Chapter Three
Juliet
Alex: Wear black stockings and a skirt. No bra under whatever you wear on top.
Me: Yes, Master.
I’m practically squirming on my seat as I write the text. I shouldn’t be this excited, but it’s been a while. A long while. I keep losing interest before I even get to the meetup stage since the last couple of actual meetups I had were so disappointing.
No matter what BDSM tricks they pulled out, I couldn’t get past the knowledge that it was all fake. I could stop it with a word, and even if I didn’t, once we were finished with the scene, we’d go back to normal life. So what is the point, really?
Alex feels different.
That’s because he is different. He’s ignoring all safety protocols and pushing you into an unsafe situation, you stupid bint.
The protective, red-flag-waving voice pipes up, but I do my best to ignore it. I can’t be unlucky enough to end up with two psychos. Alex is just a guy like me, but on the other end of the spectrum. Playtime isn’t enough for him.
I try to convince myself it’s true and squash my worries as I pack. At least it’s helping to distract me from my game.
By the time I made it home yesterday, I had a six-page email waiting for me from Brightscape’s legal team. They confirmed the end of my ceremonial employment, informed me I am now banned from their offices, and reminded me, in painful detail, of my contractual obligations.
The restrictive covenants seemed harsh when I signed, but I never paid too much attention to them. Saldar’s Curse was my baby. Why would I want to go to a competitor or start another business?
Except now the restrictions are a noose around my neck. For the next two years, I can’t work in any gaming or gaming-adjacent industry. I’m not going to starve, but what the hell am I going to do with myself?
And, of course, I’m forbidden from speaking ill of the new game.
It’s a crushing weight on my chest, getting heavier every second, and the only thing blocking it out is wondering what Alex will do to me. Will he satisfy the dark, obsessive craving that gnaws at me more every day? God, I hope so.
I spend over an hour choosing my outfit. I want something that looks just right. The no-bra rule isn’t an issue—I’m not exactly gifted in the tit department—but I find a red top that dips at just the right angle to give the illusion of cleavage.
The black skirt stops a few inches above the knee, short enough that if Alex bends me over, he’ll see the top of my stockings. And—oh shit, where are the stockings, exactly? I haven’t seen them since I moved.
When Brightscape’s ten million hit my bank account, I did nothing except obsessively check my bank balance for weeks.
Spending it felt wrong somehow, so I clung to my beat-up, old Mini and crappy studio apartment with no air conditioning and a broken elevator until my friends sat me down and did an intervention.
It’s been two months since I moved into my gorgeous three-bedroom apartment with a lake view. It still doesn’t feel like mine. I’ve decorated one bedroom, the living room, and the kitchen, but the other two rooms sit untouched, still full of boxes. One of which I’m pretty sure holds my stockings.
Fuck.
I only have an hour; no time to go to the shops and buy another set. Only one thing to do, then.
I grab a pair of scissors and tear into the boxes, slicing the tape and tipping the contents out all over the floor. It’ll be a mess to clean up later, but who cares? It’s not like anyone else ever comes here. As I rip and tip, something hard hits my foot, and I look down to see what it is.
Crap.
I can’t stop myself picking up the picture, one of several I couldn’t bring myself to throw out, even after everything. How the hell did this one end up in a box of bed linen? My top-notch organization skills at it again.
It’s Hadrian and me, arms clutched around ourselves, grinning.
We were at Comic Con, and though I didn’t manage to persuade him to dress up, we wore matching T-shirts featuring anime characters I’d designed and drawn myself.
In our Midwest town, he was the only person who didn’t think my anime drawing obsession made me a freak.
Our first conversation started when he nervously complimented some drawings I had on my notebook, and we were inseparable ever since. Right until the moment I separated us for good. It’s an old pain but still sharp as I look at the ancient picture. How old were we? Eighteen, maybe?
I turn the picture over. Now isn’t the right time. In fact, the right time is never, because this is ancient history and I should have moved on by now. It’s been five years. I’ve got enough to be miserable about right now without diving back into the past.
Stockings. Where the fuck are they?
My phone buzzes, and I smile when I see it’s a text from Alex.
Alex: Don’t keep me waiting.
Bossy and rude. I must be a sick, sick puppy, because it’s enough to distract me from everything else in my head. This is what I need. Hopefully, when I’m with him, I won’t have time to think.
The next box holds a bunch of frilly underwear, including the stockings. Perfect. I don’t want to start this experience by doing something wrong. Though, the punishment might be fun.
Dressed, I get into the elevator to pick up my shiny new car. Even though I upgraded, it’s still a very basic Ford, and the furniture in my new apartment came from Ikea. My friends all tease me that I still live like I’m broke. Maybe I’ll get used to the zeroes in my bank account eventually.
Or maybe I’ll always be thrifty. Can’t take the Scot out of the girl.
The basement car park stinks, and I wrinkle my nose. Garbage day. I cover my face with my hand and rush to the car. As I open the door, a sharp sting, like a wasp, hits the back of my neck. I slap my neck and meet something solid.
My vision wavers, black creeping in at the edges as I turn. A man, but I can’t make out his face. Everything stretches, and someone grips my body as my mind slips away.
***
It’s so dark that, at first, I’m not sure whether my eyes are open or closed. I blink them a few times to make sure, and even that makes my head spin. A headache throbs at the base of my skull. Was I drinking last night? What happened?
I float for a minute, mind covered with fuzzy clouds, before making a halfhearted attempt to sit up. I don’t get far—my head weighs a thousand pounds, and it drags me back to the bed. My eyes close, and I drift off again.
***
Consciousness creeps back, sharper this time, and with it, unwelcome sensations. Dry throat, cracked lips, and a very full bladder. My headache is gone, but faint nausea lingers. And why is it so fucking dark?
This isn’t my house.
Memories rattle in, shaking away the lingering confusion. Preparing to meet Alex. The underground garage. The sting on the back of my neck.
Oh no. Oh shit.
The pieces click into place one by one. I’ve been drugged and brought…where? And by whom? Alex? It had to be him, though I never gave him my address. How did he get it? And why?
Panic starts, a tight, scrabbly sensation inside my chest.
Why the fuck do you think?
He hasn’t kidnapped me to talk about the weather. Or even to have sex with me—I was more than willing to do that without the need for abduction.
I dressed up for him, all excited and horny. Stupid. So, so stupid. I run my hands over my body and—oh God—the clothes are gone. Wait. I reach my thighs and stifle a wild laugh. He left me the stockings.
The impenetrable blackness is driving me crazy.
I struggle up to sit, though my body aches and my head swims with the movement.
I lick my lips. Christ, I’m thirsty. And dying for a pee.
There's a sound, I realize. A sound that’s making that particular feeling worse.
Running water, as though someone left a tap on.
I feel around my body, trying to work out where the hell I’m lying, when a faint glow starts to creep in.
It starts at the corners of the room but spreads, gradually moving across the roof. The effect is weirdly stylized, like light seeping in through cracks, and I stare at it, transfixed, as it gets brighter. It tugs at something, a memory, but I can’t place it.
Once the light glows bright enough to see, I forget all about it as I close my eyes and open them again, sure I must be hallucinating. I do it three more times, but nothing changes. How? How can I be seeing what I’m seeing?
The room is far more familiar to me than the back of my hand. Who wastes time staring at their hands? I spent weeks staring at this room. Months. I drew it out so carefully, every line sketched first in black and white, then color.
And finally, I brought it to life in my game. Every inch rendered perfectly into the digital world for players to discover and enjoy.
The dungeon.
The room looks like it’s been carved into the center of a stone block.
In one corner of the square room, water runs in a steady stream from the ceiling down to the floor, escaping through a hole at the bottom.
Another wall holds a large, rusty chest, the lock broken and hanging off exactly as it does in the game.
I know without looking that it’ll be empty. It’s a save chest, a place to store items you can’t carry. I’m sitting on a raised stone platform draped in ancient red silk like a sacrificial altar. I hardly dare turn my head to see what I know must be behind me, but slowly, I do.
In my game, a magical forcefield prevents players from accessing the torture equipment until they’ve reached the relevant level. Here, lightly frosted glass shields the heavy oak cabinet, but I know what will be inside.
Torture equipment, but not the traditional sort.
In the game, the dungeon belonged to a mad priest who brought his victims here for his own entertainment before offing them.
I never showed what happened in detail, of course, just gave brief snippets of dark cut scenes when Eliana, Saldar’s lover, was captured and brought here.
I may have hinted, in the vaguest way possible, that after they killed the priest, Eliana and Saldar made use of the dungeon for themselves. The amount of fanfiction of exactly that scenario shows the hint was well received.
I must be dreaming.
The tight knot in my chest relaxes as that simple truth makes itself known. I’m dreaming. I have to be, because none of this makes any sense at all. I’m dreaming, and now that I know I am, I’ll wake up.
Any minute now.
The room stays stubbornly solid. I don’t ever remember being this thirsty in a dream. Or needing the bathroom this badly. Why did I have to add the running water?
More minutes creep by, and I just sit on the edge of the altar, gripping it with my fingers. I’m not waking up, and every moment that goes by, the certainty that I will fades away. How can I be here? Am I drugged? Trapped in some virtual reality simulation?
I force myself to my feet, though my body is heavy and slow. My stockinged feet hit cold stone, and it’s real. Virtual reality can’t chill your feet. The solid floor under me is a lightning bolt, shattering my last hopes. I’m really here. This is really happening.
What the fucking hell is going on?
Panic hits me again, full force, and I drop to my knees, staring around the room. I run my hands over the chilly floor, then get to my feet. I’m struck with the urge to touch everything, to see if any of it falls over, like a movie set, when I reach it.
I check the door first. It’s thick wood, banded with metal. Exactly the right sort of door to have in a dungeon. And of course, it doesn’t move when I push and pull at it. There’s a large keyhole, but when I press my eye to it, I only see blackness.
Next, the cabinet. The frosted doors are locked seamlessly to the wood. Do they open? I run my hands over the edges but can’t find anything like a catch. Next, I try the water. It’s icy cold, like a mountain stream, and the urge to drink it is overwhelming. My throat aches. Is it safe?
I try to think logically. If someone set this room up for me, they went to a lot of trouble.
If they wanted me dead, I’d already be dead.
I stare around the dungeon again, trying to imagine the work that must have gone into it.
Weeks of effort. If they planned on keeping me drugged, they could just have thrown me into a locked room.
Decision made, I throw my head under the stream and drink. God, it’s good. It tastes like it came from a mountain lake. Am I really under a mountain? I can’t be, surely. But it makes about as much sense as anything else.
I’m panicky, but I don’t think I’m as scared as I should be. If I’d woken in some dirty cell, I’d be crying my eyes out by now. This is just too weird. I’m waiting for some TV prank show host to jump out and yell “Surprise!”
But that won’t happen. If I was on a hidden camera show. I wouldn’t be naked.
The implication of that hits again, deeper this time, and oh yes, there’s the fear. I let my thoughts slide away from it, not willing to go there yet. I look down at my body, and the stockings set off a sudden ripple of rage. I put these on for him. That fucker. This has to be his doing. Right?
I rip them off and throw them onto the floor.
The cold water sloshing in my belly brings my other problem to the fore. If I don’t do something, I’m going to piss myself. Christ on a fucking bike. I can’t have that.
I stare up at the corners of the room, searching for cameras but finding none. It doesn't mean they're not there, though.
Why didn't I design this room with a fully stocked bathroom? And maybe a minibar? The thought carries the edge of hysteria, and I stare at my hands, willing myself not to fall off that cliff just yet. One problem at a time.
Pee into the stream. It’s cleaner than a traditional toilet and paper, I tell myself as I perform the awkward operation. And, I discover as I clean myself off, a lot fucking colder too. I could have designed this so much better. Two streams, one heated.
Of course, I never knew I’d be coming for a visit.
There it is again, that cliff. A hysterical knife edge waiting for me. Now that my immediate bodily needs are handled, my mind is far too free to wander. I scan the room again.
The chest.
I’d been too distracted to check it. I head over and remove the lock, letting it fall to the stone floor with an ominous thunk. It opens with a creak so perfectly creepy it might as well be sampled from a horror movie. How? How is everything in here so precise?
I peer inside and gasp. Instead of empty space, I find a food pack.
Exactly like you collect in the game. This one is the basic pack—bread and a thick slab of cheese wrapped in cloth.
Even the bread looks authentically old school, with a thick, grainy texture that didn’t come from Walmart.
Underneath, though, there’s a note. I snatch it up.
Enjoy your meal. I’ll visit soon.
Master.