8. Cat
8
CAT
D ean leaves me alone for an entire week.
Those days are oddly blank.
I had grown used to running around campus, meeting him between classes and over meals.
I had gotten used to his tall frame always beside me, and that tense, electric energy he radiates.
Dean does everything efficiently. I’ve memorized the way he lines up his fork and knife beside his plate, how he butters his bread and how he sets his water glass down in precisely the same place after taking a drink.
I find myself setting out my own dishes in the same way, even though I’m eating lunch with Rakel, Anna, and Chay today, and not Dean .
“Nice to have you back,” Chay says to me, spreading out her own generous lunch, which includes three chocolate chip cookies.
“Are those keto?” Anna teases her.
“No,” Chay replies with great dignity. “I stopped doing keto over the summer when I went to Tasmania. I wanted to try the local food. And anyway, Ozzy says he likes me with a little more ass.”
“I bet he does,” Anna laughs. “You can have my cookie too—for Ozzy.”
“Are you guys still dating?” I ask Chay, pleased to hear an update.
“Yes,” she says happily. “I met his dad and cousins. We went bow hunting and cliff diving. Took a three-day trip to the barrier reef and swam with whale sharks. His dad is just like Ozzy, I felt like I knew him already. I think it was a good distraction for him. For all of us. Ozzy showed me his mom’s rose garden. I rode her favorite horse . . . He’s still sad, really sad. But he’s also himself, funny and playful and . . .”
Chay breaks off, pink-cheeked, thinking she’s said too much.
She’s clearly head-over-heels for Ozzy, despite the fact that they’re now long distance.
“Are you going to Tasmania again when school lets out?” I ask .
Chay shakes her head. “No. Ozzy’s coming to Berlin. I mean, if he still wants to in the spring.”
“I think he’d swim there if he had to,” Anna laughs.
“You can’t swim to Berlin. It’s land-locked,” Rakel says.
“Don’t ruin my joke with geography.” Anna pretends to scowl at Rakel, stealing one of her grapes.
“Make more accurate jokes.” Rakel sniffs, snitching Anna’s apple in return.
Rakel and Anna have formed their own brand of friendship, where they’re free to be as grouchy with each other as they please.
“Where’s Leo?” I ask Anna.
“Finishing up a history paper with Ares.”
“I wanted to congratulate him. I saw he’s Captain again for the Quartum Bellum. ”
The vote was posted this morning. It was no surprise that the Juniors chose Leo once again, after he led them to victory the two years before.
“I think he regrets ever wanting to be Captain in the first place,” Anna laughs. “The challenges are so goddamn grueling and the pressure’s sky-high. Everybody expects us to win. ”
“You will win!” I say, with full confidence.
“You’re not supposed to cheer them on. You’re supposed to help our team win,” Rakel reminds me.
“No, I’m on Miles’ side about this,” I say, taking a bite of my sandwich. “The sooner we’re eliminated, the sooner I can stop worrying about something horrible happening to me in that cursed competition.”
As I set my sandwich down once more, Dean carries his tray of food past my table, flanked by Jasper Webb and Bram Van Der Berg. Our eyes meet as he passes, but he doesn’t speak to me.
I watch him cross the dining hall and take his seat on the opposite side. He’s facing me, and his eyes hold mine as he spears a carrot on the tines of his fork, placing it in his mouth.
Chay clears her throat.
“So . . .” she says. “What’s going on with our friendly neighborhood sociopath over there? You’re eating with us, and yet I can’t help but notice that Dean seems more interested in you than his carrots.”
“It’s not like that,” I say, dropping my eyes to my plate. “He doesn’t . . . like me, or anything like that. ”
Even as I’m saying the words, I’m remembering the way Dean kissed me up against his bedroom wall. I’ve never imagined that a kiss could be so ravenous.
Anna is watching me, not with anger or jealousy, but with something very like understanding.
“Dean has his good points,” Anna says. “I understand that better than anyone. Just be careful, Cat. He can be cruel—and dangerous.”
Chay leans across the table to rest her hand on my arm, her blue eyes seeking mine out.
“He tried to kill Leo,” she tells me. “In our Freshman year.”
“Is that true?” I ask Anna.
She nods, her expression somber. “Yes, it is. Dean tried to drown Leo. And it almost worked.”
I look across the dining hall again, at Dean’s stern and unsmiling face. He’s still watching me. Does he know we’re talking about him? Does he care?
I can’t imagine Dean ever apologizing. Ever showing remorse.
I pick up my tray, ready to return it to the kitchen staff.
As I walk toward the kitchen window, I hear steady footsteps intercepting me. I know without turning that Dean is standing behind me. The tiny hairs rise on the back of my neck, like the charge in the air before a lightning storm.
“Did you enjoy your lunch?” he says quietly.
I return my tray and turn to face him.
We haven’t stood this close since our kiss.
He hasn’t spoken to me since then.
The memory is like a hologram shimmering in the air between us. I can see the two of us locked in an embrace, and I’m sure he can too.
“I have a proposition for you,” Dean says.
“What kind of proposition?” I reply warily.
“Meet me in the Bell Tower tonight. Nine o’clock.”
I chew the corner of my lip, considering.
The last time I was alone with Dean, things took an unexpected turn . . .
There’s been a constant throbbing curiosity in the back of my brain ever since. A strange, dissatisfied yearning, like a melody cut off mid-note.
Dean and I have unfinished business.
“Alright,” I say, at last .
“Nine o’clock,” he repeats, his low voice vibrating in my bones. “Don’t be late.”
All afternoon in class, I’m thinking about Dean and what sort of “proposition” he might offer me.
He already has all the leverage he needs to coerce me into doing what he wants.
Which can only mean . . . he’s about to ask for something more.
Dean terrifies me. I just learned that he’s a would-be murderer himself, that he tried to drown his own cousin out of jealousy over Anna and whatever other grudges he holds against Leo.
Still . . . I can’t deny that there’s something magnetic about Dean.
I never met someone so intense, so consuming. He’s like a fire running wild through dry brush, swallowing up everything in his path.
He wants what he wants, he does what he pleases. He doesn’t care if he’s liked or hated.
I have to admire that to a degree. Because I absolutely care what people think of me. I’m easily embarrassed, easily intimidated .
If Dean were to leave me alone . . . I’d still think about him all the time. The last week has shown me that. When I lie in bed at night, unable to sleep, I slip my hand beneath my covers and touch myself, trying to recall the exact texture of his rough, strong fingers against my skin. My small, soft hand is nowhere near as satisfying.
After class, I find myself showering and shaving every inch of my skin, making myself clean from top to bottom. Dean is obsessed with cleanliness. The thought of him finding me dirty or unkempt is intolerable, though the idea of him touching me again is hardly any better. I’m a bundle of raw nerves.
I put on fresh clothes: knee socks, Mary Janes, a green plaid skirt, and an oversized knitted jumper. I pile my curls up on my head, pinning them in place, or at least attempting to—little corkscrews always escape, dangling down around my face and the nape of my neck.
I look at my face in the mirror, wondering if I should put on makeup or not. Dean made me wash it off that one time, but I think he was just being an ass.
I take a liquid liner and draw a wing on either eye, tilted up at the outer edges. It makes my eyes look bigger than ever, very like a cat. I blink slowly, pleased with the effect.
Why am I dressing up for Dean ?
I don’t know.
I only know that my heart is racing long before I jog across the open expanse of grass between the Undercroft and the ruined Bell Tower on the northwest corner of campus.
The Bell Tower looks as if it was hit with a lightning blast. It may well have been—the stones are charred and blackened by fire, with large gaps in the wall where the inferno raged through. Only half the roof remains in place, the other half gaping open to the stars like a missing eye. The edge of the bell peeks through, the metal tarnished from sun and rain.
No one comes in here because it’s a death trap. It looks like it might crumble at any moment.
I stole stones from this tower.
I carried them up on the wall. I stuffed them into a canvas sack and hung that sack as a counterweight. Then I looped a noose around Rocco’s wrist, kicked the pin free, and sent both stones and Rocco plunging five hundred feet down to the jagged rocks below.
So in a sense, the Bell Tower was my instrument of murder.
I don’t know if Dean is aware of that fact.
Guilt eats at me as I climb those loose and blasted steps once more .
My steps echo in the dark tower. I didn’t bring a candle, and I can barely see five feet in front of me.
I fail to notice a gap in the steps. My foot plunges through the empty hole into the blackness below. I stumble, hitting my knee on the next step above and banging my elbows for good measure.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
So much for staying clean. I try to dust off my soot-smeared knees, wiping my palms on the side of my skirt.
The wind blows through the holes in the tower, making a creepy moaning sound. I hear the echoing bounces of rubble dislodged by my feet, tumbling down the stairs behind me.
Shivering, I scale the last few steps.
Dean is waiting for me at the top of the tower. He leans up against the vast bronze bell, arms folded across his chest. The bell no longer hangs suspended with a rope dangling from its clapper. It crashed down at some point, now tilted at an angle on its side, half its mass supported by the creaking wooden floor, and half protruding over open space.
Music plays from a speaker in the corner, quiet and low. I can barely make out the lyrics , but the beat crawls under my skin like a burrowing insect.
“Why did you ask me to meet you here?” I ask Dean.
“So we can be alone.”
“Aren’t you afraid the whole place is going to collapse?”
“No.” A careless shake of his head.
I don’t know if that means he thinks collapse unlikely, or if he doesn’t give a damn if it all falls down on our heads.
I lick my lips nervously. Whatever part of me wanted to see Dean tonight has abandoned me entirely. Now all I’m seeing is the malevolent glint in his eye and the cruel set of his mouth. And those bone-white hands, shapely and beautiful, but capable of horrible things.
Quietly I ask him, “What’s your proposition?”
Dean uncrosses his arms, taking a step toward me. The dropping of his hands is like a bird of prey unfolding its wings. It makes him infinitely more dangerous.
“It’s simple…I want one month.”
I swallow hard.
“A month of what?”
“A month of true slavery.”
I fidget in place, the ancient wooden boards creaking under my feet.
“I’m already doing all the things you asked.”
He closes the space between us, looking down into my eyes.
“I want more.”
My heart is in my throat, like a bird in the hand, trying to escape.
“Tell me what you want?”
Dean reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. He holds it between his thumb and index finger, letting it drop and hang suspended from his hand.
A strip of leather with a single metal ring in the center.
A collar.
“I want you willing,” he says softly. “I want you obedient. And I want you completely under my control. For one month. From now until Christmas.”
“And after that?”
“Then you’re free. I’ll never bother you again. And your secret is safe forever.”
I consider this carefully, the collar swinging before my eyes like a hypnotist’s watch .
I don’t take his offer lightly.
Dean’s games are not like other people’s games.
Everything he does is deadly serious.
If he wants a pet, then that’s exactly how he’ll treat me. As an animal that belongs to him.
On the other hand, if he says it’s over at the end of a month . . . I believe that, too.
Whatever else he may be, Dean is not a liar. He’ll keep his word.
“Yes.” The word is barely more than a breath of air.
Dean hears it all the same and his eyes gleam with triumph. It’s the look in the devil’s eyes when some poor soul accepts his bargain.
I almost snatch back my agreement, but it’s too late. Dean is already drawing the collar taught between his hands.
“Take off your clothes.”
“W-what?”
“Strip,” he orders. “I want to see what I’m getting.”
I gape at him in horror.
The music throbs from the speaker, ordering me to obey just as much as Dean ’s imperious stare.
He’s not joking. He’s never joking.
Slowly I obey.
I pull the sweater over my head, dropping it down on the dusty floor. Then I begin to unbutton my blouse. My heart is jittering in my chest, and yet somehow my fingers are steady. I unfasten each button in turn, then take off the blouse and drop it down on top of the sweater.
I unzip my skirt and let it fall. I step clear of the puddle of fabric, standing in my underwear before a man for the very first time.
My bra and panties are plain cotton, unmatched—the bra gray and the underwear blue. I’m still wearing my knee socks and shoes, because there’s nowhere to sit and I don’t want to hop on one foot trying to take them off.
Dean doesn’t seem to care about the socks. His eyes are fixed on my body alone.
“Underwear, too.”
I have never been naked around another human in my adult life. I don’t use the communal showers and I don’t even strip down fully in front of Rakel—we face the opposite wall while changing.
Yet what I feel isn’t embarrassment—it’s curiosity.
What will Dean think of my body ?
Am I beautiful?
I don’t even know.
We can never really see ourselves except reflected in other people’s eyes.
I unclasp my bra and let the shoulder straps fall. Then I drop it on the ground.
My breasts are small but ripe, like peaches. The nipples stand out from the flesh, delicate and stiff.
I watch Dean’s face closely to see his reaction.
His eyes widen and his jaw twitches. His nostrils flare like a stallion scenting a mare in heat.
It’s lust, pure lust. He likes the way I look.
Emboldened, I drop my panties too, stepping clear.
Now I’m standing naked in only my socks, my pussy bare to his view. Slowly, I turn on the spot, showing him that round, full ass that he spanked so recently.
I’m displaying myself to him.
I want his stare.
I want his approval.
And Dean wants to inspect me .
He walks around me like a buyer at auction, looking me up and down, evaluating my body.
His eyes are a hundred pairs of hands passing over my flesh.
I stand still, shoulders back, chest thrust out to his gaze.
Dean cups my ass in his hand, squeezing my buttock as if examining the firmness. Then he circles around to the front and touches my breast. He tests how it fills his hand, tilting his head approvingly as the curve of my breast lines up perfectly with the curve of his palm.
I shiver as his thumb slides across my stiff nipple.
“Very good,” he says softly.
A rush of heat, and my mouth salivates at his approval.
I’m discovering something about myself in this moment.
I’ll do anything for a compliment.
I want praise. I want it badly. And I especially want it from this man, who doesn’t like anyone or anything.
“Lift your hair,” he orders.
I lift up the curls that have fallen loose, baring the base of my neck.
Dean takes the leather collar and wraps it around my throat with the ring in the front. He fastens the clasp behind me .
Then he steps back to admire the effect—my figure naked but for a pair of socks and the leather circlet around my neck.
“Perfect,” he breathes.
My heart is thundering. I can feel the aching wetness between my thighs. I had hoped Dean would touch me there, too.
“Down on all fours.”
I drop to my knees and then place my palms on the dusty boards.
He says, “Crawl.”
I crawl in a slow circle before him, my face burning with embarrassment. It’s degrading and humiliating. My ass and pussy feel horribly exposed as I turn around. I can feel Dean looking down on me, and I wonder if he’s laughing at me in his head.
But he doesn’t laugh. When I chance a glance upward, I see his cock straining against the fly of his trousers, so thick that it looks like a soda can shoved down the front of his pants. A tiny wet spot soaks through the material where the head is pressed.
My mouth waters even more.
Quietly, Dean asks, “Do you know how to suck cock?”
I sit back on my heels, looking up at him. A nd shake my head.
“You’re going to learn.”
He pulls off his own sweater and lays it on the dusty ground. He sits down and whistles for me, pointing to the space next to him.
I start to stand up and he barks, “No!”
Understanding, I crawl over to him on hands and knees.
He grabs the ring of my collar and pulls my head down so I’m curled up next to him with my head in his lap. Then he unzips his trousers.
His cock springs out, as pale as the rest of him. The shaft is thick and white, veined like marble, while the head is smooth and faintly pink. Clear fluid beads at the tip. I want to taste it.
“Suck it like a popsicle,” he tells me. “Gently. Don’t scratch me with your teeth.”
His cock is bigger than any popsicle I ever put in my mouth. But I want to try.
I close my lips around the head. I lick it with my tongue, tasting the sharp spark of salt from that leaking fluid. More saliva floods my mouth, and I’m able to run my lips and tongue smoothly over his cock while I suck gently.
My head lays in his lap, my ear pressed against his thigh. Only part of his cock fits in my mouth, but Dean doesn’t force it any furthe r. He lets me suck on the head while he strokes his fingers in my hair.
His touch is incredibly soothing. The sucking and his strong fingertips against my scalp put me in a trance state.
Dean takes the pins out of my hair so the curls are loose. He runs his fingers through the hair in slow, lazy swirls, sometimes with pressure, sometimes with light swoops.
Warmth floods through my body. Every muscle relaxes.
He’s petting me.
And I like it.
I keep sucking his cock.
After ten or twenty minutes, Dean reaches down between my thighs and rubs my pussy. He rubs me in time with my sucking. The harder and faster I suck his cock, the more pressure he applies against my clit.
I moan around his cock, grinding my pussy against his hand.
The dual sensation of his warm flesh in my mouth and his warm hand against my clit is phenomenally satisfying. I want to keep sucking and I want to keep grinding against him.
I feel half asleep, floating in this erotic dream-state where I’m a good little pet earning my reward.
After all, is it so bad to be a pet ?
All it means is that someone loves you. Someone’s taking care of you.
I’ve always been a good girl, eager to please . . .
Maybe I needed a master all along . . .
Dean’s breath is speeding up. He rolls his hips, pushing his cock a little deeper into my mouth. He thrusts his hand into my hair, gripping the back of my skull, manipulating the angle of my head so he can push his cock further in.
Now I’m gagging a little and it’s harder to keep pace, but he’s still rubbing my pussy with his other hand, pushing his fingers inside of me while he pushes his cock down my throat.
I’m starting to feel that building pressure again, that ball of heat expanding in my belly. My mouth is extraordinarily sensitive from all that sucking, my lips and tongue and even the soft flesh of my throat all engorged and throbbing like the inside of my pussy. My mouth is as erogenous as my clit, and the dual sensation of penetration, orally and vaginally, is bringing me to climax.
I start to cum, waves of pleasure flowing through me with each thrust of Dean’s fingers. I moan around his cock again. The vibration of my throat tips Dean over the edge. His cock begins to twitch, and thick, warm spurts of cum hit the back of my throat, coating my tongue .
Dean lets out a long, tortured groan, a sound so primal that it scares me. And yet . . . I like that, too. I like having that effect on him.
His cum is slippery and hot. It startles me. He holds my head down, ordering, “Swallow it. Every drop.”
I gulp and swallow, trying to obey.
The taste isn’t bad—it’s the volume that makes me struggle. He keeps cumming, at least five or six spurts until I think I’m going to drown in it.
At last he releases my head, and I sit up, wiping my mouth on the back of my arm. My whole body is loose and warm, suffused with shivers that pass over my flesh without warning.
Dean leans back on his elbows, his eyes heavy, his body drained.
I’ve never seen him so relaxed.
I’m waiting for his judgment. I want to know how I performed.
He looks at me, then takes my chin in his hand. He pulls me forward so he can kiss me, not giving a fuck that I still have his cum in my mouth.
“Good girl,” he growls.