9 EMMA
When I wake again at the grating creak of the door, I feel like I’ve slept for hours upon hours. Yet, I feel utterly depleted. Gutted. Weak in mind and body. Despite the many blankets Dax brought me when he carried me back after bathing me last night, I feel cold to the bone, but my body is warm, my skin covered in a sheen of sweat.
Dax’s military boots appear, and I trail my eyes up over his jeans, the black snake tattoo, and his cut-off T-shirt. A weak breath shudders past my lips at the sight of the two steel bowls in his hands. It’s the same type of dog bowl he made me eat from yesterday.
Sinking to his haunches, he places them on the floor. One with porridge, one with water.
“On your knees.” He moves the thick pile of blankets aside.
Pressing an elbow into the mattress, I push up, and the movement takes a frightening amount of effort.
As if reading my thoughts, Dax says, “Don’t worry. I’ll get you started on some exercise today and you’ll feel better soon.”
Some exercise may lend me some new strength and loosen my stiff joints, but nothing is going to chase away the strain of constant fear and latent panic. I want to tell him this, but I keep the words in, unable to bear the defeat of him shooting them down with his warped logic.
He takes the thick collar hanging from his back pocket and places it around my throat. I drop my head as the leather wraps around my neck in a snug fit, and my chest shudders as I repress an oncoming burst of tears. He finishes by attaching a steel leash to the front ring.
“Now, lean down and eat your breakfast.” He moves to sit on the mattress beside me, holding the leather handle on the leash in his hand.
I don’t protest. I don’t have it in me. I simply bow and stick my tongue into the porridge.
“Good girl.” Dax scratches me behind my ear, and as I keep eating, one lick at a time, he pets my head and strokes my back.
When the bowl is empty, he makes me drink the water, then washes my face and has me use the toilet while he stands in front of me, holding the leash.
“Let’s go for a walk,” he says once I’m done. “On your hands and knees.”
I sink to the hard ground and follow him on all fours as he leads me from the cell by the leash. My movements are slow and stiff, and I expect a hard tug and a command to pick up the pace at any moment. But he just keeps walking slowly at my side, giving small pulls on the leash to lead me in the right direction whenever he turns around a corner.
A scream echoes through the long hall as a guard drags a girl from her cell. I automatically turn my head to look, but Dax nudges it back in place. “Don’t look. Keep your focus on me, eyes straight ahead or on the ground. He’s not gonna hurt you. You’re with me.”
As the guard hauls the girl past us, I keep my head lowered.
“Good girl, already learning.” Dax rewards me with a pat on the head, and I want to sink into myself and shut out the warped praise even as I want to lean into his touch and soak it up.
He takes me back to the cell, where he makes me kneel on a blanket that he folds and places on the floor. He proceeds to attach some kind of rubber tube with a black ball, which looks like some kind of pump, to the front of the collar, then stands in front of me, placing a hand on top of my head.
The calmness radiating off him takes on a deceptive quality as he asks, “What does the tattoo on your arm say?”
Closing my eyes, I heave a shuddery breath. “Dax zero, zero, one.”
“And what does that mean?”
My chest tightens, and I curl my fingers against my thighs. “That I’m property.”
“Yes. You’re property. But does that mean you’re nothing?”
I swallow hard, knowing what he wants to hear. But it doesn’t seem right. It seems like a lie chipping away at my integrity as I shake my head.
“You’re going to become a precious little submissive who will make your future master very proud.” He grabs my chin and lifts my head to face him. “Repeat the words: I’m going to become a precious little submissive who will make my master very proud.”
Tears pool in my eyes as I shake my head. I can’t say those words. I just can’t.
“Go on,” Dax urges and repeats the words. “I’m going to become a precious little submissive who will make my master very proud.”
I shut my eyes and swallow hard. “I’m—”
“Uh-uh, look at me while you say it.” He leans down to give my head a small shake, and I force my eyes open, staring into his commanding yet warm gaze. Another little piece of me chips away as I say the words.
“I’m going to become a precious little submissive who will make my master very proud.”
“Now, say it like you mean it.”
I jerk against his hand, but he tightens, imposing his command upon me with the silent force of his grip, his gaze, and his very presence. I choke back the growing lump in my throat and imbue my words with more sincerity. “I-I’m going to become a precious little submissive who will make my master very proud.” The last word morphs into a whimper, and I shut my eyes tight as defeat, confusion, and something hopeful whir inside me.
Dax swipes his thumb across my cheek. “That’s right. A pretty little submissive. Made to serve and please. You’re gonna make some man very proud indeed.”
I want to repel his words, but his slow strokes and the tender resonance of his voice make it impossible. Leaning into his touch, I inhale a stuttering breath that shakes through my chest.
“Good girl,” he praises again, straightening, and the words are like a soothing balm to my broken soul. “I can already feel you giving in.”
“I’m not—” My words break off as a swoosh of air inflates the front of the collar. Gasping, I open my eyes and stare up at Dax as he squeezes the pump attached to the collar. More air seeps into the collar, filling a small rubber ball at the bottom that expands right against my windpipe.
“So good,” he croons as he keeps stroking my cheek.
“No, no,” I pant. “Stop.” My hands shoot up to grab his, but there’s no give as I pull at his strong fingers, and he pumps again. The ball presses into my windpipe, and my breaths become shallow gusts rushing past my parted lips. “I can’t breathe.”
“Yes, you can.” His soft words and gentle caresses are such a contradiction to the cruel pressing at the front of my throat that my head spins. “Not as effortlessly as before, but you’re still getting air into your lungs.” Releasing the pump, he presses his big, calloused hand to the top of my chest, and my hands automatically follow, still clutching onto his. “Feel.”
I focus on my chest and my rapid breaths. The air does reach past the constriction, but panic still hovers along the edges of my mind as I feel like my throat is about to close completely.
“Slow down your breaths.” He sinks down in front of me to get better access to my eyes as he guides me. “Breathe in deeply.” He demonstrates with a long inhale through his mouth. “And out slowly.” He pushes the air back out on a steady exhale.
I imitate as he goes again, clinging to his hand on my chest like it’s the only thing holding me out of the gaping pit of panic that threatens to swallow me whole.
“That’s it. Keep going like that.” He continues breathing slowly and demonstratively—in and out, in and out—and I keep following—in and out, in and out. When he stops, I realize my breaths have steadied, and the looming panic has receded.
He pulls me into him, cupping the back of my head as he lets me rest against his chest. I can’t think, I can’t move. All I can do is keep breathing as the small protrusion in the collar presses against my windpipe. I claw my fingers against his thighs, but it’s more in search of stability than to resist.
When he helps me onto the mattress to lie on my side, my head is empty.
“Say the words again,” he whispers. When I part my lips but can’t remember, he says them for me, this time with a small but potent change. “I am a precious little submissive who is making my trainer very proud.”
“I—” I dart my tongue out to lick my lips. “I am a precious little submissive who is making my trainer very proud.”
Tears leak from my eyes. I feel wholly and utterly at his mercy. Exposed and vulnerable, yet somehow safe. It doesn’t make sense, and I can’t get my head working to try and solve the riddle. I just stare up at him, blinking as the tears keep dripping, baring my innermost vulnerabilities and cracking open parts of me I never wanted and always rejected.
I feel utterly broken yet strangely calm when he grabs the pump and releases the air. The world around me slowly filters back in, but a haze has settled over my brain, dulling the fear, keeping me floating in this strange restfulness.
He removes the collar with slow carefulness as if not to break the spell. Then he gives me a final stroke on the cheek, gets up, and leaves. The lights go off, and I drift away into some deep, peaceful place, hovering at the edge of consciousness, with Dax’s deep voice lingering in my ear.