Kitty

Scene: Night of the Fog – September 24, 2009

Location: The edge of the student party, just beyond the reach of the headlights, Coxville County

The fog is thick enough to swallow sound. Lightning still flickers somewhere behind the old oak at City Hall. Kitty Summers stands with her arms folded under her cheer jacket, blonde hair damp from the mist. Samson West leans against the hood of someone’s truck, arms crossed, the outline of the government-issued chastity cage visible under his jeans if anyone cared to look closely. Most of the boys at the party are locked the same way. It is simply how things are.

Kitty: You’re seriously going to hold me to that bet?

Samson: You said it in front of half the team. Cocks win tomorrow night, you drop down and handle it. Simple.

Kitty: That was the fog talking. Everybody’s acting weird tonight.

Samson: Fog don’t make bets. You did. And if we win, you’re paying up. I already know how it’s gonna go. You’ll start like it’s just a joke, then you’ll get quiet when you see how much is in this cage.

Kitty glances down before she can stop herself. The heavy outline under the denim is unmistakable. Every registered male in the county wears one between extraction days. Samson’s is clearly one of the larger models.

Kitty: You’re still locked. Clinic doesn’t unlock you until Monday.

Samson: Special dispensation exists. High-yield donors get exceptions when the numbers look good. And after whatever the hell that lightning did, the nurses are already talking about increasing schedules. You think they won’t clear me for one private collection if a cheerleader volunteers to do the work?

Kitty: I’m not a nurse.

Samson: Not yet. Your mama is, though. And half the book-club ladies. You grow up in this county, you end up with a key or a cage. One or the other.

A low roll of thunder moves across the field. Kitty pulls her jacket tighter.

Kitty: Everyone’s having the same dream. That bearded man. The one who looks like he stepped out of the old plantation stories.

Samson: I know. My sister woke up crying. Said he didn’t ask. Just took. And she wasn’t even mad about it after.

Kitty: I dreamed it too. He was… patient. Like he had all night. And when I woke up I was—

She stops. Samson watches her, expression unreadable in the fog.

Samson: Wet. Yeah. Most of the girls are. That’s why the bet felt easy to make, isn’t it? Fog got in your head and made you bold.

Kitty: Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to see if you’d actually say yes out loud.

Samson: I said yes. And tomorrow night, if we win, you’re going to unlock this cage yourself. I’ll walk you through the clinic code. You’ll feel the weight of it when it comes off. Then you’ll get on your knees like every other woman in this county who’s ever had a high-yield donor in front of her.

Kitty: You’re awfully sure of yourself for a guy who’s still locked up.

Samson: I’ve been milked by three different nurses this month. One of them was your mother’s age. She called me “good boy” while she worked the pump and didn’t even pretend it was only about the sample. You think one eighteen-year-old cheerleader is going to be different?

Kitty’s cheeks are flushed, whether from the cold or something else is hard to tell.

Kitty: If the Cocks win… I’ll do it. But not at the school. Somewhere private. And you don’t tell anyone.

Samson: Private works. There’s an empty recovery bay behind the old plantation wing. Nurses use it for overflow. Door locks from the inside. I’ll get us in.

Kitty: And after?

Samson: After, I go back in the cage like every other man in Coxville. And you go back to pretending this is still just a game. Until the next time the fog rolls in, or the next time a nurse decides your name belongs on the assistance roster.

He pushes off the truck and steps closer. The metal of the chastity device shifts under his clothes with a quiet, heavy sound.

Samson: Game’s at seven. Don’t be late, Kitty. I already know how this ends.

Kitty: …Cocks better win, then.

Samson: They will. And when they do, you’re going to find out why the nurses keep the high-yield boys on a shorter leash than the rest of us.

He turns and walks back toward the party lights, disappearing into the fog. Kitty stays where she is a moment longer, one hand resting unconsciously against her own stomach, the dream still clinging to the edges of her thoughts.

Somewhere in the distance the old oak tree still smokes faintly where the lightning struck.