Prelude to a dust-off

Elena wakes up the following morning, groggy, and looking not a little worse for wear. Jumbled images of soiled floors, bruises, and ****-Myra eating her out play through her mind like an avant-garde film. She vaguely recalls feeling aroused. A wave of embarrassment flows through her.

Did she really? Did she let another woman have her way with her?

The confusion is more acute thanks in no small part to her somnambulism. Ever since she’s been ****, it’s been nothing but one episode after another, like waves crashing on a beach. As soon as she thinks she has it all figured out, WHAM! She finds herself dragged to some secret room or dungeon somewhere and put through her paces yet again.

No sense in trying to understand it anymore. Nothing makes sense. Not her ‘training’, not ****-Myra’s talk of raw potential. Life seems to hold no purpose except to be the plaything of some pervert mistress or ****, with little chance of relief or escape, and no Richard Gere to swoop in and save the day.

She squats in a corner and relieves herself. The simple act of taking a piss without anyone watching is a diversion in itself. No telling how long the auburn-haired beauty has held it in. Elena won’t even try to guess.

Her stomach rumbles. She crawls towards the pantry. At the very least she could liberate some fruit. It’ll be awkward, not being upright. But surely there’s something at eye-level she could peel with her teeth. Or something.

“What are you doing, ****?”

Elena glances over her shoulder at ****-Myra, glistening in her terrycloth robe. Beads of water trickle towards the floor. The towel in her hand appears damp.
The captive opens her mouth to say something, only to be silenced by the snap of ****-Myra’s towel.

“Did I tell say you could eat?”

Elena shakes her head.

“Why are you raiding our food then?”

Elena pauses at the use of the possessive pronoun. Her captor doesn’t appear to be talking about the two of them exclusively, but the use of the term strikes her as odd. Who is this ‘our’ and how is ****-Myra a part of them? Is there another cog in the machine that has yet to be explained?

“Pull your head out of your ass.” ****-Myra snaps at her. “I’m talking to you.”

How Elena allowed herself to yield to this person is beyond her comprehension.

She fixes on her captor’s eyes, giving her undivided attention as she waits patiently for a response. The intern feels as though she’s back in detention. She crosses her arms in defiance.

“Mistress was right.” ****-Myra huffs. “You’ve got a head on your shoulders. There’s only one way to fix that—“

She walks over to her captive and bends her over.

“I’m sure a few more whippings won’t bother you any.”

“No…” Elena protests remembering the red stripes on her back. “I’ve had enough.”

“That was a command not a suggestion, ****.” Her captor yanks her hair.

“****-Jess was right about the uncertainty part.”

The invocation of the name is enough to freeze ****-Myra in her tracks.

“How’d you know that wench’s name, ****?”

Elena spits in her face, earning her a slap.

“Won’t tell me anything, huh? Maybe after I work you over you’ll change your mind.”

The captive worms away from ****-Myra’s grasp, grabbing a knife from a nearby drawer. ****-Myra trembles as Elena holds it to her own throat. Not out of compassion necessarily, but the thought of being worked over herself should events take a sudden, bloody turn.

“I’ll do it.” Elena threatens her. “I’ll end it right here. I’m sure your bosses would love to hear about that. Should keep ‘em busy for a least a week…”

“You’re not serious.”

“Try me.”

****-Myra massages her chin.

“Your feistiness has given me an idea. How ‘bout you and ****-Jess face off in a competition of my own choosing? The winner a night or two off on me, no questions asked. The loser meanwhile… Let’s just say it’ll be slow ****.”

Her captive nods in approval of the deal.

“Very well. Now if you excuse me, I have to make a few phone calls.”