Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Her mouth opens, then shuts. She blinks, once, twice, then fixes her gaze on the floor. “But I’m—I’ve never even—”
“Had sex?” I finish for her. “I know. That’s half the fun. I love breaking in new girls, and I haven’t had an opportunity in a long time. But don’t worry. I always make sure the innocent ones enjoy themselves while taking their first dick.”
She shivers, whether from arousal, disgust, pleasure, anticipation, or all of the above. Her hands curl into fists.
“Eat your breakfast,” I say in a light tone. “You’ll need the calories.”
She stares at the plate, unmoving.
I walk around the island and stand behind her, close enough to smell the shampoo in her hair and the perfume from last night, now faded to a ghost of vanilla and sugar. I rest my hands on her shoulders and lean down, my mouth at her ear.
“You wanted this,” I say, barely audible. “You sent me those pictures. You wore that dress. You bid on me at the auction. And now you’re going to take everything that comes with it.”
She nods, a tiny, desperate motion.
I straighten up, pour myself a second coffee, and watch as she sits at the counter. Her lip trembles. Her big breasts heave, even as she tries to control herself. There’s a smell of musky female tension, and I fucking love it.
I don’t speak again until I’ve finished my coffee and washed the cup. I want her to sit with the idea of being my plaything. Of her curves being open and available to me at any time of the day or night. To let the future unfold in her mind, one thrilling, pleasurable step at a time.
When I turn to leave, I look back at Kayleigh, still perched on the stool, dress slipping off her shoulder, hair wild and big tits heaving.
“You start today,” I say. “There’s a list on the counter. Memorize it.”
She doesn’t answer, just looks at me, blue eyes still shocked.
I walk out, and the silence is total. The only sound is the faint slap of my footsteps, and the city, rising in the distance, perfectly indifferent to the bargain struck in its shadow.
This is how you lay down rules.
This is how you train a woman.
And now, Kayleigh will be mine.
20
LEAVING BEHIND THE OLD
Kayleigh
Imist the leaves at the front window—slow, measured passes, like a nurse drawing lines on a lung x-ray. The monstera glistens under its spritz, droplets veining along each rib. This early, the street outside is nearly empty, just a dull rush of cars and a cyclist shooting past, shoulders hunched in an aggressive, be-here-to-be-gone posture. The inside of The Fig Leaf smells like it always does: wet dirt, decomposition, green so intense you can almost taste chlorophyll when you breathe in. The sound system is stuck on a playlist called “Botanic Chill,” which means I am currently being serenaded by a synth-pop version of “Fast Car,” heavy on marimba.
I love this store—and I still do, to be honest, even if this isn’t my forever job. When I was fifteen, I thought it would be the only job I’d ever want. I used to come here after school just to run my fingers along the petunias, pick up the stray soil from the counter and set it back in place. There was something safe about the work. Predictable. You water, they grow. They die, you compost and begin again.
But now, the air inside makes my chest feel tight. Every movement is a tiny apology: to the plants, to the customers, to myself. I keep tugging my sleeve down over my wrist even though the handcuff mark is barely visible anymore, just a faint red ring with a single deeper crescent where the edge must have bit in. I wonder if it will fade by tomorrow, or if it’s one of those things that takes weeks to go away, like a secret stain. I think about texting Stella, but I don’t because I can’t handle her over-the-top chatter right now.
The routine is still the routine, even if my brain is running on two second delays. The register is finicky, so I ring up each succulent with an extra tap. I restock the shelf by the door with tiny cacti, their needles so fine you can’t see them until they’re in your thumb. I sweep spilled soil from the concrete in tight, circular gestures, like erasing a blackboard. Around noon, the sun hits the front windows and turns the place into a terrarium; sweat crawls down my back even though it’s only 68 on the thermostat.
My manager, Angela, is somewhere in the back, probably pricing shipment. I hear her moving boxes, the clatter of pots on the metal counter, the slow, deliberate way she sighs when something doesn’t fit on a shelf. There’s an energy to her that’s always struck me as halfway between drill sergeant and daycare provider. She once told me, “I don’t want anything from you except that you show up and try.” I used to think that was kindness. Now I wonder if it was just a way of lowering her own bar.