Garrett’s Bitches: Lives in Progress

A few weeks after Maria’s first day – the year’s end approaches in Calvessia. Snow lies heavy on the rooftops, the sky leaden, and everything feels muted.

POV: Ji

Ji had already been under—briefly, professionally, carefully. Just enough to feel it. Just enough for something to shift. Ever since, she watched him differently: saw how he fought to keep the system afloat, how he refined everything he touched into structure, rhythm, purpose. She watched him struggle, watched him refine systems and schedules, submit protocols that hummed with precision.

When she caught a glimpse of his IRB draft before submission, something inside her cracked open. She wanted to be part of it—not as a critic, not as a colleague, but as the hand that steadies the frame. She wanted to be behind that submission. To be his reason. That desire—so sharp, so hot—came from a place she hadn’t dared visit before.

It wasn’t just admiration. It was awe. It was need. And it had her now.

It started small: helping him with the faculty progress report. She offered because it needed fixing. But when he read it, brows lifted in that quiet way, and said—just once—“Exemplary.” The heat that bloomed between her thighs shocked her. It stole her breath. She had mumbled something, fled the office, locked herself in the nearest restroom, and without even knowing why, shoved her panties into her mouth to muffle the sounds as the orgasm ripped through her like a scream. The shame that followed didn’t stop her from chasing it again.

Two weeks later, she couldn’t go a day without craving that heat. But he hadn’t praised her since. Not like that. Ji needed another fix.

She opened her calendar, stared at her neglected Reserce blocks, then deleted half of them. Reassigned to Hale Program Support – indefinite. Then she stood, brushed invisible dust from her blouse, and walked straight to Garrett’s office.

He wasn’t there. Good. She sat anyway, left a clean note in his inbox: Available for coordination, administrative consolidation, or delegation overflow. —Assistant. No first name. No PhD. No pride. Just purpose.

At the doorway, Maria—his secretary—leaned in with a too-bright grin. “Want to see him?”

Ji stuttered, “Y-yes, um…”

Maria stepped closer, conspiratorial. “So you’ve realized how wonderful Papi is, and you want to help him?”

Papi? What is wrong with this woman?, Ji thought, heat and embarrassment colliding. Aloud she managed, “Yes. His research is groundbreaking. I want to support him.”

“Perfect.” Maria slid a small printed slip into Ji’s hand. The header was charmingly wrong: Interview for Assistant. Below it, a time block and a room number. Maria winked. “Be early. He likes it when his bitches wait for him.”

Ji nodded, pulse quickening despite herself, and left the office pleased: she had a date on the books—and a door to push open.

POV: Zuleika

It wasn’t right. None of this was right.

Zuleika used to be strong. Respected. Feared, even. But ever since that night—Lexi, Garrett, the flicker of the machine, her own gasps—something had broken. And what came after was worse: need. Hunger. Shame wrapped in fire.

She’d tried everything. Walked into a door just to feel the bruise bloom. Scraped her palm on stone and sucked the sting like candy. Laid awake, twisting her nipples, pinching herself raw, chasing that mix of control and collapse—but nothing hit the same. Nothing brought back the truth of that night.

Not even the man.

She'd gone to the outskirts, to a place her colleagues would never name. Paid a white boy with knuckles like regret to “handle her.” No names, no words. Just act. She wanted pain, degradation, anything that felt like the edge she missed. But it didn’t work. He was clumsy. It was hollow.

What’s wrong with me?

Now she walked the halls like a ghost—tight-chested, jumpy, raw—arms full of materials from the copy room: binders, printouts, a long wooden ruler balanced across the stack. Her eyes scanned for exits, for cameras, for... her. For them. Every creak in the floor sounded like a promise or a threat.

Then she saw Lexi.

Her grip slipped. Papers fanned to the floor; the ruler skittered, ticking against tile until it came to rest at Lexi’s heel.

Zuleika froze. Lexi moved like water poured over a blade—effortless and cold. Their eyes met as Lexi crouched, collected the scattered pages, and picked up the ruler with two fingers, aligning its edge to the stack as if measuring Zuleika’s tremor.

“Needy little bitch,” she said softly, almost amused. “Wandering the halls like you’re starving. Looking for your fix?”

Zuleika opened her mouth and found no words. Lexi lifted the ruler slightly. “Lift your skirt,” she said, voice even. “I only ask once.”

Zuleika’s fingers twitched, but she didn’t reach out. Instead, trembling, she lifted the hem of her skirt. Lexi didn’t wait. Three hard, exact raps landed across the soft inner flesh: one high, one low, the third a touch harder—two, then three. A bright sting bloomed and, with it, a wave of relief so sudden her knees gave way.

“The first lesson’s free,” Lexi murmured, eyes steady. “Next time, you ask my father for it.”

Zuleika remained on her knees, trembling. Lexi reached into her pocket and pulled out a small folded slip of paper, tossing it in front of her like a bone.

“Here. You get one shot,” she said flatly. “Follow the instructions on it. All of them.”

Zuleika blinked, her fingers already moving toward the paper before her mind caught up. Her thighs still burned, but the ache inside her was louder.

She unfolded the slip. Her eyes scanned the brief, handwritten list. As she read, they widened—once, then again.

No… no, I can’t… But even as the protest stirred, her chest tightened with the truth: she would. She would do it. Every step. Every word.

Because someone had finally told her how to hurt the right way.

POV: Nia

The graduate seminar hummed—radiator breath and pens pretending to write. Nia’s notes became shapes because every path her thoughts took curved toward the same center. When the instructor called on her, she gave a clipped, tidy answer and went back to breathing two and three. In her head: Leave me alone, you bitch. Daddy will straighten you out too. Her birthday sat a few weeks away on the calendar. Not candles—cadence. Not presents—permission.

After class she went home; Farida was waiting in a crisp maid uniform. Nia asked for something simple to eat, then patted the space beside her. “Come here,” she said softly. “Help me get ready for him—I want to feel perfectly needy when he gets home.” Farida nodded: “Of course, miss.” She moved with practiced calm, clearing the tray and folding the napkin precisely. Then, without being asked, she sank gracefully to her knees between Nia’s legs.

Nia leaned back slightly, her fingers brushing the edge of the ribbon Farida had set aside. A soft giggle slipped out, breathy and eager.

Farida looked up, eyes calm and waiting. The room was quiet except for the soft tick of the metronome app in the background.

And then the scene held still—like a breath caught before release.

POV: Simone

The restaurant dripped with self-importance—crystal, candlelight, and the kind of progressive pretense this whole city reeked of. Simone let the chatter wash over her: equity, safety, accountability. Fine words, weaponized. Meanwhile a man like Garrett had to fight for a chair at their precious table.

And yet here he was. Bringing it. Building it. One vote, one name, one system at a time. She smiled into her glass. They didn’t deserve him, but he would take the room anyway.

“We already have eighteen percent,” she said, casual as weather. “With my mother—or Anjila’s—we can **** a majority at the university and If Lexi follows the plan, Octavia’s finished.”

Garrett only nodded, eyes sweeping the room. Not paranoia—preparation.

The waitress came back then—the young woman from Xinashi who’d treated Garrett like air all evening—setting the check down without meeting his eye and speaking only to Simone. Defiant. Cute.

“You saw that?” Simone asked.

A small shrug from him.

“She’s been pretending you don’t exist all night.” Simone leaned in, voice a silk thread. “If you want, you can put her under—please. Let her wait outside so you can show me what she’s been missing.” She held his gaze, eyes openly pleading. He looked at her for a beat, slow and thoughtful, then smiled. “Alright, babe. You’ve been a very good wife tonight. I’ll wait in the car.” Simone tipped the rim of her glass to his. “Thank you.” She signed, slid the leather folder to the edge of the table, and caught the Xinashi waitress with a glance that promised exactly where the city was headed.

POV: Farida & Maria

The new maids’ house smelled of fresh paint and starch. Farida sat straight at the small kitchen table, a ledger open, sleeves neat; Maria lounged on the ottoman, glossy mouth curved into a dreamy smile.

“It was simple,” Farida said, voice low and precise. “One notary, two signatures, witnessed. The assignments are filed. What belonged to me now belongs to Master. Order serves him better that way.”

Maria giggled. “I just signed the shiny lines. Now everything’s his. My closet, my cards—my everything. I love it when he owns all of me.”

Farida folded the ledger. “Service is ownership in practice. We serve with what we have—time, access, assets. That is correct.”

“Mmm. And fun,” Maria said, kicking her heels. “I love being his silly girl.”

Later, when the house had gone quiet, Maria hovered in Farida’s doorway, hands clasped under her chin. “Farida… please,” she whispered. “Help me get ready for him?”

Farida’s expression softened, but her rules did not. “No one touches me,” she said evenly. “Not unless Master orders it. For him, anything. For anyone else—no.” She nodded toward the tall dresser. “Top drawer. Take the strap‑on, sanitize it, and go.”

Maria didn’t move. “Please,” she breathed, flushing. “Do it to me. I help you to.”

Farida stood very still, the ledger’s corner under her fingertips. She could have said no again. She should. Instead she heard her own voice, measured and cool: “It’s training, then. Technique. Control. To serve him better.” A beat. “Close the door.”

Maria’s smile broke wide. “Yes“.