young woman, already plotting her revenge, quickly received the same treatment.

Beside them, Brittany had been even faster. Rachel’s hands had already been rendered just as useless, transformed into clenched fists sealed under several tight layers of silver tape.

Ashley finally left her position and walked past the four women to approach the empty wardrobe, its doors still standing wide open.

“Girls,” she said playfully, “I’m sure you haven’t had the chance yet to admire Kayla’s wonderful wardrobe.”

Rachel let out a heavy sigh and, despite herself, began moving toward the wardrobe, knowing full well how this was going to end.

Emily followed a few moments later, largely under the gentle but insistent pressure of Kayla’s hand against the small of her back.

The wardrobe really was large. Big enough to hold plenty of clothes.

But not only clothes.

“Emily, don’t you think this wardrobe is beautiful?” Ashley asked with amusement. “All that space for trousers, dresses…” She paused. “Or two girls, tied up and gagged.”

“Do what you have to do and leave us alone,” Emily snapped, turning her head away.

The three members of the leading team burst out laughing, savouring their victory. Kayla, still holding the bag, rummaged through it for a moment before pulling out two red ball gags, which she immediately handed to her friends.

Ball gag in hand, Ashley stepped in behind Emily, her grin widening.

“Come on,” she said. “Open your mouth.”

Boiling inside, Emily considered — for the briefest instant — turning around and head-butting her. But remembering that it would immediately cost her ten points, she restrained herself. She did not, however, open her mouth quickly enough for Ashley’s liking. Taking the initiative, Ashley stepped closer and pinched Emily’s nostrils shut.

She opened her mouth at once, allowing her ex-girlfriend to slip the red ball between her lips.

The humiliation was complete. Not because of the bondage itself, nor even the gag, but because she had been caught out like an amateur. In hindsight, perhaps she should have suspected that Kayla wouldn’t be foolish enough to repeat the same mistakes as last year.

That mistake had now left her gagged, the strap of the ball gag freshly tightened behind her neck. Beside her, Rachel had just been subjected to the same treatment, and Brittany was already pushing her forward toward the wardrobe.

“Take your place, miss,” the blonde ordered triumphantly, indicating the right-hand side of the wardrobe.

Powerless, the Korean American had no choice but to comply.

She started by sitting inside the wardrobe, legs still outside. Obviously, that wasn’t what her captor had in mind, and Brittany immediately demanded that she turn sideways — torso inside the wardrobe, legs folded off to the right.

Emily joined her moments later, and the two friends ended up back to back, fully positioned inside the wardrobe.

Ashley watched the scene with the same triumphant expression as before and pulled out her phone to start recording the capture.

“And here we have two girls who thought they were clever,” she said as she filmed Emily and Rachel, bound inside the wardrobe, “caught by their own game. See you in an hour for two more points.”

She stopped the recording, and Brittany and Kayla closed the wardrobe doors.

They all knew it.

The two points were guaranteed.

***

At the same time — Sabine and Megan’s apartment

Sabine was slowly but surely beginning to adjust to her new life on the St. Aldhelm campus. She took quiet satisfaction in the fact that, so far, she hadn’t put a foot wrong.

No one was giving her strange looks over some odd German custom she might have brought with her. No one mocked her accent. And she had even managed to make a few acquaintances around campus. In short, her integration was going almost perfectly.

Her roommate, Megan O’Connor—who was stretched out on her own bed, barely two metres away—had turned out to be very nice. A bit scatterbrained and not exactly known for holding her tongue, admittedly, but pleasant company all the same. She had even given Sabine a few useful tips about life on campus.

That said, the redhead seemed far too absorbed in her classes and in her mysterious “game” to pay Sabine much attention beyond that. A game the young German woman had tried—more than once—to understand, or at least to learn a little more about than what she had pieced together the day she had found Megan tied up in the apartment.

But on that subject, the American remained tight-lipped and consistently refused to talk.

Sabine turned her head toward her, still on her bed a couple of metres away. Megan was gently bouncing in place, earbuds in, completely lost in whatever song she was listening to.

So absorbed, in fact, that she didn’t hear the knock at the door.

Sabine did.

The German got up quickly and crossed the short distance to the entrance without Megan really noticing.

She unlocked the door and opened it, finding herself face to face with a blonde young woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty—tall, strikingly beautiful, and wearing an unmistakably mischievous smile.

The girl didn’t bother to introduce herself, nor did she offer any explanation for her presence. Instead, she stepped straight into the apartment, brushing past Sabine and giving her nothing more than a wink, before casually closing the door behind her.

Caught off guard, Sabine didn’t have time to react. And when she opened her mouth to demand an explanation, she was cut off by Megan, who had suddenly sat bolt upright on her bed, a hint of panic on her face.

“Sabine, what the hell are you doing?” the redhead shouted, yanking her earbuds out in a hurry.

“Why did you open the door?”

Sabine could do nothing but stammer out a reply, half in English and half in German, before the blonde quite literally launched herself at Megan, still wearing that same mischievous smile.

The redhead, who hadn’t even had time to get off her bed, was slammed back against it by the intruder, who promptly straddled her, pressing down with her full weight.

“So, my favourite redhead,” the blonde said as she grabbed Megan’s arms and pinned them against the mattress, “miss me?”

“Get off me, you psycho!” Megan growled, struggling violently.

She knew, however, that her chances were slim. Lauren was strong — very strong — and on top of that possessed a disturbingly effective talent for overpowering her victims and getting them ready for whatever bondage awaited them next.

Megan knew that all too well. The youngest member of Ashley’s team — and by far the most dangerous — had made Megan her preferred target and took obvious pleasure in “victimising” her (a term Megan herself insisted on using).

Sabine, who had finally recovered from the initial shock and was now staring in disbelief as her roommate was being overpowered by the unhinged girl who had barged into their apartment, instinctively rolled up her sleeves and stepped forward, fully intending to grab the blonde and throw her out.

But Megan saw her coming and, as Lauren was in the process of forcing her onto her stomach, shook her head sharply in protest.

“Don’t come any closer, you idiot! You’ll make me lose five points!”

Lauren let out a soft chuckle at the exchange and at the lost expression on the German student’s face. She didn’t take part in the brief argument that followed between Megan and her roommate — an exchange mostly made up of incoherent half-sentences from the blonde, repeatedly cut off by Megan insisting she stay out of it.

The distraction proved useful, however. Taking advantage of her victim’s slightly reduced resistance, Lauren managed to wrench Megan’s hands behind her back.

Pressing herself down more firmly as Megan now cursed at the top of her lungs in a last-ditch attempt to free her arms, Lauren quickly reached into the pocket of her black designer jeans and pulled out a white zip tie.

“Let me go, damn it!” Megan screamed, realising that escape was now all but impossible.

“Not a chance, sweetheart,” the member of Ashley’s team replied, laughing openly. “You’ve got a very full schedule for the next hour.”

The zip tie was swiftly looped around Megan’s wrists and tightened until her hands were securely immobilised, prompting another frustrated cry as she buried her face into the mattress.

Sabine watched the scene with stunned disbelief — and more than a hint of irritation. She had never liked standing by doing nothing. And now, on top of that, she was being asked to stand by and do nothing while someone had quite literally forced her way into her apartment.

Realising that there was nothing she could do — or at least nothing she could do without turning her roommate against her — she muttered something under her breath in German, returned to sit on her bed, and pretended to read her magazine.

Meanwhile, Lauren had opened the bag she had brought with her and was already pulling out several coils of red rope, preparing to continue binding her target.

“Look what I got for you,” the blonde said, still straddling Megan as she held up one of the ropes. “Pretty red ropes. Matches your hair.”

“You’re completely insane!” the redhead snapped, struggling unsuccessfully to dislodge her attacker.

“My, such rude language,” Lauren replied with a grin. “Luckily, I have a solution for that too.”

Megan swore under her breath, but she couldn’t do anything as the rope was looped several times around her elbows, cinched tight, and knotted.

Perfectly at ease with what she was doing, Lauren shifted her position so that she was facing Megan’s legs, without loosening her hold on her for a second.

“Give me your ankles,” she ordered firmly.

“Go to hell!” Megan shot back, stubbornly refusing to make her own capture any easier.

The refusal drew a quiet chuckle from the blonde, who began lightly tickling Megan’s sides while keeping her pinned in place.

“Stop!” Megan protested, already laughing despite herself.

She was extremely ticklish, and Lauren knew it — she had tested that weakness many times since the game began. Tickling, she knew, always worked.

She kept at it for ten seconds. Then twenty. And at twenty-three seconds — Lauren amused herself by counting — Megan finally gave in, bending her knees and offering up her ankles to her rival.

“Good girl,” Lauren said, immediately starting to bind them with another length of red rope.

Watching the scene from the corner of her eye, Sabine could only be impressed by the speed with which Lauren was turning her roommate into a neatly trussed bundle.

She knew very little about bondage herself, but she had played a few harmless tying games with friends back in Germany. Nothing serious, nothing particularly thought out. Even so, it was obvious to her that Lauren was far more experienced than any of her friends had ever been — and that, had she joined their little games, the whole group would likely have ended up overpowered and tied up in no time at all.

Lauren, for her part, continued to demonstrate her skill. She was now finishing off an additional rope above the redhead’s knees, further immobilising her legs.

Megan, meanwhile, kept hurling increasingly unconvincing threats, clinging to the idea that she might still talk her way out.

“You have no idea what you’ve just started.”

she blurted out — even though it was painfully clear that her threats amounted to little more than empty words.

“What a mouth on that redhead,” Lauren said with amusement as she finished tightening the knot that bound Megan’s knees together.

She finally got off her, and Megan immediately began writhing against her restraints, tugging furiously at the zip tie cinched around her wrists.

The anger and determination were obvious, but Sabine could see just as clearly that breaking free from restraints like those would take far more than frantic, uncoordinated movement. Her roommate was beaten — at least for now.

Lauren, meanwhile, had picked up her bag again and was rummaging through it while humming softly to herself, which only served to irritate her captive further.

She eventually pulled out a pair of black socks and a roll of tape, holding them up with a grin for Megan to see.

“I swear, if you do that, I’ll make your life a living hell,” the redhead growled, shooting her a venomous look.

Lauren merely laughed and brought the socks closer to Megan’s face. Megan immediately pressed her lips together in protest.

“Should I go back to tickling?” Lauren asked lightly, wiggling her fingers in a very deliberate way.

Megan held out for a few seconds — but the moment she realised Lauren was about to go for her feet, her absolute weak spot, she gave in.

“Alright, alright. No tickling,” she said, trying to salvage a shred of dignity despite the plaintive note in her voice.

Lauren didn’t hesitate. She sat down on the bed to get better access to her face and pushed the socks between Megan’s lips.

She made sure to pack them in firmly enough to properly fill her mouth, without risking choking, laughing quietly throughout the process.

“Last time, you managed to get your gag out,” she murmured mischievously into Megan’s ear. “This time, I’m taking that option off the table.”

“Mmmphff!” Megan growled, now rendered mute by the socks stuffed into her mouth.

She couldn’t do anything as three strips of black tape — the same kind as last time — were pressed over her lips, sealing the gag completely.

For a moment, she had thought that would be the end of it. That Lauren would set up a camera, leave the apartment, and let her begin her escape attempt.

She was wrong.

Lauren was clearly not done. She had just taken out a roll of red self-adhesive bandage and was already moving back toward her victim’s face.

Ignoring the muffled cries of rage from the redhead, she began wrapping the bandage around the lower half of her face, reinforcing the gag and, more importantly, covering the strips of duct tape and making them impossible to reach.

“MMMPPPHHHFFF! Mmmphff mmphhff!” Megan protested, twisting in her restraints in an attempt to slow the process.

It was pointless. Very quickly, the lower part of her face was wrapped in a sort of red cocoon, eliminating any hope of getting rid of her gag the way she had managed to do a few days earlier.

Satisfied, Lauren stood up from the bed and turned toward Sabine.

“By the way, I’m Lauren Van Alston,” she said with a relaxed smile.

Sabine frowned, clearly irritated.

“And that’s all? You force your way into my apartment, tie up my roommate, and then introduce yourself as if nothing happened?”

Lauren chuckled softly, amused by the way the situation had just been described.

“Our little game can be very engaging,” she replied, turning to give Megan a wink, which earned her a muffled growl in return. “I couldn’t leave this one even the slightest chance.”

Sabine sighed and crossed her arms.

“So should I expect you to come back? Or, I don’t know, to find you picking our lock in the middle of the night?”

Lauren’s expression lit up, as though she had just been given a new idea.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said cheerfully. “Surprising my favourite redhead in the middle of the night has a certain appeal.”

“Mmmpphff mphhff, mmpphhff!” Megan shouted, glaring at her—a look that was, of course, completely ignored.

Lauren turned back to her bag and took out one of the cameras, the same kind as the one that had been taped above the door a few days earlier. She placed it on the bedside table and pressed the activation button.

The countdown had begun.

She picked up her bag and stepped away from Megan, not without running her hand over the sole of her left foot, making her squirm and protest even more.

Reaching the door, she turned back once more toward Sabine.

“So, see you soon, Miss?”

The German sighed, then replied anyway.

“Sabine Saar.”

Lauren froze for a brief moment, then frowned in turn. She seemed to understand something, and her smile returned.

“You’re from Germany?”

Sabine nodded, shrugging slightly.

“Then enjoy the U.S.,” Lauren said.

With that, she opened the door and left the apartment, humming softly to herself.

Sabine waited a few seconds, arms crossed, staring at the door.

She finally turned back to Megan.

“Listen to me,” she said, her voice steady enough to stop Megan’s useless writhing.

“If I have to endure the intrusions, the scenes, all of it—whether I play or not—I might as well take part.”

“Mmmpphff?”

“I’m serious.”

Sabine exhaled slowly.

She had crossed an ocean for a new life.

She wasn’t about to let a handful of unhinged students turn it into a farce without answering back.

Sabine Saar had not planned on joining a game.

But since it had found her anyway— she intended to play it properly.

End of chapter.

Hello everyone :)

Today, the first chapter of another one of my stories, “Girls Don’t Play Fair”.

It’s also a story from my shared universe, the Saarverse, and one that “could” ( ;) ) have some links with the people you’ve met in Sign Here, Jenny.

Enjoy :)

***

August 27, 2014 — St. Aldhelm University (USA) — 3:12 p.m.

Summer was slowly drawing to a close, and St. Aldhelm University was beginning to stir as students returned to reclaim the campus from its long seasonal quiet.

For some, it marked the beginning of a new life — the transition from high school to university, with all the stress that inevitably came with it.

Megan O’Connor, however, felt none of that stress. She had no reason to. Recently accepted into her third year, she now knew the campus inside and out and had built a close-knit group of friends with whom she was certain she would spend yet another memorable year. At twenty-one, and generally considered rather pretty — with her long red hair, her blue eyes, and a body kept fit through regular yoga practice — Megan had never had much trouble making friends, whether with boys or with girls.

She wasn’t the queen of campus (and firmly rejected the very idea that such a thing could exist), but she considered herself “popular enough,” thanks in no small part to her talent for drama, which she cultivated through several university clubs.

Her family life was fairly strict, which made the start of the academic year something she had come to welcome with genuine joy, excitement, and a sense of freedom over the past two years. Not that she didn’t miss her parents — but at twenty-one, she had far more interesting things on her mind.

This year, however, things were… slightly different.

Or rather — they had become so, very suddenly.

Because at that precise moment, Megan O’Connor — dressed in her favourite blue T-shirt and red Adidas tracksuit bottoms — was not sitting comfortably on the bed assigned to her dorm room, waiting to meet her new roommate. She was tied up and gagged, lying on the rug in the space between her bed on the left and her future roommate’s on the right.

And by tied up and gagged, one had to understand: properly tied up and gagged. No Hollywood bondage for the young redhead—nothing designed for the pleasure of watching her wriggle theatrically—but something far more methodical, conceived not for spectacle, but quite the opposite: to render her completely incapable of causing any trouble for a good long while.

And at that moment, Megan began to think that her assailants might, this time, actually succeed.

With her hands bound behind her back, palm to palm, with hemp rope, her elbows tied as well until they nearly touched, and a carefully constructed rope harness securing her arms firmly against her back, using the upper part of her body for anything at all had suddenly become extremely difficult. That was even more true given that her ankles had also been tied, as had her knees, with additional rope passed both above and below them.

Obviously, it would have been rather silly not to take advantage of the situation to hogtie her, wouldn’t it?

That, in fact, was exactly what her assailants had done—helping her lift her already bound legs until they formed an almost right angle, before linking her tied ankles to her bound wrists.

Her mouth, of course, had not been neglected either.

A gym sock—graciously provided by her assailants as a back-to-school gift—had been stuffed between her lips, and a good dozen strips of black adhesive tape had been used to make sure it didn’t come loose too quickly.

Megan was, let us be perfectly clear, furious.

She made no effort to hide it, shooting outraged glares at the small camera her three assailants had taped just above the door before leaving the room.

The redhead knew it.

Ashley and her clique were no doubt settled comfortably somewhere, enjoying the sight of her writhing in her restraints as the minutes ticked by. So far, she hadn’t made any real progress—and Megan knew that could only add to her assailants’ amusement.

“Mmpphff, mmppphfff!” the student cursed through her gag, glaring once more at the camera.

She had been taken by surprise—no one could take that from her. The capture might not have broken any rules, but it violated every convention. Attacking her less than ten minutes after her parents had said goodbye? That was underhanded. And not even waiting for her friends to arrive before resuming hostilities—that was even worse.

She tugged at her restraints once again, twisting her fingers in the hope of somehow reaching one of the knots at her wrists. Without success, of course. Ashley, Brittany, and Lauren were no amateurs, and they had made sure the redhead would need at least an hour to free herself, thereby achieving their objective.

Naturally, Megan had no intention of lying there doing nothing. Judging by the clock mounted on the wall above her bed, she had a little over thirty-five minutes left to pull off her escape act. It wasn’t looking good, and she knew it. But at the very least, she thought, she could try to get rid of her gag.

That was the only obvious weak point in the setup—or at least the only exploitable one. The rug was rough enough that she could peel the strips of adhesive tape away by rubbing her face against it with sufficient vigor.

That alone would change nothing about the outcome, but at least it would spare her the humiliation of spending an entire hour with a sock in her mouth—one whose cleanliness she seriously doubted—under the amused gaze of her sworn enemies.

She shot one last, determined glare at the camera, then began rubbing her gagged mouth against the rug, already starting to plan her revenge.

***

Sabine was walking across the St. Aldhelm campus with the same blissful smile that had scarcely left her face since she had arrived a few days earlier.

It was the smile of someone who still had trouble believing that, yes, she really was on an actual American campus. Cologne was behind her now—and Germany more broadly, where she had grown up and studied until then. At twenty-one, the young German woman had taken the leap. No more Cologne, no more her parents’ small suburban house; instead, the United States, and the sprawling campuses she had only ever seen in films.

For the tall blonde with green eyes and a distinctly German look about her, the trip—and the year stretching out ahead—felt like a dream. She savored the moment all the more because she knew she had never really been meant to come here. Her parents were not wealthy, far from it, and she had had to fight to be selected by her university for the exchange program in the United States. Her exemplary academic record, her “German rigor,” as she liked to joke, and the unwavering support of her parents had made it possible for her to reach her goal.

And so far, she was not disappointed. The university was beautiful, the environment stimulating, and the other students very open. All that remained, she knew, was to meet her roommate.

She knew nothing about her, except that she was American, also in her third year—a university policy meant to ease her integration—and that she was due to arrive before the end of the week.

That small uncertainty had led Sabine to return to her apartment each time with a mix of excitement and apprehension. So far, it had been in vain; she had always found herself alone when she arrived. But as she climbed the stairs of the dormitory toward the third floor where her room was located, she had the feeling that this time would be different.

She soon reached the door of her apartment, marked with the number 23, noting as she did so that the corridor was empty. She had crossed paths with new students on campus, certainly, but apparently none of them lived on her floor—or else they were either out or already shut away in their rooms.

She opened her handbag and took out her keys, sliding one into the lock. But when she tried to turn it, it did not move—indicating that the door was no longer locked.

No longer locked—not unlocked by mistake. Sabine was the sort of person who checked three times that she had properly locked the door, even turning back to check one last time—a compulsion that had followed her all the way from Germany to the United States. She therefore understood immediately that if her door was no longer locked, it was because someone else had unlocked it.

From there, two possibilities presented themselves. The first was that some ill-advised burglar had decided to take a look around her room. If that were the case, he would no doubt be disappointed by the lack of valuables—unless, of course, he happened to be in search of German gifts or products. The second possibility, far more plausible, was that her roommate had finally arrived. A careless roommate who had neglected to lock the door behind her.

That particular reproach, Sabine decided, could wait. She pressed down on the handle at last. She had promised herself she would do everything she could not to come across as a “weird” girl, despite the cultural differences that separated her from Americans.

Timidly, she finally opened the door, a thousand questions running through her mind about the identity of the girl who would be sharing her daily life over the coming months.

But her mild nervousness was quickly replaced by complete and utter shock.

To be honest, she had already imagined—mostly in daydreams—encountering her roommate in a compromising situation (stepping out of the shower without getting dressed, or in bed with a boy…). But never—never—had she even remotely imagined that she would discover her roommate tied up on the rug in the middle of the living space.

And very well tied up, at that. Sabine was no expert in knots, but from her limited experience, she knew how to recognize good work when she saw it. Tight, intelligently placed knots, a great deal of rope, and an unusual position that kept the young woman’s ankles raised by a rope connected to her bound wrists. No—this was not amateurish work.

The girl—a pretty redhead—had just managed to partially remove her gag. She had apparently succeeded, by rubbing the adhesive tape against something, in pulling away the black strips and spitting out the gym sock that had been stuffed between her lips. Only a few strips remained, half-stuck to her cheek and no longer preventing her from speaking.

“Close the door!” Megan shouted urgently upon seeing the German woman staring at her from the doorway.

Sabine froze, her mind blanking out for what was probably a full five seconds. “Was zum Teufel ist hier los?” she finally blurted out in her native language, earning her a bewildered—and slightly panicked—look from the American.

Sabine shook her head to collect her thoughts and rushed toward the redhead to untie her—without closing the door.

“No, no, no! What are you doing?!” Megan protested almost immediately, writhing in her restraints.

“I’m going to untie you!” Sabine replied instinctively.

“Absolutely not! You’ll give points to the other team!” her roommate shot back, twisting onto her side to block access to the knots binding her wrists.

“What?” the blonde asked, incredulous.

She had been warned about many things when it came to Americans.

But not this.

Not the possibility that she might find her roommate tied up—and demanding not to be freed.

“Close the door! Close the door and I’ll explain everything,” Megan O’Connor said at once. Strangely, she didn’t seem distressed by her situation itself, but rather by the risk that someone else might see her.

The German hesitated for a few seconds. Perhaps, she thought, this was some sort of university tradition she simply hadn’t heard about. In the end, she decided to comply.

She straightened up, crossed the couple of meters separating Megan from the entrance, and shut the door firmly.

Then she turned back toward the young woman still struggling in her bonds, her expression just as incredulous as before.

Incredulous—because Megan was now actively trying to free herself…

after having just refused Sabine’s help.

“None of this makes any sense.” Sabine said, crossing her arms—a posture she usually adopted when something both confused and irritated her. Then an idea crossed her mind. “Wait… did you do this to yourself?”

Megan stopped struggling for a moment and lifted her head to look at Sabine. When she saw that the German was serious, she rolled her eyes.

“Of course,” she replied dryly. “I was bored after my parents left. So I thought to myself, Megan, you know what you need right now? A nice bondage session.”

Sabine flushed slightly at the stupidity of her question, but the redhead was already continuing.

“So I tied my wrists and elbows behind my back and hogtied myself. All without help, obviously. And then I figured it would be way more fun if I shoved a gym sock in my mouth and plastered it over with a ridiculous amount of duct tape.”

Sabine probably should have been offended by her roommate’s tone, but she couldn’t help letting out a small laugh at Megan’s explanation.

That laugh instantly eased the tension, and the redhead relaxed a little.

“I was viciously attacked by three bitches,” Megan went on. “They tied me up, gagged me, and stuck a camera above our door to keep an eye on me.”

Sabine opened her mouth, ready to protest indignantly, but Megan was already continuing.

“I’ve got twenty minutes left to get free, or they score the point.”

Seeing that the German was about to offer her help again, Megan quickly added,

“And if you help me, my team loses five points—so don’t. Please.”

Still smiling faintly at the sheer absurdity of the situation, Sabine lingered by the now-closed door for a moment, then shrugged.

“I suppose it’s not my place to interrupt your game,” she said at last.

“That’s the right attitude!” Megan replied, already redoubling her efforts against her restraints—with no visible success, of course.

Sabine stepped forward, carefully stepping over the redhead before sitting down on her own bed. The gesture unsettled her more than she cared to admit. She had never imagined that she might one day find a girl tied up in her room and choose not to free her—still less because that girl herself had asked her not to.

“In case you were wondering,” Megan said, turning her head slightly toward her, “I’m Megan. Megan O’Connor.”

Sabine smiled back, a little uncertainly.

“And I’m Sabine Saar.”

***

At the same time — Phi Noctis Sorority House — St. Aldhelm University (USA)

Ashley Prescott watched the screen of her MacBook with quiet amusement. The laptop rested on the bedside table in the room she had occupied within the Phi Noctis house for just over a year now.

At twenty-one, Ashley was small but athletic. She ran a hand through her long, perfectly styled brown hair as her slightly almond-shaped brown eyes lingered on the live feed playing out on the other side of campus.

Megan O’Connor had fallen for it like a freshman. Too confident. Too certain that nothing could possibly happen to her at the very start of the year. A classic mistake. Underestimating a Prescott was never a good idea.

The enemies of her father and mother—both extraordinarily wealthy partners at a prestigious New York law firm—had learned that lesson the hard way. Megan was no doubt beginning to learn it too.

“That’s what I call a good way to start the year,” Brittany remarked.

She was sprawled half-lengthwise across Ashley’s king-size bed, scrolling idly through her phone while occasionally glancing up at the MacBook screen, which displayed the feed from the camera planted in Megan’s room.

On-screen, the redhead was still writhing in her restraints, but for the moment she hadn’t made any visible progress.

Brittany Whitmore, twenty years old, was also a member of the sorority—though she had joined more recently than Ashley. The blonde, with her sharp bob haircut and green eyes that gave her a deceptively innocent look, was only in her third year, whereas Ashley was beginning her fourth. A minor difference in seniority, both within Phi Noctis and on campus, which in practice mattered very little.

Ashley was the leader of their small circle, but Brittany was almost as influential—largely thanks to her family. Wealthy and well established on the West Coast for over fifty years through the pharmacy chain they had built, the Whitmores carried undeniable social weight on campus.

“She did manage to get rid of the gag, though,” commented the third girl, seated at the edge of the bed.

Lauren Van Alston was the Canadian of the group. Nineteen—almost twenty—she was known as the wildcard of the quartet that had formed around Ashley about a year earlier. Nearly six feet tall, with a slender build that drew more than a few admiring looks from the campus’s male population, and long, lightly wavy blonde hair, Lauren was always the one who came up with new ideas.

Ideas that were often a little crazy.

And often terrifyingly effective.

“Next time, I’m stuffing two socks in her mouth,” she said with a grin, her tone equal parts amused and resolute. “And wrapping vet wrap over the tape.”

“We could also put her hair in a ponytail and work it into the hogtie,” Brittany added with a snicker. “With her head pulled upright like that, good luck rubbing her gag against the floor.”

“Excellent idea!” Lauren replied enthusiastically. “What do you think, Kayla? Any thoughts?”

“Mmmphff! Mmphff, mmppphfff!” came the irritated response.

Kayla Caldwell, twenty-one, was Ashley’s closest friend on campus, despite not being a member of the sorority. An heiress to the Caldwell family—a long-established line of influential politicians with deep roots in Congress—she was just as wealthy as the other three. She was, however, the least strikingly beautiful of the quartet, without being unattractive. She had long brown hair, almost always tied back, brown eyes, and a well-balanced face—save for a nose that was perhaps a little too long, a minor flaw she stubbornly refused to “fix” through cosmetic surgery. What Kayla lacked in immediate beauty, she more than made up for with extravagant, eye-catching outfits—often dominated by pink, no less.

She was wearing one of those signature looks now: a bright red T-shirt, a short pink skirt, and matching pink cowboy boots. Everything was designer, everything expensive—like the outfits worn by the other girls elsewhere in the room—but the overall effect was… hard to miss.

Still, the most striking thing about her current situation wasn’t her outfit.

It was the fact that she was tied up and gagged.

Kayla was seated in Ashley’s desk chair, where she had been placed roughly an hour earlier, without much regard for her opinion, and bound tightly in place. Her hands were secured behind the backrest with black rope, and an excessive amount of additional rope had been used to strap her torso firmly against the chair. Her legs were bound as well—at the ankles, and above and below the knees—with the same type of rope. Convinced that Kayla wasn’t going anywhere, the three girls had then locked the chair’s wheels, immobilizing her completely. And, of course, they had gagged her. A pink ball gag, decorated with a silver “R” on the strap and generously provided by Ashley, had been pressed between her lips and buckled behind her head.

She had therefore spent the past hour and a half watching the team’s post-summer reunion unfold, powerless to take part. She had even been left behind during the raid on Megan—a detail that annoyed her more than she cared to admit, though she had no real way of voicing it.

“So ungrateful,” Brittany remarked with a light laugh, catching the now thoroughly offended look Kayla was shooting her. “We put together a nice little training session to kick off the year, and she still finds something to complain about.”

Lauren rose from the bed and walked over to the bound girl, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “And she hasn’t even thanked Ashley for her gift.”

“Mmphhff…” Kayla replied, turning her head away in a sulk.

“I’m used to it,” Ashley said, laughing as well. “She’s always had trouble thanking her friends. She’s far too spoiled, if you ask me.”

“And besides,” Lauren added in a slightly more serious tone, “she’s the one who gave the most points to the opposing team last year. So this little training session is hardly excessive.”

“Mmpphf, mmpphff mphhff! Mphhf!” the young woman protested, once again trying to explain that it wasn’t her fault if the other team had made her their primary target.

She refused to admit that her pink outfits—visible from miles away—or her habit of jogging early in the morning or late at night might have had anything to do with it.

She knew, however, that it didn’t really matter. Ashley, Lauren, and Brittany were her friends, and they weren’t truly blaming her for anything. Still, she felt it was more than time for them to untie her.

The leader of the small group turned her head back toward the screen. Still no progress in sight. And the arrival of Megan’s new roommate hadn’t changed a thing. Too bad—she would have liked to dock five points from “the broke team,” as she liked to call them.

She rose from the bed in turn and addressed her three companions.

“We’ve got a perfect window to win the game,” she began in a firm voice. “Harper dropped them, and they’re down to three now. That gives us a numerical advantage until they manage to find a fourth member.”

“If they find a fourth member,” Brittany corrected with a smile.

Ashley didn’t reply and pressed on with her motivational speech. “We need 177 more points to win. We take them before Thanksgiving.”

No one argued. No one needed to.

A quiet, satisfied murmur rippled through the room. The kind that didn’t need cheering.

Victory no longer felt like a possibility.

It felt like a matter of timing.

And somewhere across campus, whether they knew it yet or not, Emily, Rachel, and Megan were already stepping into a very different kind of semester.

End of chapter.

Hey everyone 🙂

Chapter 4 of Better Than Scandal is now up.

Hope you enjoy it!

***

May 15, 1826 — London — 9:45 a.m.

Anne Hawthorne sat in one of the armchairs of the house she had rented for the Season, her gaze nearly as vacant as the drawing room itself.

She had invited no one that day and had made no effort to go anywhere. She knew the rumour had continued to spread, and that no one wished to be seen in her company—Lucy present or not.

Yet at that moment, it was not truly her reputation that troubled her. Nor the lack of invitations. What weighed on her was her daughter, whom she had left alone with Lady Ashcroft at her residence in Surrey.

Henry, her son, who had been standing at the window overlooking London with an irritated expression, turned toward her after pacing for nearly fifteen minutes, trying to find how to respond to what his mother had just told him.

“Mother, we have to go back and get her,” he said firmly, with the same tone he used when addressing his clients in his work as a lawyer—work at which he excelled.

Anne did not answer. In fact, she did not even hear him. Her thoughts were fixed on the last moments she had spent at Glenmoor Manor—the moment when she could have stopped everything, and chose not to.

Better than scandal.

Those were the words she had spoken on the morning of May 13.

With a heavy heart.

When Lady Ashcroft, her expression severe, had told her that Lucy had passed the test—and had shown her what the path Anne had chosen truly entailed for her daughter.

Lucy, barely dressed, had been brought into the drawing room where Anne was speaking with Beatrice Ashcroft. She had been led in chained, gagged, dazed, and utterly exhausted.

Lucy had played the part assigned to her. She had nodded—weakly, unconvincingly—when the Viscountess asked whether she wished to continue, whether she truly wanted to attempt to join the Saar circle.

Beatrice Ashcroft had then turned to Anne, studying her for a long moment with her piercing gaze, before asking whether this was truly what she wanted for her daughter.

And that was when Anne had spoken the words that had haunted her ever since.

“Mother!” Henry said again, louder this time.

“Yes?” the baronet’s wife replied, turning sharply toward him.

“That woman, Beatrice Ashcroft, is known for dubious dealings,” Henry continued. “I cannot believe you not only took my sister there, but then left her alone.”

“Lady Ashcroft is a respectable woman,” Anne corrected quietly, taking a sip from her glass of water. “And she is the only person capable of helping us deal with your sister’s… reputational difficulty.”

“To hell with reputation,” Henry shot back without hesitation. “She’s my sister. And your daughter. She’s so young—so innocent. You can’t leave her at the mercy of a viscountess with a reputation like that just because another nobleman thought he saw something.”

Anne looked at her son and shook her head.

“Only a man could think that way.”

Henry opened his mouth to protest again, but his mother stopped him with a brief gesture of her hand before he could speak.

“I’m sure everything will be fine. Lady Ashcroft isn’t that terrible.”

And she said it with all the more certainty because she knew.

Beatrice Ashcroft was not the one who had crossed the line.

She had.

***

At the same time — Glenmoor Manor, Surrey.

“Miss Hawthorne, focus, please.”

Lady Ashcroft’s sharp voice cut cleanly through Lucy’s wandering thoughts.

For a moment she had slipped away from the room, her mind circling the events of the past few days—the test, her mother’s departure, and now this “training,” as her patroness termed it. For someone naturally shy and reserved, it was a great deal to absorb.

She straightened at once.

Lady Ashcroft stood a few steps away, dressed in a long blue gown that set off the pallor of her complexion. She leaned upon her cane and indicated, with her free hand, the wrists of Lady Letitia Lindenfell.

Letitia was not a stranger to Lucy. In fact, the woman — around twenty-nine years old and Lady Ashcroft’s niece — was one of the four women who had subjected her to the test. More precisely, she was the one responsible for tying her up in her bedroom. Without her mask, she appeared as a woman with long dark brown hair, large expressive blue eyes, and a most pleasant face — if one set aside the two beauty marks that had had the poor sense to settle, one beneath each eye.

She was wearing a perfectly fitted green dress and had arranged her hair in an elaborate chignon. Most importantly, she was currently tightly bound to her chair.

The “bondage” — a term Lucy had only recently learned existed — had been applied with care. Or at least it seemed so, as the young Hawthorne knew very little about it.

The noblewoman, a countess by marriage, had her hands bound behind her back. Their immobility was reinforced by a rope running beneath the chair, linking her wrists to her ankles, which were also bound. Additional ropes, looped above and below her breasts and knotted behind the backrest, held her torso firmly against the seat. To complete the restraint, more rope had been wound above and below her knees.

The young woman was thus held firmly in place — much to her displeasure — and to the great amusement of her cousin, Lady Frances Whitcombe, who had been responsible for the binding.

She too had been part of the group who had dealt with Lucy during the test (and Lucy was almost certain she was the one who had spanked her). She was a woman of about twenty-five, with long, curly blonde hair, a long, fine-boned face, and eyes just as expressive as her cousin’s. She wore a pink dress and stood proudly beside the chair, taunting her cousin with her gaze.

“Then I’ll ask again,” the Viscountess went on, shaking her head with a trace of impatience. “What can you tell me about this bondage?”

Lucy fell silent for a few moments, her face taking on the slightly panicked expression that had scarcely left her in the past two days.

“That Lady Letitia is very well tied?”

The remark made Frances laugh and drew a sigh from the Viscountess, who shook her head in clear exasperation.

“Really, Miss Hawthorne?” she asked in a firm voice that immediately put an end to Frances’s laughter.

The Viscountess stepped a little closer to Lucy, who sank back further into her armchair, hoping to put as much distance as possible between herself and Beatrice.

“Do you truly think that, when you find yourself facing Margaret Reilly, being able to recognise someone as ‘well tied’ will help you appear an interesting play partner?”

Lucy swallowed and shook her head quickly—less out of conviction than because it was the answer expected of her.

“Margaret Reilly and the other members of the Saar circle regard bondage as a form of art,” the Viscountess continued. “The knots, the way the ropes are tightened, the positions—everything matters.”

She paused.

“And knowledge of that art is necessary if you wish to impress anyone at all, or make them want to learn more about you.”

“Perhaps she ought to practise a little,” Frances interjected, casting an amused glance at her cousin. “Watching and being on the receiving end only goes so far, when it comes to learning.”

Beatrice Ashcroft turned her gaze away from Lucy and toward the younger woman.

She seemed to weigh the suggestion for a few seconds. Then she made her way, with some difficulty, back to her chair and sat down.

“We can try,” she said without much conviction — and no doubt chiefly for the sake of being able to sit.

Frances, understanding that she had just been given free rein, smiled all the more broadly, which earned her a dark look from her cousin.

“Mind what you do.”

The blonde merely smiled wider and turned to Lucy.

“Gag her,” she said, indicating her cousin.

“Frances, you’ll pay for this once I’m out of this chair!” the woman protested at once, straining against her bonds.

Lucy, meanwhile, had not moved. The panicked expression that had scarcely left her face for the past two days had settled back in.

Frances’s request was serious. Dead serious. Yet Lucy could not imagine herself standing up and gagging another woman — especially when that woman was one of those responsible for the dreadful night she had endured.

Sensing her hesitation, Lady Ashcroft sighed again and stepped in.

“Miss Hawthorne, if you are unable to carry out something so simple,” she said evenly, “then it would be best for me to write to your mother at once and have her come fetch you.”

The threat — or rather, what sounded like a threat in her mind — finally pushed the young woman to rise from her chair. She moved with slow, uncertain steps toward the small table that had been set up for the training session, not far from the chair where Letitia sat, and on which lay ropes, chains, as well as several cloths and scarves.

Lucy, keenly aware of the three women’s eyes fixed on her, picked up a long brown scarf and a strip of white cloth, her hand shaking slightly. She knew — from having experienced it herself — that tying a scarf around Letitia’s face would not be enough to gag her. Something would have to be placed in her mouth.

She realised she had chosen correctly when she saw Lady Ashcroft give a small nod.

At last, she had done something right.

Feeling a little less anxious, steadied by that small success, she crossed the remaining distance to Letitia with a slightly firmer step.

The brunette, who was still promising her cousin the worst imaginable reprisals with her eyes, let out a quiet sigh as Lucy came to stand beside her. She had lost the card game to Frances and, as a forfeit, was meant to serve as the model for the lesson. But she had not imagined she would end up being gagged by a Charge — no, worse still, by an apprentice Charge with no experience whatsoever.

The irony of seeing a capable Chaperone, well regarded within the circle, about to be gagged by a complete novice had not escaped Frances, who was watching the scene intently, determined to commit every detail to memory.

Lucy took position behind Letitia’s chair, the cloth in one hand and the scarf in the other. Her voice trembling, she addressed the brunette.

“D–Do you agree to let me gag you?”

“Stop,” Beatrice Ashcroft said at once, making the young woman flinch slightly.

Lucy looked up at the Viscountess, who was shaking her head with faint disapproval.

“That is not how things work within the Saar circle.”

Letitia and Frances both nodded, and the latter offered the trainee a small, reassuring smile.

Lucy froze for a moment, the scarf still clenched in her hands.

“In the Saar circle,” Beatrice said, “nothing is negotiated action by action.”

She tapped the floor lightly with the tip of her cane.

“Everything is bound to place.”

Lucy frowned, listening intently.

“There exist,” the Viscountess continued, “spaces that are designated for play. Rooms, halls, houses—sometimes entire estates. Their owners define what may occur within them.”

Letitia picked up the explanation without effort.

“When someone enters such a space,” she said calmly, “they accept its rules. Not each action. The space itself.”

Lucy looked from one woman to the other, trying to follow.

“If a person does not wish to be bound, gagged, restrained, or otherwise handled,” Frances added gently, “they simply do not enter.”

Lady Ashcroft inclined her head.

“Once inside,” she concluded, “no further permission is required. The agreement has already been given.”

A brief silence followed.

Lucy’s grip tightened slightly on the scarf in her hands.

“And so… here…” she began, her voice small.

“The drawing room, the bedrooms, and the pavilion are play spaces,” Beatrice replied, anticipating the question. “Or rather, they have become so again since your arrival, given that I am no longer a member of the circle.”

It was the first time Lady Ashcroft had explicitly mentioned no longer belonging to the circle. Lucy already knew this, of course—her mother had described her that way from the start. Still, the reasons why the Viscountess had left the group remained unknown to her, and despite herself, her curiosity was piqued.

Beatrice Ashcroft seemed to sense the direction of Lucy’s thoughts and let out a slight sigh. She then indicated her cane with a small tilt of her chin.

“That is why I no longer belong to the circle,” the Viscountess said. “As I have already told you, one remains in the circle in order to play. When one can no longer play—or no longer wishes to—one leaves.”

Lucy did not have time to reply. No reply was expected of her, in any case. Instead, Lady Ashcroft turned her gaze toward Letitia, signalling to Lucy that it was time to act.

Understanding what was expected of her, the young woman brought the cloth toward the Viscountess’s niece’s face with an uncertain hand, almost trembling.

The brunette turned her head one last time toward her cousin, who was struggling to suppress her laughter. “Laugh while you can.”

She did not, however, attempt to make the task more difficult for Lucy. On the contrary, she opened her mouth wide, allowing the trainee to push the white cloth inside. Awkward, yet having been unwillingly initiated into the technique after being gagged several times herself during her stay, Lucy continued to stuff the fabric between the bound woman’s lips until it was almost completely lodged inside. Then, still visibly uncomfortable, she used both hands to stretch the scarf and place it over her mouth. Applying the methods that had been used on her, she pulled the scarf as tight as she could and, after checking that the cloth did not block Letitia’s nostrils but properly covered her mouth and the fabric packed inside it, tied the scarf behind her neck.

The knot was loose, poorly secured. But it was there. Lucy Hawthorne had gagged another woman for the first time.

She felt no thrill from the act. Nor did she experience the pleasure she had seen in Letitia, Frances, and their two friends—now gone—during the night of the test. Her movements had been mechanical, carried out simply because she had to.

And yet Lady Ashcroft still drew a faint smile from her.

“We may be able to make something of you.”

For better or for worse, there was no turning back now.

***

At the same time — The London residence of the Duchesses of Ashcombe — St James’s.

For the vast majority of the British aristocracy, the Saar residence in London remained a mysterious place, the source of endless rumours. The successive duchesses held few open events, and even fewer receptions meant to dazzle London society.

To know where the duchess and her family spent the Season required belonging to a small circle of privileged individuals — or to “the circle,” as it was murmured.

Yet even membership in the circle did not open every door within the house. Certain rooms were, by principle, inaccessible.

And it was in one of those rooms that Lady Louisa Farnham now found herself.

The Saars were known for their cultivation. Exceptionally so. Each duchess and her heiresses spoke at least five languages fluently and possessed expertise in fields traditionally reserved for men. The private library of their London residence bore witness to the women of the line’s interest in science, the arts, law, and politics. Countless volumes, written in English, German, French, Italian, and even Russian, lined the shelves. Some were worth a fortune; others were beyond price. Still others had been written by the Saars themselves, documenting their lineage, their rules, and their traditions.

But at that moment, it was not admiration that filled the countess. Rather, it was a growing frustration and a sense of humiliation that, for the past two days, had been steadily taking hold.

In such a situation, any assessment based solely on the blonde’s state of mind might have concluded that an outburst was near — that Lady Farnham would soon begin to shout and, if she forgot her manners, send a book or two flying across the room.

But that would not happen. Or at least, not immediately. Louisa Farnham was presently bound tightly upon the library table, which greatly limited any display of anger.

The person responsible for her restraint had taken particular care to tie her in such a way as to turn her into a compliant doll: wrists crossed and secured firmly behind her back, a rope harness running above and below her breasts to hold her arms against her sides, ankles crossed and bound, and, for good measure, her knees tied with ropes knotted above and below them.

The knots were, of course, well out of reach, and everything had been tightened so that writhing without method would achieve nothing. In addition, whether out of amusement or to restrict her movements further, her chaperone had placed her in what she had described as an “improved hogtie.” First, her legs had been bent until her ankles were raised in the air and fastened to her wrists — a standard hogtie, such as Lady Farnham herself often administered. But that was where matters had grown more complicated. The chaperone had begun by binding the blonde’s big toes together. She had then gathered her Charge’s hair into a ponytail. That ponytail had been tied, with the same thin cord, to her toes.

The result? Lady Farnham was hogtied twice over. She was restrained by the rope linking her wrists to her ankles, and by the finer cord that connected her hair to her toes. The second cord had the likely intended effect of forcing her to hold her head upright and to look at her chaperone.

In silence.

In silence because she was gagged as well. Or nearly. A large red apple had been pushed into her mouth, with strict instructions not to bite into it. The apple, the countess had discovered, was more than enough to silence her.

The effect was at once startling and magnificent in its perversity. Lady Farnham, entirely naked, lay trussed like a hog prepared for a feast.

The architect of this spectacle was, of course, Cyrilla Saar, who stood facing Louisa. Dressed in her nightgown, she was reclining on the sofa—almost lying down—with a writing slope resting on her stomach, and had been deep in thought for nearly twenty minutes.

“I have it! ‘Underling,’” she declared triumphantly.

Her smile lingered for a moment, then gave way to a grimace. “No, that’s dreadful. Far too administrative.”

She struck through the word she had just written with a sharp motion, her features resuming the irritated look that never quite left her when she was wrestling with a problem that seemed unsolvable.

The problem at hand was what to call Lady Louisa Farnham.

Within the circle, the recipient of such “delicate attentions” (bondage, punishments, and the like) was traditionally referred to as a Charge, in contrast to the Chaperone.

But the term Charge did not suit Cyrilla. It suggested constraint, she said, and did not sufficiently emphasise the Chaperone’s authority.

And since she had appointed herself the holder of “almost” all powers concerning the lovely Lady Farnham, an appropriate title had to be found. So far, however, her brainstorming had led nowhere.

The blonde with the grey eyes let out a long sigh and finally looked up from her page, turning her head toward her Charge—for lack of a better term at present.

The countess was watching Cyrilla with wide brown eyes filled with frustration and unmistakable irritation, which immediately brought a smile to the Saar heiress’s lips.

“You are not helping me very much, my dear Lady Farnham,” she said lightly. “One might almost say you are distracting me with that stare.”

“Mmmph!” Farnham protested, careful not to bite into the apple in the process.

She knew what awaited her if it fell from her mouth: five spankings. And not merely five spankings—five delivered during the evening meal, after the entire household staff had been summoned to witness her punishment.

In truth, Louisa did not know whether Cyrilla would actually carry out her threat. She had no desire to find out.

The grey-eyed blonde rose from the sofa and crossed the room toward her captive—until a better designation presented itself.

“I am quite astonished by the displeasure I seem to perceive,” she said, adopting a tone of studied surprise. “You are ordinarily so fond of bondage.”

“Mmmphhfff!” the countess objected, fixing the duchess’s daughter with a venomous glare.

“I wonder what could have altered the situation,” Cyrilla went on, a playful curve at the corner of her mouth.

They both knew perfectly well what had altered. In most circumstances, Louisa was the one arranging the ropes, fastening the knots, deciding the posture. That was where her enjoyment lay. To find herself restrained, gagged, and handled as though she were a mere Charge felt like an insult.

And there was no sign the arrangement would end any time soon. Though Cyrilla had not kept her bound or shackled without pause for the past two days, those intervals of liberty had offered no opportunity to slip away from the future Duchess of Ashcombe.

With deliberate irony, Cyrilla had reinstated—exactly—the safeguards Louisa herself had enforced during Cyrilla’s own initiation.

The countess was acutely aware of their effectiveness; they had confined the spirited young woman within the residence for three full weeks.

Now the same system enclosed her. Lady Farnham was not under Cyrilla’s direct control at every moment, but she remained—and would remain—confined within the walls of the house, whether she approved or not.

At last Cyrilla stepped close enough to reach her and plucked the apple from her mouth. Freed of it, the bound blonde spoke at once.

“Cyrilla, this little jest has gone far enough,” she said, aiming for plaintiveness, though irritation edged through.

“Lady Cyrilla,” the grey-eyed blonde corrected lightly.

The restrained lady rolled her eyes.

“Lady Cyrilla, you have had your diversion, I am sure. Now untie me and allow me to leave.”

Cyrilla frowned theatrically, once again feigning surprise.

“Allow you to leave? Really, Lady Farnham, you cannot be serious. You have only just arrived.”

“I am perfectly serious. Let me go,” the blonde protested, adopting her authoritative Chaperone’s tone and straining against the ropes that held her fast.

Cyrilla laughed softly and began to circle the table, letting one finger trail along the countess’s bare flank as she passed.

“What a commanding voice,” she said with a wide, mischievous smile. “One might almost think you were the one in control here, rather than a small, vulnerable Charge.”

Louisa let out a cry of frustration and twisted her head to keep the duchess’s daughter in view as she continued her slow circuit, brushing against her naked body in passing.

“I demand to speak to the Duchess.”

Cassandra Saar, Louisa knew, was the ultimate authority within the circle. She alone could put an end to this aberration, restore her dignity and her standing. She also knew, unfortunately, that nothing took place within the residence without the Duchess’s knowledge—certainly nothing of this magnitude—nor without her approval.

The countess therefore understood that the Duchess of Ashcombe tolerated the situation in one way or another. That had not prevented her, for the past two days, from appealing to her in the hope of changing her mind.

“My poor little charge,” Cyrilla replied, moving back to stand before the bound blonde, “as I have already told you, my mother is far too important to concern herself with your small difficulties.”

“What did you tell her to make her agree to this?” the countess demanded, her gaze blazing.

Cyrilla’s smile only widened.

“My dear, the Duchess of Ashcombe has needs—and plans. Plans that require, let us say, my cooperation.”

Lady Farnham frowned, momentarily caught off guard. “Do not tell me you were so brazen as to negotiate with your mother?”

The heiress laughed, openly this time, the sound cutting through the tension that had filled the room. “I would not say brazen. Enterprising, perhaps.”

Before Louisa could respond—or, more precisely, renew her demand to be released—the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a valet. He had not knocked. He carried a tray upon which rested a small envelope.

Cyrilla turned her head sharply toward him, surprised that he had dared to enter unannounced, but made no remark when she saw that the envelope now being presented to her bore the seal of the Saar family—a seal held by her mother alone.

Her mother, who was in residence but, as she liked to remind everyone, moved only for pleasure—or to address a truly problematic situation. And no one enjoyed it when she moved for the latter.

Cyrilla took the envelope, inadvertently revealing the seal to Louisa Farnham, who at once began to hope that, by some miracle she could not have named, the Duchess had decided to call her daughter to order.

And for a few moments, as she saw a flicker of irritation cross Cyrilla’s face while she read the sheet enclosed within, she allowed herself to believe that this ill-conceived jest was finally nearing its end.

Cyrilla, meanwhile, kept her eyes on the few lines written on the page. The words had been set down in haste on a loose sheet, no doubt handed to the first servant at hand, yet their meaning was perfectly clear.

It has reached my attention, through the discretion of our household, that a certain young lady has been deriving considerable amusement from her newly acquired charge.

It is further suggested that this diversion, however engaging, risks encroaching upon obligations previously understood between said young lady and her mother.

I would be most disappointed to discover that such reports bear any truth. I assume, therefore, that the young lady will present herself at the engagements of the Season at which her presence is expected.

One would regret to see so promising a game conclude prematurely.

Cyrilla allowed herself a sigh, then placed the sheet back upon the tray.

For a few moments, she seemed to hesitate. Then she turned at last to the footman.

“George, have my gown prepared. The blue one—the one the other ladies cannot help envying.”

The man bowed his head and moved toward the door. He was called back just before he stepped through it.

“And send Rebecca and Agnes to me. I shall need them.”

Louisa’s eyes widened at the sound of the two names, and she immediately began struggling harder against her bonds.

“Lady Cyrilla, you cannot be serious.”

The blonde with grey eyes did not answer. She merely laughed and picked up a strip of white cloth and a black scarf she had brought with her when she settled in the library.

Realising what was about to happen, Louisa, determined this time to resist, pressed her lips tightly together to prevent the cloth from being forced inside.

The Duchess’s daughter did not hesitate. As soon as she positioned herself in front of the Countess’s face, she pinched her nose shut without even looking at her. When the Countess was forced to open her mouth to breathe, Cyrilla thrust the cloth between her lips without ceremony.

“Mmmphff—mmpphfff!” Lady Farnham protested, furious, yet utterly powerless.

“Complain as much as you please, my dear,” Cyrilla replied with a faint smile as she pushed the fabric deeper with both hands until it was fully lodged in her mouth. “It will not alter your circumstances.”

Once that was done, she took up the scarf, drew it across the blonde’s mouth, and tied it firmly behind her neck—once, then twice.

Lady Louisa Farnham was gagged once more.

And she had accomplished nothing in the brief interval during which she had not been.

The gagging had scarcely been completed when the door opened once more, revealing Agnes and Rebecca, two maids aged twenty-nine and thirty-three respectively.

Louisa knew them well. Of all the servants in the residence, they were the ones who had assisted her most during Cyrilla’s initiation. At the time, it had been the grey-eyed blonde who was the Charge, and Louisa the undisputed Chaperone.

The roles had reversed, and the Countess could not help flushing as the two maids’ eyes fell upon her.

“Well,” the Duchess’s daughter began, “I shall be absent for the day.”

“Mmmppphfff, mmphhfff!” Louisa cried, hoping her former subordinates might come to her aid.

In truth, the chances were slight, and she knew it. The servants of the residence obeyed the Duchess and, so long as her orders did not conflict with those of the supreme authority, her daughter or the Duke. If Rebecca and Agnes had sided with her four years earlier, it had not been out of any desire to assist her in the demanding task of initiating the future Duchess, but because it was what was expected of them.

Since then, the two maids had understood that disobeying Cyrilla or opposing her without her mother’s approval was unwise.

They therefore remained silent.

“I shall require you to carry Lady Farnham to my chamber,” Cyrilla continued. “Then you will lock her in my toy chest.”

“MMMMPPPPHHH?! Mmmpphff, mmpphff!” the Countess protested at once.

She was a countess and a respected Chaperone. The thought of being shut inside the toy chest of her former Charge was not merely degrading. It was intolerable.

“And if she proves difficult or gives you trouble,” Cyrilla added, “you will inform me upon my return, and I shall see that she receives the correction she deserves.”

She did not wait for a response from the two maids and passed them with a brisk step to leave the room.

Behind her, Lady Farnham’s muffled cries of outrage filled the library, drawing a faint laugh from Cyrilla.

Of course, the Countess did not know that she would not remain in the toy chest for more than fifteen minutes. Cyrilla had already given the maids precise instructions: once she ordered her Charge confined in the trunk that once held dolls and childhood toys, they were to wait a quarter of an hour—no more—before releasing her.

They would then inform Lady Farnham, with suitable discretion, that the Duchess herself had intervened on her behalf. Cyrilla’s own leniency was not to be mentioned.

A small contrivance, designed to preserve her reputation as an unyielding Chaperone, while allowing the Countess to believe she could still bend the course of events.

After all, what pleasure was there in mastering a Chaperone who yielded too easily?

Cyrilla smiled to herself as she made her way to her chamber, imagining the expression her former Chaperone would wear upon finding herself shut inside an ordinary toy chest.

She regretted not being able to witness it, but she knew the sacrifice was necessary for the continuation of her amusement. The Duchess of Ashcombe negotiated firmly and never uttered a threat she was not prepared to carry out. Cyrilla knew that all too well.

So she would submit to her mother’s rules. She would mingle with the nobles who had flocked to London to display themselves. She would endure the insipid gentlemen hovering about her, each hoping to secure her favour.

The thought wearied her already.

Her only consolation—just as every year—was that, with a little luck, there might be a few pretty girls worth noticing.

The gentlemen would not be the only ones hunting this Season.

End of chapter.

Hi everyone!

Here is the first part of the third and final chapter of “DarkLadyOfRopes? Never heard of her.”

A chapter full of surprises ;)

***

June 15th, 2024 – Morgan-Saar Residence (West London suburbs) – 3:27 p.m.

“Amber, you absolute traitor!” Callie burst out, her cheeks as red as her friend’s hair as she turned her head away with the most dramatic, fake-betrayed look she could muster.

Honestly, she had thought she’d reached the point of no return when it came to surprises today. Ever since Chelsea had swooped in and hijacked the bondage afternoon (which she had not organised, and everyone really needed to remember that), Callie had mentally prepared herself for anything.

Because, really — what was supposed to shock you after discovering your big sister was apparently some kind of rope-proficient secret agent with a frankly alarming enthusiasm for tying people up?

Exactly. Nothing.

Or so she had believed.

And yet Chelsea had still managed to blindside her. Spectacularly.

The first surprise had come when the blonde walked back into the room and… didn’t immediately pounce on Amber to tie her back up.

No — instead, she’d strolled in wearing a smile even more mischievous than usual (which was an achievement in itself), and kept throwing oddly conspiratorial glances at Amber.

Amber, for her part, had answered with that classic “I’m bored but also mildly panicking” look that basically meant are we really doing this?

The second surprise had been when Chelsea and Amber removed their ball gags — giving Callie the perfect chance to demand her immediate release.

Which she had done. Very loudly.

And then, in true Callie-fashion, she had accidentally told Chelsea to leave so she could “continue the game” with her friends alone.

Yes. That happened.

Everyone laughed.

Even Yasmin.

Then came the third surprise: Chelsea had actually freed her from the hogtie.

Every other rope stayed exactly where it was, of course — but still, mobility was mobility.

For a brief, shining moment, Callie had seriously considered using this freedom to give her sister a “perfectly reasonable, completely sister-appropriate” little kick to encourage her to leave.

But then she’d remembered who she was dealing with. Callie, naturally, had already imagined several wildly over-the-top forms of retaliation. All of them terrifyingly plausible.

So she had wisely abandoned the idea.

But the real shock — the one behind her current stream of outraged complaints — came right after.

Chelsea and Amber had teamed up.

Teamed up… to haul her closer to Yasmin, roll both of them onto the mattress face-to-face — stomach to stomach, Yasmin on her left side and Callie on her right — and then start tying them together.

“Amber! For God’s sake, you’re in the way,” Chelsea grumbled, sounding equal parts irritated and entertained as she tried to wrap a new rope across both girls’ chests. “How am I supposed to bind their torsos if you’re sprawled across the top of them?”

Amber sighed theatrically, lifted herself with a put-upon huff, and cleared enough space for Chelsea to finish her work.

“Amber! Fight back! Don’t just let her—” Callie protested, utterly dismayed by this unforgivable betrayal.

Her ankles were already cinched to Yasmin’s, and their knees too.

Chelsea was now threading a new length of rope higher up, looping it across their torsos — just under the shoulders, above the bust — and tightening it a little more with each pass. The coils pressed their upper bodies closer together, forcing Callie to feel Yasmin’s breathing against her own.

(And yes, Callie knew exactly what to expect. Theoretical expertise counts.)

“Relax, ‘DarkLadyOfRopes’,” Chelsea teased, clearly enjoying herself far too much as she finished the knot and gave the rope a testing tug. “Just think of it as a hands-on demonstration of your own material.”

“I have never written anything like this!” Callie snapped back, wriggling helplessly against the inevitable.

Yasmin — who, suspiciously, wasn’t resisting even a little — let out a warm laugh.

“Then consider this inspiration for the next chapter.”

Chelsea laughed at that as she tightened the last turn of rope and tied it off neatly.

“Exactly, Yasmin. I’m sure Callie’s fans will be thrilled with all the new techniques she’s learning this weekend.”

The brunette let out a long, theatrical sigh and shot her sister an exasperated glare.

“You’re actually trying to ruin my life, aren’t you?”

Chelsea tightened the knot one last time, gave it a quick, testing tug to make sure it held, then lifted her head with that trademark mischievous grin.

“You’ve been way too comfortable around here since I moved out,” she said, half-laughing. “It was about time I reminded you I still exist.”

Callie blinked at her, incredulous.

Oh, fantastic. Quality sisterly bonding, Chelsea-style.

Because clearly what my life was missing was you barging in on my bondage afternoon and turning me into the family roast.

“Are we done yet?” Amber asked, sounding more than a little impatient.

“Patience, my dear associate,” Chelsea replied, climbing back onto the bed to grab another long coil of rope. “We still need another rope — right under their chests, to keep everything nice and secure.”

Yasmin, who hadn’t taken her eyes off Callie, couldn’t help but laugh at the brunette’s defeated, exasperated expression.

“Oh, come on, Callie,” she teased. “Being stuck to me isn’t that bad, you know.”

Callie blushed at that — not much, just enough to feel it — and quickly told herself it was only embarrassment. Obviously.

Not that she had time to think about it for long.

Chelsea, as promised, was already looping the rope around them — once, twice, three times — just below their breasts, while Amber obligingly helped by lifting them ever so slightly to make room.

Just like the rope across their upper torsos, Chelsea made sure to place the knot right between them, perfectly out of reach for either girl’s bound hands.

“All right—job done!” Chelsea announced as she cinched the final knot.

“Two very well trussed FRIENDS,” she added, straightening and tossing a suggestive wink at Yasmin — a wink Callie, thankfully, didn’t see.

Yasmin blushed, though not nearly as much as Callie, now pressed tight against her. Their faces were only inches apart; every tiny shift in one body tugged the other along.

The bondage itself was perfect — ropes tight but placed smartly, never cutting off circulation. Their bodies were aligned just right, face to face, leaving no space between them and no chance of pulling away.

And, of course, their hands were completely useless, tied firmly behind their backs where they could do nothing but twitch helplessly at the air.

Chelsea stood up from the bed and laughed softly at Amber’s expression — that mix of disbelief and reluctant admiration as her eyes moved between the two bound girls and the blonde who had tied them.

“Don’t make that face, Amber. I can teach you sometime,” Chelsea said, punctuating the offer with another mischievous wink.

Yasmin, however, wasn’t listening to any of that.

Her blush deepened, spreading across her cheeks as the reality of her closeness to Callie sank in.

The brunette’s face was so close — closer than ever before — and feeling her body pressed against her own was… electrifying.

Callie, for her part, stayed quiet too, cheeks pink, eyes locked on Yasmin’s as she gave a half-hearted, token squirm — more out of habit than hope.

It was pointless, of course. With their hands bound behind their backs and no access to the knots, neither of them was going anywhere.

“Don’t bother, Callie,” Chelsea announced cheerfully. “You two aren’t going anywhere.”

She paused, then added with a grin,

“Well — not anywhere without each other.”

That earned her a spectacular glare from Callie, who finally found her voice.

“Oh, just wait until Mom gets home! Or when Dad finally decides to come upstairs — you’re going to be so dead!”

The threat only made Chelsea’s grin widen.

That smug, dangerous grin she wore whenever she knew something Callie didn’t.

“Can’t wait to see that, little sister,” she said, laughing.

Then Chelsea bent down again toward the suitcase, rummaged around for a few seconds, and pulled out a small black camera — one with a sticky mount clearly meant to fix it to a wall.

“What the hell is that supposed to be?!” Callie protested, squirming helplessly in her ropes.

Even Yasmin frowned this time, apparently just as uneasy about being filmed in such an… undignified position.

“Relax, sis,” Chelsea said as she pressed the camera against the window, right across from the bed — perfectly framing the two girls in its view. “It’s a safety tool. For bondage sessions.”

She took out her phone, tapped a few buttons, and within seconds was smiling again as she turned the screen toward them.

The image of the two of them — bound tightly together, every movement mirrored on screen — appeared crystal clear.

Both girls flushed instantly.

“This is insane!” Callie blurted out, still stunned, though a part of her couldn’t help finding the setup weirdly clever (a tiny part of her was already imagining how to work this into a future story…).

“Oh, please,” Chelsea waved her hand dismissively. “It’s an official safety device — for when the dominant has to leave the room. The data storage is tamper-proof, and it’s even certified by the Information Commissioner’s Office!” she added, beaming with pride.

Yasmin let out a soft laugh, while Callie just stared at her sister in utter disbelief.

Words failed her — but her brain was working overtime.

She’s kidding, right? She has to be kidding. How does she even own a bondage-rated camera? No, wait — better question: how does she know it’s certified by the bloody Information Commissioner’s Office?!

And people say I’m the weird one.

Callie didn’t get the chance to voice her disbelief, because Chelsea was already gently herding Amber toward the bedroom door.

“Come on, Amber, let’s give our two ‘captives’ a little privacy,” she said cheerfully, placing a hand on each of the redhead’s shoulders.

“You sure about this?” Amber asked as she inched closer to the doorway under Chelsea’s guiding push.

“Absolutely!” Chelsea replied with far too much enthusiasm.

From her position on the bed — the only angle that allowed a clear view of the betrayal unfolding — Callie rolled her eyes as her sister and the traitor (Callie had officially decided that was Amber’s new title) stepped out of the room.

“Have fun, you two!” Chelsea added, eyes sparkling with mischief, before pulling the door shut behind them.

The door clicked lightly — the result of Chelsea’s slightly too enthusiastic exit — marking their departure.

And the beginning of a literal face-to-face between Yasmin and Callie.

And for a long full minute, nothing happened.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them struggled.

They simply stayed there, pressed together, wrapped in a silence whose meaning neither of them quite understood.

Callie could feel Yasmin’s breathing picking up. She could almost feel the Persian girl’s heart hammering faster — the direct consequence of their forced closeness.

Heat crept up Callie’s cheeks again. She had no idea what she was supposed to do. In fact, she didn’t even understand why she was blushing. Or why she was lying there like a statue instead of fighting like a lioness.

Sure, she could blame the professional-grade bondage that would make any attempt at struggling pointless — but that was just an excuse.

The truth was: she stayed still. Eyes locked on Yasmin’s face.

And then, realizing this couldn’t go on forever, she did what her brain always did in moments of panic: opened the floodgates.

“Yasmin, I swear we’re not all like this in my family,” she blurted, her voice rushing ahead of her. “Chelsea’s the weird one. I mean—yes, okay, maybe I wrote a couple of erotic stories online, but that’s it.”

Yasmin didn’t react, her eyes still fixed on Callie’s.

So Callie kept going.

“And don’t worry — she will come back to free us. Five minutes, tops. She’ll barge in and say it was an April Fool’s joke. I know it’s June, but that’s just how she is, she thinks she’s hilarious.”

She took a breath. Then barreled on :

“Okay, maybe not five minutes. Chelsea likes long jokes, so it might take a little longer. But don’t worry — you’re not spending the night tied to me because—”

Callie never finished that sentence.

She wasn’t interrupted by Chelsea bursting into the room.

Nor by a noise from the hallway.

Nor by a sudden stroke of genius.

But by Yasmin’s lips.

Soft, warm, and unmistakably intentional — pressing against hers.

For a heartbeat, Callie forgot how to breathe.

Yasmin’s mouth was warm, soft, certain — far more certain than Callie felt. The kiss wasn’t rushed, or sloppy, or hesitant. It was deliberate. Intentional. A quiet answer to every frantic ramble Callie had just thrown into the air.

And without thinking — without even deciding — she kissed her back.

Her lips parted instinctively, welcoming Yasmin’s tongue as if her body had been waiting for this long before her mind ever caught up. It wasn’t lewd or messy or frantic. It was warm. Deep. Sweeping. The kind of kiss that, in the worlds Callie wrote, came right before a happily-ever-after. A fairytale kind of kiss — the breath-stealing, heart-racing sort that made everything else fall away.

It lasted over a minute — a whole, impossible minute where neither of them tried to pull away, where their bound bodies pressed even closer as if drawn together by some quiet inevitability.

At last, Yasmin was the one who broke the kiss.

Callie stayed frozen for a few seconds, heart hammering, cheeks burning, completely unable to form a single coherent thought, let alone a sentence.

Yasmin smiled — wide, bright, triumphant.

“Finally,” she whispered. “I managed to keep you still long enough to make my move.”

Callie blinked, stunned by the post-kiss comment — then burst into a breathless little laugh.

And before she could overthink it, she leaned forward again, closing the tiny distance between their mouths…

***

Here is the continuation and conclusion of part 3 of this story (too long to be posted in a single post).

(The part 3.1 that was removed by the moderators for reasons unknown to me is still available on my profile.)

***

Forty five minutes latter…

Chelsea was sprawled across her parents’ massive living-room sofa, phone in one hand, a glass of wine in the other, wearing a grin so wide it could’ve wrapped around her head.

Amber sat in a chair opposite her — half bored, half entertained.

And beside Chelsea, Thomas Morgan, father of two and long-suffering witness to the peculiarities of his household’s women, was watching his eldest with mild exasperation.

“Chelsea,” he sighed, “would you please stop spying on your sister? I understand you’re proud of yourself, but this is starting to look a lot like voyeurism.”

Chelsea lifted her gaze from her phone, pushing herself upright with theatrical innocence.

“Daddy, please,” she said, voice dripping with fake sweetness. “I’m not spying. I’m simply making sure my little sister is safe. Bondage does come with risks, you know.”

Thomas rolled his eyes, still struggling — as always — to keep up with the “unusual activities” (he had been strictly forbidden from saying suspicious) of the women in his family.

“We should probably untie them, right?” Amber finally cut in, interrupting the father-daughter debate.

“And ruin a moment straight out of a rom-com? Absolutely not,” Chelsea declared before taking another sip of wine.

On her screen, she could see Yasmin and Callie kissing again.

In the last forty-five minutes, the two girls had talked. A lot.

And spent nearly as much time making out.

Chelsea had even joked to her father that it was a good thing she’d tied them together — otherwise, she was certain things would have gotten a lot less wholesome, very quickly.

Thomas was gearing up to raise his voice a little this time — just enough to try and inject some rationality back into this household (not that it would’ve worked) — but he never got the chance. The sound of a car pulling into the driveway drifted into the living room.

And that sound made Chelsea’s smile grow even wider.

“Mum’s here,” she announced, practically vibrating with excitement like a child on Christmas morning.

Thomas let out a soft sigh. If he’d married a normal woman, her arrival — especially given that she very much wore the trousers in the Morgan–Saar household — would have signaled “the end of playtime” and a return to something resembling order.

But he knew Carmen far too well for that.

Carmen Saar never signaled the end of playtime.

Carmen Saar, as she loved to say, “took the game to the next level.”

Less than thirty seconds later, the woman in question — the one who proudly described herself as “the pillar of the Morgan–Saar family” — stepped into the living room.

Carmen was a strikingly beautiful woman despite being fifty (well, technically fifty-four, but heaven help anyone foolish enough to say it out loud). Deep brown eyes, a delicate, graceful face, long dark hair like Callie’s — except hers was always perfectly styled. An immaculate wardrobe befitting her career as a high-powered lawyer. And above all, a gaze filled with authority… and mischief.

Not Chelsea’s kind of mischief.

No — the level above that.

The kind of look that told you, instantly, that she had an idea in mind.

One you would either absolutely love… or absolutely hate.

And right now, Carmen was wearing that wide smile. And a face lightly sheened with sweat.

Not because she was stressed.

But because she had run. A full-on run — which was impressive given the outfit she was wearing: a red blouse, a cotton skirt, and five-centimetre heels.

Her gaze swept across the room in a quick, practiced scan. She spotted Chelsea first — and especially the glass of wine in her hand. Then she saw Thomas, who had “forgotten” to put on his slippers. And finally Amber, whom she’d known for a few years now.

“Amber, darling, what a pleasure to see you,” she said with an amused smile. “I didn’t realize you were part of this… little afternoon activity.”

Amber, who knew Carmen well enough to know she was… unique, stammered a few words.

“Hello, Mrs. Morgan-Saar.”

“Saar is enough,” Carmen cut in gently, still smiling. “That will do.”

Thomas rolled his eyes — earning himself a sympathetic smile from his wife, who walked over and placed a quick kiss on his lips.

“Oh come now, my love, you know it’s nothing against you.”

Thomas gave a small smile back. But it only lasted a second. Because he immediately caught Carmen’s gaze again — a gaze that made him look down at his own feet.

The very feet still wearing shoes.

“…I should probably take my shoes off.”

“Yes,” Carmen said warmly. “That would be better.”

She then turned toward Chelsea — who had stood up from the couch and was clearly preparing to hug her, glass still in hand.

“Sweetheart, it’s barely past four,” Carmen said. “We don’t drink at this hour.”

Chelsea snorted and rolled her eyes theatrically. “We’re celebrating something today, aren’t we?”

Carmen smiled, wrapped her daughter in a quick embrace, then glanced again toward Amber — who now looked very much like she didn’t belong in the room.

“Amber, darling, I don’t want to send you away,” Carmen began, her voice warm but unmistakably firm, “but I think it would be better if you headed home. We have… family matters to deal with.”

The redhead raised her eyebrows slightly. “But… what about Yasmin?”

Carmen frowned. “What about Yasmin?” she asked — at Amber, at Chelsea, at Thomas, really at everyone at once.

Chelsea — who had just downed the rest of her wine in one dramatic gulp (yes, purely to provoke her mother) — clapped her hands excitedly.

“Yasmin’s upstairs with Callie. Heads up — it’s very steamy.”

Thomas let out a sigh, half exasperated, half amused — earning himself a questioning look from his wife.

“Chelsea did a Chelsea,” he said simply.

“I created a masterpiece,” Chelsea corrected. “I tied them together and they’ve been making out for forty-five minutes straight.”

She paused, then burst out laughing.

“Honestly, I should go pro. Chelsea Morgan-Saar — the UK’s leading seduction expert.”

Carmen let out a short, involuntary laugh — and in that moment, Amber suddenly understood precisely why Chelsea was the way she was.

She snatched her phone from the table and, following Carmen’s very polite eviction notice, started backing toward the hallway.

“Right. Uh… I’ll just go then.”

Thomas gave her a gentle wave, but Carmen and Chelsea were already deep in discussion, plotting whatever came next — both looking far too excited for Amber’s comfort.

Thomas watched his wife and eldest daughter conspiring — quite literally — for a good five minutes, feeling once again completely out of his depth.

Then Chelsea, practically bouncing with excitement, headed toward the stairs.

He shot Carmen a questioning look. She answered with a smile — that smile.

The one that meant don’t worry, everything will be fine.

Oh, it always did turn out fine.

By Saar standards, anyway.

***

Meanwhile, upstairs…

“Two years? Why didn’t you try your luck sooner?” Callie asked with a wide grin.

To be honest, being tied to Yasmin wasn’t bothering her much anymore.

In fact, she’d practically forgotten about the minor inconveniences caused by the ropes altogether.

The Persian girl smiled back at her — truly smiled — savoring the very first moments of this new thing blossoming between them. A thing that might never have begun at all.

And for that, she was very thankful to Chelsea. Deeply.

She was just about to answer when the bedroom door burst open without warning.

Chelsea swooped back into the room, looking even more delighted than before — which was an achievement by itself.

“Alright, lovebirds — time to break this up,” Chelsea said, theatrical as ever.

“About time,” Callie muttered — though mostly out of principle, not because she actually wanted the whole pressed-against-Yasmin situation to end.

Chelsea laughed at that.

That laugh.

That smile.

The one that always meant she knew something Callie didn’t.

But the younger brunette didn’t notice — her eyes were still lost in Yasmin’s.

It took her a moment to finally register that something… unexpected was happening.

Chelsea was untying ropes — yes — but only Yasmin’s.

The ropes that connected the two girls had already been undone, separating them so they were no longer one tightly-bound bundle, and Chelsea had already made good progress on freeing Yasmin entirely.

But Callie’s bondage?

Completely untouched.

While Yasmin was gradually being released — ankles, knees, elbows — Callie remained firmly and meticulously tied.

Her wrists were still bound behind her back, same for her elbows, and the ropes around her ankles and above and below her knees were still cinched tight… and didn’t seem to be drawing Chelsea’s attention at all.

“Um, Chelsea? I would also like to be untied!” Callie finally complained as Yasmin’s wrists were one knot away from freedom.

Chelsea lifted her eyes from Yasmin’s wrists and smiled.

“Who said I was going to free you?”

Callie’s eyes widened, her mouth opening to protest — but Yasmin beat her to it.

“You’re leaving her tied up so I can take advantage of her?” Yasmin asked — mostly joking, though her excitement slipped through anyway.

This time Chelsea didn’t just chuckle — she laughed outright.

“You two are unstoppable,” she said, eyes gleaming with amusement. “But no. I’m keeping her tied for… something else.”

She paused, then placed a hand on Yasmin’s shoulder.

“And you, Yasmin, need to slip out now.”

The Persian girl’s eyes shot wide at that.

But of course, Callie reacted first.

“Slip out? What do you mean slip out? You’re kicking my girlfriend out of the house?!” Callie protested, speaking far quicker than she thought.

She froze — cheeks flushing violently as the words she had just blurted out finally hit her.

And it took only a second for Yasmin’s cheeks to mirror hers.

Chelsea’s smile stretched even wider.

“Girlfriend, hm?” she said, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. “Things are moving fast around here.”

She paused, then burst into laughter again.

“Honestly, I really should open a matchmaking agency.”

The amusing — very amusing for Chelsea — and slightly mortifying moment for the two girls was abruptly cut short by Carmen’s voice calling from downstairs.

“Chelsea darling, hurry up! She’s almost here!”

Callie jolted upright on the bed — or as upright as someone thoroughly tied up could manage — her eyes going wide.

“Wait—? Mum’s here? And who’s ‘she’?” she blurted, then instantly switched strategies.

No point trying to reason with Chelsea when the real authority figure was within earshot.

“Mum! Tell Chelsea to stop messing around and un— unti— I mean stop doing whatever she’s doing!” she yelled toward the hallway.

There was absolutely no universe in which Callie wanted her mother involved in this. That would be social death by Morgan–Saar standards. No, the ideal outcome was very simple: get untied, pretend none of this ever happened, everyone move on with their lives.

Well… everyone except Yasmin. Yasmin definitely needed to remember this.

A selective amnesia, basically.

Her mother didn’t answer — of course. And Chelsea, for her part, was already shooing Yasmin toward the doorway like an overly enthusiastic stage assistant.

“I’ll call you later!” Yasmin said as she was politely but unmistakably pushed out of the room.

Callie opened her mouth to reply, but Chelsea was already stepping out as well, swinging the door shut behind them.

Left alone — and still tied up — Callie finally let her perpetually-erupting brain take over.

There it is. Peak Chelsea. She storms in, detonates my entire afternoon, engineers my first kiss, and then casually removes Yasmin from the room like she’s clearing set pieces — while I’m still tied like a stage prop. Incredible. Truly incredible.

She didn’t know it yet.

But all of this was merely a prelude to something far more unexpected —

unexpected in that very specific “Saar” way.

***

It felt like ten minutes went by.

Ten long minutes in which nothing happened — except for a few frustrated wiggles from Callie as she tried (and failed) to free herself from the ropes.

Finally, Chelsea returned to the bedroom, grinning from ear to ear.

“Alright, little sis — nap time’s over! You’re coming downstairs,” she announced, gleeful as ever.

Callie let out a sharp exhale, her annoyance now fully visible on her face.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I swear my revenge is going to be brutal,” she said, trying to sound a lot more threatening than she actually was.

Chelsea laughed, then sat on the bed near Callie’s tied ankles and began untying them.

“Oh no, not the wrath of the great DarkLadyOfRopes. I’m doomed,” she teased.

Callie rolled her eyes but didn’t answer — mostly because she did not want to give Chelsea any excuse to leave her tied longer.

And for the next five minutes, Callie’s “plan” (a generous term, considering her role consisted entirely of doing absolutely nothing) unfolded perfectly. Her ankles were freed, then the ropes above and below her knees. Chelsea moved behind her and loosened the ropes around her elbows.

But that was where Callie’s luck ran out.

Because Chelsea helped her to her feet… and then gently grabbed her by the right elbow to guide her toward the door.

Yes. Still without untying her wrists.

Callie froze instantly, heels digging into the floor as the implication hit her.

“You’ve lost your mind! There is no way I’m going downstairs like this! Untie me right now!”

Chelsea’s grin somehow widened.

“You won’t need your hands for what comes next.”

Callie shot her a murderous glare — but the firm pressure on her elbow made it clear Chelsea wasn’t joking.

Her sister wasn’t playing now; she was carrying out an instruction. And the mischievous smile wasn’t quite enough to hide the subtle shift in atmosphere.

So, reluctantly, Callie let herself be guided out of the room, down the stairs, and into the living room — where her parents were waiting.

And when they saw her, Carmen and Thomas reacted in two entirely opposite ways.

Carmen smiled, a blend of amusement and pride lighting up her face.

Thomas gave Callie a quick once-over, offered her a defeated little smile, and then rolled his eyes the second he noticed his wife’s expression.

“Mum!” Callie blurted, panicked. “This is all Chelsea’s fault! I was just— just doing my reading workshop with my friends and—”

“Sit down, Petal.” Carmen interrupted — amused, yes, but with that firm tone she used with her daughters whenever the time for discussion had officially ended.

Callie knew that tone. She’d heard it many times.

But never… never in a context like this.

There was a world of difference between hearing that tone when Carmen had decided that yes, Callie would take German at school (and she hated German), and hearing it now — when she was being told to sit, hands tied behind her back, in front of both parents.

Her eyes went wide, but — probably out of sheer reflex — she obeyed.

She shuffled over to the wooden chair that had been pre-positioned facing the sofa, and sat down.

Her mother nodded in approval as Callie complied, then exchanged a glance with Chelsea — who was grinning from ear to ear.

Callie stayed silent, looking a little lost.

She could feel it now more clearly than ever: the atmosphere had completely changed.

And her mother’s presence was the reason why.

Carmen, oddly enough, didn’t look even remotely surprised by any of this — not the ropes, not the situation, not the tension in the room.

If anything, she wore the same confident look she always had when something she’d predicted long before anyone else was finally unfolding in front of her.

The little brunette finally opened her mouth to speak — but her mother beat her to it.

“I see you’ve finally taken the first step,” Carmen said calmly. “And I’m glad.”

Callie frowned, utterly lost.

She tried to ask a question, but once again, her mother was faster.

“I also hear you’ve been writing stories related to these activities on the internet for quite some time now,” Carmen went on, shooting an amused look at Chelsea, who was visibly struggling not to snicker. “I haven’t read everything yet, but according to Chelsea, it’s not bad at all.”

Callie turned tomato-red.

This was the ultimate humiliation.

Her mother had found her BDSM stories.

At this point, dying instantly would genuinely have been preferable.

“But you really should change that username. DarkLadyOfRopes, honestly? It’s… far too tacky for our family.”

Callie’s face hit previously undiscovered shades of crimson.

This scene was too much.

Too humiliating.

And her brain was spinning at full speed, desperately looking for an escape route — physical, emotional, metaphysical, any kind.

Nope. Nope. This can’t be happening. Reset the universe. Unplug me. Reboot reality. I refuse to live in the timeline where my mother reviews my BDSM pseudonym.

Fortunately for Callie (though she might revise that opinion later), the conversation didn’t continue. A new car had just pulled into the driveway — a big one, judging by the crunch of heavy tires over gravel drifting into the living room.

Carmen hurried to the front door, flung it open, and her voice rang out brightly:

“Ruby, darling! Thank you for coming so quickly.”

A warm, confident laugh answered from the doorway — one Callie couldn’t see yet, but could definitely hear.

“Oh, Carmen, you know it’s always a pleasure to help the young women of the line,” Ruby replied smoothly.

A moment later, heels clicked against the floorboards… and Ruby finally stepped into the living room.

Callie nearly toppled off her chair.

Because Ruby wasn’t some casual friend her mother had over for tea.

It was Ruby Stride.

The Ruby Stride — owner of several of the UK’s most prestigious art galleries, mini-celebrity, and long-running star of a reality show (now on its ninth season) where she judged young artists with a mixture of brutal honesty, theatrical flair… and the occasional televised meltdown.

And apparently, Ruby dressed in private exactly the way she dressed on camera.

The forty-seven-year-old, tall and imposing at about 5’9”, with piercing green eyes and long dark hair swept up into a perfectly polished chignon, swept into the room wearing a floor-length fur coat in white, black, and brown (yes, in June), high-heeled leather boots, and enormous silver sunglasses you could probably see your future in.

Her extravagant style clashed deliciously with her pale complexion and the commanding — borderline tyrannical — aura she projected on television.

She was flanked by two assistants, both immaculately dressed in matching blouses, tailored suits, and sharp heels. The kind of women who looked like they were paid to be terrifyingly efficient.

Callie swallowed hard as the three women swept into the living room — especially Ruby — while she herself was still partially tied up like an exhibit waiting to be judged.

Ruby stopped directly in front of her and lifted her sunglasses just enough to give Callie a proper inspection — a slow, clinical sweep from head to toe.

“Well,” Ruby said at last, turning her head toward Carmen, “she certainly does not look like the type of young woman who writes filthy little novels.”

Carmen burst into delighted laughter.

Callie, meanwhile, slid even further down in her chair, wishing the earth would kindly swallow her whole.

If reality-TV stars now knew her secret?

She was finished. Absolutely finished.

She only hoped Yasmin would be willing to follow her when she eventually fled to Greenland.

“Hi, Ruby,” Chelsea said cheerfully, snapping Callie out of her spiraling thoughts.

The blonde, standing right beside Callie’s chair, waved both arms at Ruby as if she were across a football field — despite being barely five meters away.

Ruby tore her gaze away from Callie long enough to lean toward Chelsea.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to stop calling me Mistress, young lady.”

Chelsea’s smile faltered just a little. She folded her arms, adopting an almost sulky expression.

“Three years without seeing you, and that’s the welcome I get?”

Ruby shook her head in amusement, gave Thomas a small nod of acknowledgment, then turned back toward Carmen.

Callie remained silent. For once, she genuinely had no idea what to say. She felt more like a spectator than a participant — and somehow that made it worse.

“Did you warn her,” Ruby asked lightly, “or should I brace myself for the usual protests?”

“I arrived a bit late, so we haven’t had time to go over everything.”

Then she turned toward Callie — who was staring back at her with wide eyes, still blushing furiously.

“Petal, you’ll be going with Ruby. She’ll be supervising your initiation,” Carmen said with a bright, proud smile. “It’s a little tradition among the Saar women. I’ll explain everything in the car.”

Callie stared at her, mouth slightly open, trying to process the words.

Her gaze bounced between Chelsea, Ruby, and her mother — all three wearing the same mischievously delighted smile.

Her father, whom she looked to last (and desperately), seemed once again out of his depth; when their eyes met, he only shrugged, as if to say: If your mother said it… there’s no stopping her.

But no.

No, there was something she could do.

Callie was absolutely determined to oppose whatever ridiculous “program” had been cooked up for her.

There was no way — absolutely no way — she was going anywhere with a reality-TV star known for dramatic breakdowns, verbal eviscerations, and wardrobe choices that violated common sense and several health-and-safety guidelines.

Callie had already imagined hundreds of possible worst-case scenarios in the span of five seconds — all of them increasingly absurd.

She cleared her throat, as if preparing a formal speech, then addressed Ruby directly:

“Um—sorry, Miss Stride. But I’m afraid that… whatever you have planned, I am not available this afternoon.”

Chelsea’s tiny, barely contained snort made Callie falter for half a second.

“I—I have a lot of things to do, actually. Very important things. So sorry this won’t work out.”

Ruby and Carmen exchanged a look.

Then they started laughing.

And suddenly all the women in the room were laughing…

…except Callie.

***

20 minutes later…

Holy shit, what kind of insane family do I even have? First Chelsea crashes my bondage afternoon, then my entire identity as DarkLadyOfRopes gets revealed to my family and a reality-TV star, and now I’ve literally been kidnapped… by my own mother.

With Chelsea as her cheerful accomplice, and my father doing absolutely nothing about it.

I must be dreaming.

That’s the only explanation.

A full system malfunction.

A glitch in the universe.

Because there is no version of reality where any of this is allowed to happen.

Except Callie wasn’t dreaming — and yes, all of this was very real. Even if, admittedly, her current situation was… a little surprising.

She was now sitting in the middle seat of the back row in Ruby Stride’s enormous neon-yellow SUV.

Ruby sat to her right.

Her mother sat to her left.

And the two women were chatting over her head as if everything were perfectly normal.

No one had asked Callie to join the conversation.

Quite the opposite, actually.

They had unleashed “those psycho assistants” on her (Callie’s words), and those women had wasted no time showing just how outclassed Chelsea actually was.

In under a minute they had:

– buckled professional-grade leather cuffs around her ankles, complete with tiny padlocks “just to be safe”

– untied her wrists only to immediately replace the rope with another pair of leather cuffs, linked behind her back with a much shorter chain

– taken advantage of her indignant ranting to shove the enormous red ball of a panel gag between her teeth and buckle the strap tight behind her neck (Callie was still shooting murderous looks at the two assistants, who were sitting smugly in the front seats).

Then, as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world, Carmen had ordered Chelsea to go pack Callie’s suitcase.

Finally, she had been marched outside, placed in the back of the car, and sandwiched between Ruby Stride and her mother — who resumed chatting as if this whole setup didn’t look like the prelude to a very niche crime documentary.

And that was how Callie, handcuffed and gagged, found herself in the car of an art-gallery mogul who was apparently supposed to “supervise her initiation.”

And judging by how the afternoon had begun, Callie anticipated she would have MANY complaints to file later.

Especially considering Ruby had already informed her that, whenever she wasn’t gagged, she would be expected to address her as “Mistress” (which, Callie assumed, meant she was currently expected to call her: “Mmmpphfff.”).

“Mmmpphff! Mmmppphfff!” Callie finally protested — at both her mother and Ruby — punctuating each muffled complaint with the clinking rattle of her leather-cuffed ankles.

This time, her mother actually turned her head toward her… and smiled.

“Oh, Petal, it’s going to be just fine,” Carmen said warmly, though with a glint of unmistakable amusement.

“Mmmpphff?! Mmmpphff, mmpphff, mmphff!” Callie repeated, somehow managing to sound furious and defeated at the same time.

“What’s wrong with her?” Ruby asked, genuinely puzzled — as if the answer wasn’t screaming through Callie’s gagged outrage.

Carmen’s smile only brightened as she replied to her friend.

“I think I know! She’s upset because she’ll be separated from her new girlfriend.”

Callie arched a brow and exhaled sharply through her nose.

Seriously, Mum? You honestly think that between being kidnapped and not seeing my girlfriend for a few days, it’s the second thing that’s bothering me?!

But Carmen, oblivious to her daughter’s internal meltdown, simply lifted a hand and brushed Callie’s hair affectionately.

“Oh, darling, don’t make such a fuss. I’m sure Yasmin will still be around in three weeks.”

Callie froze.

Three WEEKS?

What the actual—?!!

But the car kept driving, and everyone — whether deliberately or blissfully unaware — continued to ignore the gagged outrage of the youngest Morgan–Saar.

The immediate future was uncertain.

But two things were absolutely guaranteed…

The initiation was happening.

And in three weeks, DarkLadyOfRopes was going to have a LOT of new material for her BDSM stories.

The End.

***

Ending note:

And that wraps up our story.

As you’ve probably guessed, this ending opens the door to something else — something we’ll get to explore… but not just yet.

I’d love to hear your thoughts about this chapter: what you enjoyed (or didn’t!), and any theories you might have about this universe.

So, what now, now that we’re leaving Callie at the doorstep of her initiation?

I’d suggest taking a look at my other stories set in the same universe :

Sign here, Jenny

Better Than Scandal

Rope in the city...

Hey everyone!

Here’s the second chapter from DarkLadyOfRopes? Never heard of her :)

***

June 15th, 2024 – Morgan-Saar Residence (West London suburbs) – 2:38 p.m.

For all her claims of being a “calm and steady person,” Callie Morgan-Saar wasn’t even close.

Her imagination ran wild, her energy never seemed to run out — impressive, given she barely cleared five foot three — and her brain had a charming habit of jumping straight from mild concern to total catastrophe in under ten seconds.

The last three days had been a masterclass in that particular talent.

Three days wishing the ground would swallow her whole after the humiliating discovery of her magnificent username — “magnificent” very much in air quotes — and those “historic” works of hers.

Then twenty minutes convincing herself that maybe this whole mess wasn’t so bad after all, not once she’d actually started tapping up her two friends.

Then five minutes of giddy excitement — possibly even pride — realizing that the world hadn’t, in fact, ended.

And finally, twenty-five minutes of pure, burning shame after her bondage afternoon had been spectacularly hijacked by her older sister, Chelsea.

Which had brought back her very recent desire to vanish, preferably into another dimension.

Well… almost.

Because for the past eight minutes (give or take — hard to check your phone when your hands are bound behind your back), the shame — still very much alive — had started giving way to something else: disbelief.

That wide-eyed, slack-jawed kind of disbelief she’d been aiming at her sister ever since Chelsea had waltzed back into the room, dragging a suitcase from God-knew-where, and had started — with obvious delight — “fixing” the bondage on Yasmin and Amber.

The suitcase itself was already weird enough — full of neatly coiled black ropes and, apparently, other mysterious things Callie hadn’t yet gotten a good enough look at to identify — though she had a few unsettling guesses.

But watching her big sister handle those ropes so calmly, so precisely, with the kind of ease Callie had only ever seen in—well, let’s not even finish that thought—

that wasn’t just weird.

That was mind-blowing.

Chelsea, grinning from ear to ear, had started with Amber — using a method that Callie, watching in stunned fascination, mentally labelled “partial release followed by immediate re-restraint.”

In short, Chelsea freed one part of her “victim’s” body while leaving the rest still bound. That way, the poor girl — still “securely” tied by Callie’s standards, at least — couldn’t really fight back as Chelsea replaced the duct tape she’d just peeled off with rope instead.

She had begun by freeing Amber’s ankles, then, keeping them crossed, had firmly tied them together with a length of rope.

The blonde had followed the same method for the redhead’s knees, first peeling off the duct tape before replacing it with black rope — looping it snugly above and below her knees, leaving Amber’s legs far more securely immobilized than before.

Still under Callie’s stunned gaze — and Yasmin’s amused one, since the latter seemed to see Chelsea’s sudden appearance as nothing more than a funny plot twist — the blonde had then moved on to Amber’s arms.

This time, deciding something was missing, Chelsea shot Callie one of her trademark smirks.

“Honestly, Cal — wrists only? Amateur move. She could still move her arms all over the place like this.”

To prove her point, Chelsea gave Amber’s forearms a light tug, showing how much freedom of motion she still had despite the tape.

“See? Too much wiggle room.”

Without waiting for a response, she reached for a new length of rope and began looping it just above Amber’s elbows, drawing them gently closer together.

“There,” she said as she cinched the knot. “That’ll keep her posture nice and tidy.”

Of course, DarkLadyOfRopes knew that technique. She’d written about it more than once, but she’d never dared to try it herself, afraid of doing it wrong and actually hurting her friends.

Now satisfied that Callie’s friend wouldn’t be able to use the removal of the duct tape around her wrists to “fight back” and turn the tables, she’d peeled it off and retied Amber’s wrists palm to palm, firmly and carefully, making sure every knot was well out of reach.

You’re probably wondering what Amber had been doing all this time.

Well… nothing, really.

Despite Callie’s increasingly desperate looks — and her muffled, gagged protests clearly meant to urge the redhead to do something, to fight back, to turn the tables, to let DarkLadyOfRopes reclaim her rightful role — Amber, half-bored and half-amused, had simply let it all happen.

To her, whether the one doing the tying was Chelsea or Callie didn’t make much difference. She was experiencing the whole thing as an odd but not unpleasant afternoon — maybe even a mildly entertaining one.

As for Yasmin — well, much to Callie’s growing despair, the brunette didn’t just let Chelsea tie her up; she actually helped her

She’d lifted her legs obediently so Chelsea wouldn’t have to kneel while removing the duct tape and retying her ankles (how considerate…), and, in general, did everything she could to make the whole process as easy as possible.

Which, of course, exasperated Callie — who saw her supposed allies turning against her — and greatly amused Chelsea.

“I like the enthusiasm,” the blonde remarked as she looped the ropes around Yasmin’s elbows. “A real model prisoner.”

“MMMPPPHH!” protested Callie from the bed, fixing her sister with the most offended look she could possibly muster.

Yasmin let out a soft, gagged laugh at Callie’s exasperated, indignant expression. The brunette found her adorably cute when she was upset or flustered — one of the many reasons she enjoyed teasing her so much.

“Don’t worry, dear sister,” Chelsea said with a bright, wicked grin as she finished tying Yasmin’s elbows and moved on to her wrists. “I won’t leave you all alone for long. As soon as I’m done with your friend here, big sister’s coming for you next.”

“Mmmpphff!” Callie protested, turning her head away, sulking like a kid who’d just been told Santa wasn’t real.

Yasmin’s wrists were soon tied as well, and the blonde straightened up, hands on her hips, examining her handiwork on the two captives with mock professionalism.

“That should do for now,” she declared after a moment, sounding way too pleased with herself.

Callie watched in stunned disbelief.

Her big sister — her smug, insufferable, perfect big sister — had just spent ten minutes tying up her two best friends like it was part of some corporate team-building exercise.

Callie could only stare, half in disbelief, half in mounting dread, as Chelsea finally straightened up, brushed a stray lock of blonde hair from her face, and turned toward her.

Okay. Breathe. She’s smiling. That’s never good. That’s the “I’m about to ruin your life” smile.

Fine then. Two can play that game.

“Alright, little sister,” Chelsea said, picking up another coil of rope, her grin widening. “Your turn.”

“Mmpphfff, mmpphfff!” Callie protested, shaking her head furiously — a universal, gagged-language way of saying absolutely not.

Her protests only seemed to fuel Chelsea’s amusement. The blonde took a slow, deliberate step forward, drawing out the suspense like a cat toying with its prey.

Callie met her gaze, her storm-gray eyes blazing with mock defiance.

You can dream, big sister, she thought. You caught me by surprise earlier. Not this time. Let’s see how you handle Callie Morgan-Saar when she fights for her freedom.

***

Five minutes later.

“MMMPPPHHHFFF!” Callie screamed into her gag, twisting and wriggling furiously against her new — and extremely numerous — bonds.

The humiliation was complete. It was one thing to get jumped from behind and tied up by surprise; it was another to actually put up a heroic fight (well, heroic in her head) and still end up utterly defeated.

Somehow, since their last tickle fight years ago, Chelsea had apparently turned into a secret black-belt ninja or something. In under five minutes — five! — she’d managed to overpower Callie and tie her up like a roast at Christmas.

And not just tied. Artfully tied.

Callie was now bound far more thoroughly than Yasmin or Amber — and that was saying something, considering those two hadn’t resisted at all. She, on the other hand, had fought like a wildcat… and lost spectacularly.

To be precise, the small brunette now lay on the bed, trussed up just like her friends (who were watching her with unrestrained amusement), but with one particularly cruel upgrade: a proper hogtie. Her wrists were bound tightly behind her back and connected to her ankles, forcing her into an awkward, helpless arch.

The result was total immobilization — the kind that made even wriggling useless. All she could do now was squirm, mumble angrily into her gag, and glare daggers at her sister, who looked far too pleased with herself.

If looks could kill, Chelsea would’ve been reduced to ashes right there on the spot.

Unfortunately, looks couldn’t kill — and Chelsea knew it.

“Well, that’s much better,” Chelsea announced cheerfully, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside her three captives. She turned to Yasmin and Amber, eyes gleaming with mock seriousness.

“With my little sister’s handiwork, there was a real chance one of you might’ve wriggled free by accident. But thanks to Chelsea, that risk is officially gone! No one’s going anywhere until I say so.”

“MMMPPPHHHFFF!” Callie protested furiously into her gag, twisting in outrage.

Chelsea chuckled fondly and reached out to ruffle her little sister’s hair — earning herself another burst of muffled indignation.

“Don’t pout, little sister,” she said with that trademark mix of triumph and affection. “You’re just not quite ready to play the rigger yet.”

She winked. “Give it time — you’ll get there.”

Chelsea turned her attention back to Yasmin and Amber, a slow smile spreading across her face.

She shifted slightly on the bed, leaning closer until she was within reach of Amber’s face.

“I’m dying to know what exactly inspired this little bondage afternoon,” she said, reaching out to peel the duct tape from the redhead’s lips.

The redhead let out a faint groan of relief as the last strip came off, only for Chelsea to pause — her eyes narrowing with amused curiosity as she spotted the small pink sponge still lodged between Amber’s lips.

“Well, well,” she murmured, tilting her head with a grin. “A stuffing gag. Someone’s been doing her research.”

Her gaze shifted toward Callie, the smirk widening.

“Already using the pro techniques, little sister? You’ve been keeping secrets from me.”

“MMMPHH!” came Callie’s indignant reply, half outrage, half embarrassment.

Chelsea chuckled softly, sliding the sponge free and holding it up between two fingers, as if inspecting a clue.

“Don’t worry — I’m impressed,” she said, voice dripping with playful irony. “Didn’t think you’d get this far without a mentor.”

That earned another muffled laugh from Yasmin and a barely stifled grin from Amber, who rubbed her jaw awkwardly.

“Well then,” Chelsea said after giving the redhead a few seconds to catch her breath, “I’m waiting for an explanation.”

Amber shrugged — or at least tried to, given that her wrists and elbows were still tightly bound behind her back.

“Ask Yasmin and Callie,” she said dryly. “I’m just… an observer.”

Chelsea raised her eyebrows, a small laugh slipping out.

“An observer who seems pretty involved, if you ask me.”

Amber didn’t bother replying; it was pointless anyway.

Chelsea was already turning toward Yasmin, leaning in to remove her gag next.

As soon as the tape came off, Yasmin spat out the sponge and flexed her jaw a few times before letting out a small laugh. She threw an amused glance at Callie — who was still wriggling furiously on the bed — and said,

“Your sister’s the one who inspired all this.”

“MMMPPPHHHFFF!” shouted Callie, glaring at her best friend in outrage.

Don’t you dare tell her! Please, no. I’ll be hearing about this until the day I die!

“Well, well,” said Chelsea, shooting her little sister a mock-scandalized look, “so this whole little afternoon was Callie’s idea?”

“I prefer to call her DarkLadyOfRopes now,” Yasmin added with a smirk.

“MMMPPPHHHFFF! Mmmphf, mmphhft!” Callie protested even louder, desperately trying to get the Persian girl to shut up.

But of course, it was far too late.

“DarkLadyOfRopes?” Chelsea repeated, amused and intrigued. “What on earth is that — some kind of stage name?”

“It’s Callie’s erotic writer pseudonym,” Amber replied, helpfully speeding things along since they were clearly heading there anyway.

Chelsea froze for a few seconds, processing the information — then her face broke into the widest grin imaginable.

“Wait—Callie writes erotica? Oh, that’s the discovery of the year!”

Callie buried her face in the bedsheets.

Her life was officially over.

“And she just told you that?” Chelsea asked, clearly enjoying every second of her little sister’s torment. “Without saying a word to her beloved big sister?”

Yasmin glanced over at Callie — with a look full of affection (and maybe something more) — before laughing softly.

“Of course she didn’t. She wanted to keep it a secret. But she made a tiny mistake — the laptop she lent me when mine broke was still logged into her DeviantArt account.”

Chelsea grinned, rolling her eyes theatrically before reaching over to ruffle her sister’s hair — her head still buried in the sheets.

“That’s my little sister, alright. All imagination, no operational security. Brilliant mind, hopeless attention span.

“Mmpphff!” Callie groaned miserably into her gag.

Her secret was out — and with Chelsea involved, that meant it was basically public record now.

She could already picture it: Christmas dinner, candles glowing, her grandparents smiling warmly across the table — right up until Chelsea casually shattered the festive peace with,

“So, Callie, tell us about your creative process for the bondage scenes!”

Or worse — “When’s the next Diana Vaine: Reluctant Bondage Princess dropping?”

Yeah. No. There would be no “next chapter.”

The second this whole disaster was over, Callie was going to delete everything — every post, every profile, her entire digital existence.

No — she’d enter witness protection, change her name, move to some remote village, and pretend she’d never heard of DeviantArt.

“Well, you’ve all said so much already,” Chelsea said, her voice bubbling with amusement, “that now I just have to hear the author’s reaction for myself.”

She reached toward Callie’s face and, just as she’d done with Yasmin and Amber, carefully peeled the duct tape away.

The very instant the tape came off, Callie spat out the sock her sister had shoved into her mouth and burst out in furious indignation.

“Chelsea! You can’t just barge into my room without permission!”

Yeah. In hindsight, probably not the best thing to lead with.

But honestly, it was the only thought her frazzled brain could come up with. So… fine.

The other three girls exchanged glances — and then all burst out laughing, prompting Callie to turn her head away again, sulking visibly.

“The whole world’s against me anyway,” she muttered.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Yasmin said with a warm smile. “You’re just adorable.”

“Exactly!” Chelsea chimed in, grinning. “I don’t know what it is about you, but you’ve got that something that just makes people want to mess with you.”

Callie shot her a flat look, one eyebrow arched.

“Mess with me? Since when does tying me up like a turkey count as messing with me?”

Chelsea shrugged lightly.

“Technically,” she said, “I just joined the game and took control of the situation.”

Callie didn’t bother replying. She just buried her face back into the sheets, mumbling incoherent things about betrayal and the universe having a personal vendetta against her.

“So, what’s this whole DarkLadyOfRopes thing about, anyway?” Chelsea finally asked, curiosity creeping into her voice.

“Something that’s none of your business,” Callie mumbled, her face still buried in the sheets.

She stayed like that for a moment, sulking in silence — partly to make a point, partly because facing her sister again required emotional preparation.

Finally, she lifted her head just enough to glare at Chelsea.

“Actually,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “I should be the one asking questions. Where the hell did you learn those ninja moves?”

Chelsea, who had gotten up from the bed and was now casually rummaging near the suitcase, answered without thinking.

“At work,” she said automatically.

There was a tiny pause.

Then she froze, blinked once, and muttered under her breath, “Crap.”

Callie blinked back at her.

“At work?!” she repeated, incredulous. “Chelsea, you’re a financial controller, not a secret agent!”

Chelsea, realizing there was no way out, straightened up with mock dignity.

“Oh, please. You’d be surprised how physical Excel can get,” she said deadpan. “You try wrestling with budget projections for six hours straight and tell me you don’t develop combat skills.”

Amber snorted. Yasmin burst out laughing.

Callie just stared at her, torn between exasperation and disbelief.

“…You’re impossible,” she muttered.

Chelsea smiled sweetly.

“Don’t worry, Cal — I’ll add ‘bondage consultant’ to my CV right under ‘Excel warrior.’”

Callie was just about to push for a real answer when she froze — because Chelsea had just pulled threeball gags out of the suitcase.

Her brain’s reaction was immediate and very loud.

Three ball gags?

Who even owns three ball gags? One and a bunch of ropes was already suspicious enough!

“Oh!” Yasmin said, shifting slightly in her bonds. “The villains in your stories use those things, don’t they, Callie?”

“Please,” Callie groaned, exasperated. “Don’t make this worse.”

Chelsea turned her head toward Callie, one eyebrow arched and a wicked grin spreading across her face.

“Oh, don’t worry, Yasmin,” she said sweetly. “I’m sure our dear author here can give us a live demonstration.”

Callie’s stomach dropped.

Oh, fantastic. Just fantastic.

“Mm… maybe we don’t need to—” she began, only to stop when Chelsea dangled one of the gags by its strap, the way a cat might present a dead mouse.

“Open wide, little sister.”

“Chelsea, don’t you da—”

Too late.

Chelsea moved fast — way too fast — and before Callie could even twist away, the soft red ball was already between her lips.

“Mmph! MMPPHHH!” came the indignant, muffled sound of defeat.

“There we go,” Chelsea said brightly, buckling the strap behind her head with practiced precision. “Perfect fit.”

Without giving her sister any more attention, Chelsea straightened up and turned toward Yasmin, who was the closest to her.

“Your turn now.”

Yasmin didn’t need to be told twice. She opened her mouth wide, earning a laugh from Chelsea.

“Oh, you’re enjoying this way too much, aren’t you?”

Yasmin nodded playfully, eyes gleaming with mischief, and waited patiently for the red ball to slip between her lips.

“There we go,” the blonde said, tightening the strap with practiced ease. “That makes two lovely ladies properly gagged.”

Callie, who had been watching the scene, let out a frustrated growl into her gag — though she couldn’t help but think that she should’ve been the one doing that to Yasmin.

The thought made her cheeks heat up instantly, and she quickly pushed it away, focusing on Amber instead — the only one still left ungagged.

Chelsea was just about to reach her when Amber suddenly spoke up.

“Uh… when’s the bathroom break?” she asked, her cheeks turning pink. “Not to be dramatic, but if this goes on much longer, there might be… an issue.”

Chelsea chuckled softly, setting the ball gag down on the bed.

“Naturally,” she said in an amused, almost professional tone. “Even captives are entitled to comfort breaks.”

She smiled and knelt in front of the redhead.

“Come on then, Miss Responsible — I’ll loosen you up and make sure you get there safely. Can’t have my handiwork ruined by a bathroom emergency.”

Chelsea moved with the same calm efficiency she’d shown while tying, quickly undoing the ropes around the redhead’s legs before helping her to her feet.

Out of simple practicality — or maybe mild generosity — she loosened the cord around Amber’s elbows, though not her wrists.

That earned her an unmistakably pointed look.

“You’re not seriously planning to make me go to the bathroom with my hands tied behind my back, are you?” Amber asked dryly.

Chelsea hesitated for a brief moment, then shook her head with a small laugh, as if remembering herself.

“Force of habit,” she said lightly. “Let me fix that.”

That triggered another lightning-fast reaction from Callie’s already-overloaded brain.

Force of habit?! I’m sorry—how is that a habit? What are you even doing in your spare time, Chelsea?!

Chelsea, blissfully unaware of her sister’s mental meltdown, quickly untied Amber’s wrists — though not without warning her that this was only a “short break” and that she fully intended to put her right back with the others once it was over.

Amber rolled her eyes in response and hurried toward the door.

“We’ll be right back,” Chelsea said, following her out. “Try not to get into too much trouble while we’re gone.”

Left alone at last — or as alone as two tightly bound and gagged girls could be — Yasmin and Callie exchanged a look. Amused for Yasmin, utterly defeated for Callie.

The whole “bondage afternoon” was spiralling into complete disaster.

All thanks to her sister, who was apparently living some kind of secret double life… or had spent the last few years secretly training as a ninja.

And it wasn’t even three o’clock yet.

***

Five minutes later.

Chelsea was waiting just outside the bathroom door, looking far too pleased with herself while Amber was still inside.

She’d used the short break to pull out her phone and look up what her dear little sister had been posting online under the name DarkLadyOfRopes.

The result?

Pure gold.

It was actually well written — very well written — and far bolder than she’d ever expected from her prim, easily flustered sister. Clearly, Callie had inherited the family streak, whether she liked it or not.

Chelsea grinned to herself, already certain the rest of the day was going to be highly entertaining.

Still chuckling to herself, she copied the link to one of Callie’s stories and opened her mother’s chat.

“Look what my dear little sister’s been writing,” she typed. “A perfect reading choice for the next family dinner, don’t you think?”

The reply came less than half a minute later — a laughing emoji, followed by a short message:

“Already making arrangements. Don’t let her go anywhere before I get there.”

Chelsea started typing a reply — something like ‘Trust me, she’s not exactly in a position to run’ — but the sound of a flushing toilet cut her off.

A moment later, Amber stepped out, looking relieved and slightly awkward.

“All set?” Chelsea asked, flashing her a bright, playful smile. “Time to get the author’s fan club back together.”

Amber rolled her eyes at the joke and shrugged.

“You know, I don’t really care either way,” she said evenly. “But maybe we should just… leave Yasmin and Callie alone.”

Chelsea frowned, folding her arms in mild confusion.

“And why exactly would we do that?”

Amber gave her a look that said seriously? but, seeing the blonde’s puzzled expression, sighed and clarified.

“Because this whole little bondage thing? It was Yasmin’s plan.”

Chelsea’s eyebrows rose, a slow grin forming.

“Oh? A plan for what, exactly?”

Amber blinked, then smirked.

“To confess, obviously. To, you know, make a move. It’s pretty obvious she’s into her.”

Chelsea’s grin stretched wider — that unmistakable uh-oh kind of grin that meant she was already scheming.

Amber, realising a little too late that she might’ve said too much (WAY too much), blurted out,

“But— I mean— we don’t even know if Callie’s into her! Maybe we should just drop it—”

“Relax,” Chelsea cut in, giving her shoulder a quick squeeze. “You’re talking to a professional matchmaker here.”

Amber blinked, alarm creeping into her expression as she realised Chelsea wasn’t joking.

The blonde’s grin turned positively wicked. “Trust me — a few ropes and a little creative restraint can work wonders for romance.”

It was hard to tell if she was joking.

Actually, no — it wasn’t.

End of chapter.

Hey everyone :)

Today I’m sharing the first part of another story set in my shared universe, the Saarverse (Sign Here, Jenny, Better Than Scandal, etc.).

As always, this one can be read on its own — it’s a self-contained story.

But if you’ve read the others, you’ll definitely spot some big clues about where this universe is heading

Hope you enjoy it!

***

June 12th, 2024 – London (St. Claire Court, Queen Mary University residence) – 4:11 p.m.

“…The beautiful redhead squirmed helplessly in her ropes while the powerful witch-queen Xeres watched her with a teasing smile curling at the corners of her lips.

All those ropes — tied with obsessive perfection — left her completely powerless, at the mercy of her captor. Her gag, an enormous penis gag locked behind her neck with a magical padlock, reduced every protest to a muffled groan, deepening her humiliation even further.

But right then, what slipped past her lips weren’t protests at all, but desperate, breathless moans of pleasure.

The torments she’d endured — the forty lashes, the endless hours hanging from dungeon rings — all of it was forgotten. At that moment, Diana Vaine was begging for the sorceress’s enormous—”

“I—I don’t see why you’re reading this to me.”

The voice cut through the story right before things were about to get really interesting.

It came from Callie Morgan-Saar, standing stiffly in front of her friend Yasmin Farahani, who sat cross-legged on the bed, phone in hand, having just read aloud from Chapter 23 of Diana Vaine: Reluctant Bondage Princess — posted on DeviantArt a week earlier.

Callie tried to sound indignant, even offended, but the bright flush spreading across her cheeks — and her inability to meet Yasmin’s eyes — told an entirely different story.

Yasmin looked up from her phone, a small, knowing smile forming on her lips.

Tall and effortlessly elegant, Yasmin Farahani had the kind of beauty that made people pause — warm brown eyes like strong tea, dark wavy hair falling over sharp cheekbones, and a teasing mouth that always seemed one breath away from a grin. There was something unmistakably Persian about her, in her poise, her warmth, and the soft musical lilt in her voice when she finally spoke.

Callie, by contrast, was the picture of nervous innocence. Petite, slim, with long brown hair and wide storm-gray eyes, she looked like the last person on earth who’d write about penis gags and magical dungeons. Her beauty was quiet, almost fragile — and every emotion she felt blazed openly across her face.

No one needed to guess what she was thinking. You could read her like a headline.

And right now, Yasmin, who’d known her for six years, could tell exactly what was running through that frantic little head.

It wasn’t anything like Why on earth is my best friend reading this filthy stuff out loud?

No, it was more along the lines of:

Oh God oh God oh God — does she know? How did she find it? I’m doomed!

Yasmin could’ve ended the “torture session” right there — but really, where was the fun in that?

No, she lived for moments like this — watching the lovely Callie spiral, floundering to escape a situation she clearly had no way out of.

“You’ve got to admit,” Yasmin said, a teasing glint in her eyes, “this DarkLadyOfRopes girl can write. She’s got real style.”

Standing across from the bed, Callie shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her discomfort practically radiating off her despite her best (and utterly doomed) attempt to look composed.

“DarkLadyOfRopes?” she repeated, forcing a weak laugh as she turned her head away to hide her face. “Never heard of her.”

And she really did have to turn her head away — because, in truth, Callie knew exactly who DarkLadyOfRopes was.

Mainly because… well, she was DarkLadyOfRopes.

Yes, Callie Morgan-Saar — sweet, nervous, innocent little Callie — was secretly a BDSM fiction author on DeviantArt.

And not just any author, either. A popular one.

Over twelve hundred watchers, seventy to eighty favorites on each of the twenty-three chapters of Diana Vaine: Reluctant Bondage Princess, not to mention the spin-offs (Bondage Princesses Sold at the Black Market being one of her biggest hits).

And then there were the comments — dozens of them — praising her vivid imagination, her distinctive style, and her “incredibly accurate descriptions of bondage positions.”

No one was supposed to know.

Not her classmates. Not her professors.

And especially not Yasmin Farahani.

That account had been her secret pride, her guilty pleasure — right up until this exact moment… when Yasmin had somehow gotten her hands on that story and started reading it aloud, all innocent smiles and wide-eyed curiosity.

That was all it took for Callie’s brain to go into full meltdown mode — or, more accurately, straight to DEFCON 1.

Okay. Breathe. Maybe she doesn’t know. Maybe she just—what, randomly stumbled on a BDSM story about a redhead and a penis gag? Totally plausible, Callie. Happens all the time. People just trip over those things online.

God, why didn’t I delete that stupid account when I had the chance? Or at least pick a less incriminating username! “DarkLadyOfRopes”? Really? What was wrong with “BookLover92” like a normal human being?

Okay, okay, just stay calm. Deny everything. You’ve got this.

Yasmin rose from the bed with a smile that said everything Callie didn’t want it to say — the kind of smile that meant you’re not getting out of this one, sweetheart.

She crossed the room, still wearing that maddening grin, and stopped by her desk. There, waiting for her, was her laptop. Well… technically Callie’s old laptop.

It had been gathering dust in Callie’s closet for nearly a year before she’d lent—well, more like given—it to Yasmin after her computer died a month ago. Callie hadn’t thought twice about it; she knew Yasmin’s family wasn’t exactly swimming in money, and besides, what harm could come from handing over an old machine?

Yasmin flipped open the laptop, tapped in the password, and with a triumphant little smirk, turned the screen toward her friend.

There it was. The DeviantArt profile of DarkLadyOfRopes. Logged in. Admin view.

“Well, well,” Yasmin said, her tone pure mischief, “a real mystery, isn’t it, Callie? Somehow, this DarkLadyOfRopes seems to be posting from your old laptop.”

Oh God. Oh no. No no no no no.

Her blood ran cold. Of course. Of course this was happening.

You absolute genius, Callie.

You write twenty-three chapters about magical sex dungeons, upload them under a ridiculous pseudonym, and then you give your best friend the laptop that’s still logged into the account. Brilliant. Truly brilliant. Ten out of ten for operational security.

Her brain supplied the mental image of packing her life into a suitcase, catching the next train out of London, and starting fresh under a new name.

Maybe Clara NotDarkLadyOfRopes.

Cornered, Callie still tried to wriggle her way out of it — grasping at an excuse so ridiculous it collapsed under its own weight.

And of course, the fact that her face was now the color of a ripe tomato didn’t exactly help her credibility.

“I—it must’ve been hacked!” she blurted. “Yeah, that’s it. My laptop got hacked!”

Yasmin couldn’t hold back a laugh.

“Hacked? Really? So what — in your world, hackers don’t steal your data, they give you access to a DeviantArt account with over twelve hundred watchers?”

Callie opened her mouth to reply — she had to say something, anything — but Yasmin spoke first.

“Well,” she said with a grin that made Callie’s stomach drop, “since I now know you’re DarkLadyOfRopes… I’ve decided I want to try this whole bondage thing.”

Callie’s jaw nearly hit the floor. For a few long seconds, she just stared at her friend, completely speechless.

Then, at last, she managed to open her mouth.

“What?!”

***

June 15th, 2024 – Morgan-Saar Residence (West London suburbs) – 1:45 p.m.

“No, Chelsea, you cannot come over this afternoon!” Callie shouted into her phone, exasperation dripping from every word. “I told you I’m using the house for my… my reading session.”

The young Morgan-Saar was pacing the living room of her parents’ gorgeous home, nestled in one of West London’s most affluent suburbs — a perfect reflection of the family’s wealth. That wealth came as much from her mother Carmen Saar’s inherited fortune as from her father’s professional success (not that her mother’s own career as a corporate lawyer wasn’t impressive, but the Saar family’s legacy tended to overshadow everything else).

Now seated on the enormous cream-colored sofa, the gray-eyed brunette was doing her best to convince her older sister — Chelsea, of course — that there was absolutely no way she was allowed to show up at the family house that afternoon.

And for good reason.

Because that very afternoon was when it was happening.

The “bondage afternoon.”

And no, Callie hadn’t picked the name. Or the date. Or anything, really. Yasmin had decreed it would be this Saturday.

Originally, her beautiful Persian friend had suggested hosting the “session” at her own place — a suggestion Callie had immediately shut down. She had barely survived the humiliation of Yasmin discovering her “secret identity” (please, no one ever mention DarkLadyOfRopes again), and she wasn’t about to risk dying of embarrassment in front of the Farahanis.

She’d even had nightmares about it for days afterward — recurring horrors in which Yasmin’s mother would walk in on them, forcing Callie to blurt out increasingly ridiculous excuses.

“Uh… hello, Mrs. Farahani. No, no, it’s not what it looks like. Your daughter’s tied up because… because it’s for a university experiment. Yes, exactly — a university experiment.”

So, faced with what she considered an existential-level threat, Callie had decided the “play afternoon” (or her social death, depending on how one looked at it) would have to take place at her parents’ house instead.

Why? Two reasons.

First: space. The place was huge — two floors, a massive living room, five bedrooms — plenty of room to “experiment” without bumping into anyone.

Second: logistics. Even though it was a Saturday, her mother was away (some kind of family gathering; Callie hadn’t really paid attention), and her father… well, he was easily bribed. A whisky distillery tour lasting five hours — yes, she’d gone for the full premium package — had ensured he wouldn’t be anywhere near the neighborhood.

Her sister, though, was another matter.

Chelsea, five years older, had long since moved out — now living in a stylish flat in central London since landing her job as a financial controller at Saar Unlimited Responsibility (it didn’t exactly hurt to share a bloodline, however distant, with the company’s CEO).

There was absolutely no reason for Chelsea to drop by her parents’ house on a Saturday afternoon.

And yet, somehow, she knew.

It was like she had a sixth sense — an uncanny ability to detect when her little sister was hiding something.

And, like any self-respecting older sister, she fully intended to find out what.

“A reading session? I love reading sessions!” Chelsea replied, amusement dripping from her voice.

“No, you don’t,” Callie answered flatly.

She was doing her best to sound firm, confident even — but inside, she was pure chaos.

There was no way — absolutely no way — she could let her sister show up.

Two people knowing her secret was already bad enough.

Yes, two — because Yasmin, in a moment of catastrophic brilliance, had decided to share Callie’s “talent for erotic writing” with their third partner in crime, Amber Reed, and had invited her to the so-called bondage afternoon.

Callie was fairly sure Amber had no real idea what that actually meant, but the damage was done. Her secret identity as DarkLadyOfRopes had officially leaked. Twice !

And if Chelsea found out too? That would be it. The end.

Her social life, her love life, her family life — all gone.

She could already picture it:

Chelsea showing up at a family dinner, grinning over dessert —

“So, DarkLadyOfRopes, how’s the writing going?”

Or worse, turning up at her university and cheerfully announcing at reception,

“Hi! I’m here to see DarkLadyOfRopes!”

No. No, no, no.

That could never happen.

“Anyway, if you come over, I won’t be able to let you in — I’ll be too busy,” Callie said quickly.

Chelsea’s laugh on the other end made her rush to add, “Reading! Busy reading, obviously!” she stammered, her face now as red as a tomato — thankfully, her sister couldn’t see her.

Chelsea laughed even harder, but the sound was suddenly drowned out by the chime of the front doorbell.

“I have to go!” Callie blurted out in a panic. “And don’t come over!”

She hung up before Chelsea could reply and hurried straight to the front door.

Callie reached the front door, took a deep breath — summoning what little courage she had (which, frankly, didn’t seem all that useful right now) — and opened it.

As expected, she found herself face to face with Yasmin, who had clearly dressed for the occasion.

She wore sneakers, black leggings, and a pink T-shirt, her dark hair pulled back loosely — and, of course, that huge, mischievous smile she always had when Callie was about to suffer.

Beside her stood Amber — their friend from uni — tall and slim, with long red hair and pale blue eyes, dressed in a white tracksuit and tank top.

She looked at the two of them with the expression of someone silently wondering how on earth she’d gotten dragged into this.

“DarkLadyOfRopes! What an honor to see you again!” Yasmin said brightly, grinning from ear to ear.

Callie blushed again, silently swearing that the next time she ever made an account on any website, she’d spend more than two seconds thinking about the username.

She stepped aside to let the girls in.

“For the record,” she said as they walked past, “I’m not the one who came up with this whole idea.”

“Of course not,” Yasmin said with a chuckle. “We’re only here because of your creative writing and that wonderfully vivid imagination of yours.”

Callie rolled her eyes and shut the door behind them, then turned to Amber — who was still eyeing the two of them with the weary look of someone trying to figure out what kind of madness she’d just agreed to.

“So, just to make sure I’ve got this right,” Amber said cautiously, “the plan for this afternoon is… we tie each other up?”

Callie opened her mouth to reply, but Yasmin beat her to it.

“When you say it like that, it sounds so plain,” she said with mock seriousness. “We’re about to be tied up by DarkLadyOfRopes, Amber. Try to sound a little more excited.”

Callie felt every muscle in her body tense.

Excited? Excited?! The only thing she was excited about was the idea of maybe, possibly, dying of embarrassment before this whole thing even started.

She forced a smile — the kind that looked more like a grimace — and gestured vaguely toward the stairs.

“Alright then… I guess we’ll go to my room.”

Her two friends nodded and headed upstairs like they owned the place. They’d been here enough times to know exactly where her room was.

Her room. Soon to be… the scene of her social execution.

Because the truth was, Callie — or, as the internet knew her, DarkLadyOfRopes — had the imagination of a novelist and the hands-on experience of a houseplant.

She’d never done any of the things she wrote about. Not even close.

And now, somehow, she was about to be tested on it. In person.

This wasn’t just embarrassing — this was poetic justice.

“Oh, you like writing about bondage, do you?” said the universe. “Cool. Let’s see you explain this.”

She was already picturing her epitaph:

Here lies Callie Morgan-Saar — writer, dreamer, certified fraud.

Absolutely doomed.

Callie’s bedroom was fairly spacious, and the furniture left no doubt as to her family’s comfortable place in London’s upper-middle class.

A large double bed (far too big for Callie, really), a sleek flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, a wardrobe that probably cost more than all of Yasmin’s and Amber’s furniture combined, and a desk cluttered with a brand-new MacBook, three iPhones (yes — Callie liked upgrading every other year), and framed photos of her and her friends — mostly Yasmin and Amber.

Of course, Yasmin and Amber had seen all this before. They’d been here plenty of times.

No, what caught Yasmin’s attention — and brought a sly smile to her face — was what Callie had laid out neatly on the bed.

Five rolls of gray duct tape. Straight from a hardware store.

And that was it.

Yasmin tilted her head toward her friend, amusement sparkling in her eyes as she feigned surprise.

“Just duct tape? What happened to the chains, the chastity belts, and those ‘penis gags’ you describe with such enthusiasm in your stories?”

Callie turned bright red again and averted her gaze, silently cursing her own life choices. Fortunately, she was spared from answering by Amber, who looked suddenly alarmed.

“Wait — chains and penis gags?!”

The look Yasmin gave her made Callie’s stomach twist.

“There—there’s not going to be any of that today,” Callie said quickly. “Today is… beginner day. Yes. That’s it.”

Another lie, of course.

Callie might’ve been enthusiastic online, but there was no universe in which she’d ever have the courage to walk into an actual sex shop and ask for that kind of gear.

The mere thought of it made her want to crawl under her bed and never come out.

‘Hello, sir. I’d like to buy some chains, a pair of handcuffs, and, uh, two penis gags. They’re for… friends.’

Yasmin sat down on the bed and grabbed one of the rolls of duct tape.

She shot Amber a mischievous look. Amber, in turn, gave her that trademark mix of indifference and mild disbelief — the look of someone already regretting her life choices — before Yasmin held the roll out to Callie.

“Well then, DarkLadyOfRopes — or should I say DarkLadyOfTape — get to work.”

Callie rolled her eyes, silently cursing her past self and that stupid username all over again.

She took the roll, staring at it like it might explode.

One deep breath. One sharp rrrip.

That was the sound of no return.

***

Thirty minutes later…

Okay… maybe this isn’t so bad after all.

Maybe I’ve been completely overreacting, Callie thought, standing at the foot of her bed with — for the first time that day — a faint, genuine smile tugging at her lips.

In front of her, sitting side by side on the bed, were Yasmin and Amber — now “securely” bound with tight wraps of silver duct tape.

Well, securely might’ve been a generous term… but honestly? For a first attempt, it wasn’t half bad.

Both girls had their ankles crossed and encircled several times with duct tape. Then, imitating what she’d seen in countless movies and scenes over the years, Callie had added a few careful wraps just below and just above the knees.

Their wrists were bound too — simple, clean, hands pressed palm to palm behind their backs, held together with a few firm wraps of tape.

Now they were both testing her work, squirming and shifting in their seats.

And — miracle of miracles — it was holding.

“Yasmin,” Amber began, shooting her co-captive a look that mixed irritation and amusement,

“remind me again why I’m spending my Saturday tied up at Callie’s place instead of, I don’t know, going shopping like a normal person?”

Yasmin, still wriggling playfully beside her, let out a small laugh.

“Probably because you’re broke, Amber. Trust me — Callie’s doing you a favor keeping you tied up here. No danger of overdrafts or impulse buys this way.”

Callie couldn’t help but laugh — and for the first time in days, she actually started to relax.

No… more than relax. She was enjoying herself.

Yasmin and Amber weren’t judging her, weren’t mocking her. Maybe her social life wasn’t doomed after all. Maybe her dignity could be salvaged — or at least partially revived.

Okay, she thought, feeling that same unfamiliar warmth rise in her chest, maybe this whole thing isn’t a total disaster after all.

“I am not broke!” Amber protested — mostly for form’s sake, and not very convincingly.

But Yasmin ignored her, turning back toward Callie with that infuriating little grin of hers.

“I think DarkLadyOfRopes should gag her prisoners,” she said sweetly. “Amber talks far too much nonsense.”

Callie felt a spark deep inside her — real excitement, the kind that wasn’t supposed to exist outside her laptop.

She’d written about this feeling a hundred times, described it in vivid detail, shaped it into fantasies…

But now it was here — warm, electric, and very, very real.

She didn’t realize it at first, but something in her had shifted.

She wasn’t desperately trying to save face anymore — or just survive the moment.

Now, she was ready to play along. To lean into it.

This was new territory, but not unfamiliar.

For the first time, the world of ropes and restraint was stepping out of her imagination… and becoming something vividly, thrillingly real.

Callie, enjoying the playful banter, flashed a mischievous grin at her friends. “If it’s the wish of my ‘prisoners,’ who am I to oppose it?” she said, her voice laced with amusement.

She moved toward her wardrobe, pulling it open wide in search of the necessary materials for gagging her captives.

“What is she doing?” Amber asked aloud, clearly confused.

Amber had never been particularly interested in bondage before. Her only reference point was the usual Hollywood portrayal. To her, a little strip of duct tape across the mouth seemed like the perfect gag.

“I think she’s looking for something to stuff in our mouths,” Yasmin replied, her tone calm as ever. “I did a little research yesterday, and apparently, it doesn’t quite work like in the movies.”

Amber rolled her eyes even harder. “You two are both insane.”

The brunette turned around a few moments later, holding up a pair of socks that she quickly separated.

“I really hope you’re joking!” Amber protested immediately. “There’s no way you’re putting one of your socks in my mouth.”

Yasmin chuckled softly but nodded in agreement.

“Yes, DarkLadyOfRopes, you’re getting a little carried away.”

Callie felt her cheeks flush but recovered quickly.

“You’re very demanding prisoners,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I’ll go downstairs and see if I can find something else.”

Callie hurried out of the room, her excitement now clear in the way she moved.

Amber waited until the sound of footsteps on the stairs faded before leaning a little closer to Yasmin.

“You’d better make a move today,” the redhead whispered. “You’re not gonna get a better chance than this.”

Yasmin gave a faint, confident smile.

“Relax. You won’t have agreed to this little bondage afternoon for nothing.”

They kept whispering to each other for a few minutes, low and conspiratorial, until Callie burst back into the room — now proudly holding up two small pink sponges, still in their plastic wrap.

“Will these satisfy my prisoners’ requests?” she asked, her voice practically bubbling with excitement.

Amber and Yasmin traded a look, then nodded in unison.

“If we must,” Amber said with exaggerated weariness, “let’s get it over with.”

Callie’s grin widened. She tore open one of the packages and sat down beside Amber, duct tape at the ready.

“Alright then. Open wide.”

Amber let out a small sigh but leaned forward anyway, clearly resigned to her fate.

“Okay, okay,” she mumbled, “but if this thing smells weird, I swear I’m—”

She didn’t get to finish the sentence.

Callie gently pressed the soft pink sponge against her lips, giving her a nervous, almost apologetic smile before nudging it into her mouth. Amber’s eyes widened slightly at the sensation — not exactly painful, just strange and unexpectedly intimate.

Then came the tape.

Callie tore off a long strip, the sound sharp in the quiet room, and carefully smoothed it over Amber’s lips. One layer. Then another, just to be sure.

When she pulled back, she found herself staring at her handiwork — Amber sitting there, cheeks slightly flushed, testing the tape with a muffled “mmph.”

Callie blushed slightly as she took in the sight before her.

It was done. She had officially gagged someone for the first time — for real, not just in one of her stories.

“My turn!” Yasmin said, giving her a playful wink before opening her mouth wide.

Callie couldn’t help but smile at the sight — her friend sitting there, bound with duct tape, watching her expectantly with her mouth open like some eager volunteer.

All traces of shame had vanished from Callie. What was left now was amusement… and excitement. The thrill of something new.

And maybe, just maybe, something else she wasn’t ready to name yet.

“Come on, DarkLadyOfRopes. I’m waiting,” Yasmin teased, pretending to sound impatient.

Callie opened the second sponge packet and sat down beside the young woman of Persian descent.

“At least when I’m done with you, you’ll finally stop making fun of my username,” she said playfully.

“For a while! I—” Yasmin didn’t get to finish her sentence either, because the sponge was quickly pushed past her lips by a now noticeably more confident Callie.

Once the sponge was firmly in place, two strips of duct tape secured it — the same way she’d done for Amber.

Callie stood up again and took a step back to admire the scene.

What had seemed impossible only a few days earlier had actually happened.

She stayed there for nearly a minute, watching Yasmin and Amber wriggle and test their gags — which, to her satisfaction, seemed surprisingly effective.

For a first attempt, she’d actually done a good job.

The gags were effective, yes — but maybe not quite enough.

Not enough to compensate for Callie’s excitement.

Not enough for how distracted she was.

And certainly not enough for how large the house was.

Because those three things together kept her from hearing the faint sound of a key turning in the front door lock.

“Well, Yasmin,” Callie said, still watching her friends squirm, “not so cocky now, are you?”

The feeling of control was new to her — strange, but thrilling.

She had to admit it: this little amateurish play session with her friends felt a hundred times more exciting than anything she’d ever written.

For the first time, Callie wasn’t thinking about how ridiculous she must look, or what Yasmin and Amber really thought of her.

All that mattered was the moment — the soft rip of tape, the sound of muffled laughter, the sight of her two best friends helplessly wriggling on her bed.

It was absurd, yes. Silly, even.

But it was hers.

And, God, it felt good.

She let out a quiet laugh, one hand brushing a loose strand of hair from her face as she looked at Yasmin’s wide, amused eyes.

There was something almost magnetic in that look — playful, yes, but also… something else.

For half a second, Callie wondered if Yasmin was actually enjoying this a little too much.

The thought sent a tiny shiver down her spine — half nerves, half something she didn’t dare name.

Then, suddenly, Amber and Yasmin stopped moving.

They exchanged a glance — and started laughing into their gags.

Not the playful kind of laughter from before, but something else entirely — a shared, conspiratorial sound that said they knew something Callie didn’t.

And they did.

They’d seen something.

Something that, without a doubt, was about to change the course of their afternoon.

Callie, still facing away from the door, planted her hands on her hips and tried to sound authoritative.

“What are you two plotting now?” she demanded.

“Mmphff!” Yasmin replied, her eyes gleaming with the unmistakable smile hidden beneath her gag.

“Well, well — such unruly prisoners,” Callie said, feigning sternness. “Maybe I should—”

She never got the chance to finish.

Someone had stepped up behind her — and before she could even turn, a sudden shove sent her tumbling forward onto the bed, landing right between Yasmin and Amber, who had oh-so-helpfully made room for her.

Before she could even react, someone — whose touch felt strangely familiar — caught her wrists and forced them behind her back with a quick, practiced motion.

Yasmin and Amber watched, wide-eyed and delighted, as Callie froze in shock, her mind barely keeping up with what was happening.

A sudden zip cut through the air, followed by the swift tightening of something plastic around her wrists.

Callie gasped, twisting instinctively — but the grip only tightened, locking her hands firmly behind her back.

Whoever was behind her moved with unsettling precision, every motion calm, practiced, and sure.

This wasn’t some panicked prank or random grab.

Whoever it was knew exactly what they were doing.

“What the hell is going on?!” Callie finally shouted, twisting on the bed — only to find herself face-to-face with… Chelsea.

Her older sister, twenty-six and effortlessly confident, stood over her with that same athletic grace that made everything she did look easy. Her long blonde hair framed a face that looked far too amused for the situation, and those familiar storm-gray eyes — the same as Callie’s — sparkled with mischief.

“Well, well,” Chelsea said, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Now this is the kind of reading session I can get behind. I’ve never liked books much, but this? Oh, this I can definitely join in on.”

Callie’s entire face turned scarlet, the heat rushing straight to her cheeks.

Oh, brilliant. Just brilliant. Out of everyone on the planet, it had to be Chelsea.

Not Yasmin’s mom, not a random delivery guy — no, her big sister, the human embodiment of sarcasm and family gossip.

Callie could already see the headlines:

“Local Woman Found Dead After Being Caught Mid-Bondage by Sister — Authorities Cite Terminal Embarrassment.”

Maybe if she prayed hard enough, the floor would finally do the decent thing and swallow her whole.

Callie sat up, glaring accusingly at Yasmin and Amber. Of course they hadn’t warned her. Of course they’d just sat there, giggling behind their duct-taped mouths while she walked straight into disaster.

The fact that they were both gagged? A mere technicality.

“Chelsea, it’s— it’s not what it looks like,” she stammered.

Her wide gray eyes and the crimson flush burning across her cheeks, however, screamed the opposite.

It was exactly what it looked like.

Chelsea rolled her eyes, laughing as she picked up the roll of duct tape from the bed — and one of the socks Callie had discarded earlier.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not thinking anything,” she said, all amused confidence. “I just observe. I knew you were up to something ‘suspicious.’ I figured it was a secret boyfriend or something — but this? This is way better.”

“H-how did you even get in? You don’t have the keys, I—”

“I brought Dad!” Chelsea interrupted with a playful grin. “Brilliant idea, by the way — sending him on that whisky tour. But you know he can’t say no to me.”

Callie’s eyes went wide in alarm.

Her dad was here too? In the house? This was a nightmare!

She opened her mouth to protest — but that was all the opportunity Chelsea needed. With suspiciously practiced ease, she shoved the sock between Callie’s lips.

“Mmppphff!” Callie let out an immediate muffled protest, but the blonde didn’t stop there. With quick, precise movements, she pressed two strips of duct tape over her sister’s mouth — exactly the same way Callie had done to Yasmin and Amber.

“Well, perfect!” her sister chirped. “Nice and fair — everyone’s gagged now!”

The blonde was clearly having the time of her life, Yasmin and Amber were giggling behind their tape, and Callie was silently praying for the sweet release of spontaneous combustion.

Her fun little experiment had officially become a family bonding session. Literally.

If a camera crew burst in next, she wouldn’t even be surprised.

But DarkLadyOfRopes wasn’t done being surprised.

After a quick inspection of her friends’ tape jobs, Chelsea straightened up, hands on her hips.

“Too basic. Hold tight, girls — I’ll be right back with something better.”

“Mmmph?!” Callie yelped, confusion written all over her face.

But that didn’t stop Chelsea, who disappeared out of the room with confident strides.

***

Thomas Morgan considered himself a simple man.

Well—simple might not be quite the right word. Let’s say normal.

Just a normal man surrounded by… special women.

At fifty-six, Thomas had built himself a good life. He was a partner in a consulting firm, made an excellent living, owned his home, was married, and had two daughters. He’d even managed to stay in decent shape — a few extra pounds here and there, and his once-blond hair had turned a little gray, but still, a handsome man (or so his wife claimed).

No, his life was perfectly normal.

His family, on the other hand, was another story.

And right now, he had living proof of that sitting — or rather, standing — in front of him.

He’d been sitting on the living room sofa for about five minutes. When he’d opened the front door for his eldest, Chelsea, he’d immediately realized, judging by the strange noises coming from upstairs, that something unusual was going on.

Yes — unusual was the word he’d settled on. His wife had forbidden him from using “suspicious” to describe that sort of activity. According to Carmen, suspicious sounded far too judgmental.

And from the look of things, the “unusual activity” was far from over — because Chelsea had just come down the stairs and was now heading straight for the bedroom he shared with his wife.

“What are you doing?” he asked, with the weary tone of a man who’d seen everything.

“I’m just borrowing Mom’s equipment,” Chelsea said with a grin. “Don’t worry about it. You can watch a movie or something!”

Thomas rolled his eyes as she vanished from view.

He pulled out his phone, opened his contacts, and tapped on his wife’s name.

After two rings, Carmen’s voice answered.

“Hi, darling! How’s the distillery tour going?”

“I had to postpone it,” he said quickly. “But tell me, is it normal that Chelsea wants to borrow your… ‘equipment’?”

He put deliberate weight on the word — which, in the Morgan-Saar household (well, mostly on the Saarside), had a very specific meaning.

Carmen let out a small, exasperated groan.

“It’s fine, I suppose — but honestly, I wish she’d take better care of her things!”

“And Callie being involved,” Thomas asked cautiously, “that’s… part of the plan too?”

There was a pause. A long one.

“Are you absolutely sure about that?” Carmen’s voice had lost all its warmth now.

“Yes,” he replied after a short hesitation.

“I’ve got a few calls to make,” she said quickly. “I’m heading home.”

And just like that, the line went dead.

Thomas stared at his phone for a moment, then sighed.

That probably meant everything was fine.

Or at least… he really hoped it was.

End of chapter.

Hey everyone :)

Today I’m sharing the first part of another story set in my shared universe, the Saarverse (Sign Here, Jenny, Better Than Scandal, etc.).

This one takes a while to get going, but there’s plenty of bondage once it does.

There’s also a bit of humor mixed in.

Hope you enjoy it!

***

Hi everyone,

Today we’re heading back to 1826 with Chapter 3 of Better Than Scandal 

Things are about to get a bit more eventful for Miss Hawthorne 

***

May 13, 1826 — Surrey — 3:15 a.m.

“It won’t take long, Miss.”

That was what one of the masked women had told her before locking her inside the crate, despite her perfectly clear protests.

And let us be clear: her desire to protest had not faded in the slightest. Quite the opposite. The reasons for her outrage had multiplied, and she could now draw up a thoroughly damning list.

First on that list: the fact that these women had infiltrated her bedchamber in the dead of night. Certainly, compared with everything else, it was almost negligible—but it deserved to be noted. Second: the fact that these intruders had taken it upon themselves to bind her. To bind her despite her protests, more precisely. Then, of course, third on that growing list, the fact that she had been gagged—and then shut inside a crate (that might well have counted as a fourth entry, but Lucy had rather lost track). And then there was the rest.

The young woman had felt her new carriage—as one of her attackers had put it, with amusement—being lifted and carried away. The journey could not have lasted more than ten minutes, and the box had then been set down on the floor somewhere. And after that, nothing.

Lucy Hawthorne had been left alone—tied, gagged, shut inside the crate—for a length of time she could not measure, but which felt far too long. Far too long to fit with the assurance that “it wouldn’t take long.”

At first, she had fought against her bonds, hoping to free herself and then—God only knew how—manage to get out of the crate. She had not succeeded, largely because of the unsettling skill the four women possessed when it came to tying knots. Then, when a faint panic had begun to take hold, she had tried to shout, to call for help. But no one had answered—no doubt because of her gag, but also because, wherever she was, there was no one close enough to hear her.

So now, Lucy waited. Furious, a little panicked, a little frightened—and, above all, fearful of what was to come.

Something told her the test had only just begun.

And that what she had just endured was merely a warm-up.

As if to confirm her fears, it was at that very moment that the sound of footsteps reached her ears — followed by laughter.

The four women responsible for her predicament were back.

Lucy shifted slightly inside the crate, wriggling to reposition herself so that she would be able to see them when they finally opened the crate. She managed it just in time.

The light — cast by several candles — dazzled her, and it took her a few seconds to make out the masked face of one of her assailants and, more importantly, the ceiling of the place where she was being held.

Not that there was anything remarkable about it.

But it existed.

Which meant she was not outdoors.

“Welcome to the Glenmoor Manor pavilion,” the woman said, her voice touched with faint amusement.

By candlelight, Lucy noticed the woman’s attire for the first time. She was wearing an elegant gown, not unlike the ones Lucy herself owned. She was no servant — that much was immediately clear.

The three others stepped closer, confirming it. Their faces remained carefully concealed, but their dresses — and even the assurance of their movements — spoke of elevated rank. They were noblewomen, like her.

The realization brought her no comfort.

“Mmmppphhff! Mmpphff, mmpphhff!” Lucy protested at once, hoping that shouting might somehow put an end to the nightmare — or at least force an explanation.

“Miss Hawthorne doesn’t seem particularly pleased with the first stage of her test,” remarked one of the women, smaller than the others.

“A pity,” replied the one who had opened the crate. “Being shut inside a box is a classic element of the game.”

“Mmphff?! Mmppphf?” Lucy tried to ask, utterly bewildered.

No answer came.

The four women showed no interest in listening to her, let alone negotiating. They had something else in mind entirely.

A plan that now involved removing her from the crate.

They grabbed hold of her and lifted her out, allowing Lucy to see something other than the pavilion’s ceiling for the first time. And she understood immediately that this place bore absolutely no resemblance to the garden pavilions she had encountered on other estates.

The difference was not architectural. In that respect, the building was much like any other pavilion: a spacious structure set within the manor’s grounds—Lucy could even make out the manor’s silhouette through an open window. No, the difference lay in the furnishings of the vast central room in which she now found herself. And that difference made her shiver at once.

There were no armchairs, no small tables, no tastefully frivolous decorations. Everything here struck her as far more sinister.

The first shock came from the three metal cages lined up against one wall—each of a different size. One was tall enough for a person to stand upright inside. Another appeared to force its occupant to kneel. The smallest of all would require anyone placed within it to curl in on themselves completely.

Then she noticed the wardrobe standing wide open, filled with what could only be described as suspicious objects: ropes, chains, scarves—and even items that looked disturbingly like riding crops or whips. A disturbing collection, which she now desperately hoped would not be used on her.

A large wooden table dominated the centre of the room, clearly modified to incorporate metal cuffs set into its surface. That was the last piece of unsettling furniture Lucy registered— not because the rest was any less disturbing, but because she had just realised that her captors were guiding her straight toward that table.

“Mmpphf! Mmmphf, mmphhf mpphff!” Lucy cried out, writhing desperately against her bonds.

She was beginning to understand how her captors operated—and the plan she was starting to piece together did not suit her at all.

Nevertheless, her protests had no effect. Moments later, she found herself forced down onto the table, her stomach pressed flat against the wooden surface.

“Calm down, Miss Hawthorne!” one of the women barked, her voice firm but tinged with amusement, as she began working to untie Lucy’s ankles.

Lucy struggled with renewed intensity, but she was powerless to prevent the plan from unfolding. The three other women were holding her securely in place—two applying firm pressure to her upper body, another pinning her legs.

When her ankles were finally freed, the pressure on her legs prevented her from kicking or attempting anything at all. She could do nothing as she felt her right ankle being drawn slightly outward, guided toward one side of the table—until it was brought level with one of the open metal cuffs.

“Stop squirming, or I might hurt you,” warned the woman who had just untied her, as her foot was already nearly centred within the open cuff.

The threat — or rather, the risk of being hurt — was enough to drastically curb her movements. Enough, at any rate, for the cuff to be closed around her ankle a few moments later.

She realised at once that she would not be able to free herself — but also that the restraint had been positioned so that her foot extended beyond the edge of the table. It was an essential detail; otherwise, being chained while lying face down would have forced her ankle into an awkward, painful angle.

That timid realisation — that her comfort mattered, at least a little, or that the table had been intelligently designed — almost made her forget to struggle when the woman in the cat mask took hold of her left ankle and secured it in the second cuff.

“Your turn, girls,” she said at last, after a quick check to make sure the shackle was properly secured.

Lucy felt the third woman — the one who had been holding her legs moments earlier — begin to loosen the ropes binding her wrists.

When the cord finally slackened and released her, Lucy unfortunately had no time to enjoy her brief return to freedom. Working in unison, one of the women pinned her firmly against the table while the other two seized her right arm, guiding her wrist toward the cuff set into the front right corner of the table.

This cuff was slightly different from those restraining her feet. Rather than being fixed directly into the wood, it was attached by a short length of chain — a seemingly minor detail, yet one that ensured even a smaller woman could still have her wrists secured once her ankles were locked in place.

“Mmphff!” Lucy protested once more as the metal snapped shut around her wrist, drawing a light laugh from her captors.

“She’s a talkative little thing,” remarked the woman holding her down, rendering Lucy’s now-free left arm entirely useless.

The others merely laughed again, offering no reply. The woman who had secured Lucy’s wrist was already crouching, tugging on a small winch installed beneath the table — invisible to Lucy — which began to retract the chain linking the cuff to the frame.

“MMMPPPHHHFF!” Lucy cried, louder this time.

Not because the maneuver caused her pain, but because she understood what it meant: once the chain was shortened far enough, the limited — yet very real — freedom of movement her bound wrist still possessed would vanish entirely.

And she was right.

A few moments later, the woman — after making sure Lucy was not being stretched uncomfortably — stopped turning the crank, leaving no more than a couple of inches of chain between the cuff and the table.

With her right arm now firmly secured at the corner of the table, the women turned their attention to her left arm, which quickly met the same fate.

Her protests changed nothing. And moments later, Lucy could only acknowledge the truth of her situation:

She was now completely chained to the table, utterly at the mercy of the four women.

The four women began to circle the table slowly, watching her with what appeared to be a distinct sense of amusement. Lucy, for her part, could do nothing but glare at them in outrage, cry out through her gag, or writhe against her restraints in a futile display of protest. She ultimately forced herself to stop — partly because she knew it would lead nowhere.

Inwardly, she was already cursing Lady Ashcroft for having delivered her into the hands of these four sadists. A test of this nature, she thought bitterly, should have been preceded by a far more formal warning than the one she had been given. She should have been informed. Consulted. Properly consulted. She had agreed to undergo a test, that much was true — but she had done so without any real understanding of what it entailed.

And what it entailed, she did not like at all.

The sharp, sudden sting of a light but crisp slap against her backside tore her from her thoughts and drew a fresh muffled protest from her throat. She twisted her head as far as she could to see who had struck her. The woman made no attempt to hide it.

“Miss Hawthorne doesn’t seem to care much for spanking,” she remarked casually, continuing her slow circuit of the table.

“Mmmphhf, mmphhff!”

No — Lucy did not like spanking. And in any case, it was not a subject to be discussed at all. Not where a young woman of good family was concerned.

But once again demonstrating their complete disregard for the rules of polite society — and even for basic decency — a second woman took advantage of her passing to deliver another slap, this one slightly harder.

“MMMPPPHHHFFF!” Lucy cried out, her body reacting instinctively despite her restraints.

“Indeed,” commented the woman who had just struck her, “she doesn’t appear to be enjoying the experience.”

“Too bad for her,” said the woman Lucy now recognised as the one who had bound her. “Many Chaperones within the gaming circle take great pleasure in administering such little treatments to their Charges.”

That was when Lucy finally understood.

The events had unfolded too quickly. Panic, fear, and anger had clouded her thoughts ever since she had been taken, preventing her from drawing the connection — between the test, what was being done to her, and the circle itself.

Now, the pieces aligned.

The realisation sent an immediate shiver through her.

Was this, then, what awaited her?

A world in which young women were seized in the night, bound, gagged, and handed over to unseen Chaperones?

She shook her head violently — not for her captors, but for herself — as though she might physically reject the thought. It was impossible. It could not be so. It would not happen.

And then she thought of Charlotte.

Of the kiss.

Of her reputation.

Of her mother’s expectations.

And of her words:

We truly need it, Lucy.

“Perhaps she prefers tickling?” one of the women suggested lightly.

Once again, Lucy was torn from her spiralling thoughts by an intrusion into her personal space. One of the women — not the one who had been striking her — had begun to run her fingers along Lucy’s sides, tickling her mercilessly.

Lucy writhed helplessly against the table, utterly unable to escape the woman’s hands — or to free herself in any way.

“And she doesn’t like tickling either,” the one in charge commented.

“Mmphff, mmmphhff mmpphff!” Lucy replied, shooting her a dark look.

“A young lady who wants to join the Saar gaming circle, yet doesn’t like spanking, nor tickling, nor being shut inside a crate,” a second woman added. “A very strange new recruit, if you ask me.”

There was a brief moment of silence. Then the four women exchanged a long look. Amusement, consideration, plotting? Lucy did not know — but she could feel that whatever came next would please her even less.

“I know,” one of the assailants finally said with amusement. “Her thing must be ending up naked in public.”

“MMMMPPPPHHHH?! MMMPPPHHHFFF, MMMPPHHFF!” Lucy screamed, as scandalised by the insinuation as she was frightened by the idea that this little theory might be put into practice.

The woman who had bound Lucy in the first place — and whom the young woman was beginning to regard as the group’s de facto leader — moved around the table until she came to a stop beside her head.

“You’re very far from what you’re used to,” she said evenly.

“Farther than you expected.”

She paused, as if weighing her words.

“And this is usually the point where people ask themselves whether they truly meant to go this far.”

Lucy did not answer.

She could not. Not physically, and not mentally either.

She knew what she was feeling — but she also knew what was expected of her. What her mother wanted. And, of course, the consequences should she fail this test.

It was then that the door of the pavilion opened slowly.

A sound followed — sharp and dry, like an object striking the floor.

Then again, two seconds later.

Once more.

And then a third time.

A cane.

Lucy understood at once what that meant. And she understood who had arrived.

A moment later, Lady Beatrice Ashcroft entered her field of vision.

The Viscountess looked tired. She leaned heavily on her cane, yet fixed Lucy with a piercing, unwavering gaze — one filled with resolve.

“Miss Hawthorne,” she began once she had reached the table with some effort, “I remind you of my words this afternoon.”

She paused.

“The game is gratifying to those who seek it,” she said evenly — then stopped again, deliberately.

“And profoundly uncomfortable to those who enter it merely to flee an inconvenient social circumstance.”

Lucy had gone completely still, intimidated by the Viscountess.

Beatrice Ashcroft was — Lucy now understood this with perfect clarity — far more than a woman weakened by her body. Her body had betrayed her, perhaps, but she remained, in every sense, a dominant woman the likes of whom Lucy had never encountered.

“Miss Hawthorne,” the Viscountess continued gravely,

“do you wish to continue?”

The question left no room for misinterpretation.

No threat. No pressure. No hidden condition.

Just a choice.

Lucy knew what answering no would mean.

Disappointing her mother. Damaging what little remained of her standing. Perhaps more than that.

But it would also end this.

Here.

Now.

She did not take that escape.

Her mother would not forgive her.

Society would not forgive her.

Her throat tight, Lucy gave a small nod. Unsteady. Reluctant. A consent spoken without conviction — one her body contradicted immediately, stiff with resistance, betraying the lie even as she agreed to it.

Beatrice Ashcroft watched her for a moment, eyebrow lifting slightly. She said nothing of what she saw.

Instead, she stepped closer, leaning on her cane.

“Entering the Saar circle in earnest,” she said evenly,

“the sort of entry that brings the Duchess’s protection, is never simple.”

She let the words settle.

“Anyone may play. Anyone may hover at the edges. But the circle itself — its inner workings, its authority — is not entered lightly.”

Lucy did not answer. She barely heard her. Her decision still rang in her ears, louder than anything else.

“Only those recognised as Saar — as the Duchesses define it — may bring someone in,” Beatrice continued. “And they do so with great care. Usually through women already close to the circle.”

The four women inclined their heads in silent confirmation.

“Your point of access,” Beatrice said at last,

“will be Lady Margaret Reilly. Daughter of the Earl of Blackwood. Granddaughter, through her mother, of a Saar Duchess.”

She paused, a brief cough interrupting her speech, then resumed.

“She is the door.”

Lucy did not react. This time, it drew a faint sigh from the Viscountess. She turned her head toward one of the four women.

“Put her in position,” she ordered, indicating the far wall with the tip of her cane.

The four women in cat masks did not hesitate. Moving in perfect coordination, they closed in around the table and began to free Lucy with methodical efficiency. Methodical not merely because they were swift, but because they released her gradually, ensuring that each limb, once freed, could not be used to resist effectively.

They began with her right arm, immediately pressing it down again to prevent any movement. The same process was applied to her left. Once both arms were free, they were forced behind her back and resecured at once, bound exactly as they had been before she was locked inside the crate.

Lucy did not protest. She did not even try to struggle—too shaken by what she had just done.

Or rather, by what she had just agreed to.

When her ankles were released, the four masked women helped her off the table and guided her firmly toward the wall Lady Ashcroft had indicated. There, Lucy became aware of several chains fixed at different heights, each ending in a metal restraint—one of them noticeably wider than the others.

“A lovely collar for our new Charge,” one of the women said playfully, holding up the metal band attached to a chain running into the wall.

Lucy protested weakly, but she could not prevent the collar from being snapped shut around her neck.

The chain linking it to the wall was long at first—nearly a metre—but it did not remain so. One of the women moved to the corner of the pavilion and took hold of a concealed crank, setting the mechanism in motion. Slowly, the chain began to shorten, drawing Lucy closer and closer to the stone

When it finally stopped, the distance between Lucy’s neck and the wall was no more than thirty centimetres, the chain pulled almost fully taut.

She quickly understood that the lower restraints were meant for her ankles. They were locked into place without delay, followed by the sound of another mechanism crank set in motion. Moments later, her ankles too were held close to the wall, secured by chains shortened to match the collar’s.

Lucy expected her wrists to be treated the same way. The fittings were there—placed at the proper height—but Lady Ashcroft, or her assistants, clearly had other plans.

With Lucy now firmly immobilised, the four women stepped back slightly. The Viscountess, meanwhile, advanced at a slow pace, the sound of her cane marking each step.

She stopped barely a metre from Lucy and fixed her with a steady, authoritative gaze. And yet, Lucy thought she saw something else in her eyes—expectation, perhaps. As though Lady Ashcroft were waiting for her to break. To speak. To ask for it all to stop.

But Lucy did not.

She could not.

The Viscountess let out another sigh, barely audible, and turned to the masked women.

“Undress her,” she ordered.

Lucy froze as the meaning of the command sank in.

The women exchanged a glance—hesitation flickering briefly between them.

“Undress her,” Lady Ashcroft repeated, this time looking directly at Lucy.

They obeyed.

One of the women crossed the room to a dresser and returned with a knife. The sight of the blade made Lucy shudder as she understood what was about to happen. Her clothing would be cut away. And bound as she was, she could do nothing to stop it.

Physically, at least.

She could have ended this.

But when the woman with the knife stepped closer, Lucy did nothing but tremble, silently hoping that someone—or something—might intervene.

Nothing did.

“I will ask you again in the morning,” Lady Ashcroft, meeting Lucy’s eyes. “Think carefully about the answer you intend to give me.”

Lucy closed her eyes, shaking as the sound of fabric being sliced filled the pavilion—punctuated by the slow, receding tap of Lady Ashcroft’s cane.

The Viscountess would ask her again in the morning.

And she would receive the very same answer.

Because sometimes, the most binding chains were not made of metal.

End of chapter.

Hello everyone,

Today we’re back with Chapter 10 of Sign Here, Jenny.

A chapter that may very well surprise you, in more ways than one ;)

***

March 18, 2025 — Florida — Rain Vacation House — 3:30 p.m.

A sharp crack echoed through the dungeon, followed by a muffled moan, as the paddle of the spanking machine came down hard against the cheerleader’s ass.

Jenny was naked, secured firmly in place by the machine’s restraints, her backside left fully exposed. There had been no way to avoid the blow — and she knew there would be no avoiding the fourteen that would follow, programmed by Anastasia to strike at random intervals over the next ten minutes.

The pink ball gag lodged between her lips ensured that she couldn’t voice even the slightest protest — though any protest, she knew, would have been of no interest to the brunette anyway.

Anastasia stood beside the machine, watching her submissive with an authoritative air, touched by a hint of amusement she didn’t quite bother to hide.

“Don’t waste your breath trying to protest or bat your eyelashes at me, pretty thing,” she said as Jenny’s gaze briefly met hers. “You’re being punished — and I can promise you, you’ll receive every last part of it. No matter what you do.”

“Mmmpphff…” Jenny complained anyway, making one last, futile attempt to soften the heiress.

It didn’t help. Moments later, the paddle struck again — and this time, a faint smile curved Anastasia’s lips.

Jenny moaned more loudly into her gag, cursing her own naivety — or rather, her tendency to jump to conclusions far too quickly.

When she had woken around eleven that morning at Noctis Mir, after the torrid night they’d spent together, the cheerleader had convinced herself that something between her and Anastasia had changed — irrevocably.

They had slept together, and she’d assumed that the dynamic Anastasia had carefully constructed over the past few days would inevitably shift. The one-sided relationship of the previous days, she’d thought, was over. She believed she would now have more room to maneuver. That she could suggest things. Activities. That Anastasia would listen. Consider her opinion. Value it.

So Jenny had made plans for the day. Time at the beach. A visit to Miami. A party with other spring breakers.

She had been naïve.

Too confident.

Or both.

Because Anastasia had been quick to remind her of her place.

Submissive.

Submissive — and something more? Maybe. Jenny didn’t know. But submissive, certainly. Anastasia had corrected her sharply, making it clear that her role was not to make suggestions, but to listen.

The heiress had sent her to shower, handed her fresh clothes — underwear and a simple red dress (this time without the chastity belt). Then they had left the club, Anastasia promising her a punishment for overstepping.

Jenny had tried to negotiate in the car. Or joke. But the heiress — more interested in her phone than in her — had merely warned her that if she didn’t keep quiet, the punishment would be increased.

Disappointed — surprised, even — Jenny had fallen silent, settling for watching the road, occasionally stealing glances at Anastasia. She’d seen her unlock her phone every five minutes or so, checking her notifications, sometimes letting out a faint, irritated sigh when there was nothing there.

Jenny hadn’t dwelled on it.

Hadn’t questioned it further.

Anastasia’s life was still a mystery. And the night before — with that surreal BDSM nightclub — had only deepened it. Jenny knew she didn’t understand everything. Knew there was much she didn’t know.

What she did know was that answers, if they ever came, would take time. And Anastasia hadn’t been joking when she spoke of punishment.

The moment they arrived, the heiress had ordered her straight to the dungeon, then told her to undress. She had immediately secured her onto the spanking machine, gagged her, and started the program.

Jenny had let it happen. Partly because she was curious about the machine itself, and partly because she had assumed it was more of an intimidating prop than anything else — a device meant to impress rather than to truly hurt.

She quickly realized how wrong she was.

As the third strike loomed, she had to admit that the spanking was very real. Painful, yes — though not unbearable — but unmistakably so. This wasn’t just for show. She was being punished. Properly. The sting lingered, and the humiliation was impossible to ignore.

The third blow landed a few seconds later, drawing another muffled moan from the cheerleader’s gagged mouth. Anastasia, meanwhile, had already returned her attention to her phone, a trace of irritation clearly visible in her eyes.

Whatever message or call she was waiting for hadn’t come — and the delay was clearly getting on her nerves.

She stared at the screen for a few seconds longer, then finally looked back up at Jenny. Her gaze flicked from the cheerleader to the paddle. Something seemed to click. An idea, perhaps. Her eyes lit up with a mischievous glint.

She stepped closer, positioning herself near Jenny’s head as the cheerleader remained strapped to the machine. Then she crouched down so their faces were close and pulled out her phone.

“My little cheerleader,” she said lightly, raising the device with the camera already on, “it’s time for a selfie.”

“Mmmpphff?! MMMPPPHHH!” Jenny protested immediately as her image appeared on Anastasia’s screen.

There she was — on all fours, strapped to the machine, a gag in her mouth, the mechanical arm with its paddle looming beside her — and next to her, Anastasia, nearly crouched, smiling with amused, unmistakably triumphant satisfaction.

The heiress held the pose for several long seconds, as though waiting for the perfect moment to capture it.

When Jenny realized Anastasia was timing the shot to coincide with the mechanical arm’s strike — to immortalize her reaction — she began protesting in earnest, panic flaring at the thought that anyone might possess such a compromising image of her.

“Mmmpphff— mmpphfff! MMMPPPHHFF!”

“Don’t waste your breath,” Anastasia replied with a low chuckle. “I want this picture, and I’m going to get it.”

She paused, then added in a tone meant to sound reassuring, “But don’t worry. It’s just for me. I wouldn’t want anyone else getting an eyeful of my submissive cheerleader.”

That reassurance did little to calm Jenny. Maybe Anastasia had no intention of sharing it — but phones could be hacked. Photos could be shown, even casually. The very existence of the image — on top of the ones Anastasia had already taken on their first day — put her reputation at risk. And she intended to protest until the very last second, futile or not.

Anastasia was still waiting to take the picture, finger poised, ready to freeze the moment.

But just as the mechanical arm seemed about to move, the camera view vanished — replaced by an incoming call screen.

Jenny’s image disappeared, replaced by the photo of a blonde young woman in her mid-twenties, with wide blue eyes and the polished look of a model, her name displayed above it:

Eleanore Reed — followed by three red hearts.

Jenny froze completely — so much so that she nearly forgot to moan when the paddle struck her moments later.

She knew that face.

Not from campus. Not from her social circle. Not from anywhere personal.

She’d seen her on television.

Eleanor Reed was the granddaughter of a former Vice President of the United States — a woman widely known as the embodiment of the “perfect American girl.” Kind. Polite. Charitable. Brilliant. Patriotic. An icon in the making, already moving in the upper circles of American politics at twenty-five.

And apparently, someone who knew Anastasia well enough to call her — and to earn three little hearts after her name in the heiress’s contacts.

Anastasia seemed momentarily caught off guard by Eleanor’s name flashing on the screen, but a smile quickly followed. She straightened and answered at once, putting the call on speaker.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite brat,” she said with amused warmth.

A soft laugh came through the phone. “Anastasia Rain — plotting something devious again, I assume?”

The heiress rolled her eyes theatrically, forgetting — or perhaps not caring — that the blonde couldn’t see her, and took a few steps away from Jenny.

“You know me,” she replied lightly. “Always as good as gold.”

“Of course,” Eleanor answered with a soft, knowing chuckle. “I was starting to wonder why I hadn’t heard from you in five days. I take it your little plan with the cheerleader worked?”

“Mmmpphff?!” Jenny let out a muffled sound of shock.

Eleanor Reed — the former Vice President’s granddaughter — was Anastasia’s friend? And not only that… she knew about her? It was absurd. Almost impossible to believe.

“My dear,” Anastasia said as she paced slowly through the dungeon, “you know I always get what I want. As we speak, she’s strapped to the spanking machine in my place in Florida.”

“And you didn’t even send me a picture of the lucky girl?” the blonde teased, feigning disappointment. “I’m hurt.”

A smile curved Anastasia’s lips as she moved closer to Jenny. When she was close enough, she ran her fingers through the cheerleader’s hair in a distinctly possessive gesture, earning herself a faintly irritated look in return.

“You know how possessive I am,” the heiress replied coolly. “I don’t share pictures of my toys so easily.”

“Obviously,” Eleanor answered, amused. “Still so selfish.”

Anastasia let out a soft laugh as she moved away from Jenny once more.

For nearly five minutes, the cheerleader watched her mistress pace back and forth through the dungeon while chatting with Eleanor. The two young women sounded as though they’d known each other for years — perhaps even since childhood. And Eleanor, clearly, knew Anastasia well. Really well.

As the spanking machine continued to deliver its punishment, Jenny found herself witnessing an ordinary conversation between friends — utterly mundane in its content. They traded gossip about other girls, apparently members of their circle, all of them young women from the elite. They talked about Eleanor’s boyfriend, their university classes, their summer plans.

The topics themselves were unremarkable.

What held Jenny’s attention was Anastasia.

Relaxed. Amused. Effortless.

This, she realized, was likely the real Anastasia. The unguarded one. The version that existed naturally, without performance.

Not the world of BDSM.

Not Noctis Mir.

But the world of America’s elite — where money, power, and politics intertwined as a matter of course.

But as the eleventh strike landed, Jenny sensed the conversation shift — turning toward something noticeably more serious.

“By the way,” Eleanor began, her voice calm but threaded with a faint note of hesitation, “my father is concerned.”

“About what?” Anastasia asked evenly.

“He’s been hearing rumors…”

“There are always rumors,” the Rain heiress replied at once, coming to a stop. “You know that better than anyone.”

“Please, Anastasia. You know exactly what I mean.”

“Not in the slightest,” she said, turning toward Jenny and giving her a wink just as the twelfth blow struck.

“They say your father might support a candidate from the other party in the next election,” the blonde finally said.

“That would be… unfortunate.”

Anastasia let out a soft laugh.

“Unfortunate for whom, Eleanor?”

“For the country, obviously.”

“Oh, you know what I think of politics,” Anastasia replied, her tone cool, detached.

“Power and money run this country. It hardly matters who sits in the White House.”

“No one’s naïve,” Eleanor said. “But I’d still rather have my father in the White House — or close enough to it, if you see what I mean.”

Her uncertainty was becoming more apparent now.

“And cutting off your support just because he publicly suggested it might be good for SUR to do business in the United States feels… disproportionate.”

Anastasia smiled faintly — but said nothing. Not yet.

Then she reached up and turned off the speaker, lifting the phone to her ear.

“Give me a minute,” she said calmly. “I’m sending the cheerleader back to her room. Then we’ll talk.”

“Mmmphff?” Jenny let out, surprised — and, despite herself, intrigued.

But she understood at once.

There would be no discussion. No bargaining. No place for her in whatever conversation was about to follow.

Anastasia wasn’t ending the punishment out of mercy.

She was interrupting it because something else mattered more.

The heiress moved quickly, unstrapping her from the machine, removing the gag with efficient indifference. She helped Jenny to her feet, then pointed toward the stairs without looking at her.

“Go to your room,” she ordered.

“You’re allowed a break.”

Jenny hesitated, searching Anastasia’s face for something — a glance, a word, anything.

There was nothing.

Anastasia kept her arm extended, her attention already elsewhere.

The message was unmistakable.

She no longer belonged here.

So Jenny obeyed.

***

It had been fifteen minutes since Jenny had left the dungeon — and Anastasia behind.

Fifteen minutes during which she had settled into the bedroom upstairs.

Not to rest, really. Paradoxically, the night before — and her brief ordeal in the dungeon — had left her more alert than tired. No. She had chosen to use the break to reconnect, at last, with the outside world.

With her world.

When she had arrived at the estate four days earlier, her phone had been taken from her.

Or rather, placed inside her suitcase along with her handbag, before the suitcase itself was locked.

But the night before, Maya’s arrival — combined with Anastasia’s lapse in vigilance, or perhaps her indifference to the matter — had given Jenny the opportunity to retrieve it, when the heiress had handed her the keys to reopen the suitcase.

The phone had been dead. No battery at all. Still, Jenny had taken the precaution of hiding it — along with its charger — just in case.

In the end, the precaution had proven unnecessary.

When she had returned to her room fifteen minutes earlier, she had found the suitcase open.

Anastasia hadn’t instructed any member of staff to lock it again.

Nor to search for — or reclaim — the phone.

Jenny had taken that as a sign that Anastasia didn’t care whether she used it anymore. And given everything that had happened since the morning, that made sense.

So she had retrieved it from its hiding place beneath the mattress, plugged it in beside the bed, and waited.

The battery had charged slowly — painfully so, especially from empty — leaving her with time to think about what she would do once she reconnected with the outside world.

Or rather, with a world in which BDSM was not an institution.

One decision had come easily: she would not contact anyone from campus.

The confidentiality clause in the contract — and the $100,000 penalty attached to it — was still very much in force, as far as she knew. She couldn’t reveal anything.

And she suspected Anastasia cared deeply about that discretion. The heiress was far too careful about hiding who she really was at university to tolerate Jenny spilling everything to the cheerleading squad.

So no. Jenny wouldn’t be talking to her college friends.

But there was someone she intended to contact.

Someone she knew would understand the dynamic she was caught in far better than anyone else.

Maya.

Maya, who had given her her Instagram handle the night before.

Maya, who knew Anastasia well enough to offer advice on how to handle the heiress —

and, ideally, how to avoid having her ass turned a raw, angry red from one misstep too many.

She was trying to remember Maya’s handle when the phone screen finally lit up.

MayaNV, she recalled at last as she entered her PIN.

The home screen appeared almost immediately — and with it, a flurry of vibrations. Instagram notifications. Missed calls. Text messages.

The world had been trying to reach her for four days.

That realization barely registered. Her friends were always calling, always texting, always sending Instagram reels — more than enough to saturate her phone on any given day.

So she ignored the notifications, assuming there was nothing urgent there.

Or rather — nothing as urgent as getting advice from Maya on how to survive the rest of the week. Especially now that the line between discomfort and desire was beginning to blur.

She opened Instagram and typed in Maya’s handle.

After a brief load, a photo of the bartender appeared — astride her motorcycle.

She was beautiful. Effortlessly so. Strikingly photogenic.

Jenny caught herself staring at the public profile for a few seconds before shaking her head and snapping out of it. She quickly tapped Follow, hoping — almost irrationally — that Maya might be online.

And that they could start talking.

What were the chances that Maya herself would be online at that exact moment? Slim.

And the odds that she would message Jenny almost immediately were even slimmer.

And yet, that was exactly what happened.

Jenny hadn’t even had time to leave Maya’s profile page before a message from the waitress appeared.

She smiled as she opened it.

Then she read it.

And the smile faded, replaced by something else entirely — disbelief.

She had to read the message several times before the implications fully sank in.

But its meaning was unmistakable. Perfectly clear.

“Hey Jenny. Don’t worry — I didn’t share the video Anastasia sent me yesterday.

If that’s what you were afraid of.”

Jenny had no idea what Maya was talking about. She couldn’t have known.

But the message was enough to set off an alarm inside her, and she began typing on her phone in a rush.

“What are you talking about??!” she wrote in her first message.

“What video?”

Maya didn’t reply right away, which only heightened Jenny’s anxiety and prompted her to send another message.

“Please answer! I didn’t record any video.”

The reply didn’t come as a message.

It came as a video.

The video.

Jenny watched it — all of it.

Noctis Mir, late at night.

The camera lingering first on Anastasia, her expression cold, unreadable…

then shifting to Jenny herself, asleep amid scattered sex toys and BDSM gear.

Then Anastasia again.

That slow smile.

And finally, the wink.

Jenny didn’t know exactly what that video was meant to be — or rather, what Anastasia’s intention had been in sending it to her ex-girlfriend.

Was it meant to make her jealous?

To mark her territory after noticing how well Maya and Jenny had gotten along?

An assertion of dominance — filming her without her consent, turning her into a trophy?

The possibilities tumbled over one another in her mind. But no matter which explanation she considered, they all led to the same conclusion.

She had been played.

Once again.

Whether Anastasia had filmed her without her consent to show off her conquest, to provoke jealousy, or to assert ownership, the result was the same.

She had been trapped.

The restaurant.

Noctis Mir.

All of it may have been nothing more than a carefully staged performance — a setup designed to obtain that video.

Jenny sat on the edge of the bed, stunned, for more than a minute, unsure how to respond to Maya, who had sent several messages in quick succession after the video.

She didn’t tell you?

God, what a bitch. I knew something was off.

Second by second, the shock gave way to anger — to a sudden urge to go downstairs and confront the heiress. To demand answers. Not just about the video, but about everything.

About why Anastasia had trapped her with the contract in the first place.

About why she had introduced her to Maya, then to le Noeud Violet, then to Noctis Mir.

And finally — about why she had slept with her.

But just as Jenny picked up her phone again to reply to Maya, the messaging screen vanished, replaced by an incoming call.

It was her father.

She hesitated, unsure whether she was in any state to answer. But she had always been close to him. If anyone could help her make sense of things, it was him.

So she picked up.

Her father’s voice came through immediately, strained with worry and exhaustion.

“Jenny? Finally — you answer?” he said.

“What’s going on?”

“Jenny, for fuck’s sake! I’ve called you thirty times since yesterday! Your mother was in a car accident. She’s in the hospital.”

And once again, Jenny felt her world threaten to collapse.

***

Anastasia Rain stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the house, her gaze fixed on the ocean beyond. Her face betrayed nothing — no doubt, no joy, no anger. Nothing that might offer a glimpse into her thoughts.

Her reverie was broken by the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

Heavier than usual.

Or at least, heavier than Jenny’s normally were.

Anastasia turned away from the window and took a few unhurried steps toward the staircase, arriving just in time to see Jenny coming down.

With a suitcase.

The heiress raised an eyebrow, an amused smile forming on her lips.

“Well, well,” she said lightly. “Would that be my little submissive trying to sneak away from her mistress?”

“Shut up, Anastasia,” Jenny shot back, slightly out of breath.

“I’m done with your little games.”

Something dark flickered in Anastasia’s eyes. She straightened, her posture shifting — slipping seamlessly back into that familiar, commanding stance. The same one she’d worn on the balcony of Noctis Mir’s fourth floor.

“Do you remember who you’re speaking to, submissive?”

“No — that’s exactly it!” Jenny snapped. “I don’t know!”

She knew she was playing a dangerous game. She would never have dared speak to the heiress like this even an hour earlier. But the video — and the news of her mother’s hospitalization — had snapped something into place.

Enough.

Enough being controlled.

Enough surrendering her life because of a contract.

Enough consenting to being treated like a toy just because someone had been born into power.

“And I want answers,” she went on, her voice shaking but firm.

“Why did you trap me in the first place? Why did you film me without my consent last night? And — damn it — why did you sleep with me?”

Jenny braced herself for a reaction.

Shock, at least — she’d just revealed she knew about the video.

Anger, maybe.

Rage.

She expected Anastasia — who always needed to be in control — to finally lose it. To shout. To threaten.

But nothing of what Jenny expected came.

Anastasia remained still, her expression unreadable, as though she were considering something — or someone — insignificant.

Then she smiled.

A slow smile. Controlled. Almost indulgent.

“You really believe that’s how this ends?” she said softly.

“That all it takes is anger and questions for me to start explaining myself?”

She moved toward Jenny, unhurried, heels echoing faintly in the space between them. She stopped just short of invading her space — close enough to dominate it.

“I don’t answer demands,” Anastasia went on, her voice even.

“I don’t justify myself.”

Her eyes locked onto Jenny’s, sharp and assessing.

“And I don’t owe answers,” she concluded,

“not to you — and not to anyone.”

A heavy silence settled over the house as Anastasia continued to watch Jenny, her posture unchanged, her gaze steady — measuring the impact of her words.

Jenny felt her legs almost give way. Felt her grip on the suitcase loosen. For a brief moment, she considered backing down. Submitting. Avoiding the confrontation. Choosing the easy way out.

But she couldn’t.

Not anymore.

She’d gone too far — and her mother needed her.

She could have told Anastasia about the accident. Maybe the heiress would have let her leave. She could have negotiated. Bargained. Tried to find a compromise.

But that would have meant explaining herself. Justifying her choice.

And if Anastasia refused to explain her own actions, then she didn’t deserve to understand Jenny’s.

“So I’m leaving.”

The words were spoken without hesitation. No tremor. No doubt. The decision was final.

Anastasia didn’t react at once. Then she stepped aside, gesturing toward the door.

“Go,” she said evenly, her eyes locked on Jenny’s.

“Walk out if you want. Just remember — decisions always come with consequences.”

Jenny tightened her grip on the suitcase handle and moved forward. As she passed Anastasia, she stopped and turned to face her.

“You don’t have as much power as you think, Anastasia.”

A soft laugh escaped the heiress.

“Oh, Jenny,” she said with a faint smile.

“You still don’t understand this world. Not even close.”

Jenny didn’t answer.

She didn’t look back.

She reached the door, pressed the handle, and stepped outside.

Jenny passed the bodyguards.

They didn’t move.

The door closed behind her.

Outside, the sky was perfectly clear.

Whatever storm the Rain family ruled over — it wasn’t falling on her anymore.

***

May 2, 2025 — Virginia — 6:40 p.m.

Jenny sat on one of the many benches scattered around the edge of the university campus where she was studying.

A month and a half had passed since spring break.

Or rather, since what had happened with Anastasia Rain.

Events that now felt distant — almost unreal. Caught up in the rush of classes starting again, in the hospital visits, in her mother’s recovery and rehabilitation, the cheerleader hadn’t truly had the space to revisit what had happened… or what she had learned. About that world. About herself.

She hadn’t practiced BDSM again since leaving the vacation house.

She hadn’t spoken to Maya either, despite the many messages the waitress had sent her. She needed time before reopening that door — too much of Maya’s world was still tied to Anastasia, whether she meant it to be or not.

And of course, she hadn’t spoken to Anastasia Rain.

The heiress had returned to campus the Monday after spring break, slipping effortlessly back into her familiar role — the fragile, shy young woman, seemingly out of place in a world far too harsh for her. A mask Jenny now recognized all too well… and one she still couldn’t tear away, despite everything she knew.

The confidentiality clause was still in effect. And she had come to understand that respecting it was the only thing keeping the Rain family’s retaliation at bay. As long as she said nothing, the early termination of the contract would not be held against her — or so she had learned from a letter sent by Anastasia’s lawyers.

So Jenny stayed silent.

When classmates — who had heard about her plan to seduce Anastasia by proposing a BDSM weekend — asked what had happened, she simply told them it hadn’t worked. That the heiress hadn’t taken the bait.

That had been enough.

The questions stopped.

Jenny had believed she would never have to deal with Anastasia Rain again. That she would remain nothing more than just another student on campus for the remainder of her time at university — and then, afterward, nothing but a memory.

That was how things were supposed to unfold.

And yet, here she was.

Sitting on one of the benches facing the building where she knew the heiress had her last class of the day.

Waiting for her.

Waiting to understand the reasons behind Anastasia’s latest move — a move as baffling as everything else, and yet unmistakably hers.

She had paid her mother’s hospital bills.

All of them. In full. In a single payment.

A simple phone call to the hospital, a black card, the day the invoice was issued.

Jenny had never told the heiress about her mother’s accident.

She had never said she was hospitalized.

She had never asked for money.

And yet Anastasia Rain had known.

Had contacted the hospital.

Had paid — before the bill had even reached her parents.

An act of domination?

An act of compassion, knowing her family’s financial situation?

An apology?

Jenny didn’t know.

And she probably never would.

Anastasia owed her no answers.

And yet here she was — waiting for the heiress anyway, trying one last time to understand.

Trying, once again, to see through Anastasia Rain.

Then she saw her emerge from the building.

She stepped out into a loose crowd of classmates, their voices overlapping as they complained about the lecture, none of them really noticing the brunette threading her way through them, shoulders slightly hunched, laptop clutched tight against her chest.

The Anastasia standing there bore no resemblance to the woman from the vacation house, nor to the one from Noctis Mir. No dominant posture. No gaze hardened with authority. The Anastasia Rain of the campus moved through the world with a faintly lost look, as though she were trying to fade into the background.

She succeeded so well that it took Jenny a moment to notice something else.

This time, she wasn’t entirely alone.

She was flanked by two young women, both members of one of the campus sororities.

Kate Winclay — long blonde hair, an almost angelic face, her toned body shaped by years of yoga.

And Harper Davis — a petite redhead, strikingly attractive, and notorious for being particularly manipulative.

Jenny knew them well enough. They weren’t friends, but they had been among the first to press her about what had really happened during spring break — and they had appeared content enough when she told them her plan hadn’t gone anywhere.

The two women hovered close to Anastasia, who shifted her gaze from one to the other, playing to perfection the role of a slightly overwhelmed, uncertain girl.

“Come on, Anastasia,” Harper went on. “It’s ridiculous. When you have a fantasy, it’s stupid not to try to live it.”

“Exactly,” Kate agreed, slipping an arm around the heiress’s shoulders with a conspiratorial smile. “Having a little BDSM kink is completely normal. And when you’re lucky enough to have two pretty girls willing to explore it with you, it would be a shame to say no.”

Anastasia opened her mouth to respond — then looked away, a faint blush rising to her cheeks.

“Y-you’re making me blush,” she murmured.

Kate and Harper exchanged a knowing look and immediately pressed their advantage.

“That’s not embarrassment,” the blonde laughed. “That’s excitement.”

“And it’s perfect timing,” Harper added, growing more insistent. “We don’t have anything planned for summer break — and neither do you. We could come stay with you, at one of your villas, and… have some fun. Away from prying eyes.”

Anastasia remained silent for a few seconds.

Long enough for Harper and Kate to glance away from her face, to trade a look — then a triumphant smile.

They were close. They could feel it.

“I-if you insist…” Anastasia said at last.

Jenny watched the scene unfold.

Kate and Harper barely contained their excitement, already exchanging triumphant looks. Anastasia’s blush came right on cue — soft, hesitant, perfectly timed.

The two students had already stopped paying attention to her, too busy savoring their victory.

But Jenny knew.

And in the middle of it — that small, private triumph of two girls who believed they were in control — Anastasia’s gaze lifted.

For a single heartbeat, their eyes met.

The blush was still there.

The lowered shoulders.

The fragile, careful act.

And then — just for Jenny — it cracked.

Not into a smile.

Not into dominance.

Just a flicker.

A spark of recognition.

The same one Jenny had seen before.

And in that infinitesimal moment, Anastasia let it surface —

a brief, deliberate wink.

Gone as quickly as it appeared.

But long enough.

Long enough for Jenny to understand.

Anastasia Rain had never stopped playing.

***

At the same moment — Rain Corp Tower — New York

Driving rain lashed against New York City and the towering glass façade of Rain Corp’s headquarters — the company’s seat of power, the true heart of the Rain dynasty.

From the eighty-third and second-to-last floor, the city stretched out far below, its streets and inhabitants reduced to something small. Insignificant.

Elza Rain watched the rain fall over her city — over the masses moving far beneath her, far from her reach, far from her power.

She had just reclaimed what was rightfully hers.

What her father, under pressure from her mother, had refused to give her for years: the position of Chief Financial Officer of Rain Corp.

Six years inside the company.

Six years reporting to men unworthy of even serving as her footstool.

Six years of swallowing her frustration, of listening to colleagues pitch ideas so painfully stupid they bordered on insult.

Six years — brought to an end today.

Adrien Dimitri, the former CFO. Her former boss.

He was finished.

She had finally taken his head — through talent, certainly, but also through the traps she had been laying for him relentlessly over the past eight months.

Men… so predictable, she thought, taking a slow sip of the Louis XIII cognac she reserved for special occasions.

There would be no graceful landing for Adrien.

Elza understood far too well the danger of leaving a fallen enemy any chance to rise again — even one who appeared weak, even harmless.

Mr. Dimitri would never work in New York again.

She would personally see to that.

Turning away from the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, Elza surveyed her new office once more — her gaze lingering on the large framed photograph she had ordered installed immediately after security had escorted that pathetic man out.

Six members of the Rain family, all gathered in a single image, taken in the family’s New York apartment.

A photograph that almost — almost — gave the illusion of a normal family.

There was her father, Alexander Rain, CEO of Rain Corp — feared, respected.

Then Victoria Rain, her mother. Always slightly apart. Never entirely Rain.

Victor and Damian stood beside her — both handsome, intelligent… and weak.

And finally, on Alexander’s side, herself — and Anastasia, the youngest.

Elza’s lips curved faintly as her eyes settled on Victor’s smile.

That confident smile. The smile of a man certain of his future, certain of his place in the hierarchy.

Victor was convinced he would one day be named CEO of Rain Corp.

She took another sip of cognac.

Of course, that would never happen.

Elza knew it was she who would hold the reins of the family empire — not because her parents had chosen her, but because she had decided it. Because she had the power to make it so.

And because power, after all, never required consent.

“Mmmpphhf… mmmpphhff…”

The muffled, plaintive sound pulled Elza out of her thoughts.

She lowered her gaze — toward her desk.

Or rather, beneath it.

A faint smile curved her lips.

There, on the floor, lay a young woman in her early thirties, completely naked, bound in a strict hogtie. A brunette with wide blue eyes and a body that left little to the imagination. She was stretched out on her stomach, wrists cuffed behind her back and linked to her ankles, themselves restrained by a third set of cuffs. Her elbows were bound as well, forcing her spine into an even deeper arch.

As if that weren’t enough, her hair had been pulled into a tight ponytail, a thin cord running from it all the way down to her toes — which had been bound together beforehand.

The bondage was painful.

Elza knew that perfectly well.

She had chosen it herself. Planned it. Applied it an hour earlier, when she had taken possession of her new office.

“My poor Tessa,” Elza said softly as she stepped closer, her heels clicking against the floor.

“What a shock it must be — to fall from grace so quickly.”

“Mmmpphhf— mmmppphhff!”

The bound woman writhed, the sound sharper now, more desperate. She was trying to explain herself. To justify. To plead.

The noises only deepened Elza’s smile.

“After all,” she went on calmly, “you certainly made the most of being the CFO’s little girlfriend for the past two years, didn’t you?”

“Mmmphhff!” Tessa protested, wide blue eyes shining with panic.

“Unauthorized work-from-home days,” Elza continued, counting them off with deliberate precision.

“Abusive expense reports. Two-hour lunch breaks.”

She tilted her head, amused.

“So many violations quietly ignored by the previous management.”

Tessa struggled harder, twisting uselessly, as if sheer desperation might somehow snap the steel around her wrists.

It didn’t.

Elza’s smile sharpened. She extended her leg, placing the tip of her right foot — encased in a stiletto heel — just above Tessa’s right buttock.

Then, without warning, she drove the heel down.

The reaction was immediate.

A sharp, muffled cry of pain tore from the bound woman’s throat.

Elza kept her heel pressed in place for several long seconds, grinding it just a little deeper so the pain would linger. Only when she decided the woman had endured enough did she finally lift her foot away.

“I can assure you, my dear Tessa,” Elza said with a sadistic smile, “now that I’ve taken back control of the department, things are going to change for you.”

She tilted her head slightly, studying her helpless employee.

“I fully intend to enforce company policy with all the severity it deserves.”

At last, Elza turned away from her. She reached for the desk phone and lifted the receiver.

“This is Elza Rain, Chief Financial Officer,” she said coolly. “Send Security One and Security Two to my office. They’ll find an employee restrained under my desk who needs to be placed in my car.”

There was a brief pause as the receptionist responded on the other end of the line. Elza listened, then added, her tone perfectly composed:

“In the trunk. Have them put her in the trunk.”

She paused deliberately, lowering her gaze just long enough to offer Tessa a small, deliberate wink before continuing.

“And tell Driver to be ready. I won’t be long.”

She ended the call a moment later, satisfaction lingering on her face.

She was about to turn her attention back to Tessa when something on her computer screen caught her eye.

The homepage of a major national newspaper.

A new article had just appeared, recounting the President of the United States’ trip to the United Kingdom to meet the King.

And at the center of the piece, a photograph.

A photograph showing all the guests at the dinner held in honor of the presidential visit.

The CFO’s gaze skimmed over the assembled faces.

Men and women wrapped in titles older than their relevance, clinging to ceremony as though it could still pass for power.

Then her eyes stopped.

On one woman.

Cressida Saar.

Duchess of Ashcombe.

CEO of Saar Unlimited Responsibility.

The Saar matriarch stood close to the King, exactly where she belonged. Far enough from the President to remain untouchable. Close enough to remind everyone who truly mattered.

Elza’s mouth tightened.

Twenty years.

Twenty years of restraint, of carefully measured distance. Of a war conducted through proxies, markets, favors, and silence.

Elza leaned forward, resting her palms on the desk.

“Brilliant,” she murmured. “Calculating.”

Her gaze lingered on the image.

“Careful, Duchess,” she added softly.

Behind her, the rain battered the glass harder now. Thunder rolled, slow and distant.

Elza smiled.

Not with anticipation.

Not with anger.

With certainty.

“Cold wars only last as long as both sides agree to stay cold.”

She straightened.

“And I’ve never been very good at waiting.”

The “end”.

***

Ending note

And that brings Sign Here, Jenny to a close.

Maybe not the ending you expected —

but the one that had to happen.

Because some stories don’t end with answers.

They end with doors quietly left open.

One thing is certain, though…

We are far from done with Anastasia —

and Elza Rain. 😈

Hello everyone 

Here is Chapter 2 of Better Than Scandal.

And it was definitely time to get down to serious matters 

***

May 12, 1826 — Surrey (approximately three hours from London by carriage) — 3:30 p.m.

The carriage hired by Lady Hawthorne moved slowly along the roads of Surrey. The scenery bore little resemblance to London now, and the long journey that she and Lucy — the carriage’s only occupants — had been obliged to endure only underscored their passage toward a world very different from that of London drawing rooms.

Silence reigned inside the carriage, a reflection of the unease shared by its two occupants. In this, mother and daughter were much alike: neither was inclined to give voice to her discomfort, however profound it might be.

Lucy, dressed in blue, did her best to steady the anxiety rising within her as they drew ever closer to their destination — Glenmoor Manor, the residence of Lady Beatrice Ashcroft.

The Viscountess of Glenmoor, aged fifty-two, was said to be a remarkably secretive woman, one who rarely attended the Season and kept herself largely apart from the rest of the aristocracy. She had, apparently, been a widow for seven years — though this, her mother had explained, was not the cause of her deliberate seclusion. She had always been this way.

But of course, it was not Lady Ashcroft herself — nor even Surrey — that troubled the eighteen-year-old so deeply. The Hawthornes’ permanent residence lay outside London, at Ashwick, in a part of the country far more remote than Surrey. Lucy was well acquainted with nobles who remained on their estates and had little social* *intercourse with their peers.

No — the source of the anxiety that had now reached near-paroxysm, as the Viscountess’s domain loomed ever closer, lay in the role this woman was destined to play over the coming days.

Patroness*.*

That was the word her mother had used to describe what Beatrice Ashcroft would be to her. A term common enough in itself — one Lucy had heard before — yet here it concealed something far more troubling for the young brunette.

According to her mother, Beatrice Ashcroft was a former member of the Saar gaming circle. A circle of which Lucy knew nothing — and that alone was enough to send a faint shiver through her.

To enter that circle had now become her new assignment. A direct consequence of her “indiscretions” with Charlotte — indiscretions that had plunged the entire family into embarrassment.

Charlotte… her childhood friend. Her confidante. The person to whom she felt closest. And whom she might never see again, for fear of lending further weight to the rumours already circulating about her.

She and her mother had not truly spoken of what had happened. Anne had merely told her that such “games,” or “harmless flirtations,” had no place at a reception — and that the reputational problem arising from them now had to be dealt with.

Did her mother know that the kiss had not been a mere game, nor a momentary lapse, but the result of years of an irresistible attraction between the two friends? Lucy did not know. And she likely never would. Her mother would never admit to recognising her daughter’s inclinations; it was far more proper to frame everything as youthful indiscretion or playful folly.

Love, or attraction, Anne Hawthorne maintained, were peripheral matters for an unmarried young woman — and in no way things that ought to play any role whatsoever in the choice of a husband.

Lucy turned her head toward her mother, seated opposite her in the carriage. Anne was wearing a red dress and, as always, was impeccably coiffed. She was gazing out the window in silence, lost in her own thoughts.

“Mother,” Lucy began softly, breaking Anne from her reverie, “what is going to happen there?”

“Come now, my dear, there is no need to worry,” Anne replied in a firm tone meant to be reassuring — though it fell somewhat short of the mark. “You will simply undergo an education that will allow you to integrate into the gaming circle of the Duchess of Ashcombe.”

Lucy swallowed. She knew it would not be that simple.

She had no idea what kind of game was played within that circle, nor who belonged to it — save, of course, for Lady Cassandra Saar, the Duchess of Ashcombe herself.

What she did know, however, was that her “instruction” under Lady Ashcroft was expected to last at least ten days, and could extend to as long as a month, should it prove necessary. A lengthy education, then — far too long to consist merely in learning the rules of any ordinary game. And during that time, she would remain at Glenmoor Manor, or wherever else her patroness might choose to take her.

It was a deeply unsettling prospect for an eighteen-year-old young woman accustomed to moving within a strictly regulated environment, under the close supervision of her mother.

To Lucy, it felt as though the unpredictable was suddenly intruding upon her life — and she had no idea what would become of her.

The very mention of the Saar family did nothing to ease her unease.* *The family was known for being… not quite like the others, though no one — at least, no one who truly knew — ever went so far as to explain precisely why.

Until a few days earlier, Lucy had assumed that this reputation stemmed from the family’s matriarchal structure. A lineage ruled by women, whose title passed exclusively from mother to daughter and explicitly excluded men — all with the Crown’s approval — was certainly enough to set them apart.

But Lucy was beginning to wonder — and to fear — that this so-called “gaming circle” might matter far more than she yet understood.

“But, Mother,” Lucy ventured at last, “I don’t know Lady Ashcroft.”

“Lady Ashcroft is a respectable woman,” Anne replied at once. “You do not need to know her — only to follow her instructions.”

Lucy bit her lip and fell silent again.

Anne hesitated for a few seconds, then let out a quiet sigh.

“Everything will be fine,” she said at last. “But do not forget how essential it is that you conduct yourself properly.”

She paused, then added, more firmly, “We truly need you to enter this circle.”

“But—”

“We truly need it, Lucy.”

Anne’s tone left no room for further discussion. The message was clear — as were the expectations she held for her daughter.

“Glenmoor Manor ahead, my lady,” the coachman announced, bringing the brief exchange to a definitive close.

“At last,” Anne remarked, straightening slightly to smooth the folds of her dress.

Lucy, for her part, said nothing. Her gaze had just fallen upon the manor rising to the right of the road.

The building itself was not unpleasant to behold. It was a large late-Georgian country house, its exterior walls built of lightly weathered stone. The massive front door, fashioned from dark wood and framed by two columns, was reached by a path of fine gravel. As expected, the house was surrounded by well-tended gardens and enclosed by walls that ensured the privacy — and inviolability — of the estate.

It was not the place itself, then, that made Lucy shiver at that moment, but rather the fear of what awaited her within.

The carriage soon passed through the gates, swiftly opened by servants whom Lucy scarcely noticed, though their presence confirmed that Beatrice Ashcroft was no hermit. The realization offered her a small measure of reassurance — as though the existence of household staff guaranteed a minimum degree of normality within the manor’s walls, whatever form the education she was to receive there might take.

The carriage came to a halt a few steps from the manor’s entrance, and the coachman promptly climbed down to open the door for Lady Hawthorne and her daughter.

The gesture was mechanical — precise, impersonal — yet oddly reassuring to Lucy. As was the sight of the woman who appeared to be the housekeeper of the manor, approaching them with equal briskness.

“Lady Hawthorne. Miss Hawthorne. If you would be so kind as to follow me. Lady Ashcroft is ready to receive you.”

Anne acknowledged this with a brief nod and stepped away from the carriage, while other members of the staff — discreet, as propriety demanded — were already setting about unloading their luggage.

For a few fleeting seconds, Lucy hesitated before following her mother.

The gates were open.

The carriage door as well.

Escape was, at least physically, possible.

Physically only.

The firm look her mother cast in her direction put an end to any lingering doubt, and Lucy followed her — and the housekeeper — into the manor.

The entrance hall confirmed what the exterior had already suggested. The Viscountess was wealthy, and her residence was both elegant and impeccably maintained. The ceiling soared overhead, the walls were adorned with refined paintings, and the marble floor gleamed beneath their feet.

The corridor through which Lucy and her mother continued — following the housekeeper — was of the same order, save that a thick carpet covered the floor, muffling their footsteps.

At last, they reached their destination: the drawing room.

It was a magnificent space, with vast windows overlooking the garden, antique furnishings of excellent quality, and an imposing fireplace — unused at this time of year. Toward the back of the room stood a small arrangement of armchairs gathered around a handsome marble coffee table.

It was there, seated in one of the armchairs, that Lady Beatrice Ashcroft waited patiently for Lucy and her mother to approach.

The mistress of the house clearly bore her fifty-two years. Her long hair, impeccably arranged, was now grey, shot through with a few stubborn strands of blonde, and her face — still undeniably beautiful — was marked by fine but unmistakable lines. Yet what struck Lucy most was not her face, nor her slender frame, nor even the wooden cane resting beside her chair.

It was her eyes.

Large, piercing eyes of brown shot through with green — alert, vivid — standing in sharp contrast to the fragility suggested by her body.

Those eyes alone made Lucy understand, instantly, that judging Beatrice Ashcroft by appearances would be a mistake.

A grave one.

“Lady Hawthorne, it is a pleasure to receive you.”

The Viscountess’s voice was dry, almost sharp — not from any desire to intimidate or discomfort her guest, but simply because it was her natural tone. Which suggested that, should Beatrice ever choose to be truly unpleasant, the result would be far worse.

She made to rise, grasping her cane, but Anne immediately intervened.

“Lady Ashcroft, please — do not trouble yourself.”

The grey-haired woman inclined her head in assent and settled back into her chair with a faint smile.

Lady Hawthorne then turned to Lucy, indicating with a brief nod that she should step forward.

“May I present my daughter, Lucy Hawthorne.”

Only then did Beatrice turn her gaze fully upon the young woman. She remained silent for several seconds, as though weighing her. The scrutiny was more than enough to make Lucy acutely uncomfortable — but she held her ground and finally spoke.

“Lady Ashcroft, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Hawthorne,” Beatrice replied politely, before returning her attention to Lucy’s mother. “Please, do sit. We have a great many things to discuss.”

Lucy and Anne complied, taking their seats opposite the mistress of the house.

Beatrice waited a few moments longer, as though ensuring she had their full and undivided attention, before finally addressing Anne.

“Lady Hawthorne — what, precisely, have you explained to your daughter?”

“That joining the Saar circle is the only way to resolve her… minor reputational difficulty,” Anne answered at once, her concern expressed with complete sincerity.

Lucy pressed her lower lip between her teeth. That was indeed what her mother had told her.

What troubled her far more was everything she had not been told. What was this circle?And what, exactly, was this game?

Beatrice inclined her head slightly, then turned it just enough to fix Lucy with a direct, unwavering gaze.

“My dear,” she said evenly, “the Saar circle has the effect of severing certain practices from behaviours polite society prefers not to name. That, however, is incidental — not its purpose.”

Lucy parted her lips to ask a question.

She was not given the chance.

“The purpose,” Beatrice continued, her tone firm, “is the game.”

Lucy tried again to speak.

Again, she was cut off.

“One enters the circle for the game. One remains in it for the game. And when one no longer plays, one leaves.”

Lucy swallowed and cast a brief, anxious glance toward her mother.

Anne answered it with a slight frown — the familiar signal that meant be silent.

Beatrice watched the exchange without comment, then continued.

“If you wish to enter the circle,” she said, “and to have any claim upon the Duchess’s protection, you will need to demonstrate that you are capable of playing.”

She paused, allowing the weight of her words to settle.

“And that you can endure what the game demands. It is gratifying to those who seek it — and profoundly uncomfortable to those who enter it merely to flee an inconvenient social circumstance.”

The meaning was unmistakable. So was the warning.

Lucy looked once more to her mother — searching, this time, for hesitation. She found none. Only resolve. And the familiar expression that invited her to summon her courage.

Her voice unsteady, Lucy broke eye contact with Anne and turned fully toward Lady Ashcroft.

“I— I am ready.”

Beatrice smiled faintly, almost amused.

“We shall see.”

***

May 13, 1826 — Surrey — 2:20 a.m.

Night had long since fallen over Glenmoor Manor and its occupants. Lucy, for her part, lay wrapped tightly in the bedcovers, in the chamber Lady Ashcroft had assigned her on the manor’s second floor.

She hovered on the edge of sleep, struggling to keep herself awake a little longer — afraid of being taken by surprise when the test began.

The Viscountess had been perfectly clear about her terms, and about what she intended for Lucy. That very afternoon, Beatrice had informed both Lucy and her mother that before agreeing to become her patroness, Lucy would have to undergo — and pass — a test. One that would take place within the next twenty-four hours.

A test Lucy now awaited with mounting dread. No details had been given. Not even a hint. The Viscountess had said only one thing:

“Whatever happens, know that you are safe.”

Should that have reassured her?

If anything, it had done the opposite.

The remainder of the afternoon, and the evening that followed, had passed quietly — uneventfully — for the manor’s inhabitants. All except Lucy, who waited in constant apprehension for the moment someone would come to tell her that the test was about to begin. But it never came. And, little by little, she began to hope that perhaps she had simply been forgotten.

Beatrice Ashcroft appeared frail. Ill, even. People in such a state sometimes forgot things.

But Beatrice Ashcroft did not forget.

Never.

She planned.

She waited.

And she chose her moment.

Lucy was almost asleep now, her awareness of the world around her reduced to little more than a dull haze.

She did not hear the door to her room open softly, nor the muted sound of footsteps on the carpeted floor.

She did not hear the four figures who entered the room take their places around her bed. And when they struck, it was already too late.

Her blankets were torn away in a single, precise motion, leaving her in her nightdress on the mattress — and before she had time to cry out, or to do anything at all, four pairs of hands were already upon her.

“What—?” Lucy cried, jolting fully awake

No answer came. Instead, two pairs of hands rolled her onto her stomach. One of the four then took advantage of her new position to straddle her, while the remaining hands wrenched her arms behind her back, forcing them together beneath the weight pinning her down.

“Miss Hawthorne,” said the person now seated astride her, “your test has begun.”

It was a woman’s voice — Lucy understood that at once. In fact, they were likely all women, judging both by the hands restraining her arms and by the slender shapes pressing in around her.

In the darkness, it was difficult to make them out clearly. Their builds were slight — too slight to belong to men. Their faces, however, were hidden behind black masks shaped like a cat’s face.

A detail that might have seemed amusing, under other circumstances.

If four masked women had not just attacked her in the middle of the night, overpowered her — and were now attempting to bind her.

Lucy felt rope begin to wind around her wrists. One loop, then another, then a third. The movements were precise, careful — almost practiced — which was perhaps the most unsettling part for the young woman, who struggled to hinder the process and kicked her legs in a desperate attempt to dislodge the intruder pinning her down.

“She seems rather spirited,” one of the women holding her wrists remarked with a light laugh.

“Let me go at once! I demand to speak to Lady Ashcroft immediately!” Lucy finally protested, hoping that invoking the Viscountess’s name might be enough to stop them.

It was not.

Before long, her wrists were firmly bound behind her back. The knot — complex — was positioned well out of reach of her fingers, and the bindings were tight enough that she could not free herself simply by pulling against them.

Lucy’s heart was now pounding wildly, and the only reason she did not scream at the top of her lungs was that her assailants had mentioned the test. Under any other circumstances, the entire manor would already have been roused by desperate cries for help.

“Untie me immediately, or— mmmpphff!”

Her final attempt at protest was cut short as something — a wad of cloth — was forced into her mouth.

The fabric, pushed fully inside her mouth, now smothered all sound of her objections. And to ensure it remained that way, a scarf was swiftly drawn across her lips and tied behind her head, secured with a knot every bit as professional as the one binding her wrists.

The women then turned their attention to her legs.

While the one straddling her continued to hold her down, the three others moved to the foot of the bed. Working with the same coordination as before, one seized her right ankle — which was flailing helplessly — another her left, forcing them together, while the third began binding them with the same speed and precision used on her wrists.

Lucy’s efforts to resist were, once again, futile. Less than two minutes later, she was not only bound and gagged, but her ankles were secured as well.

“Bring the crate,” ordered the woman who was still seated on her.

“Mmpphff? Mmpphff!” Lucy protested immediately at the mention of a crate.

She had the distinct impression that they intended to move her — and that the crate was meant for precisely that purpose. The idea was unthinkable. There was no question of allowing herself to be placed inside any sort of container, and her muffled cries grew more frantic as she tried to signal her absolute refusal.

Both the futility of her protests and the reality of her fears were confirmed less than twenty seconds later, when the women who had briefly left the room returned, carrying a long wooden crate — large enough to hold a person.

“All right, let’s lift her,” said the one who finally rose from Lucy’s back.

For a brief moment, Lucy believed that the pressure being lifted might allow her to resist more effectively. She quickly realised how mistaken that hope was. Bound as she was, she was completely defenceless.

The lid of the crate was removed, and the four women gathered around her, lifting her from the bed. Lucy writhed helplessly in her restraints, unable to meaningfully oppose what was happening, and inevitably found herself laid inside the crate, atop the blankets that had been placed there in advance.

“Mmpphff!” she cried into her gag, glaring at them.

Every rule of propriety had been shattered in less than ten minutes. It was improper to enter the bedroom of a young noblewoman in the middle of the night — let alone to bind her, gag her, and threaten to shut her inside a wooden crate.

Her captors, however, were either unaware of — or utterly uninterested in — the rules of polite British society, and were already preparing to close the lid over her.

“It won’t take long, Miss,” said one of the women, who had not spoken until now.

“Don’t spoil the surprise,” another replied at once, with a note of disapproval.

The exchange continued for a few more seconds, but Lucy soon heard only fragments.

The lid was lowered.

And she was left in the dark.

***

At the same time — The London residence of the Duchesses of Ashcombe — St James’s.

When Lady Louisa Farnham, Countess of Wetherford, opened her eyes, the first thing that came to her was confusion.

Thirty-five years old, the Countess — whose slender figure and long blonde hair attested to impeccable physical condition — was not the sort of woman to fall asleep in the middle of a dinner. Not in her own home, not with her husband, and certainly not when she was a guest in a duchess’s house.

And yet, that was precisely what had happened.

She remembered perfectly the invitation she had received to dine with her friend, Cassandra Saar, Duchess of Ashcombe. She remembered the warm welcome she had been given, and the exquisite dishes that had been served. She remembered everything up to dessert — when, after drinking a glass of champagne, she had begun to feel unusually tired.

Then, after that… nothing.

Complete darkness.

Until now.

And confusion quickly gave way to shock.

The first reason was that she was no longer wearing the beautiful green gown she had chosen especially for the dinner. In fact, she was wearing nothing at all.

This was no metaphor: the Countess was quite literally naked, as on the day she had been born.

The second reason for her shock revealed itself when she instinctively tried to cover herself — and realised that she could not.

She was chained.

Her wrists were cuffed together with heavy shackles, their metal looking almost new, and linked by an additional length of chain to a ring set into the ceiling. The combination of cuffs and chain forced her arms high above her head, making it impossible for her to shield herself.

Her ankles, too, were chained to the floor. Short metal shackles encircled each ankle and were fastened to rings embedded directly into the ground, set roughly a metre apart. This arrangement did more than hold her in place: it compelled her to keep her legs spread, her intimacy exposed to the view of anyone who might enter the room.

She opened her mouth to demand an explanation for such treatment, but managed only to produce a muffled, unintelligible sound.

Of course.

She was gagged.

A simple gag, she realised — a piece of cloth stuffed between her teeth, secured by a scarf to ensure it stayed in place. Simple, then.

But effective.

She then looked around the room more carefully.

She found herself in a luxurious bedchamber. Enormous windows — closed, thankfully. A large canopied bed, covered in countless cushions, dressed in red sheets that matched the rest of the room perfectly, where silver and gold dominated. A vast wardrobe stood in one corner, and a towering mirror occupied another, tall enough for anyone inside the room to see themselves from head to toe.

In this case, Louisa Farnham could see herself very clearly.

Her long blonde hair was still impeccably arranged. Her beautiful face, with its soft features, remained flawless. And her large brown eyes reflected the irritation she was feeling.

Fear? No.

The Countess of Wetherford was not afraid. Not for something like this.

She had been a member of the Saar gaming circle for twelve years. Twelve years during which she had experienced situations that might be called “unusual”… and during which she had imposed many such situations on others.

That, in fact, was her speciality.

Louisa Farnham was known within the circle as one of its finest chaperones — one of those ladies novices dreaded encountering during play… or adored, depending on their particular inclinations.

This situation, however, was new.

The main wing of the Saar family’s magnificent London residence was not a place for games. What had just happened to her should not have happened. Not without breaking the rules.

And no one broke the rules.

Did they?

No one would dare turn a neutral space into a gaming space by drugging a lady and subjecting her to such humiliation.

At that moment, the door opened.

And Louisa remembered that there was someone capable of breaking every rule.

And that she had fallen straight into her claws.

“Lady Farnham is finally awake. What a joy,” the newcomer said. “I was beginning to grow impatient.”

That voice — a subtle blend of playfulness, authority, and a hint of mischief — belonged to Cyrilla Saar, Cassandra’s 23 years old daughter and, by consequence, the future Duchess of Ashcombe.

She advanced into the room with her characteristic gait, one that was almost feline in nature. Calm. Confident. In control.

That way of moving, and that voice, were matched by a graceful figure — yet one that seemed tinged with something predatory. Long, almost straight blonde hair; magnificent, piercing grey eyes; and perfectly symmetrical features, sharp rather than soft.

Cyrilla Saar was not a beautiful young woman like the others. In truth, it was as though nature itself had shaped her body specifically to suit her personality — and the power she wielded.

Dressed in a sumptuous yellow gown, she smiled at the outraged expression on her captive’s face, before finally letting out a small laugh.

“What is it, Lady Farnham?” she said softly.

“Surely these accommodations are not beneath you?”

“MMMPPPHHFF!” the noblewoman immediately protested through her gag, tugging slightly at her chains.

The aim was not, of course, to free herself by brute force — but to make it perfectly clear to her friend’s daughter that this violation of the rules was unacceptable.

Cyrilla stepped closer, until she stood no more than half a metre from the naked countess.

“A very lovely body, Lady Farnham,” the blonde remarked, studying her with her grey eyes. She took deliberate care to linger when her gaze reached the countess’s groin, savouring the power she held over her. “It is so much more pleasant to see you without all that fabric you usually wear.”

“Mmmpphf, mmpphff, mmpphff!” Louisa cried, fixing the future duchess with an outraged glare.

“Oh, come now, my dear,” the young woman replied with an amused smile. “It is hardly my fault if you are far more pleasing to the eye unclothed than dressed.”

The captive tugged harder at her chains, without the slightest effect on the heiress’s behaviour, who continued to study her in silence for several seconds.

Cyrilla then began to circle her slowly, in the manner of a predator preparing to close in on its prey. A prey, in this case, utterly defenceless.

“You know, Lady Farnham,” the blonde finally said, “you have occupied my thoughts quite a great deal over the past four years.”

Louisa let out a low sound through her gag and turned her head slightly, determined to keep the young woman in her line of sight.

This was not the first interaction between them. In truth, they knew each other well — in part because of the role Louisa had played when Cyrilla herself had been deemed ready to enter the circle.

“You must have such fond memories of those three weeks we spent together, back in October of 1822,” the heiress went on, now standing just beyond the Countess’s field of vision. “Three weeks spent acting as my chaperone. Initiating me into that little game you enjoy so very much.”

“Mmpphff, mmphhff!” Louisa replied — not in an attempt to justify herself, but to remind her that the assignment had been carried out on her mother’s orders.

“Oh, there is no need to defend yourself, Countess,” Cyrilla said with a light laugh. “I stopped holding that against you long ago. On the contrary, I am quite grateful you did it. Your beginner’s techniques were most helpful,” she paused deliberately, “— at first.”

Louisa did not attempt to answer. There was no point. She simply waited.

Cyrilla’s slow circling brought her back to a halt directly in front of her captive.

“You see, Lady Farnham,” she said at last, her tone almost conversational, “something began to trouble me rather quickly.”

She tilted her head slightly, as though thinking aloud.

“One day, I will be the Duchess of Ashcombe. I will preside over the circle.”

A faint smile.

“And yet — there is a woman who once bound me. Who gagged me. Who held power over me for three full weeks.”

She let the words hang.

“That sort of thing has a way of lingering.”

“MMMPPPHHFF! Mmmphff, mmphhff!” Louisa protested at once. The initiation — and its rules — existed for the purpose of learning, and a chaperone’s role could never undermine a duchess’s authority.

Cyrilla did not even acknowledge the sound.

“So I decided something had to be corrected,” she went on calmly. “A balance restored.”

Her smile sharpened.

“I would take my chaperone in hand. Properly. So that she would never again be tempted to remember — let alone speak of — the influence she once had over the inexperienced girl I was.”

Louisa said nothing.

There was no need.

The posture. The gaze. The certainty in Cyrilla’s voice — it was all there.

This explanation was merely a justification. A story, carefully shaped. Likely the same one she had offered her mother to excuse this breach of the rules.

And beneath it lay a far simpler truth.

Cyrilla no longer played with Charges.

What truly interested the Saar heiress were Chaperones — women for whom submission had become unthinkable.

Unthinkable…

Until Cyrilla chose them.

And then, more often than not, it happened.

“And what better moment to do so, my dear,” Cyrilla went on with clear amusement, “than the present one — while your husband is away on a mission abroad for the Crown, and your son is away under instruction?”

She smiled faintly.

“It would have been quite improper not to take advantage of such an opportunity, would it not?”

She then let her hand glide over the bound noblewoman’s stomach in a possessive gesture — one that, this time, drew an immediate reaction.

“MMMPPPHHHFFF!” Louisa roared into her gag, shaking against her chains. Not entirely because of the touch itself, but far more because of the helplessness in which she was trapped.

And then there was Cyrilla’s smile.

The smile of someone who had already won — and knew it.

That, perhaps, was the most infuriating thing of all for Lady Farnham.

“But once it became clear that things needed to be set right,” the Duchess’s daughter continued, drifting back into her slow circle around Louisa, “I found myself asking a very simple question.”

“Mmmphff?”

“How much time,” Cyrilla said evenly,

“would it take before my former Chaperone stopped imagining that her past role entitled her to the slightest authority over me.”

She paused deliberately, savouring the moment as she watched Louisa begin to struggle more frantically.

The Countess was beginning to understand.

“Of course,” Cyrilla went on, “I dismissed the notion of three weeks almost at once. The intention, my dear, was never to reset matters as though nothing had happened.”

“Mmmphff? Mmpphfff?!” the Countess protested immediately through her gag, tugging once more at the chains that held her wrists high above her head.

Cyrilla, who had continued her slow circuit and now stood behind her, stepped closer still — until she was pressed against Louisa’s back, the fabric of her gown brushing the bare skin of the noblewoman. She slipped her arms around her from behind, holding her there as Louisa writhed again in her restraints, furious at the humiliation being inflicted upon her — she, one of the circle’s most respected chaperones.

“Three months,” Cyrilla whispered into her ear.

The Countess’s eyes flew wide with shock. For a brief instant, she wondered whether she had misheard.

“Three months,” Cyrilla repeated softly, leaving no room for doubt.

“MMMPPPHHHFF?! Mmmpphff, mmphhff!”

This time, the protest was unrestrained. Louisa strained against her bonds with all her strength, roaring through her gag, demanding to be released, demanding that this unthinkable plan be abandoned at once.

Cyrilla did not react.

She remained exactly where she was, her arms still wrapped around the Countess’s naked body, a predatory smile resting on her lips.

“To borrow your own words, spoken back in October of 1822,” Cyrilla murmured,

“your opinion, on this matter, is not required.”

The deliberate echo of Louisa’s past authority triggered another surge of futile resistance. Yes — Louisa had exercised the power granted to her by the Duchess to initiate her daughter. And yes — initiation had its… particularities. But that had been a different context. A different balance.

Cyrilla knew that.

And did not care.

“But do take comfort, my dear Countess,” Cyrilla added lightly, her hand rising to rest against her captive’s chest,

“I shall naturally see to it that your objections receive all due consideration — once the matter is settled.”

“Mmppphff! Mmpphfff, mmpphhff!”

The heiress released her hold and once again began to circle Louisa Farnham, until she came to a stop directly in front of her.

“And during those three months, my dear,” she went on,

“you will discover — with remarkable clarity — that you never truly held authority within the circle.”

She gave a soft laugh and stepped closer once more, until she was pressed against the Countess again — face to face, this time. Her hands wandered over the naked body of her captive, unmoved by the muffled cries demanding immediate release.

At that moment, the door to the chamber opened, and a footman entered briskly, carrying a small tray bearing the glass of champagne Cyrilla had requested before returning upstairs.

At the centre of the room, Cyrilla stood close against the Countess’s bare body, exploring her with unhurried hands — and now, brushing a light kiss against the nape of her neck.

The footman set the glass upon the low table and withdrew as swiftly as he had entered.

There was nothing to see here.

Nothing at all.

End of chapter.

Hey everyone,

I’m sharing the first chapter of a new story today. It’s a bit different, mixing BDSM with British aristocracy in the 19th century, more precisely 1826.

Before you start, just a couple of things:

This story is very narrative-driven and includes quite a bit that isn’t BDSM. If that’s your thing, great, but if you’re mostly here for the kink, it might not be for you.

It works as a standalone, but it’s also part of a shared universe I created, the Saarverse, which includes several other stories, including Sign Here, Jenny.

Hope you enjoy it!

***

May 2, 1826 — London — 3:10 p.m.

If there was one thing Anne Hawthorne truly excelled at, it was the social game of London’s polite society.

At forty-two, Lady Hawthorne of Ashwick was known for her ease among aristocratic circles, despite the modest nature of her title. Her husband, Sir Edmund Hawthorne, was a baronet — a distinction which, while it did not close doors to his wife, did not particularly open them either.

Anne belonged to the gentry, and yet, for the past twenty-one years she had become a familiar figure in the drawing rooms of several countesses and baronesses — women who, as custom required, gathered in London between March and early July each year.

Not merely for the opportunity to be seen and to cultivate connections, but because it served a purpose she had been quietly preparing for ever since she became a mother: securing the marriages of her two children.

Not just any marriages, of course. That would have been far too simple.

Anne was a beautiful woman — tall, with expressive grey eyes, long brown hair she wore in elaborate arrangements, and a pleasant face. As for her figure… well, one simply did not ask such questions about a lady.

A beautiful woman, then, who had married a handsome man and borne beautiful children. Henry, her son, was a fine young man of twenty-four, who had inherited his mother’s eyes and hair, and his father’s lean, elegant build. Lucy, her daughter, just eighteen, was her mother’s image in almost every respect — save for her green eyes, which she had inherited from her father. She was lovely and lively, and her mother presented her to the world as a well-bred young woman, perfectly ready to assume the role of a model wife.

From a purely physical standpoint, then, the matrimonial future of her children was assured. Suitors would not be lacking — especially in Henry’s case, since in addition to his father’s title, which he would one day inherit, he was also a lawyer. Working for a living might be seen as unbecoming in some circles, but the law remained respectable… and profitable.

But of course, the mere certainty that her children would marry mattered very little to Anne Hawthorne. What she wanted was for them to make good marriages — in short, for Henry to secure a union that brought economic advantage, and for Lucy to marry into a title higher than a mere baronetcy.

The Season, which had begun several weeks earlier, was therefore of critical importance to Lady Hawthorne. And for the moment, the results were… mixed.

Henry had certainly drawn the attention of a number of young women — though all of them, of course, took care to deny it and to adopt the decorous behavior expected of them — but none presented any real interest for the Hawthorne family.

Her son, Anne thought, could do better.

Lucy, however, was a far more delicate matter. At her age, Anne recalled, she herself had been delighted to attend the many events of the Season, doing her utmost — within the bounds of propriety — to catch the eye of eligible young men.

Lucy, by contrast, seemed not to have understood that the purpose of receptions, evenings at the opera, and walks in the park — to name but a few — was not to befriend other young women, nor to laugh and chatter with Charlotte Ellison, her childhood friend, but to attract the attention of gentlemen.

More troubling still, she appeared far from receptive — or at least showed little interest — whenever one of them did choose to take notice of her.

At first, Anne had attributed this to shyness. Which would, in itself, have been no bad thing. No man liked unmarried women who were too confident, after all. But after several weeks of the Season, her daughter’s so-called “shyness” was beginning to threaten the carefully laid plans Anne had devised for her.

The baronet’s wife had therefore decided to change her approach.

If Lucy appeared indifferent to the gentlemen who sought her attention, it was no doubt because she failed to appreciate their true value. Young women, Anne knew, could sometimes be difficult — prone to attaching far too much importance to purely physical considerations, matters of very little consequence when it came to choosing a suitable companion.

She was certain her daughter would show herself more receptive if it was her mother who introduced a gentleman to her. Lucy would be compelled to give him a fair chance, if only out of respect for her mother’s reputation.

And precisely such an opportunity presented itself that afternoon, at the reception held in the magnificent London residence of Lady Fairfax, Viscountess of Blackmere. The setting was more intimate than most social events: guests arriving and departing at a steady rhythm, a hostess of sufficient rank to confer prestige, but not so elevated as to render Lucy invisible — and, most importantly, a selection of socially appropriate suitors.

And Anne Hawthorne always achieved her aims.

At that very moment, she was making her way briskly — yet gracefully — across Lady Fairfax’s garden, accompanied by Edward Ellingworth, the son of the Baron of Greyford.

Edward, twenty-four years of age, was perfectly suited to Lucy. The heir to a barony — one rank above the Hawthornes’, comfortably well-off, respectable, and well connected within polite society — he represented precisely the sort of match Anne had envisioned for her daughter. A marriage that would qualify, in every sense, as a good one.

His physical appearance — which did not place him among the season’s most sought-after suitors — only strengthened Lucy’s prospects. He was not besieged by the covert glances of young women of higher birth, a fact Anne knew made him far more receptive to introductions than those gentlemen rendered inaccessible by excessive attention.

Anne was well aware that Edward’s presence that afternoon was an opportunity — one she had no intention of wasting, even if it meant scouring the entire estate to find her daughter, who had wandered off some thirty minutes earlier with Charlotte Ellison.

“You will see, Mr. Ellingworth,” Anne declared warmly, “Lucy is perfectly charming — and, like yourself, she possesses a genuine passion for sixteenth-century English literature.”

As she spoke, her gaze swept the small gathering in search of her daughter, all the while fervently hoping Lucy had indeed read the books she had been instructed to study before the Season began.

She finally spotted her — in a lovely green gown that suited her eyes perfectly — standing beside her friend Charlotte, who was just as well dressed, though in a blue dress of noticeably lesser quality. The Ellison family was less wealthy than her own, and the difference showed clearly in the two young women’s attire. Charlotte, a petite blonde with large grey eyes, compensated for the relative modesty of her gown with a beauty that Anne knew — reluctantly — to be slightly superior to her daughter’s.

A beauty which, Anne thought with some irritation, should have been enough to discourage Lucy from lingering so closely at Charlotte’s side whenever gentlemen approached them. Competition, Anne knew, was not always beneficial.

As usual, the two young women were together — and, just as often, alone and isolated from the rest of the guests. They stood at the far end of the garden, near the towering trees that bordered the property. More than fifteen meters from the other guests.

Another misstep, Anne thought, quickening her pace toward her daughter — who, for her part, did not appear to have noticed her approach. Lucy and Charlotte were exchanging conspiratorial looks, both wearing wide, amused smiles.

How can she smile so foolishly while she’s busy sabotaging her own future? Anne muttered inwardly, casting a brief glance behind her to make sure Edward was still following.

He was.

But the carefully contained frustration of Lady Hawthorne rose another notch when, while she and the young suitor were still ten meters away, the two girls — still smiling — slipped behind the trunk of a massive tree.

From there, they were no longer visible at all. They might as well have left the party altogether.

“Lady Hawthorne,” Edward remarked politely, though with a trace of irritation, “your daughter does not seem particularly eager to make my acquaintance.”

Anne cursed inwardly. She was certain of it now — Lucy had seen her approaching with Edward and, judging him insufficiently attractive, had chosen to hide in order to discourage the suitor from meeting her. A known tactic. An unacceptable one. And wholly contrary to her duty.

“Not at all,” the baronet’s wife replied at once, offering a reassuring smile. “I believe it is quite the opposite. My daughter is a little shy — seeing me arrive with a gentleman such as yourself must have unsettled her somewhat. She is likely composing herself so as not to disappoint you.”

The explanation appeared to satisfy Edward, who straightened slightly, as though making an effort to appear more imposing.

Mother and suitor soon reached the tree.

Under ordinary circumstances, propriety would have required Anne to announce herself — and Edward — and invite the two young women to emerge.

But she knew all too well what that would allow: Lucy retreating behind a sudden, convenient indisposition.

So she chose a different approach.

Without uttering a word, and with Edward still at her side, she walked around the tree until her daughter and her friend came into view.

Lucy appeared first — her long brown hair elegantly arranged, her pale complexion lightly made up, her features harmonious.

But Charlotte appeared as well.

Close. Very close.

No — far too close.

The two young women were not laughing. Not talking.

They were kissing.

A passionate kiss, filled with a desire that left nothing to the imagination. And at that moment, it was fully visible — to Anne Hawthorne…

…and to Edward Ellingworth.

And in that instant, the carefully constructed world of the baronet’s wife collapsed.

***

May 9, 1826 — London — 10:30 a.m.

Anne Hawthorne sat, disheartened, surveying the drawing room of the house she had rented for the Season.

The reputation she had so carefully built over the past twenty years had always been enough to ensure that the salons she hosted during the Season were well attended.

Always — until now.

Seated on the sofa, the baronet’s wife was forced to admit that no one else had come today, save for her long-standing friends Catherine Harrowby and Victoria Montford.

It was not, in truth, a surprise. Still, Anne had hoped that her years of cordial relations within polite society might soften the effects of the rumour that had begun to circulate after the unfortunate incident at Lady Fairfax’s residence.

Edward Greyford had spoken.

And over the past few days, invitations had begun to dwindle. There had been no formal accusation, but people were talking. And many were now adding their own observations, not to confirm what Edward had witnessed, but to supply further “evidence” of her daughter’s supposedly improper inclinations.

What had once been dismissed as shyness toward gentlemen, or a simple misunderstanding of the Season’s rules and objectives, was now being reinterpreted as proof that Lucy Hawthorne might be a lesbian.

Might.

That single word was enough to seriously stain Lucy’s reputation — and, by extension, that of her family. It was unlikely anyone would dare voice more than conjecture; such an accusation would have been improper. Moreover, relationships between women, however intimate, were not criminally punishable. No one had any interest in denouncing Lucy outright.

But everyone had an interest in avoiding her.

And, by extension, in avoiding her mother.

No one wished to be seen in the company of the mother of a potential lesbian.

Lady Hawthorne was not deceived. If Catherine and Victoria were present today, it was less because of their friendship of more than a decade than because both were widows — and their daughters already respectably married.

“I am certain it will all settle down,” Victoria said, her tone meant to be reassuring.

She was seated on the sofa beside Catherine, who appeared far less convinced.

“Edward Greyford continues to talk,” Anne replied. “He refuses to believe that what he saw was merely the result of Charlotte Ellison’s careless behaviour.”

It was, of course, a lie — and Anne knew it perfectly well. But blaming Charlotte was the only coherent defence she had found so far. The Ellisons were less influential than the Hawthornes, and Charlotte’s mother far less firmly anchored in polite society than Anne herself. Shifting the blame had therefore been easy — but, thus far, ineffective.

“Some would say it takes two to kiss,” Catherine replied. Her voice was firm, but her tone remained kind — more an acknowledgement of an uncomfortable truth than an attempt to wound.

“Yes,” Victoria admitted awkwardly, “and several people have remarked that Lucy has shown no interest in any gentleman since the Season began.”

Anne let out a heavy sigh — a brief crack in the calm, composed image she had been striving to maintain ever since the incident.

“There must still be some way,” she said at last, “to convince people that they are mistaken about my daughter, that this is all nothing more than a profound misunderstanding.”

Catherine, who was ten years older than Anne and five years older than Victoria — and thus the most experienced of the three in such matters — remained silent for a few seconds, as though weighing her next words with care.

She finally spoke.

“I believe, my dear Anne, that you are pursuing the wrong strategy.”

Their hostess frowned and straightened slightly in her chair.

“What do you mean?”

“You and your daughter are victims of rumours,” Catherine replied calmly. “Not accusations.”

“That is true,” Victoria agreed, “but I fail to see how that changes anything.”

Catherine took a sip of her coffee, rolled her eyes ever so slightly — discreetly — at her friend’s lack of understanding, then continued.

“People are avoiding you not because they possess proof of anything, but because there is doubt. And that doubt alone is what is making you… socially inconvenient.”

“Obviously,” Anne replied, who had reached the same conclusion herself. “Which is precisely why I am trying to make them understand that these doubts are unfounded. My daughter is not… deviant.”

“But that cannot work,” Catherine countered, her voice firm yet still kind. “Simply because the rumour did not arise out of nothing. There are signs. And you will not be able to erase them.”

That harsh truth drew a small gesture of irritation from Anne — one she made a visible effort to restrain.

“Am I to understand that there is nothing to be done, then?”

“Perhaps Lucy could withdraw for a time,” Victoria suggested. “I am sure that in a year, all of this will have been forgotten.”

“No,” the eldest of the three replied at once. “That would only strengthen the rumour.”

Anne nodded. She had come to the same conclusion the very day after the incident.

“What you must do,” Catherine explained, “is not confront the rumour head-on, nor deny the existence of… the kiss.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “You must prevent people from associating it with practices whose name I will not utter.”

Lady Hawthorne leaned forward slightly, intrigued.

“Please,” she said. “Go on.”

Catherine hesitated again. But having already crossed a line, she knew there was no turning back.

“There exists a… gaming circle,” she said at last, lowering her voice. “Led by a very powerful duchess. A circle reserved exclusively for women.”

Victoria turned sharply toward her, her expression tightening.

“My dear… you cannot be serious.”

“Gaming?” Anne repeated calmly.

“Activities take place within that circle,” Catherine went on, choosing each word with care, “about which I cannot say more.” She leaned in slightly, her tone dropping to a near whisper. “But one thing is certain: no woman publicly associated with that circle can be accused of the kind of deviance currently whispered about your daughter.”

She paused — then added quietly:

“Unless, of course, one were prepared to accuse the Duchess of Ashcombe herself of… improper passions.”

Anne Hawthorne said nothing.

She did not need to.

Her friends could see it in her eyes: the plan had already taken shape — clear, precise, inevitable.

A plan that would save her daughter’s reputation.

A plan that required drawing close to the Saar family…

…and entering their circle.

***

At the same time — The Reilly family’s London residence — Mayfair

Mrs. Ruth Henshaw loved her work. To serve as housekeeper of the Earl of Blackwood’s London residence was, for a woman of modest origins such as herself, a genuine accomplishment.

The position — which had allowed her to rise socially in no insignificant way — had granted her authority over the entirety of the household’s female staff, entrusted her with significant responsibilities, and afforded her genuine access to the Earl’s family.

In truth, that last point reversed the actual order of events. Ruth Henshaw had not grown close to the Earl’s family because of the responsibilities she had held for the past twelve years — or at least, not with every member of it.

She owed her position not only to her competence, but also to the… particular relationship she had maintained years earlier with Cornelia Reilly, the wife of William Reilly, the Earl of Blackwood.

A relationship that was, of course, perfectly respectable. At the very least, it never strayed beyond the boundaries of what was known as “the game” within the social sphere from which Cornelia hailed. Both women had been careful to ensure that.

That relationship — a relationship of play — had lasted several years. It had begun during Ruth’s earlier posting, in the household of Cornelia’s parents, and had continued after Cornelia’s marriage to William, within the London residence of the new Countess.

A long-standing connection, then — one that had allowed the Lady of the house to “observe the rare qualities Ruth possessed,” and to convince her husband of the wisdom of entrusting her with the most important position a woman could hold within the residence.

At nearly forty-five, Ruth had long since ceased to play with Lady Reilly. The two women had grown older, and their priorities had shifted. They had, however, remained close — close enough that, in the midst of the Season, it was Ruth who had been tasked with discovering why Margaret, the Earl’s eldest daughter, aged twenty-two, had yet to leave her room.

And, as a result, why she had missed all of the morning’s engagements.

Margaret Reilly’s bedchamber was located on the fourth and top floor of the residence, directly above her parents’ rooms. A placement that had initially seemed strategic to her parents — better suited to monitoring their daughter’s comings and goings at night — but one Lady Reilly was increasingly inclined to reconsider.

For Lady Margaret was brimming with energy, ideas, and desires of every kind. By day as well as by night. It was not uncommon for Ruth to enter the room in the morning and find Margaret asleep in a chair, facing a half-finished canvas. Or to infer, from the stack of books piled on her bedside table, that she had only just fallen asleep.

And then there were the other activities…

Those connected to the “game” which she had been practicing since the age of nineteen. A game that consumed a great deal of her time, and occasionally encroached upon her duties as a young lady — much to her father’s despair… and to her mother’s more amused, if no less exasperated, concern.

When Ruth reached the door to the bedchamber, she could not help but let out a small sigh. The voices and laughter of two of the house’s four maids — Sarah and Mary — could be heard from the corridor. It was improper, certainly, but it was also a sign that she could enter without knocking.

She did so, with a very precise idea of what she was about to find.

Margaret Reilly’s bedroom was exactly what one would expect of a young woman of twenty-two born at the heart of the aristocracy.

It was spacious, practical, and luxurious — without ever veering into ostentation. Everything a young woman of Margaret’s rank might require was present: a wardrobe, a small writing desk, a bookcase, a dressing table — each piece chosen with just enough refinement to suggest a fortune comfortably above the norm.

Naturally, the room contained a canopied bed, a large window overlooking the residence’s gardens, and the personal effects of its occupant. Margaret, as it happened, loved reading and painting, something made evident by the many books lining the shelves and the canvas frame standing in one corner of the room.

The dominant colour was a soft green — which, by a fortunate coincidence, also happened to be Margaret Reilly’s favourite.

Just as she had expected, Sarah and Mary were there.

The two young women, aged twenty-six and twenty-nine respectively, were both dressed in the household’s maid uniform: long brown dresses falling to their ankles, white aprons tied at the waist, and caps covering their hair. Despite the modesty of the attire, their beauty was unmistakable. Sarah had red hair, large grey eyes, and an innocent-looking face — one that should not be trusted. Mary was slightly taller, with long blonde hair, pale skin, and a distinctly mischievous gaze. No one would have attributed innocence to her at first glance. And that was for the best.

Lady Margaret was there as well.

The young woman had always been pretty. Small — barely five foot one — but with large, expressive blue eyes, a** **warm, compelling smile, and a harmonious face. She had inherited her mother’s long, curly blonde hair, and shared many traits with her, both physical and temperamental.

But at that moment, it was neither Margaret’s appearance nor one of her many escapades that caught Ruth Henshaw’s attention. Nor was it the fact that, despite the late hour, the young woman was still wearing her nightgown.

No — it was the fact that Cornelia’s daughter was tied up and gagged on her bed.

More precisely, the young woman was bound in what was known as a hogtie. Her hands had been tied behind her back using one of the many scarves she kept in her wardrobe. Her elbows had been drawn together and bound in the same manner, pulled so close they nearly touched — something made possible only by her remarkable flexibility. Her ankles were likewise bound with the same material. The same was true of her knees, secured with one scarf tied below them and another above. With her arms immobilised behind her back, the knots placed carefully out of reach, and her legs restrained just as thoroughly, her ankles had been drawn back toward her wrists and tied to them with a sixth scarf.

Fortunately, Lady Cornelia purchased a great many scarves for her daughter.

And, for good measure, something had been stuffed into Margaret’s mouth before a final scarf was drawn across it and tied behind her neck to secure the gag.

Margaret’s attempts to squirm against her bonds, her eyes wide with theatrical outrage, were one of the reasons for the two maids’ laughter.

The other was the presence of a third maid.

More precisely: Emily, nineteen years old, the most recent addition to the household staff.

It was not merely Emily’s presence that amused Sarah and Mary. What truly delighted them was the fact that the young maid — with her brown hair, blue eyes, and slender figure — was not only bound and gagged as well, but completely naked.

Her maid’s uniform lay discarded at the foot of the chair to which she was tied, wrapped in coils of rope. It seemed Sarah and Mary — who could only have been responsible for this — had not dared to use Margaret’s clothing on a servant.

Emily sat in a chair placed in the corner of the room, her wrists bound behind the backrest. Additional rope had been wound around both the chair and her torso, holding her firmly in place. And, as if to prevent any attempt at escape — or even the simple act of closing her legs — her ankles had been tied to the chair legs.

For her gag, the other two maids had chosen a cleave gag, fashioned from a scarf of lesser quality — likely belonging to one of them.

Emily seemed to melt the moment she noticed Ruth standing in the doorway, her gaze locking onto her at once.

“What is going on here?” the housekeeper asked, irritation plain in her voice — though tempered by the faintest hint of amusement at the sight before her.

Mary and Sarah, who had yet to realise their superior had arrived, spun around abruptly and made a valiant — and entirely unsuccessful — attempt to suppress their laughter.

“Why is Lady Margaret not yet ready?” Ruth demanded, her tone sharp as she fixed the two maids with a reproachful look.

“Mmmpphh! Mmpphff!” Emily protested helplessly, clearly trying to convey that she had nothing to do with this business and was merely the victim of a thoroughly unfair scheme** **devised by her colleagues.

“Later,” the housekeeper said curtly, before turning back to the only two people in the room who could answer her.

“Mrs. Henshaw,” Sarah began dutifully, “we were simply enjoying our reward.”

Ruth’s brow furrowed.

“Your reward? You mean that absurd wager again?”

The wager.

The subject Ruth had been hearing about far too often over the past two weeks.

As usual, it had begun with Lady Margaret and her fondness for issuing challenges — particularly when the game was involved. And more particularly when those challenges concerned people she had no business playing with.

In principle, the rules were perfectly clear. Outside of gatherings expressly arranged for that purpose, a young novice like Margaret was permitted only a single playing partner — one appointed by her patroness.

The presence of other players in the same household was, by definition, irrelevant. The novice was expected to play exclusively with her assigned partner.

The rule was universally respected. No one would have dared make a proposal of any sort to Margaret — not even Sarah and Mary, who were widely regarded as among the most enterprising maids in London when it came to play (a long story…).

Except that Margaret Reilly’s playing partner had not come to London this Season.

Which meant Margaret had been left alone.

Alone — and bored.

And women of Margaret’s lineage did not tolerate boredom for very long.

“Yes, Mrs. Henshaw,” Mary replied with a broad smile, “time does fly — but we are still very much entitled to enjoy Lady Margaret.”

“Mmmmpphhff! Mmpphff, mmpphff!” protested the young woman in question, who was still struggling desperately against her restraints.

Margaret’s muffled complaint went unanswered, Ruth’s attention fixed instead on the two maids, who continued to smile — perfectly confident in the righteousness of their position.

“Allow me to clear up a doubt, ladies,” Ruth began, folding her arms. “Were not the consequences of this wager supposed to have expired three days ago?”

The two maids exchanged a glance — and a knowing smile. This would be the second time they repeated their explanation that day. Lady Margaret herself had been far from pleased.

“Mrs. Henshaw, if you will allow me to remind you of the exact terms of the wager Lady Margaret proposed to us,” Mary said, satisfaction evident in her tone.

“‘If I manage to bind the two of you without either of you freeing yourselves within thirty minutes, I shall become your Chaperone, and you my Charges, for the next fifteen days,’” she recited — even reproducing the Earl’s daughter’s intonation.

“‘But if you succeed,’” Sarah continued, taking up the quotation in turn, “‘then you shall be my Chaperones, and I your Charge, for that same period.’”

“I am well aware of the terms of the wager — you have repeated them often enough,” Ruth replied curtly. “But that was eighteen days ago. Lady Margaret is therefore no longer your Charge, and you are no longer Chaperones — merely maids who are very late about their duties.”

The housekeeper’s remark, however, failed to unsettle the two maids, who merely smiled all the more broadly.

“Quite so, Mrs. Henshaw,” Mary said calmly.

“But the mother of our beloved Duchess established a principle that has never been questioned since: when a wager assigns its consequence to a number of days, only the days during which that consequence may be enforced are counted.

Any interruption suspends the term.”

The housekeeper raised an eyebrow. She had never heard of that rule — but it sounded unmistakably Saar.

“Of course,” Mary went on smoothly, “as we already suggested to Lady Margaret, we are perfectly willing to request confirmation from the Duchess of Ashcombe herself. If need be.”

No. Of course not. It would not be necessary.

Within the gaming circle, no one ever wished for the Duchess to involve herself in such minor affairs. That was the surest way to see matters take an unexpected — and sometimes thoroughly unwelcome — turn.

Realising she would not win this particular battle, Ruth turned her gaze toward Emily, motioning with a slight tilt of her head for Mary and Sarah to explain themselves.

“And that brings us to our second piece of good news,” Mary announced with a mischievous smile. “Emily is officially one of us.”

“Mmmpphff, mmppphhff, mmppphhf mphhf!” Emily protested at once, blushing even more fiercely.

“She asked what we could possibly have been doing with Lady Margaret during all those hours over the past few days when we were left alone with her,” Sarah explained, winking at the bound and gagged maid. “So we offered to introduce her to the gaming circle.”

“And she agreed immediately!” Mary added, beaming.

Ruth Henshaw let out a long sigh. Those two maids were a calamity.

“I assume you neglected to mention that you intended to strip her and tie her up in order to celebrate her new status as a player?”

“One must preserve a few surprises,” the blonde replied with a casual wave of her hand. “Besides, she participated quite willingly in binding our Charge.”

The housekeeper studied Emily for a moment, then shrugged.

“Very well. You are all old enough to bear the consequences of your choices.”

For a few seconds, the maids thought they had prevailed. But the finger Ruth raised — her habitual gesture when she had one final remark to make — quickly dispelled that impression.

“That being said, my dears,” she continued, “Lady Reilly has informed me that this residence will have the honour of welcoming Lady Cyrilla Saar, daughter of our beloved Duchess, for luncheon today.”

All four women stiffened at once — including those who were bound.

“You are, of course, free to continue your games,” Ruth added, barely concealing her own amusement at the reaction of the maids and the Earl’s daughter, “and I am certain Lady Saar will be delighted to join you.”

She paused.

“And to take control of your little game.”

That was all it took.

Less than five seconds later, Mary and Sarah — moving in uncoordinated haste — lunged to free the two young women, under the openly amused gaze of Ruth Henshaw.

The gaming circle might have expanded over the years.

But its mistresses had not changed.

End of chapter

Hey everyone,

Back with Sign Here, Jenny today. Chapter 9 is up (I thought I’d have to split it into two parts, hence the 9.1 title, but the full chapter ended up going through, and now I can’t change the title)

This is a pretty important chapter as we get close to the end ;)

***

March 17, 2025 — Miami, Noctis Mir (Florida) — 11:10 p.m.

Jenny followed Kassandra as she finally led her up to the fourth and final level of the tower, above the dance floor.

Around her, the music was in full swing — but that wasn’t all. With every step she climbed, she passed more and more clubgoers who had formed a line, hoping for a chance to meet Anastasia.

She, however, wasn’t standing in line.

She was walking past it.

She slipped by everyone, overtaking the crowd without paying much attention to the irritated murmurs rising behind her. The only person who had dared do more than mutter his annoyance had been swiftly put back in his place by Kassandra, who reminded him — curtly — that he was wearing a black wristband, and would do well to behave if he didn’t want to lose it.

But in truth, Jenny wasn’t really paying attention. She was too busy trying to process everything she had seen during the tour… and to brace herself for what was coming next.

After holding Anastasia’s gaze for a long minute — a minute that had felt like it stretched on for hours — Kassandra and she had resumed the tour of Noctis Mir, moving on in turn to the second and third floors.

There, she had discovered, just as announced, the Masters’ Lair — a counterpart, with men this time, to what occupied the left wing of the first floor — as well as a space with a photographer, where clients could have pictures taken with various BDSM accessories or in different bondage positions. She had also seen the third floor, which combined dancing along the balconies, a state-of-the-art BDSM dungeon open for general use, and fully equipped private rooms which, for the latter, were more or less the equivalent of VIP tables in another club. And Jenny had surprised herself by thinking that a private room at Noctis Mir was far more appealing than a VIP table in any other venue.

Noctis Mir had shaken her — both because of what she had seen there and because of the atmosphere that permeated the place. It was a surreal space where celebration and uninhibited desire coexisted. No — more than coexisted, they fed off one another. The alcohol, the music, the décor, and the BDSM undertone stirred the clients more and more as the night went on, creating a festive environment the cheerleader would never have believed could exist.

But as she climbed the steps leading to the fourth floor, none of that mattered anymore. What did matter was what would happen when she reached the top, the level reserved for the Rain family. A place, Kassandra had told her, where no client was ever allowed — and which, every opening night, was watched with the utmost care, in case Anastasia, her father, her mother, her older sister, or one of her two brothers decided to spend the evening at Noctis Mir.

Jenny realized that her time to brace herself was coming to an end when she saw the four massive bouncers standing guard before the silver door leading to the fourth floor.

The line didn’t extend this far up; the clients were waiting a few steps below, no doubt because they knew they would be turned away without ceremony. But Jenny had climbed all the way up, and Kassandra didn’t hesitate to address the four men.

“She can go through,” the brunette said, speaking to the four colossi in a calm, matter-of-fact tone.

The tallest of them nodded, offering a brief smile, and opened the door for Jenny.

She didn’t wait for Kassandra to invite her in. In Anastasia’s manner — though with just a little less confidence — she walked past the bouncers and stepped into the space reserved for the Rain family.

She barely had time to hear Kassandra call out to the rest of the line that Anastasia wouldn’t be seeing anyone tonight (“no one but me,” Jenny thought instinctively) before the door closed behind her.

Jenny found herself in the private antechamber of the Rain floor and, despite having braced herself for it, couldn’t help widening her eyes at the sheer opulence spread out before her.

Noctis Mir was magnificent throughout, but the fourth floor took extravagance to another level.

There was the vast central balcony overlooking the entire club and the dance floor below — the very spot where Anastasia had appeared moments earlier — but that was only the beginning. The rest of the floor opened onto a lavish private space: a large jacuzzi set into the floor, its metallic edges catching and reflecting the pink neon light; nearby, a transparent glass shower tucked into one corner, sleek and luxurious, its chrome fixtures gleaming softly beside the steam.

A massive bar made entirely of white marble stretched along one wall, two bartenders already stationed behind it. Not far from there stood an enormous king-size bed dressed in pink sheets and oversized pillows, facing a low marble coffee table surrounded by deep, sumptuous sofas.

And of course, there was the BDSM equipment — an arsenal nearly rivaling that of the residence dungeon itself. A tall cabinet with transparent doors displayed an entire collection of restraints, gags, and toys. A Saint Andrew’s cross stood against one wall, alongside a spanking bench, a silver-metal cage, and a pink A-frame, all arranged with deliberate elegance.

And at the center of that opulence was Anastasia Rain.

Calm and upright on one of the sofas, still wearing her magnificent dress, she watched the opposite side of the club — where, carved in silver and unseen from the lower levels, the Rain family creed read:

Power requires no consent.

For a few seconds, Jenny found herself standing there, simply watching the young woman, without saying a word — without even moving toward her.

Jenny had always thought Anastasia was rather pretty, but nothing exceptional. She had always considered herself more attractive, and back at college, she had never felt the slightest attraction toward her.

That had changed slightly, despite herself, when she had encountered Anastasia in her dominant role. Her presence, her authority, gave her a real kind of allure — one that made her far more captivating.

But Jenny, trapped by the contract and targeted by the heiress’s abuses, had fought with everything she had to suppress any hint of interest in Anastasia. She was a victim, and she had sworn to herself that she would not fall into some kind of Stockholm syndrome.

And yet, after seeing Anastasia in that sublime — undeniably sexy — evening dress, watching her in her element, in her world, Jenny could no longer deny it.

Anastasia was stunning.

Not in the way other women were. Not like a supermodel. Not like Maya.

But in a way that belonged to her alone.

Realizing how foolish she must look, standing there frozen, Jenny finally started toward the heiress. Anastasia eventually turned her head to look at her, and after a few seconds of silence — during which Jenny closed the distance between them — she spoke.

“My little cheerleader looks rather… flustered,” she said, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

Jenny managed not to blush, but when she opened her mouth, only a jumble of half-formed words came out.

“I— I mean— the club is…”

“Decent,” Anastasia cut in.

“Noctis Mir is decent—for Miami. But it doesn’t compare to our New York club.”

Jenny’s eyes widened, caught off guard by Anastasia’s statement.

She turned toward the balcony and made a broad gesture, indicating the entire club.

“So this,” she said, sweeping her arm through the air, “is just decent to you?”

Anastasia’s lips curved into a mischievous smile.

“Yes. The New York club is… on an entirely different level.”

Their exchange was interrupted when one of the bartenders arrived, carrying a bronze tray with two exquisite crystal glasses filled with vividly colored cocktails. At the same time, Jenny noticed that this server, unlike the others, wasn’t dressed in BDSM attire, but wore a more classic outfit — in the same understated tones as those worn by the staff at the Italian restaurant earlier that evening.

“Lyre’s Amalfi Spritz for Miss Rain,” the bartender said respectfully as he set the glass down in front of Anastasia. “And a French 75 for Miss Miller,” he added, placing the second glass — filled with a sparkling golden drink — on the low table.

The glass had been set closer to Anastasia, sending a clear message to the cheerleader. She was meant to sit beside her. Not on the sofa across from her, nor on the one to her right or left, but on the same couch — and specifically, right next to her.

Jenny waited until the bartender had left, then turned her head toward the heiress.

“I didn’t order anything,” she said, genuinely surprised.

“That’s because you’re not the one who gives the orders here,” Anastasia replied lightly, picking up her own glass. “But I’m pretty sure you’ll like it.”

Maybe it was the wine she’d already had.

Maybe it was the atmosphere of the club.

Either way, Jenny didn’t hesitate for long before sitting down beside Anastasia.

They were side by side now — not touching, but less than a foot apart — a proximity Anastasia seemed to appreciate immediately.

Jenny picked up her glass, quickly forgetting that she’d told Kassandra she wasn’t planning on drinking tonight, and brought it to her lips.

As the elegant crystal suggested, the cocktail was excellent. Champagne, lemon, a hint of sugar… and something sharper beneath it — something she recognized without quite being able to name.

She would only realize later that it was gin

Anastasia nodded, satisfied by her reaction, then shifted on the sofa until her body was almost fully turned toward Jenny.

“So,” she asked with a playful smile, “do you like this place?”

Jenny, still facing the balcony, didn’t turn right away. She didn’t trust herself not to blush — and worse, not to show it. Admitting her fascination privately was one thing. Saying it out loud to Anastasia Rain was another.

“You don’t have to answer,” Anastasia said after a few seconds. “I already know.”

Jenny turned toward her sharply, attempting a look of mock offense. It didn’t work — and she knew it.

Anastasia had seen her in the dungeon, gripping the bars of the cage during Maya’s demonstrations.

She’d seen her reaction when they entered the club.

And more than anything, she’d seen how Jenny’s body had begun, more and more often, to respond against her will to what was being done to her.

“The place is… decent,” Jenny finally said, echoing Anastasia’s earlier description with a trace of humor.

Anastasia laughed, lifting her own glass for a sip.

“I still like coming here,” she said a moment later. “I stop by every time I’m in Miami.”

“Do you come here often?” she asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it. “I mean… to Miami?”

Anastasia shrugged and matched her by taking another sip.

“I used to, mostly to see Maya. But I hadn’t been back for several months.”

It was the first time Anastasia had mentioned her relationship with Maya, and it caught Jenny slightly off guard. She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to react. Normally, a remark like that — tinged with a hint of melancholy — called for something comforting, a soft word of sympathy. But something told her Anastasia wasn’t the kind of woman who wanted to be consoled.

So she stayed quiet, searching for the right words. Once again, it was Anastasia who broke the silence.

“And to think she left me because I suggested she work here,” she said, a faint note of indignation in her voice.

“Seriously?” Jenny blurted out — the word slipping out as she took yet another sip of the cocktail (which was, admittedly, far too good).

“Apparently, I was ‘trying to control her life,’” Anastasia replied, making air quotes as she repeated the phrase. “People have no sense of gratitude anymore. I offer her a job that pays three times what she makes at Le Nœud Violet, and somehow I’m the problem.”

“People can be like that sometimes,” Jenny answered almost immediately, without realizing that the few drinks she’d already had that evening might finally be starting to take effect. “I had the same kind of issue once with my cheerleading team.”

Anastasia’s lips curved into a mischievous smile. She rose from the sofa and headed back toward the balcony. Halfway there, she turned and gestured for Jenny to follow.

Curious to take in the view, the cheerleader complied. She joined Anastasia at the railing, from where the entire club was visible — and where they, too, were visible.

From up there, the club seemed smaller, and the hundreds of patrons, the staff, the DJ… insignificant. Jenny now stood at the very top of this world — the world of Noctis Mir — beside its princess, Anastasia Rain.

This time, the heiress’s appearance on the balcony didn’t set the crowd ablaze the way it had before. The music hadn’t stopped, and people kept dancing and playing. A few noticed them and waved, a few cheers rising here and there. They were rare — but it was enough for Jenny to feel, strangely, a flicker of pride.

A pride she shouldn’t have felt.

A pride that made no sense.

And yet — it was there.

Anastasia turned and took a step toward her. A deliberate step, bringing her close — very close — to Jenny.

Jenny felt herself blush, not so much because of the intrusion into her personal space, but because from where they stood, the entire club could see them. And everyone could see that Anastasia was almost pressed against her.

“But Maya doesn’t interest me anymore,” Anastasia began, her voice slower, softer than usual.

“Oh — oh, really?” Jenny replied, her face burning hotter as her heart began to race.

Anastasia took another small step forward, closing the distance even more. Jenny didn’t move. She didn’t protest, didn’t react to the invasion of her space. Her legs refused to obey. Her mind, slightly clouded by alcohol, spun wildly, searching for every possible reason why she shouldn’t be thinking exactly what she was thinking — even though it felt obvious.

“I’ve had another target for a while now,” the brunette finally said, after several long, unbearable seconds of silence.

Then, without warning — without asking permission — she closed the distance between their faces and kissed her.

It was a dominant kiss — almost possessive.

One that left no space for doubt, no room to pull away.

Anastasia’s lips met Jenny’s with quiet authority, and Jenny responded without thinking, returning the kiss before she even realized she had chosen to. When Anastasia’s tongue pressed gently at her mouth, she yielded, parting her lips to let her in.

And for long seconds, suspended above the club, they remained there on the balcony, kissing openly, exposed to every gaze below.

Somewhere beneath them, Jenny thought she heard applause — or shouts of approval — but she couldn’t be sure, too focused on Anastasia’s eyes, which had remained open throughout the kiss.

Then, at last, the heiress broke away and took a step back. She was smiling — a mischievous, almost triumphant smile. Jenny stayed where she was, facing her, heart racing, her mind scrambling to put words to what had just happened.

She didn’t get the chance.

Anastasia had already turned away from the balcony and was heading toward the bar. When she deemed herself close enough, she snapped her fingers sharply and addressed the two bartenders.

“You two — out. We won’t be needing you anymore tonight.”

The men raised their eyebrows at the order, but didn’t argue. Under Anastasia’s impatient stare — arms crossed, gaze unwavering — they hurried off, leaving the fourth floor without another word.

Jenny and Anastasia were alone now.

The heiress didn’t turn toward Jenny right away. Not yet. She smiled, then moved at an unhurried pace toward the section of the room where the BDSM equipment was arranged, stopping in front of the Saint Andrew’s cross.

When the large metal X was within reach, she finally turned back to her submissive and gave it a light, suggestive tap.

Jenny froze. She understood exactly what Anastasia wanted. She had seen what that device was used for during the afternoon’s “demonstration.”

She hesitated for a few seconds. Too long for Anastasia.

“Am I not being clear?” she asked, her voice authoritative but softer than usual. Almost… amused.

Was it that slightly gentler tone, the lingering echo of the kiss, the faint buzz from the wine at dinner and the cocktail she’d just had, the excitement she’d felt earlier during the demonstrations — or simply Anastasia’s authority that made Jenny move forward? She didn’t know, and likely never would. What mattered was that she did move. Slowly, hesitantly, but she moved nonetheless, until she was standing beside Anastasia, her heart once again beating faster.

“Go on,” the brunette said, her usual mischievous smile still in place. “Get into position.”

And once again, the cheerleader obeyed. She leaned back against the black X, placing her arms and legs where they needed to be, letting her body align with the shape of the structure.

Anastasia, meanwhile, had already turned toward the large cabinet, searching for what she would need next. She returned moments later with four wide steel cuffs that looked like handcuffs, each one stamped with the Rain emblem. From each cuff hung a short chain ending in a small ring that could be opened with a key — a ring Jenny immediately understood could be threaded through the attachment points of the cross, at the wrists and ankles.

Without a word, the brunette placed three of the cuffs on the floor at the foot of the cross, then moved to Jenny’s left with the fourth still in her hand.

Anastasia positioned herself to Jenny’s left and opened the first cuff.

She didn’t wait for permission, nor for any sign of approval. She slipped it around her wrist and snapped it shut in one sharp motion. A faint click confirmed it had locked.

Just as Jenny had expected, Anastasia used a small key to open the ring, gave the chain a slight pull, and threaded it through the anchor point at the upper left end of the cross. There was no click this time — but when the young Rain stepped back, Jenny tested her wrist and immediately felt how firmly it was held in place.

Jenny’s breathing hitched, her heartbeat quickening, as Anastasia bent, retrieved another cuff from the floor, and moved around to her other side. With a swift but careful gesture, Anastasia removed the silver wristband, then closed the cuff around Jenny’s right wrist.

The same soft click echoed — and a few seconds later, her right wrist was chained to the cross as well.

Anastasia didn’t reach for the third cuff right away. Instead, she stepped back and began to circle the cross — and Jenny with it — slowly, deliberately, her piercing gaze never leaving the cheerleader.

She circled her for over a minute, like a predator sizing up its prey. Under the heiress’s scrutiny, Jenny felt her breathing grow even faster, her cheeks burning, utterly unable to escape Anastasia’s eyes.

Neither of them spoke. Anastasia seemed far too pleased with the effect she was having to break the moment with words.

Still without saying a thing, the green-eyed heiress finally moved closer again. She crouched down at Jenny’s feet and began to remove her high heels. Jenny didn’t protest; she simply let it happen, watching. She didn’t react when Anastasia picked up the third cuff, locked it around her left ankle, and secured it to the anchor point. Nor did she resist when her right ankle was treated the same way moments later.

And just like that, it was done.

Jenny was bound to a Saint Andrew’s cross — for the very first time.

Her blush deepened as she realized not only that she was restrained, but that she was restrained in a public place. Yet instead of embarrassment, what rose inside her was something else entirely.

Excitement.

“Now that’s a pretty little cheerleader, just the way I like them,” Anastasia said, resuming her slow circle around her — this time closer than before.

Jenny opened her mouth to answer, but no words came. She didn’t know what she could possibly say.

And besides, she was certain her mistress hadn’t been expecting a reply.

No — the heiress’s game was becoming clear now. And words were not part of it.

Jenny became certain of that midway through one of Anastasia’s slow circuits, when the young woman reached out and brushed her fingers lightly across Jenny’s torso. The touch was brief, nothing more than a graze of fingertips, but it had the desired effect: the cheerleader shivered despite herself, her eyes tracking Anastasia as she moved.

Anastasia met her gaze and touched her again, clearly pleased by the way Jenny’s body reacted. Then she stopped circling and turned back toward the cabinet where the BDSM equipment was stored.

After a few moments rummaging through the cabinet, she returned to the cheerleader holding a leather blindfold.

Jenny parted her lips, as if to protest. She didn’t like blindfolds — and the heiress knew it. But the look Anastasia gave her made her think better of it.

She stepped behind the cross and, without warning, pressed the leather blindfold firmly over Jenny’s eyes. The neon lights, the lavish décor — everything vanished at once, plunging her into complete darkness.

Blindfolded, her limbs chained in place, she was left with only her hearing and her voice to make sense of what was happening — to try, perhaps, to influence Anastasia’s actions.

But in truth, she had no control over how this would unfold. And she knew it.

Anastasia didn’t ask permission. She didn’t seek approval. She commanded — and acted.

The strap of the blindfold was quickly tightened behind her head, securing the darkness.

It was only then, after remaining silent for too long, that Jenny finally managed to speak.

“What if someone comes in?” she asked.

Anastasia let out a soft laugh, then placed her right hand against Jenny’s cheek — a gesture both gentle and authoritative.

“No one comes in here without my permission tonight, my beautiful submissive,” she said, her voice firm, almost sensual.

“And tonight… I’m keeping you all to myself.”

Jenny shivered — at the words, and at the feel of the heiress’s hand against her cheek.

Her body was responding more and more to Anastasia’s advances.

First the kiss.

Then the light touch.

Then the hand on her face.

And now, hands on her hips.

Anastasia pressed herself against her, gripping her hips in a possessive gesture. Then her face moved closer again. She kissed her once more — brief, fleeting — without breaking the physical contact.

Jenny tugged instinctively at the chains, accomplishing nothing except drawing a soft laugh from her mistress.

Anastasia leaned in close to her ear.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she murmured, her voice lower, richer than before.

“You’re mine tonight.”

At last, Anastasia released her hold and stepped away, leaving Jenny alone against the cross — her heart pounding, her breathing unsteady, a fine sheen of sweat beginning to form on her skin.

She didn’t hear the heiress return a few seconds later, too lost in the storm of sensations crashing through her.

But she did hear the order.

“Open your mouth.”

And she obeyed.

Almost immediately, she felt a silicone ball pressed between her lips and recognized it at once — a ball gag.

Once again, the heiress hadn’t asked for her consent.

She didn’t need to. She had the power to silence her.

And power required no consent.

Jenny felt the strap tighten behind her neck, her voice taken from her as well. More helpless than ever, she waited for Anastasia’s next move.

Which didn’t come.

At least — not right away.

For five long minutes, nothing happened.

No new touch.

No deliberately teasing remark from the heiress.

No command.

But she was there.

Jenny could feel Anastasia’s gaze on her, steady and unwavering, and she knew she was waiting.

Waiting for the right moment.

At last, she heard the heiress move. Not toward her — but toward the bar.

There was the soft slide of a drawer opening. The muted sound of someone searching. Then footsteps again, slow and deliberate, returning to her.

Anastasia stopped directly in front of her.

Jenny couldn’t see her, but she felt her presence immediately — close, controlled, undeniable.

“Don’t move,” Anastasia said at last, her voice firm.

“I’m serious.”

“Mmpph?” Jenny breathed instinctively, uncertainty tightening in her chest.

She felt Anastasia’s left hand grip the fabric of her dress at the sternum — not roughly, but with intent — pulling it just taut enough to remove any slack.

Then came the sound.

A precise, unmistakable snip.

Jenny froze.

There was no mistaking it now. Anastasia wasn’t tearing the dress. She was cutting it.

Another careful slice followed, then another — the sound clean, controlled, almost surgical. The fabric resisted for a moment, then yielded, the structured material parting exactly where Anastasia guided the blade.

Jenny felt the tension in the dress release, the garment losing its integrity, its purpose. What had been engineered to sculpt and constrain her body was being methodically dismantled.

A final cut — and the dress opened along her torso, no longer an object of display, but something rendered obsolete.

Three thousand dollars, undone without hesitation.

Not destroyed in anger.

Reclaimed in dominance.

Jenny didn’t protest.

She couldn’t — and she didn’t want to.

That final act of control sent her heart racing even faster, her body trembling in its restraints, caught in a surge of raw, unmistakable excitement.

The heiress seemed to notice. With the same swift, precise motion, she sliced through the fabric of Jenny’s bra.

Now Jenny was almost naked.

The dress lay in tatters, as did the bra.

Only scraps of fabric remained, clinging to her skin — ready to fall away the moment she was freed from the cross, or the moment Anastasia decided to pull them loose.

And beneath it all remained the metal chastity belt — paradoxically, her last piece of armor.

“Much better,” the brunette said at last, brushing aside what was left of the dress and bra until Jenny’s body lay fully exposed to her gaze, save for the belt.

There were no further comments.

She had seen this body before.

She had simply taken it back.

She then began to free Jenny from the cross — wrists first, then ankles.

Moments later, Jenny was released, still blindfolded and gagged.

Instinctively, she lifted a hand toward her face, trying to reach the blindfold — but Anastasia caught her wrist before she could.

“Tsk, tsk. Don’t touch, sweetheart,” she chided, her tone firm but amused.

“I like you just like this. Gagged. Blind. Helpless.”

“Mmphh,” Jenny let out softly.

The heiress paid it no attention. Instead, she took hold of Jenny’s arm and guided her away, leading her toward another part of the room.

They walked only briefly — no more than ten seconds — but the space was vast enough that the cheerleader couldn’t tell where she was being taken, even though she’d been blindfolded for only a few minutes.

“Lie down,” Anastasia finally ordered, her hand settling lightly but firmly at the small of Jenny’s back.

Jenny bent forward, instinctively reaching out with her hands to avoid bumping into anything or hitting the floor. Her fingers brushed against fabric.

Sheets.

The oversized king-size bed, with its pink linens.

She lay down without hesitation. Without even thinking about it. Without doubt. It was almost as if her body had acted on its own, carrying out the heiress’s commands of its own accord.

Anastasia helped position her on the bed, adjusting her until she lay fully stretched out the right way. Then she took hold of the cheerleader’s arms and drew them up above her head, toward the headboard.

Jenny felt the now-familiar sensation of cuffs closing around her wrists, securing them to the bed — to a discreetly placed ring, cleverly integrated into the frame.

She tugged at them instinctively, only to realize her range of movement was no greater than it had been on the cross. Her wrists were bound together above her head, the chain between the cuffs far too short to be of any use.

But that detail barely mattered to her now. What mattered were the sensations — and the certainty that something was coming. Something intense.

She heard Anastasia move away from the bed, then the soft rustle of her handbag being opened. A brief pause followed, leaving Jenny alone in the dark with nothing but her breathing and her racing heartbeat.

Then the club’s electronic music — faint but ever-present even up on the fourth floor — cut off. Abruptly. Just as it had when the heiress had appeared on the balcony.

This time, there was no announcement. No applause. Only a few distant protests at the sudden silence.

A few seconds later, the music returned.

Not the same track. Not something meant for dancing.

Instead, something slow. Louder. Deliberately so — as if the volume had been pushed just to make sure it would reach the fourth floor.

Jenny heard the opening lines of Young and Beautiful by Lana Del Rey drift up through the club, rising all the way to her.

Then she felt Anastasia draw closer.

Closer still.

Until there was no space left between them.

The heiress settled astride her hips, her weight pressing down with deliberate intimacy. Jenny couldn’t see her, couldn’t reach her — but she knew.

Anastasia was naked.

She felt bare skin against her own, unmistakable, undeniable. The realization sent a muffled sound past the gag — something between a breath and a moan.

Around them, the music continued.

It swallowed everything else.

The club.

The dancers.

The staff.

The world below.

There was only the music.

And her.

“It’s about time I had a little fun with my pretty submissive. Don’t you think?” the heiress whispered at her ear, her voice low and sensual.

The movement made her arch more firmly against Jenny’s body, their torsos pressing together, and the cheerleader let out a muffled moan into her gag.

The sensation intensified when Anastasia began kissing her neck — slowly, deliberately, each touch measured and unhurried.

The kisses didn’t rush. They returned again and again, unhurried, as if Anastasia were letting the music dictate the rhythm — lingering, withdrawing, then finding her again in the same place, over and over.

Jenny writhed slightly at first, trying half-heartedly to escape the brunette’s advances, then — overtaken by her own arousal — to keep the contact instead. To make sure Anastasia’s hands, now roaming freely over her bare skin, didn’t stop.

“Mmmph,” the cheerleader whimpered softly as Anastasia’s right hand, which had been hovering near her chest, suddenly drew back.

At the same moment, Lana Del Rey’s song came to an end. The final notes spilled through the club, seeming to signal an imminent shift — a return to the venue’s usual sound.

Will you still love me when I’m not young and beautiful.

Then the song started again.

Louder.

I’ve seen the world

Done it all, had my cake now

From the lower floors came louder protests — shouts, complaints — rising in response.

The volume increased again, as if to drown them out. As if to pretend they didn’t exist. As if to make clear that they didn’t matter.

As if to state that Anastasia Rain’s will outweighed the objections of the hundreds of patrons below.

Power requires no consent.

Anastasia leaned back toward Jenny’s ear.

“It’s time to get serious now. Don’t you think?”

“Mmmmph…” the cheerleader moaned again, her excitement now evident in every line of her body.

She felt Anastasia shift slightly, lifting herself just enough to reposition — not to move away, but to reach the lock of her chastity belt.

Jenny felt the key slide in.

Turn.

Click.

The metal belt — her last barrier — fell away.

It was removed quickly, leaving her completely exposed now, utterly at Anastasia’s mercy. The heiress settled back over her, leaning close once more, her hand gliding from Jenny’s hips up along her torso as she moved.

Then she spoke again, her voice firm, deliberate.

“Do you want me, my pretty thing? Do you want your mistress?”

Jenny went very still.

This was the moment of truth.

The moment of choice.

The one beyond which she could no longer claim to be a victim.

Behind them, the music continued to pulse.

Then she nodded — and let out a soft, broken sound into her gag.

The point of no return had been crossed.

“Good girl.”

***

Silence had settled over Noctis Mir hours ago.

The neon lights were off, the clients gone — back home to recover from the night and sleep it off.

But on the fourth floor, Anastasia Rain was still awake.

Naked in the vast bed draped in pink sheets, faintly lit by one of the last remaining rose neons, she waited.

Beside her, Jenny slept.

Naked as well.

Asleep amid the traces of their night together, the scattered accessories that had been used long after midnight.

Anastasia turned her head toward her, her gaze cold — calculating.

Yes. She was sleeping deeply this time.

Carefully, without waking the cheerleader, Anastasia shifted slightly and reached for the handbag she’d left on the floor beside the bed. She opened it and retrieved what she was looking for: her phone.

She straightened a little more, unlocked it, and dimmed the screen to its lowest brightness.

Then — after checking once again that Jenny was still sound asleep — she opened Instagram.

She tapped the search bar and typed six letters:

MayaNV**.**

The waitress’s profile appeared on the screen.

Maya. So beautiful. So enticing. So playful.

Anastasia tapped Send message.

Then the camera icon.

She raised the phone, flipped the camera.

Her own face appeared on the screen, faintly illuminated.

She pressed and held.

For a long, deliberate moment, she remained perfectly still, staring into the lens, her expression hard — unreadable**.**

Then she slowly tilted her wrist, adjusting the angle until Jenny came into frame.

Jenny — and the many accessories that had been used on her throughout the night.

She held the shot there for a moment.

Long enough to make sure nothing could be missed.

Then she turned the camera back toward herself.

A slow smile spread across her lips — playful, almost contemptuous.

She winked.

The message was sent.

End of chapter.

March 17, 2025 — Miami, Brickell District (Florida) — 10:15 p.m.

Anastasia Rain’s Lamborghini Urus had been weaving through Miami’s streets for about half an hour, and had just reached the Brickell district.

Slightly tipsy from the three glasses of wine she’d had at dinner, Jenny watched the city slide past the window on her left from the SUV’s rear seat, a faint knot of tension in her stomach.

The alcohol helped her relax—but it didn’t silence the thought that kept circling in her head:

everything about the evening felt a little too… normal.

The dress.

The overpriced restaurant.

A night out clubbing.

At some point, this was bound to go off the rails.

The club would turn out to be some creepy, suffocating place.

Or worse—a strip club, where Anastasia would force her to go on stage.

That last thought sent a chill up her spine, and she instinctively turned, ready to protest preemptively. But she stopped mid-breath when she realized Anastasia wasn’t plotting anything—she was calmly touching up her lipstick. And at that exact moment, the car began to roll past an exceptionally long line of people waiting outside on the sidewalk.

“We’re here,” the heiress said with a playful smile when she noticed Jenny staring at the endless queue.

The car kept moving for a few more seconds before finally stopping by the entrance of the building, right where the long line Jenny had seen earlier began.

The building itself, which the cheerleader could only partially make out from her seat, seemed to be a tall tower in the typical Miami style — except that, at least at its base, it was made of dark glass that revealed the club’s lobby, with a row of receptionists, grey-and-pink neon lights, and furniture that looked like it had been lifted straight out of the nineteenth century.

The entrance was guarded by eight massive men in dark suits — four keeping an eye on the street, and four managing the growing line of people waiting outside.

“Welcome to Noctis Mir,” Anastasia said with an amused smile as she caught her intrigued expression.

The name of the place meant nothing to Jenny, partly because she didn’t know the nightlife scene in Miami. But one thing was clear: this didn’t look like a shady dive. And certainly not a strip club.

Anastasia finally opened her door and stepped out, cutting off Jenny’s train of thought.

Jenny remained still for a few seconds, waiting—ridiculously—for Anastasia’s cue to step out.

Once she realized it, she flushed, opened her own door, and got out.

Because she was sitting on the left side of the car, she stepped out directly onto the street, as far from the entrance as possible without crossing the road — which confirmed some of her assumptions. The building really was a tower. Smaller than she had imagined — probably no more than twenty stories — but entirely made of dark glass, more opaque from the third floor upwards. The name of the establishment — Noctis Mir — was displayed both in the lobby, visible from outside, and on the building itself, written in silver letters in a modern calligraphy.

But what truly struck the cheerleader wasn’t the building.

No, it was the reaction of the security staff and the people in line now that Anastasia had appeared.

The bouncers had stopped what they were doing and had apparently paused the entry process altogether. And everyone seemed to accept it without protest. The people at the front of the line (the ones with the best view) were watching the heiress with a mix of fascination and respect, as if they had just come face-to-face with a movie star.

Anastasia, meanwhile, ignored all the staring and turned toward Jenny, waiting for her to walk around the car and reach the sidewalk.

Once she had, the heiress gave her a brief nod and headed confidently toward the bouncers, skipping the line altogether. Jenny stopped for a few seconds, expecting someone to say something to Anastasia.

Sure, the heiress was rich.

But rich enough to ignore all those people (who didn’t exactly look broke either) and walk straight to the entrance without even introducing herself or getting ready to argue? It made no sense.

One of the bouncers was going to stop her. Put her back in her place. Send them to the end of the long line. There was no way they’d just let her through. Especially when she didn’t even seem inclined to speak to them.

Yet that was exactly what happened.

When they reached the entrance, the bouncers didn’t ask for ID, didn’t insist on checking her small Louis Vuitton handbag. They simply greeted her and stepped aside.

Anastasia walked past them without saying a word. No hello, no thank you, not even a glance.

Jenny was left a few steps behind, mouth slightly open, eyes wide at the sheer surrealism of the scene.

“What are you waiting for?” Anastasia asked, looking genuinely surprised to see her still standing near the car.

The cheerleader flushed and hurried after her, nearly stumbling in the high heels Anastasia had made her wear.

Just as with Anastasia, no one stopped her. In fact, the bouncers didn’t seem to notice her at all; they had already gone back to their work, and one of them was arguing with the first person in line.

“Money or not, without a wristband, you’re not getting in,” the bouncer was saying firmly to a guy in his early twenties who was waving a wad of bills under his nose.

“Come on, I told you, I left it at home!”

Jenny didn’t linger on the exchange. She had to catch up with Anastasia, who had already stepped into the lobby and was striding purposefully toward one of the reception desks.

The receptionist she was heading toward — a young woman in her twenties with long blond hair — cast a slightly panicked look toward her more experienced colleagues. They nodded reassuringly, and by the time the heiress reached her counter, she had managed to steady herself.

“Miss Rain, it’s an honor to welcome you tonight,” she said politely, smiling as best she could despite her nerves.

Anastasia ignored the receptionist and turned her head slightly to check where Jenny was. When the cheerleader was almost at the counter, she finally turned back to the employee.

“Thank you,” she said in response to the woman’s greeting. “Jenny will need a silver wristband,” she added, her tone firm.

The receptionist blinked, eyes wide, and glanced toward her colleague on the right, as if asking for permission.

Seeing the hesitation, the heiress smiled and leaned in over the counter, just enough to close the distance. She lifted her right hand to the young woman’s cheek — gentle, yet unmistakably firm — and guided her face back toward her.

Her wide eyes met Anastasia’s — playful, amused… and unmistakably authoritative.

“Since when do receptionists decide what my family’s guests can or can’t have?” she asked, her tone sharp, without showing any real threat.

The receptionist flushed instantly, stammered something, then opened her drawer and pulled out a metal wristband in a silvery shade, engraved with a large R that almost covered its entire width.

“Good girl,” the brunette said, taking the bracelet before turning and holding it out to Jenny.

The cheerleader didn’t react right away — too stunned by what she had just witnessed. Anastasia had taken hold of a nightclub receptionist’s face and… intimidated her? Teased her? It was hard to say what the gesture really was. But one thing was certain: her heart had decided — without bothering to ask her — to beat a little faster at the sight.

“Your wrist, please,” Anastasia instructed when she saw Jenny wasn’t moving.

Jenny immediately pulled herself together and offered her right wrist, allowing the heiress to slip the band on and lock it. The movement made her realize that the bracelet, which looked like a regular luxury accessory, actually closed with the same sound as a pair of handcuffs. There was no key required to open it, but the effect still sent a shiver through her.

“What’s it for?” the cheerleader finally asked once Anastasia let go of her wrist.

“To access every service in the club,” she replied with a hint of amusement, walking toward a recessed area of the lobby, invisible from the street, where a row of elevators waited. She stopped halfway, turning back to Jenny: “And it also gives you unlimited drinks.”

Jenny rolled her eyes and followed the heiress, not without casting one last look at the receptionist — who was now exchanging bewildered glances with her colleagues, one of whom, the oldest, seemed to be whispering a mild reprimand.

The elevator was already on the ground floor, so the doors slid open almost immediately when Anastasia pressed the button, revealing the same pink-and-gray hues that dominated the lobby.

Anastasia stepped inside and shifted slightly to let Jenny enter. As she did, the cheerleader noticed that the tower didn’t seem to have nearly as many floors as she’d assumed from outside.

It clearly wasn’t the twenty-story building she’d imagined; only nine floors appeared on the panel, with levels 1 and 2 marked for staff, and the ninth for management.

The heiress pressed the button for the third floor. The doors closed at once, and the elevator began to rise. She turned to Jenny, a playful glint in her eyes.

“Ready?”

“Ready for what?” Jenny asked, part curious, part uneasy.

Anastasia didn’t get a chance to answer, because the doors slid open at that exact moment, revealing the main floor of Noctis Mir.

And what Jenny saw felt unreal.

From the elevator, Jenny couldn’t take in the full layout of the place. The angle was too high, too narrow — yet she still saw enough for her breath to catch.

The Noctis Mir was built around a vast open atrium rising through all four floors of the tower. Directly below, the main dance floor, easily large enough for several hundred people, pulsed like a blazing heart, sending waves of pink and metallic-gray light upward into the space.

On two sides of the atrium, above the ground-floor bars, she could make out the first tier of balconies: wide galleries running along the walls, busy with people drinking, talking, leaning over the railings to watch the crowd below. Higher up, the upper floors repeated the pattern: more balconies stacked above the bars, each one serving as the front edge of private rooms and lounges set further back.

From where she stood, Jenny could only glimpse these rooms — doorways, silhouettes, flashes of movement — but it was enough to understand that whatever happened inside was shielded from the main hall, even though every balcony still overlooked the dance floor.

At the very top, a fourth-floor balcony jutted further into the void than the others, forming a kind of suspended arch rimmed with pink neon. Even from the elevator, its presence dominated the entire space, a watchful perch above the club.

The place was stunning — lavish, even — blending nineteenth-century grandeur with modern spectacle. A space that breathed wealth, power, and money.

But “unreal” was still the word that lodged itself in Jenny’s mind as she stood frozen in the elevator.

Because if it had only been the décor, the balconies, the neon, the marble… she might have simply called it magnificent or grand. But Noctis Mir was not just a beautiful place.

It was unmistakably a Rain stronghold.

The enormous silver RAIN in sweeping calligraphy above the fourth-floor balcony made that perfectly clear. The Rain family had even thought of the near-sighted: their name appeared above the bars and on various walls throughout the club.

And then there was everything else…

The servers — men and women — all wearing leather or provocatively cut outfits. One waitress in a full violet latex suit, complete with a ball gag. A shirtless man in a hood. Another woman dressed only in lingerie.

Three young women in evening dresses, bound and gagged on chairs beside the DJ as he blasted music across the room.

And the cages.

From the elevator, Jenny could count eight metal cages set directly on the dance floor and six more suspended by cables about two meters above the ground. All of them occupied — by men and women in evening wear, some dancing, some drinking, some tied up or gagged in one way or another, trying to move to the music regardless.

Jenny’s gaze met that of one of the women inside a suspended cage — a slender redhead in a tiny red dress, half dancing, half struggling playfully against the handcuffs holding her wrists above her head. A leather gag covered the lower half of her face, silencing her completely. But her eyes — slightly hazy with alcohol yet bright with unmistakable amusement — told their own story.

Jenny finally turned to Anastasia, her eyes wide.

“What is this place?” she asked once she managed to find her voice.

“It’s a little family establishment,” Anastasia said with a hint of amusement. “A BDSM nightclub.”

Jenny, who still hadn’t stepped out of the elevator, turned her head back toward the dance floor and widened her eyes even more.

A BDSM nightclub? How could a place like this even exist?

She was about to ask Anastasia another question when the elevator doors slid shut right in front of her. Completely absorbed by what she had just witnessed, she had forgotten to follow the brunette out — and of course, someone downstairs had already called the elevator.

“Damn it!” she muttered, pressing the button in the hope of reopening the doors.

But it was too late — the elevator had already begun its descent back to the ground floor.

When the doors finally slid open, she found herself face-to-face with a group of four women and two men, none of them older than thirty. All wore bracelets similar to hers — only theirs were black.

One of the girls, a pretty blonde with a tight green dress and a feathered mask, lit up when she saw her.

“Oh my god, that’s the girl who arrived with Anastasia Rain!”

“You’re leaving already?” one of the men asked, sounding a little surprised.

Jenny flushed, abruptly aware of how ridiculous the situation was.

“N–no. I just… forgot to step out of the elevator.”

The group burst out laughing and squeezed inside.

“Can you introduce us to her?” the girl in the green dress called out as the doors were closing.

The five others nodded eagerly, their enthusiasm throwing Jenny off balance.

Anastasia seemed to be some kind of superstar here — far more than her status as owner, or daughter of the owner, would have suggested.

It unsettled Jenny more than she wanted to admit.

Back on campus, she had always assumed the brunette was rich, yes — but shy, unpopular, easy to overlook. And even after discovering that Anastasia had played everyone and hid her true nature, Jenny had still imagined her as fundamentally solitary. Not someone admired.

Walking into Noctis Mir shattered all of those assumptions and deepened the mystery that was Anastasia Rain. There existed a world in which the young woman was known, feared, respected — even coveted.

“So?” the woman insisted.

Jenny had no idea what to answer — and in any case, she didn’t get the chance.

The moment the doors reopened, she and the six other patrons found themselves face-to-face with a woman clearly waiting for her.

And she was stunning.

About five foot nine — not counting her stilettos — with the kind of slender, model-like figure that made everything she wore look tailored to perfection. An oval, perfectly symmetrical face, large almond-shaped gray eyes, and long brown hair falling to her waist. She wore a sleeveless black dress and stood with one hand on her hip, a faint trace of annoyance tugging at her expression despite her attempts to hide it.

“Miss Jenny?” she asked in a tone that was only pretending to be a question.

“Yes?” Jenny replied, instinctively glancing around for Anastasia — without spotting her.

“I’m Kassandra. Miss Rain asked me to show you around the club, and then bring you to her,” she explained, her voice calm but unmistakably haughty.

“What about us?” the woman in green cut in, clearly unwilling to let the opportunity slip past. “We want to spend the evening with Anastasia too.”

Kassandra turned toward her, looked her up and down, and made a small irritated grimace.

“Anastasia Rain doesn’t spend her evenings with nobodies.”

Jenny blushed, embarrassed by both the bluntness of the remark and the immediate protests rising from the group.

The threat of having them thrown out sent them scattering, and Jenny was left alone — still inside the elevator — facing Kassandra.

“Miss, you do eventually have to step out of the elevator,” Kassandra said, exasperation creeping into her voice.

Jenny flushed a little and finally stepped out, finding herself truly inside the club.

The music was loud, but cleverly calibrated — loud enough to vibrate through the space, yet soft enough that people could still talk, at least as long as they weren’t standing on the dance floor.

Kassandra started walking toward the bar on the left side of the room, deliberately avoiding the center of the dance floor. Jenny took that as her cue and hurried after her.

Once the brunette was close enough to the bar, she turned to the cheerleader.

“Okay, you’ve got two bars in the main hall,” she said, nodding toward the one on the opposite side. “They serve the exact same thing, so don’t overthink it.”

Without even glancing back, she lifted her right hand and pointed her thumb toward a small sign mounted above the counter. On it were drawings of different-colored wristbands, each followed by a short description:

Black — Standard Access

No discounts, no special perks. But you’re at Noctis Mir… and that’s already a privilege.

Blue — Preferred Guest

The family likes you.

25% off all drinks.

White — Inner Circle

You’re almost one of us. 50% off all drinks

Priority access to the bar and activities

Silver — Executive Access

Our doors open for you. Unlimited drinks. Immediate access to every space and activity. Priority treatment from the staff.

Jenny lowered her eyes to the silver wristband Anastasia had given her and suddenly understood — truly understood — that the heiress had handed her something with real weight in this world. Before she could stop herself, a small smile pulled at her lips. She didn’t even know why… only that the gesture meant far more than she’d realized at first.

“Anastasia gave you a silver band, so go ahead and enjoy yourself,” Kassandra continued, sounding mildly bored. “Just don’t overdo it. The Rain family doesn’t appreciate guests throwing up in their clubs.”

“I’m not planning on drinking anyway,” Jenny said, defensive.

Kassandra let out a short, disbelieving laugh — the kind that said sure, whatever you say.

She pointed toward the nearest cage. “If that’s your thing, you can ask to go inside one of the cages,” she explained, still without looking at what she was gesturing to. “Normally they open every thirty minutes to rotate people, but you — with a silver band — can take anyone’s spot whenever you want.”

The idea of stepping into a cage voluntarily — of putting herself on display to dance — felt surreal to Jenny. The idea of using her bracelet to evict someone felt even more absurd.

And yet, as her gaze drifted back to the redhead she’d noticed earlier — still swaying, wrists cuffed overhead, leather gag over her mouth — Jenny felt a small, unwelcome spark of excitement rise in her chest.

“You can go in as you are,” Kassandra went on. “But if you want to go in tied up, gagged, chained, hooded — whatever — just ask a waiter or a waitress, and they’ll take care of it.”

Jenny let out a small laugh.

A laugh that surprised even her — and she immediately blushed under the brunette’s gaze.

Kassandra didn’t react. Instead, she simply stepped aside and pointed toward the DJ — and more importantly, the four girls tied to the chairs beside him.

“Same rules for the spot next to the DJ,” she said briskly, before turning and heading toward the stairs.

The cheerleader surprised herself by following with a steady, almost eager pace, the apprehension she’d felt at first nearly gone.

They skirted the edge of the dancefloor until they reached the staircase and began to climb. It was long, rising all the way up to the top, broken by landings that opened onto wings extending to each side.

When they reached the first floor, Kassandra turned her head to the right, tilting it just enough to indicate where Jenny should look.

And once again, Jenny was faced with something unbelievable.

From the platform, she had a clear view of the right balcony running along the atrium — where people were dancing, laughing, drinking — and just behind it, through a wide glass opening, she could see into the side room.

Inside, a crowd had gathered around a small raised platform, maybe twenty-five square meters in size, on which stood three women… completely naked.

Not in lingerie.

Not “almost” naked.

Truly naked — aside from the intricate ropes binding their bodies.

One of the women was Asian, no older than thirty. She had a slender but toned build, short blond hair, and was bound on the platform in a hogtie — an especially strict one. Her wrists were secured behind her back in a box tie, a rope harness pinning her arms firmly in place. Her legs were bound at the ankles, as well as above and below the knees, and a rope ran from the back of the harness down to her ankles, forcing her legs to remain lifted at a right angle to her body. A black ball gag filled her mouth, muffling any protest — though the look in her eyes and the way she writhed against her restraints made it clear she was more irritated than distressed.

The second woman was a petite blonde with soft, generous curves. She was restrained just as tightly, but in a frogtie — a position that, given her nudity, made her appear even more exposed. Her hands were bound behind her back, palm to palm, and ropes placed above and below her chest kept her arms firmly secured. Several layers of tape were wrapped around the lower half of her face, silencing her completely.

The third woman was more intriguing still.

Not because of the way she was bound — in fact, she was already partly free. She had managed to slip her wrists loose, which Jenny was certain had been tied behind her back like the others’. The ropes above and below her chest, meant to keep her arms restrained, were still in place, but with her hands free, it was only a matter of time. The bindings around her legs would no doubt follow soon after.

No — what truly caught Jenny’s attention was how closely this woman resembled Kassandra.

She was practically her double: the same build, the same silhouette, the same facial structure — though a generous layer of tape covered her mouth. Only her hair differed, cut shorter, falling just to her shoulders.

Jenny turned toward Kassandra, a questioning look on her face.

The woman caught it immediately and let out a tired sigh.

“That’s my little sister,” she said flatly. “She’s always around. Too much, if you ask me.”

“And what exactly is going on here?” Jenny asked, her gaze still fixed on the three women writhing on the platform.

“This is where the escape artist competitions take place,” Kassandra replied calmly. “Clients — and sometimes staff — compete to see who can free themselves the fastest.” She paused, a faint smile touching her lips as she noticed her sister had managed to slip another rope loose.

“My sister’s good at this.”

Jenny had noticed — it was hard not to. For a few seconds, she watched Kassandra’s sister continue her slow, methodical progress toward freedom, the crowd cheering her on. Beside her, the other two women redoubled their efforts, desperate to catch up and overtake her. They searched for knots, twisted against their restraints, cursed into their gags — but with little immediate success.

“The competition’s popular,” Kassandra added, catching the cheerleader’s barely concealed interest, “because the winner gets to take the losers home for the night.”

She glanced back at Jenny, her tone sharpening just a touch.

“So you’re not participating,” she said flatly. “If you lose, it’s going to cause problems with Anastasia.”

For a few seconds, the idea of taking part crossed Jenny’s mind.

Not because the game itself appealed to her, but simply to get on Anastasia’s nerves.

She quickly dismissed the thought — partly because she now knew exactly what the heiress was capable of, and partly because she wasn’t sure she could handle the consequences of losing.

She turned her head toward the balcony on the left, which was also visible from where she stood, and noticed that something was happening there as well. People were drinking and dancing along the railing, but further back, she spotted what looked like a small line — maybe ten people — forming.

Kassandra noticed her gaze and motioned for her to follow. They walked for a few seconds, skirting along the line rather than joining it, and stopped at the edge of the balcony, right beside a small group — and directly facing the queue.

From this new vantage point, Jenny could see that the line had formed in front of three separate spaces, their entrances concealed behind long pink curtains. Just before them, painted on the wall in glowing pink lettering, was an inscription:** **The Mistresses’ Lair.

At that very moment, one of the curtains parted, and a woman in her thirties stepped out briskly from the room it had concealed. She was slick with sweat, flushed—but unmistakably satisfied.

A few seconds later, an African American woman with short hair emerged behind her, dressed in leather, a whip coiled loosely in her hand.

“So,” she called out to the line, “who wants to come have some fun with Mistress Ivy?”

The first person declined—probably waiting for another mistress to become available—but the man right behind him jumped at the opportunity.

“Clients can come here to spend thirty minutes with one of the mistresses employed by Noctis Mir,” Kassandra explained, catching Jenny’s questioning look. “And upstairs, it’s the same thing—but with masters.”

A nightclub with cages on the dancefloor, upper levels hosting escape-artist competitions, masters and mistresses available on demand… all of it housed in an extraordinary setting. Noctis Mir checked every box of a place that was unusual, surreal, and yet undeniably exciting to Jenny.

More than anything, the sheer number of people made her realize just how alive and expansive the BDSM community really was. A community she now belonged to, at least in part—whether because it had become impossible to deny her interest in the practice, or simply because of the bracelet circling her wrist.

She turned to Kassandra. The young woman looked perfectly at ease, completely in her element—almost blasé, which felt strangely out of place in such an exotic, charged atmosphere.

“So… what exactly do you do here?” Jenny finally dared to ask, having noticed that Kassandra wasn’t wearing a bracelet.

“I’m the club’s head of communications,” the brunette replied. “I was supposed to go home, but Anastasia caught me by the elevators and asked me to show you around.”

“Oh.” Jenny answered immediately, a note of embarrassment creeping into her voice. She hadn’t imagined that an executive would be pulled in just to give her a tour. “Sorry for keeping you from going home.”

Kassandra didn’t reply. Her gaze was fixed on her sister, who was finally on the verge of freeing herself completely. She sighed inwardly, fully aware of what that meant.

The night in the apartment they shared was going to be… eventful.

The music suddenly cut out.

Not fading.

Not easing down.

It stopped.

A ripple of surprise ran through the club, voices rising, bodies slowing, heads turning instinctively toward the DJ booth. The lights dimmed slightly, the pink and metallic glow settling into something heavier, more expectant.

Then the DJ’s voice echoed through the atrium.

“Ladies and gentlemen… tonight, Noctis Mir has the honor of welcoming one of its own.”

A pause.

Perfectly timed.

“Please welcome… Anastasia Rain.”

The reaction was immediate.

Cheers erupted from every level — from the dance floor, from the balconies, from the private rooms. Whistles, applause, raised glasses. The name moved through the crowd like a spark through dry air.

Jenny’s breath caught.

High above them, on the fourth-floor balcony — the one that arched over the void, framed in neon, impossible to ignore — a figure stepped forward.

Anastasia.

She stood there alone, perfectly upright, her silhouette washed in silver and pink neon light. One hand was gripping the railing, the other hidden behind her back.

The heiress didn’t smile. She didn’t wave. She simply looked down over the club with that sharp, unyielding gaze, utterly indifferent to the uproar her appearance had caused.

Her eyes moved slowly across the room, never lingering on anyone, as if the crowd below — all those people — were nothing more than a negligible mass, hardly worth her attention.

Then she stopped.

Her green eyes locked onto Jenny’s.

Jenny stood several meters below her, yet the pressure of Anastasia’s presence reached her all the same. She felt her heart begin to pound harder, her breathing quicken — and still, she couldn’t look away.

The crowd, the neon lights, the décor — for a few seconds, everything around her seemed to fade, as though nothing mattered anymore except that dominant silhouette on the fourth floor.

Anastasia didn’t blink. She held Jenny’s gaze, impermeable to the chaos still roaring around them.

Jenny understood then that domination — real domination — didn’t always need rules or signatures.

Some power simply existed, undeniable and unquestioned.

And Anastasia Rain had been wielding it long before any contract was ever written.

End of chapter

Hey everyone,

After a few months of not posting on this subreddit, due to not being able to upload my chapters here (apparently they were too long), I’ve decided to work around it by splitting them into smaller parts.

So here’s part 1 of chapter 8. Part 2 will be posted right after.

Enjoy the read :)

March 17, 2025 — Miami (Florida) — 8:40 p.m.

When Jenny had agreed to join this BDSM spring break, hoping to make Anastasia fall in love with her and take advantage of her generosity, she had imagined hopping from one party spot to the next, spending afternoons at the beach and, eventually, playing a few light BDSM games.

Obviously, she had quickly come down from that fantasy after being trapped herself by Anastasia and her sadistic contract. No beach, no parties, and certainly no “light” BDSM — but instead nearly two whole days alone with her new mistress, who had proven to her that Christian Grey, the main character in Fifty Shades of Grey (Jenny was a fan — maybe a sign of things to come…), was more a slightly lost billionaire than a real dominant.

Then came Le Nœud Violet. And Maya. Then the dungeon. Then Anastasia returning in a stunning dress, ready to conquer the world.

And now this: her, wearing the black dress she had tried on earlier in the afternoon, and Anastasia, seated across from her in one of the most elegant restaurants in Miami.

Casa Aurelia was an institution in Miami for anyone who loved Italian restaurants.

At least, that’s what Anastasia had told her on the way in.

And Jenny could only take her at her word — she had never set foot in the place, nor had she ever taken an interest in it.

The reason?

First of all, the prices.

With $98 for the “Spaghetti al Pomodoro con Basilico Genovese D.O.P.” (basically pasta with tomato sauce), and $100 for a Margherita pizza (and those were the lowest prices), Jenny would never have dared walk into the place.

Second, the place itself. The dining room looked nothing like the loud, flashy image Jenny had of Miami. No neon signs, no minimalist marble cubes pretending to be tables. Casa Aurelia felt… timeless. The lighting was soft, golden, almost intimate. Voices didn’t echo — they stayed close to the tables, as if the place itself encouraged secrets.

Large windows framed the bay outside, the last light of the day fading over the water. A few palm trees swayed lazily in the distance, reflected in the glass like a painting someone had hung for dramatic effect. Indoors, everything was warm tones and dark wood, simple but impossibly refined — the kind of elegance that didn’t need to brag.

Nothing here screamed luxury, yet everything whispered it. The porcelain plates, the heavy cutlery, the knives that looked like they had never touched a cheap meal. Even the servers moved with a precision Jenny had only ever seen in movies, efficient, discreet, perfectly choreographed. It was the kind of place where money didn’t show, it behaved.

And finally, there was the obstacle course you had to go through to get a reservation — something that would have discouraged her long before, even if she’d somehow had the money. Getting a table here required booking at least three months in advance. And she knew that because it was exactly what the host had told them when Anastasia and she had shown up without a reservation.

Oh, he had been categorical: “We are fully booked, miss. But if you want, I can reserve a table for two on July 9th at 6:30 p.m.”

Anastasia had laughed — a small, amused laugh Jenny had learned to recognize.

They had stepped outside for a moment, and the heiress had made a phone call — the content of which Jenny hadn’t heard.

And then the employee had come running after them to announce that, miraculously, a couple had just canceled their reservation.

The words sent a chill down Jenny’s spine, and for a split second she had almost spoken up — not to correct him, but to question the coincidence.

The fact that another employee was, at that exact moment, announcing to a newly arrived couple that their reservation had been canceled had convinced Jenny to simply follow Anastasia — who had remained perfectly composed all the way to their table.

They had been sitting there for twenty minutes now, giving off the impression of a perfectly normal pair — unusually well dressed, maybe, even for a restaurant this elegant.

Of course, none of it was normal. Jenny was still wearing her chastity belt underneath her dress, and she was still tied to Anastasia by that contract.

And yet something had shifted.

And not just since they’d arrived at the restaurant (which could have explained Anastasia adjusting her behavior to suit the setting).

Ever since she had walked back into the dungeon wearing that dress, Anastasia had been… different. Calm, collected, analytical. She hadn’t threatened her once. Hadn’t demanded anything humiliating.

In fact, she had barely spoken to her at all — mostly just observed her with those sharp, piercing eyes.

As if she were, for the first time, genuinely interested in the person sitting across from her.

Or as if she were plotting something.

With Anastasia, either possibility was entirely believable.

It wasn’t until the dishes had been served — the pomodoro pasta for Jenny, the pesto for Anastasia, and a bottle of wine worth several hundred dollars — and after Jenny had already taken a few bites and sipped from her glass, that the heiress finally decided to speak.

“Tell me, Jenny,” she began in a calm voice, “why did you try to manipulate me in the first place?”

Jenny nearly choked on the pasta in her mouth.

She had never confessed that she’d suggested the BDSM spring break to take advantage of her — and even if she knew now that Anastasia had figured everything out, she had never imagined she would bring it up so openly.

Seeing the cheerleader cough and struggle, Anastasia reached for the wine bottle and refilled Jenny’s glass — without pouring any for herself.

“Maybe the real question is: why now?” she continued, as Jenny, red with embarrassment, took a long swallow of wine, hoping it would both stop her coughing and somehow give Anastasia time to forget the question.

“You talked to me several times on campus during the last two years,” she went on, leaning deliberately on the words with an amused tone, “but unlike some of our classmates, you never seemed… interested in taking advantage of poor little timid, fragile Anastasia Rain.”

Jenny tried to keep coughing for a few seconds longer, hoping a waiter might show up and offer something—anything—that could serve as a distraction.

But nothing of the sort happened.

And Anastasia was still staring at her.

“Th—this pasta is delicious,” she finally managed, for lack of a better idea.

Anastasia didn’t answer.

She didn’t smile either.

She simply held Jenny’s gaze, making her understand instantly what it meant.

She wanted an answer.

Jenny bit her lip lightly, her brain working at full speed. Two days earlier, she had already decided not to lie, not to pretend she hadn’t tried to trap her, or that she’d always been genuinely interested in Anastasia. And the reasons that had led her there were still the same.

She hesitated a moment longer, then let out a quiet sigh. She made sure no one was listening, then finally spoke.

“Anastasia… I’m not exactly doing great financially,” she said quietly.

“My mom lost her job two months ago. Since then, things have been… complicated.”

She paused, cheeks flushing even more.

“And… everyone at college was already taking something from you. People said you didn’t care about the money. I thought it wouldn’t mean much.”

There was a brief silence—then Anastasia laughed.

“An emotional scam without a victim. That’s a new one.”

Jenny shifted awkwardly in her chair, uncomfortable and afraid someone might have overheard.

Of course, she felt awful. Not because she’d been caught—she had already started feeling guilty as soon as her little plan had been set in motion. But until these last few minutes, she had almost forgotten she was partly responsible for her situation. After all, the real victim here was her. She only wanted a millionaire to cover part of her tuition. Anastasia had tricked her and turned her into her submissive.

She knew she wasn’t completely innocent in all this—but any reasonable analysis of the situation should, in her eyes, still recognize her status as the victim.

She was still lost in her thoughts when Anastasia spoke again.

“I forgive you.”

The sudden statement, with nothing leading up to it, caught Jenny completely off guard.

First, her eyebrows lifted.

Then her cheeks flushed.

Her mind rushed through several stages in just a few seconds.

The initial shame, then suspicion at this abrupt forgiveness, followed by embarrassment.

Forgiving someone required being hurt.

Which meant the heiress was implying she had suffered because of Jenny’s scheme.

That thought consumed her for several long seconds as she watched the brunette take her first bite of pasta.

Ever since she had been trapped by the heiress, Jenny had pushed her own shame aside — even forgetting she might be partly responsible for her situation.

Anastasia’s questions, then this sudden pardon, had thrown the truth right back in her face.

She wasn’t the innocent victim she had comfortably pretended to be for the past two days.

She stared at the Rain heiress for several more seconds, trying to gauge just how much her little emotional scam might have hurt her. But she couldn’t read anything.

Anastasia was eating her pasta, watching her with a faintly amused expression, revealing nothing of what she felt.

“Eat,” Anastasia finally told her with a smile.** **“It’ll get cold otherwise.”

The remark snapped Jenny out of her thoughts, and she grabbed her fork quickly — relieved to have a chance to change the subject.

Food, at least, was something she knew how to deal with.

As she ate, drank, and answered Anastasia’s surprisingly simple questions (do you have brothers or sisters, what’s your favorite type of food — strange), she began to notice the looks coming from the tables around them.

Or rather — the looks aimed at Anastasia.

This world was her world.

A world of wealth and power.

And she seemed to draw the eyes of the powerful — or the rich — sitting around them, people who seemed to recognize her.

“Don’t mind them,” the young woman finally said, catching Jenny glancing toward another table where a group of friends in suits seemed to be watching them and whispering. “People like their little celebrities.”

Jenny raised an eyebrow. “You consider yourself a celebrity?”

The heiress laughed. “When your last name is Rain, you tend to attract attention,” she said, taking her first sip of wine since the beginning of the meal. “So yes, I guess you could say I’m a minor celebrity.”

The cheerleader sighed. “As long as I don’t end up on the front page of a gossip magazine.”

The words slipped out instinctively, and she immediately bit her tongue.

“Wait, I didn’t mean that—”

“No risk,” Anastasia cut her off, her expression genuinely amused. “We dealt with the paparazzi problem a long time ago in the family.”

She paused, smiling even wider. “We still have the issue of those annoying influencers, but they’re… manageable.”

Jenny frowned, surprised by the heiress’s confidence on the topic of paparazzi. “What do you mean, ‘you dealt with the paparazzi problem’? Everyone famous complains about them.”

“My family and I aren’t ‘famous people’ like the others,” Anastasia replied with a wink. “We have… our own way of handling troublemakers.”

That light, almost playful answer from Anastasia caught Jenny off guard. It was so earnest. So blunt. In that moment, she understood that her “mistress” and her family still had many secrets she knew nothing about.

“Do you like nightclubs?” Anastasia asked suddenly, changing the subject as if the previous conversation had never existed.

Jenny stared at her, taken aback.

“Yes, I… I like nightclubs,” Jenny answered, still looking puzzled.

The heiress’s smile widened.

“Then you’re in for a night you won’t forget.”

Jenny threw her hands up lightly, baffled—and already annoyed.

“And how am I supposed to get in? You didn’t let me bring my bag, and that’s where my ID was.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” the brunette replied with another wink—this one even more mischievous than the last.

“Where we’re going, I’m the one who decides who gets in… and who doesn’t.”

***