Emily's Night (II)

The food arrived in a steaming, partitioned tray—two curries, a mountain of basmati, naan wrapped in cloth, and a pair of ice-cold mango sodas sweating condensation onto the counter. Mildred dropped it off with her customary deadpan, refusing to meet Andy’s eyes as she did so, but the faint lift of her eyebrow said all that needed saying.

Emily surveyed the spread with the hungry calculation of a tiny, hyperactive raccoon. “Table or no table?” she asked, glancing first at the sleek island, then at the rug in front of the couch.

Andy, on autopilot, started setting out plates at the bar. Emily laughed—a bright, delighted sound—and took the containers to the living room instead, arranging them picnic-style right on the floor.

“It tastes better this way,” she insisted, sitting cross-legged in a swirl of gold-pink hair, which somehow managed to shield her perfectly even as she moved with cartoonish abandon. “It’s an official rule.”

He watched her, bemused. “You know the table’s right there.”

“I like this better,” she said, patting the rug. “Please? It’s good for your back. And I promise not to get rice everywhere.”

Andy considered, then joined her. The carpet was soft, the curries fragrant—coriander, turmeric, cinnamon, a whisper of smoke from the tandoor—and the air outside hummed with the white noise of the ocean, barely audible through the open balcony.

He sat down. Emily scooted closer, their knees nearly touching.

She spooned curry and rice into their bowls, portioning out the naan with exaggerated care. Every motion seemed a little theatrical, like she was making a show for both of them. She ate with gusto, but carefully, only once fumbling a grain of rice which she plucked off the rug with a victorious “ha!”

They ate, not quite in silence—Emily had a running commentary about the relative merits of mango soda versus lassi, and a story about how one time in college she’d tried to make vindaloo and ended up setting off the dorm’s fire alarm, which resulted in a three-week ban from any unsupervised cooking—but mostly, they just enjoyed the food and the nearness.

At some point, she slowed, then put her bowl aside and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand (the napkins were two feet away, but, as she explained, that was “too many steps for an artist”).

“This was a really good day,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Did you like the walk?”

He nodded. “Yeah. It felt… right, somehow.”

Emily grinned, then reached up to brush a lock of hair from his forehead. “I liked being out with you. It’s the first time I’ve felt okay, really okay, since…” She let the sentence trail off, then shrugged. “Since the Hollow Garden, honestly. There’s no one here who cares, and no one to see me but you, and it just felt—” she paused, considering “—like I could be myself. Or, like, the new myself. And you didn’t mind. That was my favorite part.”

He tried to respond, but she kept going, words tumbling over each other:

“I know it sounds silly but when this happened to me, I worried that if I was naked, I’d have to be ‘on’ all the time. Always sexy or confident or whatever. But today I just wanted to eat food and walk in the sun and maybe hold your hand. You let me do that.” Her cheeks went pink—actual, visible pink, a flush so deep it even reached her collarbones. “So. Thanks for that.”

Andy smiled, feeling something inside him loosen.

Emily beamed, then did the thing where she hugged her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them. “What was your favorite part?” she asked, eyes wide.

He thought for a second. “Probably the part where you talked the crab out of attacking us.”

She giggled, scrunching her face. “He was just doing his job. Defending the shoreline.”

He reached over, touching her wrist lightly. “I mean it. I liked just being with you. Not in, you know, a game way. Just real.”

She was silent for a long moment, the weight of the words settling between them. Then she nodded, serious. “I want more of that. I want it all the time, or at least as often as I can get you. I want to be your girlfriend, Arrangement aside. I want to sit on the floor with you and eat too much curry and watch bad movies and make up stories about the crabs outside. That’s what I want.”

He squeezed her hand. “Then let’s do that.”

Emily’s smile was a sunrise—no, a supernova. She immediately reached for the remote, then paused. “Will you let me pick the movie?”

Andy shrugged. “Sure.”

She did a happy dance, which involved kicking her legs and waving her arms, and then scrolled rapidly through the suite’s streaming options.

“Have you ever seen The Birdcage?” she asked.

He shook his head.

Emily’s eyes went wide with exaggerated scandal. “That’s it. No more talking until the end. It’s a classic.” She pressed play, then scooted closer, tucking herself right between his legs.

The first ten minutes, she laughed at every joke. The next ten, she explained each joke in detail, as if Andy might miss the nuance. By the time the plot really kicked in, she’d migrated from his side to his lap, curling up in a tight ball, her hair a shimmering blanket over both of them.

He wrapped an arm around her, letting her settle in.

For a while, they watched. Or, more accurately, Andy watched the movie and Emily watched him watch the movie, delighting in every moment of surprise or amusement on his face.

At some point, she said, “You know, if you get bored, you can just say so. I won’t be offended.”

He wasn’t bored. He was perfectly, impossibly content.

Emily yawned—deliberate, theatrical—then stretched, arms high overhead, hair cascading down her back. The movement exposed her fully, just for a second, before the curtain of pink-gold fell again to cover her chest.

She caught him looking, and smiled.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she said, lowering her voice.

“Of course.”

She leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “I like it when you look at me,” she whispered. “Not just because of the transformation. It’s more like… I feel like I belong here, when you do. It’s been a long time since I felt I belonged anywhere.”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

She nuzzled closer, resting her head on his shoulder, then slid her hand under the collar of his shirt, fingertips tracing circles on his skin.

For the rest of the movie, they barely watched. They just listened to each other breathe, the rhythm of her heart in sync with his. The glow from the TV flickered across her hair, painting it in strange, beautiful shades. She made a little nest in his lap, every part of her open, trusting, his to hold.

The credits rolled, but neither of them reached for the remote. The living room had gone amber with the sunset and the soft blue of the TV, painting them in gentle, saturated tones. Emily stayed curled in his lap, legs tucked up, hair tickling his chin, her weight a reassuring anchor.

For a few minutes, Andy listened to her breathing, the slow, even rhythm of someone who felt perfectly safe. He trailed his fingertips along her arm, down the line of her ribs, over the gentle curve of her waist. Her skin was so soft it almost seemed impossible, and wherever he touched, Emily seemed to hum—not a literal vibration, but the subtle, constant energy of her body tuned to his presence. Her hair parted as she moved, for once not quite covering her breasts, and the sight sent a sudden charge through Andy that made him shift on the couch.

She noticed, of course. Emily noticed everything.

“Can I ask you something?” she said, voice lower now, a secret just for them.

He nodded.

“What do you want from me?” she asked. “Like, really want? Not just in the Arrangement way. What do you actually want?”

The question landed heavier than he expected. He thought about it for a second, then answered honestly: “I want you to be happy. But I also want…” He hesitated, words tangling. “I want to know what it’s like, to really own you. Not because I deserve it, but because you trust me enough to want me to.”

Emily’s cheeks colored. “You do,” she said. “You already do.”

He touched her cheek. “I don’t want to hurt you, or use you in a way you don’t like.”

“I know,” Emily said, and her smile was pure sunshine. “But it’s not using me if I want it.”

She shifted closer, straddling his lap now, arms around his neck. “I want to be yours,” she said, as if it was a simple truth. “Pet, toy, girlfriend, whatever word you use—it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you use me because you want to, not just because you can.”

Andy felt the air grow tighter, charged. He asked, “How far do you want me to go?”

Emily’s face went serious. “As far as you want. That’s the best part.” She leaned in, pressing her forehead to his. “I trust you, Andy. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

He could feel the thrum of her pulse in her neck, the heat of her bare skin against him. “Tell me your boundaries,” he said. “Tell me what you actually want.”

Emily let out a breath, then answered in the clearest, most deliberate tone he’d ever heard from her:

“I want to be your pet. I want you to guide me, to own me, to give me commands that make me happy because I know they make you happy. I want you to use me as your toy, whenever and however you want, because it means I get to belong to you completely.” She met his eyes, and her gaze was steady. “But I want you to know that even when I’m your toy or your pet, I’m your girlfriend first. I chose this. And I want it every day.”

The honesty of it made something in him break and heal at the same time.

“I’ll never take that for granted,” Andy said. “If you ever want to stop, or change the rules, you just tell me.”

Emily smiled again, this time with mischief. “You know what’s funny? Every time you say something like that, I just want it more. Like, a lot more.” She giggled, then settled into his arms, her body molding to his.

They kissed, and Emily melted into him, her surrender so absolute it made him dizzy.

When they broke apart, she rested her head on his shoulder and said, “I like being yours. I like it when you order me around. And I understand what you were trying to tell me yesterday, now. It’s not because I have to—it’s because I get to.”

Andy ran his hand through her hair, then down her back, savoring the freedom to touch her wherever he pleased. “You’re perfect,” he said, and meant it.

Emily purred—a real, involuntary noise, low and sweet—and nuzzled deeper into his neck. “You’re not so bad yourself, you know.”

They sat that way, the warmth of their bodies mingling, the TV now forgotten. Outside, the last of the sunset faded, and the world slipped into gentle darkness.

It started with a kiss, but everything in Andy wanted more. Not because of the Arrangement, or because she’d just told him it was what she wanted—but because he’d never felt such a clear, electric invitation from anyone in his life. Emily was radiant, open, and her whole body seemed to sing for him, each touch unlocking a new octave of desire.

“Come here,” he said, voice low.

Emily beamed, already in his lap, but wriggled closer so their chests pressed together. She let her arms fall to her sides, her body yielding, the curve of her hips perfect against him. Andy slid his hands along her waist, feeling the heat of her, the slight tremor that ran through her at every new contact.

He brushed the hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. She straightened her back, letting the curtain fall away from her breasts, pulling the hair back and tying it into a ponytail, letting herself be fully seen. Her skin flushed with anticipation. Her nipples were already hard, the faintest shiver traveling down her spine.

He cupped her jaw and kissed her again—slow, hungry, exploratory. Emily melted instantly, her lips soft and pliant, her hands moving up to frame his face. Every time his mouth left hers, she chased it, as if nothing else could satisfy her need. The rhythm of it—kiss, gasp, return—sent him spiraling.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured.

Emily bit her lip, eyes wide and shining. “Whatever you want. Anything. I want you to use me.”

The words came out so earnest, so matter-of-fact, Andy was sure they’d bypassed her brain and gone straight from her core. He felt a surge of tenderness, a strange mingled desire: to own her, so he could protect her.

He took her wrists and pinned them behind her back, gentle but firm. “Hold them there,” he said.

A shiver rolled through her, visible, beautiful. “Yes,” she whispered, then smiled with her whole face, not just her mouth.

He ran his hands down her bare shoulders, over her chest, letting his thumbs circle her nipples. Emily arched into the touch, gasping, her hair exposing her entirely. Every touch, every word, seemed to ring out in her body like the tolling of a bell.

He teased her for a while, drawing it out—kissing her neck, biting her shoulder, then back to her breasts, his tongue tracing slow circles. Emily writhed, but kept her hands locked behind her, her obedience as complete as it was enthusiastic. Each time he gave a direction—“Stay still,” “Open your mouth,” “Look at me”—her whole body responded, a cascade of arousal so strong it seemed to wipe out all other thoughts.

He was already hard, but the sight of her like this, so trusting and so wanting, nearly undid him. He slid his hand between her legs, and found her soaked—hot and ready, her body straining for him.

“Good girl,” he said, and her whole body went rigid, then shuddered.

She whimpered, hips rocking against his fingers, her eyes never leaving his. He teased her, drawing it out, two fingers slipping just barely inside before retreating, then again, until she was trembling with need.

“Please, Andy,” she whispered. “Please, please—”

He relented, plunging his fingers in, thumb working her clit in small, practiced circles. Emily’s response was instant: she threw her head back, hair cascading over his lap, her hips bucking in time with his hand.

“Don’t come yet,” he said.

She froze, every muscle straining, her breath coming in short, ragged pants.

He kept at it, never letting up, watching the war on her face—her **** need to obey, the overwhelming urge to surrender. Her eyes went wide, pleading, but she held back, her discipline so absolute it sent a fresh wave of pride through him.

“Now,” Andy said. “Come for me.”

The release was seismic. Emily screamed—a high, sharp, utterly unselfconscious sound—and her whole body convulsed, her thighs clamping around his wrist. She shuddered again and again, riding the wave until it left her limp in his arms, hair tangled and skin slicked with sweat.

When it was over, she slumped forward, breathless, face buried in his chest.

“You’re amazing,” he whispered into her hair.

She looked up, still dazed, and giggled. “That was… wow.” She shook her head, then kissed him, slow and grateful. “Thank you.”

He smiled, savoring the afterglow, then ran his hand through her hair, marveling at the feel of it, the way it clung to his skin. “Want to go again?” he asked.

Emily’s eyes lit up. “Always.”

He stood, lifting her with him, and carried her down the hall to the bedroom. She clung to him, legs around his waist, kissing him all the way.

Princess Carried by the Master! +1 VP

Once inside, he set her gently on the bed. She sprawled there, nude and perfect, her hair a wild halo on the pillow.

“Lie on your stomach,” Andy said.

She obeyed instantly, turning over and arching her back, ass up, head turned to watch him over her shoulder. The sight was almost too much.

He stripped off his own clothes, not bothering with ceremony, then knelt behind her and ran his hands over her hips, up her back, down to her thighs. She shivered with every touch, her body eager for whatever came next.

He bent over and kissed the small of her back, then bit down gently, leaving a red mark. She gasped, then giggled, wriggling her hips in invitation.

Andy positioned himself and, with one slow, deliberate thrust, slid into her. Emily moaned—low and guttural, a sound of pure relief.

He started slow, savoring each movement, the way her body clenched around him, the way she writhed and whined for more. Every so often, he’d stop and issue a new order: “Say my name.” “Tell me what you are.” “Beg.”

Emily complied instantly, each command sending a visible shockwave through her, her arousal redoubling with every word.

“I’m your pet,” she cried, as he picked up the pace. “Your toy. Your ****. I’m yours, Andy. Only yours.”

He felt himself nearing the edge, and grabbed her hair, winding it around his fist and pulling her head up. She gasped, eyes wild, loving it.

“Come with me,” he said, and she obeyed—her orgasm triggered by the command itself, her body clenching and shuddering around him as he came inside her, both of them howling into the mattress.

After, they collapsed together, a tangle of limbs and hair and sweat.

They lay that way for a long time, the world reduced to the quiet of their breathing, the distant hush of ocean outside the window, and the thump of their hearts beating in perfect sync.

Emily looked at him, her face lit with wonder.

“Is this what it’s like, to be owned?” she asked, voice soft and awed.

He brushed the hair from her cheek, kissed her forehead. “Only if you want it to be.”

She laughed, then snuggled in, her body wrapping around his.

“I want it,” she whispered. “More than anything. Forever, if you let me.”

Andy smiled and kissed her. “For as long as you want it, Emily.”

Romantically committed to the Master! +7 VP
First! x2

The night outside deepened to indigo. In the bedroom, Andy lay on his back, Emily curled half over him, her bare legs tangled with his, her cheek pressed to the hollow of his shoulder. Her hair—wild, luminous—spread across his chest, his arm, the pillow, the bedsheet, claiming territory with every soft exhale.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. They just lay there, letting the warmth and the aftershocks settle. Andy stroked her spine, trailing slow circles up and down, and Emily shivered every time his fingers brushed the base of her neck.

Eventually, she propped herself up, chin on his chest. Her skin was still warm, a faint flush running from her face all the way down her collarbones.

“I always wondered if I’d hate myself for this,” she said, voice husky but content. “Not just the sex part, but the Arrangement. With Hannah, I only had a few days before the season was put on hold, and I never got to live it with Jake. I worried that if I liked it, it would mean I was broken.” She paused, eyes searching his face. “But I don’t. I like it because it’s real. It’s more honest than anything else I’ve ever tried to be.”

Andy considered this. “I think that’s the point. It’s about finding what makes you actually happy, and chasing it. Even if it’s a little strange.”

Emily grinned, her nose scrunching. “It’s a lot strange. But I don’t care.” She nuzzled his chest, then looked up at him again. “I don’t want you to think you’re taking advantage of me. You don’t think that, do you?”

He shook his head. “No. Because you asked me to. And because you’d tell me if you didn’t want it.”

“I would,” she said. “But I don’t think I ever will.” She reached up and traced a line along his jaw, her touch feather-light. “You know what I love most?”

Andy smiled. “Tell me.”

“That you don’t make me do it. You just… want me to want it.” She rested her palm over his heart. “And that’s why I always do.”

He pulled her close, holding her tightly.

“You’re my girlfriend,” he said. “The rest is just decoration.”

Emily giggled—a sleepy, satisfied sound—and snuggled in tighter. “Good,” she whispered. “Because I want to be everything for you. All at once. And I want you to use me. Please.”

He kissed the crown of her head, feeling the softness, the subtle movement of her scalp under the web of gold-and-pink strands. “Always.”

They lay together, listening to the slow sync of their heartbeats. Andy’s mind drifted—first to the distant hush of the ocean, then to the tangle of emotion inside his chest.

He closed his eyes. Sleep came fast.

And with sleep came dreams.

The bridge came back to him, the way it always did in sleep: the rough boards, the stink of algae, the water below black as oil and moving too fast for anyone to save themselves. Andy stood at one end, his hands numb, unable to move, while Laura waited on the other. Her hair was soaked, dark and wild, plastered to her face by spray. She was angry—no, ****—her fists clenching the rotted railing, her lips moving soundlessly in the rush of river and wind. She tried to call to him, but the noise swallowed her voice, and her eyes—brighter than memory could justify—were red with something more than cold.

He wanted to shout back, to bridge the gap with words, but his voice was gone. He moved toward her, legs leaden, every step slower than the one before, the bridge stretching longer with each pace until it seemed he would never reach her. Laura’s mouth worked faster, frantic, and she pounded the rail so hard that splinters went flying. Beneath her, the water boiled and twisted, hungry.

Just as he came close enough to see the freckles on her cheek, the current surged and the bridge collapsed. Laura’s body twisted sideways, a puppet yanked by invisible strings, her hand flung out as if she could still reach him across the gap. He lunged, missed her by a finger’s width, and watched her go under, hair streaming out like kelp.

He fell with her. The water closed over them, cold and endless. He grabbed at her wrist, felt her pulse, but she slid away, blurred by the current. He screamed her name, bubbles rising, throat filling with river. Laura’s face surfaced once, pale and terrified, and he saw her lips shape a single word: “Promise.”

Andy thrashed, fighting the pull, but she was swept away. The river became the footbridge again, night falling around him, and Laura stood up on the far bank, dry and untouched, but turned away, a shadow with no voice.

He staggered after her, feet dragging, and when he reached the other side, someone else waited. Myra: fox-eared, tail curled around her ankle, face pinched with sorrow. She stood at the edge, blind eyes searching for him, and when she finally found his face, she flinched as if the sight burned her.

He tried to speak, to apologize, but she put a finger to her lips and shook her head.

Laura was beside her, now—except it wasn’t Laura, not really. This version was older, flesh pale and clammy, eyes rimmed with red, hair cut short and jagged. Something dark lurked behind her, a shadow that made him shiver. She looked at Andy, then at Myra, and the disappointment in her gaze was so heavy it nearly knocked him over.

A single word came out: “Coward.”

Andy woke gasping, heart pounding in his throat.

He stared up at the ceiling, hands gripping the bedsheet so hard the muscles in his forearms ached. The room was dark except for the milky spill of the moon across the window. For a minute he couldn’t tell if the sound in his ears was the river or his own pulse. Then he realized: it was the even, steady rhythm of Emily’s breathing, pressed tight against his side.

She hadn’t moved, not even when his nightmare kicked him upright. She was tangled across him, arm thrown over his stomach, hair a wild blanket over his chest and neck. She snuffled, making a soft, **** sound, and nuzzled deeper against him.

Spooned the Master! +1 VP

Andy **** his body to relax. He exhaled through his nose, slow, then again, letting the fear dissolve molecule by molecule. His palm settled on the small of Emily’s back, felt the heat of her skin, the fine tremor of every exhale. She shifted in her sleep, pressing closer, as if she could sense his unease and wanted to anchor him.

He closed his eyes, letting her warmth pull him back from the flood.

The dream wouldn’t go, not completely. It lingered in the static behind his eyelids—the rush of water, the taste of helplessness, the bone-deep certainty that he had failed Laura twice: once in the world, and again in the place where nothing else was real. Andy waited for the old guilt to return, to fill him up until he was sick with it, but it didn’t. Not like before.

Instead, he felt Emily’s leg wind around his, her toes tucking under the arch of his foot, her body arranging itself with the kind of unselfconscious trust that had always eluded him. The girl in his arms was real, her need so simple and honest it bordered on elemental. She trusted him to hold her, to keep her safe, to want her—exactly as she was, no edits, no conditions. She was the only person in his life who had ever chosen to surrender everything without first demanding a promise in return.

He loosened his grip on the sheet and instead pulled her closer, chin resting in the bright waterfall of her hair. Emily murmured in her sleep, smiled, and then the tension left her body completely.

They stayed that way for a long time—Andy, awake and listening, Emily, oblivious but content, the world beyond the glass perfectly silent. He thought of the letter Laura had left for him in the time capsule, the words burned so deep in memory he could have recited them in his sleep: “Whatever happens, don’t disappear. The world needs at least one of us to make it out alive. I love you, Andy Cooper. Promise.”

He did promise. He had carried it ever since—sometimes as a shield, sometimes as a wound, always as a weight. For years, he thought the only way to honor Laura was to become invulnerable: to never need, never ask, never let anyone close enough to be hurt in return. He wore the promise like armor, but all it did was keep everyone else out.

He thought of the two nights, back to back: the confessional rawness of Myra’s pain, the ocean of regret that threatened to drown them both. And now, the simple, radiant completeness of Emily—her delight in being his, her certainty that she was safe in his arms. They were opposites, but not rivals. One was a wound, the other a balm. But both were needed, like the other permutations each of the other women represented.

He wondered what Laura would make of it. He wondered what he would say if she ever returned—not as a memory, but as herself. He tried to imagine it: Laura, walking into this room, seeing him with Emily, seeing that he was not just alive but living. Would she hate him for it? Or would she laugh, and say, “That’s what I wanted, idiot. You’re not supposed to carry me forever. You’re supposed to let go.”

He hoped it was the second. He wanted it to be. Even though he could never let her go.

Next to him, Emily stirred, then opened her eyes. In the dark, her irises glowed blue.

“You okay?” she whispered, instantly attuned.

He nodded. “Bad dream. I’m fine now.”

She didn’t push, didn’t pry. She just pressed her cheek to his chest, wrapped her arm tighter around his ribs, and let herself drift. The Arrangement, he realized, wasn’t a prison or a loss of self. It was a choice: to belong, to trust, to give everything and not hold back. Emily had made that choice, eyes open, heart open. She wanted him to own her, and he wanted to be the person worthy of it.

“Thank you,” he whispered, not sure if she was awake enough to hear.

Emily smiled, eyes already sliding shut again. “For what?”

“For trusting me,” he said. “For everything.”

She snuggled closer, humming. “Always,” she said, and drifted back to sleep.

Andy stayed awake, running his fingers through her hair, memorizing every detail: the way she tucked her knees up, the softness of her breath, the faint, citrus-and-salt scent of her skin. He thought about Laura, and Myra, and the millions of ways a person could fuck up or heal or just move forward. He thought about Emily’s joy, and how it wasn’t an accident or a trick. It was work. It was a choice.

The moonlight faded as the night moved on. By the time Andy let himself sleep again, the memory of the river was still there, but it no longer felt like a weight. More like a current he could swim in, if he chose to.

Emily mumbled something in her sleep and, without waking, shifted so that her whole body was draped over him, warm and easy. Andy smiled into the dark, and let the world hold him up.