the taste of brass

The sharp chime of the institute clock jolted the hall from its lethargy, yet for me it sounded the signal for the next gauntlet.

While the others hurried to pack their laptop bags, groaned over Weber’s questions, and pressed toward the cafeteria, I remained rooted against the back wall. Only after the bulk of the class had filed through the heavy swing doors did I bring myself to move.

Every step through that endless corridor was a farce: keeping my legs rigid to pin the loose waistband against my thighs, hands clawing my sweater downward with frantic purpose. The gnawing dread that a lecturer or Julian might appear behind me and spot the yawning gap drove cold sweat down my temples. The steel weight between my thighs seemed to drag heavier with every passing yard; the rims of the base ring bit relentlessly into bruised pubic bone.

The West Wing sat in perpetual half-light. This floor held only forgotten archival rooms and secondary storage, barely visited by anyone. The odor of damp stone, floor wax, and harsh industrial disinfectant hit me as I shoved the heavy fire door to the washrooms open.

Silence. Only the steady, monotonous drip of a tap over porcelain.

Stall three. The door rested slightly ajar.

I slipped inside, pulled the thin partition shut, and slid the bolt forward. In the exact same breath, the denim lost all purchase, slumping heavily around my knees to expose the damp lace. The chill of the tiled enclosure struck overheated skin like ice. The padlock hung dull between the black floral mesh; the cylinder pressed without mercy against locked flesh.

Outside, the click of heels sounded against the stone. The outer entrance had latched shut.

Calm, deliberate footsteps halted directly before stall three. Two short, sharp raps struck the wood.

"Slide the bolt, John," Emma whispered through the gap. Her tone carried no hint of panic now—only the razor-sharp cold of an enforcer who had learned that her own survival hinged on absolute severity.

With numb fingers, I eased the bolt back.

The door glided inward. Emma stepped inside, planting the flat of her palm firmly against my chest to shove me against the clammy tiles before throwing the lock back into place. In the cramped stall, there was barely room to draw air. She still wore the heavy wool coat, but her features were composed down to the bone.

From her coat pocket she withdrew a miniature key swinging from a slender cord.

My breath caught. An absurd, desperate jolt of hope sparked in my chest.

"Don't flatter yourself," she cut through the thought before it could take shape. Keeping her eyes level with mine, she clamped a hand around my chin, forcing my head upward. "Loona gave very specific instructions. The cage stays right where it is. But she considers the fit too generous. She wants you reminded who dictates the terms."

Releasing my jaw, she dropped to her knees before me and took the padlock between her fingers. With clinical precision, she aligned the key. A clean, satisfying click rang against the porcelain; the shackle sprang open.

For a fraction of a second, the crushing pressure vanished. Yet before I could even draw a breath of relief, Emma caught the dual locking eyelets of the collar.

She reset the alignment—dragging the hinges with a brutal, unforgiving yank into the narrowest notch. The rims clamped down around the base with vicious force; the metal drove deep into the pubic bone, pinching the tissue so violently the breath was ripped from my lungs in a sharp, ragged gasp.

"Emma… please… you're cutting off all circulation…," I choked out, reaching instinctively for her shoulders.

She struck my hands aside with a hard slap. Her eyes burned with toxic resolve.

"Hold still!" she hissed, feeding the shackle through the new eyelets and driving it home with both thumbs. The padlock snapped shut with a dull, final click. "Loona does not tolerate negligence. If I show an ounce of mercy, I'll be back in the dirt before her tonight. And I am certainly not paying your tab a second time."

She slipped out her phone, angled the camera inches above the tightened collar, and pressed the shutter. A brief flash washed across the stall.

Emma rose smoothly, smoothed her coat, and looked down at me with cool disdain.

The key still swung lazily from her fingertips. She let it pendulum before my lips, close enough for me to catch the scent of the metal—warm from her palms, bitter with brass, carrying beneath it the knowledge that this tiny scrap of alloy held total authority over constriction and relief.

"Open your mouth," Emma murmured. "Tongue out. Not because you want to. Because Loona needs to see on camera that even down here, you remember whose property you are."

I complied. She laid the key flat on my tongue and pressed down firmly until the taste of metal and her skin filled my mouth. Outside, the tap kept its slow rhythm. Somewhere down another wing, a heavy door banged shut. In the stall, nothing existed beyond this solitary, humiliating point between us.

"You keep it right there," she said softly, phone already raised in her other hand. "No swallowing, speak around it. You thank me for making it tighter—loud and clear, so she catches every syllable on the recording. If you hesitate for a second, I send only the photo of the lock and let her decide how she handles the two of us tonight."

The screen flared between us. The lens framed my face, the key, the rigid steel locked below.

"Thank you," I forced out, the words wet and garbled against the brass. "Thank you for tightening the lock. Thank you for showing no mercy."

Emma didn't offer a gentle smile. Her heel drove between my knees, the glossy patent leather resting cold against the inside of my thigh, and delivered a precise, measured kick into the cylinder. The impact was dull and sickening, driving the wind completely from my lungs.

"I am Loona’s slave." The shame scalded hotter than the base ring. The words spilled wetly against the key, far too loud for the thin partition, far too true for the rest of the faculty to hear. "Her dog. Worth less than you. Worth less than any woman who touches this key."

She slid the key slowly from between my lips, wiped it casually against my lower lip, and slipped it back into her coat pocket. Then she gathered the wool coat and her skirt—not with haste, but deliberately, giving me time to absorb what she was demanding. The champagne silk of her lingerie was still warm from her skin. Two fingers hooked the waistband aside.

"You saw where I stand in her salon last night," Emma murmured, her voice scarcely above a breath, fingers already tangled in my hair. "Now you see that I still stand above you. Mouth here. Before someone walks in and ruins us both."

I sank lower against the tiles, denim pooled at my knees, the cage invisible to the corridor yet remaining the only reality inside this stall. Emma pulled my face between her thighs. The scent was intoxicating, intimate, unmistakably hers—layered beneath the memory of the crop, the floorboards, Loona’s foot resting upon her back. I licked because she demanded it, flat and obedient, while the steel bit deeper at every motion and distant footsteps echoed outside, bypassing the West Wing.

Emma drew a sharp breath, pressing herself against my mouth for a lingering heartbeat as though proving to herself she possessed the right, then shoved me back against the wall. The fabric fell into place. She smoothed her skirt as if nothing had transpired within these walls and took a second photo: my wet chin, the tightened cage, the kneeling posture.

"Pull your trousers up. The fly stays open exactly as instructed. And remember: when Loona asks tonight whether I was lenient, you tell her the truth—that I was more thorough than she asked for."

She drew the bolt back, opened the door a crack, and threw me one final, unrelenting look.

"Ten minutes' grace. Then you get out."

The door swung shut, and the click of her heels drifted down the corridor into silence.