The only other piece of furniture in the room was a black trunk in the corner. Unlike the books, it was gray with dust and disuse. She wondered that it was not wood. It would have stuck out with its leather siding and garish gold corners, if it had not been so clearly shoved away. Unwanted.
She fiddled with the lock, expecting resistance, but the top opened with only the slightest creak. The top layer was black fabric, probably meant to protect what was underneath. At one time, someone had cared about these contents. She was like an archaeologist, peeling back the layers to determine what once was.
Her fingers touched on leather, and she lifted out a flogger. It was large and heavy, though not intimidating to her. She knew it would make a pleasant thud on her flesh, not sting or mark. Though how she knew that was a mystery, since nothing she had experienced in captivity had been pleasant, and she most definitely had never been allowed to hold an implement.
Tucking that thought away, she reached in again. There were padded leather cuffs, yards and yards of rope. Everything a kinky person might desire; all of it intended to hurt but not harm. There was safety built in, care built in to every item. It was shocking to her, and then, not surprising at all.
She’d always known it wasn’t right. But there were only so many times her mind could scream for justice, for mercy, before it turned on her. Twisted her own beliefs until she thought up was down, bad was good, and slavery was life.
There were dildos and nipple clamps, some more scary than others but none of it vicious. She unraveled a soft leather package to find a sleek knife. She shivered. Knife play? Maybe she had been too quick to judge no harm, but she didn’t think so. They were too clean and their wrapping too meticulous. This wasn’t something taken lightly. Safety. Care.
She wouldn’t have minded these, but she knew they weren’t meant for her. She was the interloper here, touching cold metal and glass that had once been warmed by a body… but whose?
She found the answer at the bottom. By now she sat amid a sea of sex toys. The thought flitted through her head: what if he found her this way? But it passed quickly, eclipsed by her curiosity and perplexing but growing certainty that her true freedom lay somewhere in here.
The collar was thin black leather, very soft and supple. It had a ring in the front of it and an inscription along the inside.
Master’s Lovely Pet
Her heart contracted for this woman she never knew, for love lost. She knew with sudden certainty that the woman was dead. She knew she’d been loved.
One by one, she replaced every item in the trunk. The collar, the knives, the little clover nipple clamps in their clear plastic box. She laid the black blanket over the top and shut the lid, throwing up a cloud of dust that tickled her nose. Her idea to run had been put away as well for the silliness it was.
She had no memory of where she came from, no future outside these walls. There was only a man, gruff and tender, haunted but hopeful. A thought came to her that she could aspire to this, a beloved pet, but she let it slip from her grasp. It didn’t matter. To be with him was enough and everything all at once.
She climbed into bed, beside the softly snoring form of her Master. The euphoria of the day had been stripped from her, but there was still a quiet satisfaction in servitude. Always that. Only that.
*
It was the smell of bacon she noticed first, making her mouth water before she’d fully come awake. But it was the sound of male voices in conversation that drew her upright, and quickly.
Had they found her?
Although if they had really come to take her away, surely they wouldn’t have let her sleep in. The bed was still musky with her master’s scent, her own body still aching from his anger. He wouldn’t let them take her, she hoped. But oh, he had seemed so different last night.
Another dress lay on the bed, this time a white sheath with bright red flowers. It was such the opposite of fetish-wear or sexy lingerie. She crushed it between her fingers before slipping it over her head.
She gave brief thought to remaining in his room until she’d been called, but for all she knew the clothes had been tacit instruction for her to come out. This master seemed to want her to show initiative. He didn’t punish her when she got it wrong either; he just corrected her. And what’s more, she liked showing initiative.
She also found that, with him, she liked being corrected.
Her curiosity won out, and she slipped down the hall and stood outside the kitchen.
“That’s all in the past,” said a voice she recognized as her master’s. “We don’t have to go over it again. There’s nothing more to be said.”
“I’d agree if you weren’t still fucking pouting about it,” said another voice. It was slightly higher than her master’s, but only just. It was more the way he spoke that set him apart.
“I’m not pouting, I just don’t need it dredged up every time you don’t like what I’m doing.”