Chapter 3 Elias
THREE
Elias
I’m two blocks into my walk to work when my phone buzzes with a text alert.
Initially, I’m annoyed because I assume it’s Emmy telling me she gave my shift to her niece.
It wouldn’t be the first time, and I can’t afford to lose shifts.
Then I think maybe it’s a new pet sitting assignment, which would be great.
But it’s an unknown number, so my guess switches to spam as I open the new thread. At first, I keep walking, staring at the message.
Then I stop.
Fear rises up sluggishly, creeping out from a deep, buried place inside me. It trickles through my body, slow at first, clumsy, finding its old pathways. Then faster. Faster and faster until my heart is pounding and the fear becomes external, needling into my skin from the outside.
People try to manufacture this emotion all the time. They watch horror movies or ride rollercoasters. Maybe that’s enough for them, but it’s never worked for me. That’s adrenaline and a bit of imagination. It’s not the same. It’s not real.
Real fear requires a predator—because real fear is about being seen.
Unknown: I told you to prepare, but I can tell you’re not using the plug. Do what I said—or I will hurt you.
I look up from the message. My eyes bounce around from the sidewalk to the doorways to the street. I don’t see anyone suspicious. But they, most definitely, see me.
I shiver.
I turn around. I walk back to my building.
I’m dizzy by the time I climb to my floor, sweating when I let myself into my apartment.
Oh my god.
Oh my god.
Someone was watching me. Someone was waiting for me. And they could tell I hadn’t complied. How?
I lean against the kitchen counter. I’m not ready for this. Yes, I signed up for it. Yes, I paid for it, but in my mind, this fantasy has always existed in its own isolated space, entirely separate from my day-to-day reality. It’s private. But if I follow the instructions …
I’ll be at work, around other people, with a plug inside me. I don’t know about that. I can’t imagine that.
Do what I said—or I will hurt you.
What exactly did that mean? And who sent it? Who is he?
I go to my bed and pull the black box out from under it. I shiver at the sight of my name marking this as mine. I lift the lid.
As my fingers explore the sequence of black silicone plugs, each one bigger than the last, those words roll through my head.
Do what I said—or I will hurt you.
As in, punish me for noncompliance? Or hurt me because … My fingers linger on the largest plug. It’s so big. I can’t imagine that inside me.
My imaginings have never been so specific; they’ve never had a size. They’re about a feeling. They’re only partially physical because you can’t really imagine something physical.
Is this what I wanted? For it to be real? Yes, but …
I close my eyes to shut out my daylit apartment, to shut out my thoughts about who I am at work, about what I am there.
Blindly, I reach into the box.
* * *
Fuck, I have to hurry now. I don’t have time to get used to the plug. I have to rush out of my apartment and down the stairs. I’m in such a hurry, in fact, that it’s not until I burst through the door and out into broad daylight that I remember that someone is out there, watching.
I slam to a halt at the top of the steps. My gaze sweeps one way then the other. There are plenty of people and cars, but no one seems to be looking at me.
My phone vibrates. I jolt and reach inside my jacket, fumbling my phone out.
Unknown: Get moving. You’ll be late for work.
Jesus Christ. I sway, dizzied by the adrenaline flooding my body. I rush down the steps, biting back a cry at the way the plug shifts inside me. I can’t help clenching on it. I can’t help that my cock is hard.
I hurry along the sidewalk. I try to jog, but I can’t handle it with the plug. My erection gets so bad that I have to stop and adjust it. I do it as discreetly as I can, turning toward a building, pulling my tip up behind my waistband.
Is he watching he?
Is everyone watching me?
I feel like I’m on display. I feel terrified, electrified, wide awake.
I arrive at the bodega shaky and sweaty. Emmy gives me a look but doesn’t say anything as I breeze past her to yank off my jacket and throw on my apron. I tie it at my waist and look down to see if my erection is obvious.
It’s not. Thank god. But I know it’s there. I feel it, the ache and stiffness, the edge. I feel the plug taking up space inside me.
I don’t know if I can handle all day like this. I’m too aware of myself, of my body. I’m not used to being awake like this. I’m not used to feeling sexual outside of my very private spaces.
I’m not a virgin or anything. I have tried things. Clubs. Hookups. But it’s been years because it’s always so unsatisfying and I’m always embarrassed after. I’m always reaching for something that’s not there. I try to make myself believe that I’m getting what I need, but I’m not. I’m just acting.
This, now, is a different kind of acting. Maybe it always has been. As I struggle to play the role of myself, it feels artificial. It confuses me.
At one point, Emmy asks if I’m okay. I’m embarrassed, of course, but I find, to my surprise, that I enjoy lying to her. I like that I have a secret.
I like, too, the fantasy that plays out in my head as I’m sweeping the candy aisle. I’ve never had fantasies at work. I’ve never allowed myself to. But what’s happening to my body overrides my control.
It starts with the beautiful man who spoke to me yesterday, the man I thought about last night when I made myself come.
Show me, he said.
I shiver at the remembered words. I imagine that he meant the plug, that he wants to see it, lodged inside me. I imagine refusing so that he grabs me, pins me to the shelves, and yanks my pants down to see.
I’m hanging onto the broom, my body wracked with arousal, when someone walks into the aisle. At first, I think I’m imagining that it’s him. I blink, expecting the image to vanish, for him to be shorter, plainer, someone ordinary.
But he’s not.
It is him. Beautiful, intense, walking toward me with an aggressive, almost hostile stride. His searing blue eyes are locked on me. How did I not notice those gorgeous eyes yesterday? I must not have looked him in the eye at all. I don’t know why I’m looking him in the eye now. I’m not myself.
I take a step back, but it’s unsteady. I stagger. I expect him to walk past me or maybe even run over me, but what he does is grab my arm. I jump. I try to pull away, but his grip is iron. It’s cold. Or maybe I’m just overheated?
“Easy,” he says, his voice a gruff whisper. “Breathe.”
“I’m—”
“Having a panic attack. It’s okay. Just breathe.”
“I’m not having a—”
“Do what I said. Breathe.”
Do what I said—or I will hurt you.
I shudder.
“You need air,” he tells me. He takes the broom from me and leans it against the shelves.
When he tugs my arm, I start walking. He guides me through the deli, where Saul looks up in surprise.
I don’t have time to be embarrassed. We pass right through the seating area and out the door to the tiny back patio.
It’s empty. Hardly anyone sits out here. It’s just a couple of white plastic chairs at a rickety aluminum table on a slab of concrete.
The man who’s taken control of me makes me sit in one of the chairs. I bite back a cry as I thump down, the plug jarring inside me. My stiff cock gets torqued in my jeans.
I angle my head down and away. I don’t want to be seen like this, not by anyone but especially not by this man. Not after the way I imagined him last night. Not when he’s so painfully beautiful.
Why is he helping me?
“I’m fine,” I mutter, hiding as best I can behind the sweep of my hair. “You can—”
“I’m not leaving you like this.”
For some reason, and to my horror, that makes my eyes sting. Oh my god, don’t cry.
My … savior? sits in the other chair, giving me just enough space that I can drive back the sting in my eyes, that I can breathe. Like he told me to.
“That’s better,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. “Keep breathing.”
He gives me silence so I can obey him. He stays with me while I calm down. I’m still hard, overheated, agitated, but I can think now, mostly. I look at him from the corner of my eye.
He’s wearing a buttoned lilac shirt. It looks really good on him with his dark brown hair and light blue eyes. I like that it’s not a typically masculine color. He’s so confident.
His jeans are dark, his shoes black and obviously expensive. He has money. He doesn’t belong on this grimy patio.
“What—why—I mean …” I trail off, not sure how to ask him what he’s doing here.
“Just ask me,” he says. He’s not sharp about it, not impatient, not laughing at me either. He’s not saying, God, you’re such a little pussy.
“You just … don’t look like our usual customer,” I hedge. “And you were here yesterday.”
“You remember me?”
I huff a self-conscious laugh. “Uh, yeah.”
I don’t have my eyes on his face, but I feel like he’s looking at me. Has he been looking at me this whole time?
He says, “I remember you too. Are you asking why I’m here?”
I nod, relieved that he’s filling in the blanks, then horrified when he answers, “I’m making sure you’re okay.”
My face flushes with shame, and I quickly redirect. “I mean in the bodega.”
He’s silent for a while. I watch his hand where it rests on the table. He’s so still. Strangely still. Most people shift around or drum their fingers. He doesn’t move at all.
“I’m prospecting,” he finally tells me.
“Oh,” I reply. That makes sense. Wealthy investors have been buying up property in the Bronx for years, gentrifying old neighborhoods like this one.
There’s a part of me that wants to stay out here and keep talking to him. I want to know his name. I want to know why he’s spending his time on me. But I feel too awkward.
“I should get back to work,” I say, standing up. I bite my lip at the way the plug shifts inside me. I should have been ready for that, but I wasn’t. I turn away sharply, terrified that my erection shows. Shit, it does. Goddamn it!
I hurry toward the door, fiddling with my apron tie, too worried to think about the fact that I’m being rude, too distracted to hear him behind me.
He catches my elbow. I gasp, lurching to a stop. His harsh grip loosens by degrees, like he’s making himself relax his hold, like maybe he’s angry. Or maybe I’m imagining all of that because I want him to be angry. Because I want … bad things.
“Listen to me,” he says in a low tone that makes me shiver. “If this happens again, remember to breathe. Try to relax your body. Will you do that for me?”
At first, I can’t reply. I’m silenced by his voice and his nearness. But he waits me out.
“Yes,” I promise when I find my voice.
He whispers, raspingly, “Good boy.”
He lets me go. He lets me walk away, back through the bodega, past the deli to the aisle where I left my broom.
I hear footsteps on the other side of the shelves, in the next aisle. I hear, I think, a soft, Mmm, before the footsteps move onward.
I glimpse him as he walks out the door.
Good boy.
I shiver. I try to breathe, to relax my body like he said. I want to obey him.
I get through the day, even though it’s long and agonizing.
I get through my walk home, even though I’m nearly sick with arousal by the time I reach my door.
I make it inside, close myself in, but that’s my limit. I unzip my jeans as I lean down on the counter. I imagine him behind me as I clench on the plug.
Good boy.
That’s what I hear when I shove down my briefs and get my hand, finally, around my aching, leaking cock. I bite my lip, choking on my own desperation, but I imagine that’s what he wants, for me to be like this.
It doesn’t take long for me to come. I need it too much. But I’ve been edged all day, so when it happens, my body seizes so hard that I clamp my teeth on my own arm to stifle my cry. I clench on the plug, straining through my orgasm until I’m dizzy.
Good boy, I imagine him rasping in my ear as I slump against the counter in trembling relief, with cum dripping over my fingers.