The Tolerant
Chapter Nine
It was the Monday before Thanksgiving break, and Ashley was dreading the long weekend. She’d agreed to go home with DJ to see his step-mom and step-sister. All the craziness from his last trip home was a familiar story by now—he still got those weekly pictures from those high school bitches, and grinned like an idiot every time. They were hot, for being three months out of being jail bait, but still. It was going to be five days with just DJ and a bunch of other random bitches.
The only thing she was really looking forward to was giving her poor jaw a rest.
In hindsight, she wondered if she’d over-done it in the early days, convincing DJ how eager she was to give him a blowjob any time he had half a desire for one. Now, he just seemed to take it as a matter of course that she loved it, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell him how tedious she found it.
Damn his power.
Well, not really. The power was amazing. She was twenty-one years old and had her own personal slave, for crying out loud. That fucked-up little slut could be trying on her patience, but there was no denying she was handy, to say nothing of being Ashley’s most amusing toy. She never tired of using and abusing the little bitch.
Beyond the convenience of having DJ’s slave on permanent loan, Ashley had already gotten to the point where she just took it for granted that his power would make everything OK. Last week she’d had to stop herself from slapping her waitress when her order got mixed up when she remembered DJ wasn’t there and she might actually get in trouble. Not much; if she ever got arrested, he’d be her phone call and he’d take care of things—and she’d have her fun with anybody at the jail who fucked with her before she left. Shit, they didn’t build jails that could stop someone like him, because jails were run by people, and people were idiotic, weak-willed tolerant chumps.
It was going to her head—and she loved it. She felt nearly omnipotent. If DJ’s milquetoast affection (and milquetoast personality) was the price she had to pay for it, she’d gladly pay it. The poor guy had obviously never been in love before—or at least, no one had ever been in love with him.
In her heart, she thought he was actually a pretty nice guy, and while it was one of her least favorite things about him—the pussy never stopped dragging his feet when she wanted to smack some humility into someone (literally or figuratively)—it was also the mechanism by which she’d bent him to her will. As long as he thought she was his adoring (if crazy) girlfriend, he’d move heaven and earth for her. Which he was uniquely suited to do. Which was why she tolerated him.
Well, that and because not tolerating DJ wasn’t an option—even when he wanted her to spend five lame days being fawned over by his loser family and their loser friends. It was all the more reason to make hay while the sun was shining.
She opened Anthony’s door without knocking.
“What the…!” The freshman looked over in surprise, nearly dropping one of his dumbbells. Ashley came and went where she felt like it around DJ’s floor, and once he realized who it was barging into his room, he mellowed, mostly. “Oh. Hi Ashley.”
“Heya, Tony,” she said, smiling brightly. She was in a good mood anyway, given her purpose here, but finding the young freshman shirtless and sweaty, muscles flexing on his leanly built body, was a bonus.
“It’s Anthony,” he said, frowning. “Do you need something? I’m kinda in the middle of something here.”
“Aw, but you’re so much cuter as a Tony,” she said, striding up to him and trying to adopt a sympathetic expression. “Speaking of, I can’t believe that girl broke up with you. DJ told me about you and your ex,” she said.
“They say those college to high school relationships never work, so I guess they’re right,” he said bitterly. He’d been dumped, and apparently blind-sided by it. For once, DJ had actually been doing his job by conventional means and had been trying to counsel the kid. He’d been pretty distraught, evidently—almost dropped out of school to run home to her.
What a pussy. If he’d done it, she never would have respected it again and he would have wound up just as miserable anyway. To Ashley’s mind, there was only one sure-fire way to console someone who’s just been dumped.
She took a step closer, inside his personal bubble. “Hey, I know it hurts right now, but trust me, you’ll find someone new before long and forget all about her.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I don’t want to meet someone new. I want Marissa back.”
“Oh come on, Marissa couldn’t possibly be that great.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew her.”
She ran her fingers along his biceps, pleased to find they felt as good as they looked. He flinched away, but there was precious little space for him to retreat to in the cramped dorm room. “I bet she doesn’t have a body like this,” Ashley said, and without further warning, stripped off her t-shirt.
The freshman stared agog at the two shapely breasts revealed to him; Ashley had foregone bras for some time now. They were difficult to acquire in her size, for one, and besides, she liked having a little extra jiggle. “Touch them,” she offered gently. “I promise you won’t regret it.”
Hesitantly, Anthony reached out his hands—and then stopped just short of touching her. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ve got a boyfriend. I can’t.”
“Oh, c’mon. DJ doesn’t mind. You know how he gets around with the ladies.” That was true. Some of these idiots practically worshipped him for his propensity at getting girls; they begged him to tell them his secret. If they only knew. They probably had some inkling, though; she’d noticed how seldom she saw them bring their own girlfriends by.
“That doesn’t make it OK for me. Sorry. Thanks, but no thanks.” He backed off, stopping only when he was against the wall.
Ashley scowled. How dare this little prick reject me? She stormed up to him, poking him hard in his bare chest. “Look, you little shit, asking was just a courtesy. You know what your RA said—you do what I say, or we make you pay.”
“But… that was for favors and stuff. I’m sure he didn’t mean for us fuck his girlfriend.”
“Oh no? You heard about what happened to Julian—how he was walking funny for a few days?” That had actually been because he’d called Ashley a cunt for plundering his fridge, but Anthony didn’t need to know that. “Or you heard what happened to Brittney’s boyfriend?” That had been before Ashley’s time on the floor, but everyone had heard about him getting the shit beat out of him and set outside in a pair of women’s underwear. The threat usually worked well around here.
“You can’t be serious. You… you want me to feel you up, or you’re going to sic your boyfriend on me?”
“The feeling up offer just expired, Anthony. Now I want you to eat me out, and if you don’t get me off good and hard…” She let him imagine the ending. She’d talked DJ into some doozies of punishments, and the rumors were often worse than the reality.
Anthony winced—case in point. “Fine. Just… don’t tell him, OK? He was trying to help me with the whole Marissa thing, and… ugh, I feel like a total cock.”
“Oh, I hope it’s total,” Ashley said as she kicked off her jeans and panties. “Now get to work, Tony.”
She lay down on his bed and spread her legs wide. As ever, it felt amazing, having eyes on her, ravishing her, probing her, taking in every inch of her naked body. She felt like striking poses, letting every sexy image she struck burn into the camera in his brain. He might be dragging his feet now, but this little wimp would be jacking off to the thought of her for the rest of his life. She wished she’d thought to open the windows so anyone with the right angle outside could see, but she’d already lay down.
Ashley settled for letting him go down on her.
It was one of the only downsides to scoring cock this way—the guys were awfully hesitant, oftentimes. A couple of the guys on the floor appreciated her for what she was—a hot, willing, eagerly fuckable woman with a big ass, big tits and a big appetite—but many of them had this annoying sense of propriety, or whatever it was.
Still, in a moment Tony was lying at the foot of the bed, and his tongue began its work. Once he got going, Ashley soon realized she owed Marissa one—she’d obviously shown him his way around a cunt. The redhead sighed contentedly as he started tickling her labia gently at first, slowly probing deeper inside her.
The boy was coordinated, she had to give it to him. Every time his technique got a little stale, he switched things up. He pulled out of her pussy and started slow, considerate laps around her clit, kissing and sucking at it at intervals. When she started squirming at wanting more, in went his fingers, building speed. When she was close to orgasm, he deftly swapped tongue and fingers, licking inside her as he vigorously toyed with her clit.
When his other hand slid his pinky into her ass and swirled in little circles, she came, harder than she had in weeks. Well, days. A day, anyway.
“Goddammit, Tony,” she said as she recovered, “that was fucking amazing.”
“Thanks,” he said bashfully. “I, uh, had lots of practice.”
“That cunt was an idiot to let you go. I tell you what, you were such a good boy, I’m going to give you a little reward.”
“You’re going to give me a blowjob?” He sounded surprised—and with good reason.
She laughed. “Of course not, dummy. But we can do something a little more… mutual.” She pushed Anthony so hard he landed flat on his back, then savagely tore his gym shorts off, underwear along with them. Evidently you weren’t so reluctant after all, Tony boy—hard-ons don’t lie. It was a nice one, too—bigger than the lean boy had a right to, almost too big for his body.
“Aw, and here I thought you weren’t enjoying yourself,” she said, giving it a few gentle strokes, smirking at it twitching in her hand.
“I’m not,” he insisted. “It just happened.”
“Shh, you’ll ruin the moment, sweetie.” Pleased she wouldn’t need to take further action to get him ready, she climbed aboard, and proceeded to ride him like he was a horse in need of breaking.
Mindful that it may well be the last fucking she’d be doing for a week, Ashley dove in. Sure, she might get some action on break, depending on whether DJ was too distracted by his home-town bitches, and whether she felt like indulging him, but with DJ, she was getting fucked. Not fucking. Not the same at all.
She cut loose—as loose as she dared anyway. She wanted to scream, to throw open the door and let the world watch. Instead, she settled for throwing her hair, clawing lines into his chest, twisting his nipples until he yelled and forced her off of them.
Then she twisted them again. After all, it was more fun when they fought back. Then sex wasn’t just exhilirating; it was a game that could be won.
Ashley Vandoren liked to win.
There was little enough for Tony to do but lie back and take it; he closed his eyes and pretended he was enduring and not enjoying, probably just to harsh her mellow. No doubt he was picturing his little Marissa fucking him. That wouldn’t do at all.
“Say my name,” she said.
“What?” he groaned as she twisted again, slapping her hands away.
“Say my fucking name—tell me who you’re fucking, Tony! Is it Marissa?”
“No,” he groaned as her pussy squeezed around his member.
“So then tell me—who are you fucking, Tony boy?”
He paused for a few breaths, but as her pincer-like grip started to reach for his chest again, he quickly called out. “Ashley!”
“Say it! Say who you’re fucking!” she hissed, keeping her voice as low as she could.
“I’m fucking Ashley!” he said.
One would think that if DJ were going to overhear them, catch her in her act of betrayal, the sound of a young man shouting “I’m fucking Ashley” not two hundred feet from his home would be the catalyst.
It was not. DJ remained ignorant of her transgression—right up until he opened the door not a minute later, for reasons entirely unrelated to the events transpiring.
“Hey, Anthony, how are… you holding… up…” Anthony’s RA was standing in the doorway looking concerned—at first. His words trailed off as his concern died at the sight of his girlfriend impaled on his resident’s cock.
Ashley froze. Well, shit.
Emily knelt in the corner with her head lowered, her usual position and posture when she wanted to remain unobtrusive. She became like another piece of furniture—silent, still, not something one would notice unless one were looking for it. Good girls didn’t try to make things about them. They waited until they could be of use.
It had been a great night for Emily.
DJ had excused himself to go check on one of his residents—something she could only do with her own once in a very great while when she had no obligations with sir and mistress, and really, any more none of them wanted anything to do with their weird kinky slut of an RA anyway. Her job was a very different one now, but much more important. Her very soul was at stake, after all.
Soon after DJ had left, she’d heard the shouts echoing down the hall, and while neither of them had said precisely what had happened, everyone was aware. “How could you” and “it’s not what you think” and “I thought you loved me” and “please just talk to me” only meant one thing.
He’d slamming the door behind him when he returned, glowering at the universe as Ashley pleaded for him to let her in. He hadn’t. He waited until she gave up, then grabbed his jacket and keys and left without a word. Part of her hoped he’d be in such a state that he’d drive his car off a bridge in despair, or get killed running a red light he was too angry to stop for.
Most of her despised herself for thinking such things.
Ashley had texted Emily, demanding she come to her, no doubt intending to coerce her into helping her out of this somehow. Emily had been out the door and halfway down the hall before she’d caught herself; obeying Ashley’s every command had become such a part of her these past months, she’d almost forgotten she only did it to atone for her feelings towards DJ. So much of her behavior now was run on auto-pilot, it was difficult to remember how to act when she had to decide things for herself.
She went back to his room, silenced her phone, and waited.
It was easy to pass the time; she spent much of it lazily pleasuring herself in the desk chair, masturbating to the thought of what DJ might do to Ashley. It was a fantasy she had often, though much more vivid in light of tonight’s goings-on. Being a good girl and trying to work past her contempt for DJ didn’t mean she couldn’t hate his super-bitch of a girlfriend.
She pictured him shaving off Ashley’s mane of frizzy red hair then having her get electrolysis; making her tattoo “whore” on her forehead—no, branding it, branding was sexier; putting her naked in the stocks and letting anyone who wanted to fuck her as much as they wanted and watching her get pregnant and fat with a baby whose father could be any of a thousand people; making her go up to each person she’d lashed out at and let them take their revenge on her anyway they wanted. They spat on her and hit her and raped her and whipped her with Emily’s collar and oh GOD YES FUCKING YES HURT THE BITCH
Emily came.
She’d come to accept that she’d become a freak, in all manner of ways. Months of 24/7 servitude had done things to her, things she worried she’d never undo, even if she someday redeemed her filthy soul and was able to return to a normal life. She hadn’t come to enjoy her subservience, but she had come to get a sexual thrill out of it. She figured it was something like a drug addict, getting a thrill out of each fix even as they were aware of how worthless their life had become because of it. Conditioning, probably; the commands she was given were often sexual, after all.
Other things were sexual now, too. Chores and errands were sexual, even when she hadn’t been commanded to do them. (Though when she was, it was hotter.) Sometimes she got so wet while picking up groceries for sir and mistress that it soaked through her clothes.
Humiliation. Every time her former friends and co-workers looked at her with disgust in their eyes, or amusement, or lust, she got a little hornier. She’d bumped into a guy she’d worked with at her old job who’d asked her out a few times and taken the rejection really hard; when they met, she’d been wearing a black vinyl micro mini dress, her slave collar, five-inch spike heels, and her usual look of shame about the whole thing. “I knew you were a fucking tramp,” he’d said. That had turned her on, and later, made her cry a little.
(Which weirdly also turned her on.)
In fact, few things turned her on like her own impotence. The rage, the self-loathing, the helplessness… she was someone’s property, with no control over or say in anything. Her life for now—maybe forever—was drifting along and waiting to see what happened to her next. She couldn’t even follow the logic in her own feelings any more, and increasingly, she didn’t try to. She obeyed, she brought DJ pleasure, like a good girl. Why didn’t matter.
None of this was to say she enjoyed these feelings, in the conventional sense. She just felt them, and went along like a bit of flotsam adrift in a squally sea, waiting to see what fate would do to her next. If some of the waves thrilled her as they lifted her up and brought her crashing back down, it was as much a part of the storm as every desperate gasp for air.
She didn’t even know if this would ever end, if the rest of her life would be this. There was no finish, no goal, nothing that would mark the point where she had fully redeemed her miserable, judgmental, hateful soul. It was just a feeling, and she wasn’t sure she’d even know it when it happened. If it happened. Would she be DJ’s sex slave for the rest of her life? Well, until she was too old to please him any more; then maybe she’d just be a regular servant. Or he’d just kick her out on her ass.
She didn’t know what she’d do without the chance to atone. The dread of carrying that mountain of guilt and being able to do nothing to alleviate it was too horrible to think about.
It was more than six hours before DJ came back. The sound of someone fumbling with their keys at the lock woke her up, and she reflexively slipped back into perfect slave girl posture.
DJ didn’t notice. In fact, he looked like he was only half-conscious, drunken to the point that the unabashedly slutty girl on his arm was more or less carrying him. She was around their age, had a pair of huge, fake-looking tits threatening to burst out of a trampy strapless red dress, and tattoos in evidence all over—a black rose on her forearm, little angel wings showing above her dress in the back, something on each of her upper thighs she couldn’t make out.
Looking closer, Emily saw some dribbles of cum glistening on them, too.
The woman helped DJ into his bed, looking relieved to no longer need to support him—he wasn’t a big man, but he was bigger than her by a good margin. She hadn’t even noticed Emily when he grabbed her hand roughly and pulled her down into bed with him. “Ugh, again? Thought you’d be tired out from before,” the girl grumbled as he haphazardly planted slobbery kisses on her chest and neck.
The girl lay there for a few minutes as he clumsily groped and mouthed her; then, he fell asleep. Without skipping a beat, the girl disentangled herself from him, tugged her dress back into place, and hustled out the door as quietly as possible without ever even noticing Emily lurking in the corner.
With her gone, Emily rose and tenderly got DJ ready for bed, taking off his socks and shoes. She was working on his shirt when his eyes fluttered open. “Sydney?” he asked groggily.
“No, it’s your servant, sir.” She almost said something sarcastic, certain he was too drunk to have a chance of remembering it, but thought twice. Just because he wouldn’t know wouldn’t make it right.
“Emily,” he said, smiling dopily. Recognizing her, he relaxed and let her strip off his shirt and pants. She tucked him in and flipped the light off, got into her PJs—a skimpy set of underwear that served no real purpose except that DJ liked to take the packaging off his toy—and was heading for her little futon in the corner when she heard his voice in the dark room.
“Emily?” he called out.
“Yes, sir?”
“Would you come hold me?” He sounded so desperate, so pathetic, for a moment she almost felt for him. Just a moment.
“Of course sir.” She slipped under his sheets and wrapped an arm and slender leg over him. He clutched her to himself, and she could feel him shudder as he wept. Over that ruthless bitch Ashley Vandoren, of all things. But then, if anybody deserved her…
Ugh, she was a terrible person.
He blubbered for a while as she quietly stroked his chest, trying to lull him to sleep. Sober and in the light of day, he’d realize he could find a hundred girls hotter than Ashley, and a million nicer. Not that she wanted happiness for him. Still, he wanted happiness, so it was her duty to help him get it.
“Go to sleep, sir. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“Sir is most welcome.” She kissed his forehead.
“I love you, Emily,” he said.
He began snoring in the next breath, so he didn’t hear Emily gasp as her pleasure center lit up like the fourth of July.
One of her most deeply engrained instincts in her new life was to get a thrill at being praised by sir and mistress. It was the whole center of her life, to be a good girl for him, and nothing aroused her more quickly. Ashley had picked up on this early on and enjoyed teasing her with it; Emily suspect part of the reason so many fucked up things got her horny now was Ashley’s abuse of this weakness. “Good girl” when she fetched something for her; “good girl” when she found a way to make her outfit even sluttier; “good girl” when she took DJ’s cum on her face at the end of one of Ashley’s blowjobs.
This… this was like that, raised to the power of “good girl.”
He’s just drunk, she chided herself. It doesn’t mean anything. It didn’t. It couldn’t, could it? Oh God, but if he meant it…
As subtly as possible, Emily worked one hand down to her pussy, slipping easily inside the scant coverage of her panties, and started to tease herself. I love you, Emily, his voice echoed in her ears. Oh fuck, if he loved her… she was such a good girl. He accepted her servitude; he saw none of the malice behind her eyes; she made him happy. She served him so faithfully that he loved his little servant slut.
She was such a good, good girl—he loved her.
“Oh fuck,” she murmured as she slipped another finger inside. DJ didn’t stir, snoring away.
He loves me. Even though I hate him. I’m doing it. I’m tolerating him so well he forgives me for being such a selfish, mean, evil cunt, he loves me, he wants to hold me, wants to use me for his happiness, I bring him happiness, I’m a good girl, such a good girl, he loves me, fuck, yes, FUCK, EMILY’S A GOOD GIRL, SIR’S FAVORITE TOY, SIR LOVES ME LOVES ME OH YES LOVE ME LOVE ME FUCKING LOVE ME MASTER FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!
She hadn’t realized she’d been speaking out loud—shrieking, really—until she came down from that earthquake of an orgasm and realized he wasn’t snoring any more. “Um, Emily? What… um…”
Emily knew she couldn’t explain it—she didn’t even fucking understand it—so she just did what that woman—Sydney?—had done, and kissed him. He was confused a moment, then pleased, then unconscious.
The next few times she got herself off, she was quieter.
He loved her. That evil, horrid monstrous fucking piece of shit loved her.
Not really, she admitted to herself. But maybe… he could. And I could be free.
DJ’s vision was too blurry and his head throbbing too hard to read the clock when he woke up, but before he slammed his eyes shut again, he could see four digits in evidence, so either it was already mid-day or he’d slept to the next night.
Slowly, he started piecing together facts; most of the last night had been a blur. He remembered the scene in Anthony’s room. The fight with Ashley. Storming off to Scuttlebutt’s and helping himself behind the bar. Fucking Sydney—had he fucked Sydney? He thought he had. That was where things got blurry.
How he’d gotten back to his room, he had no idea.
“Good morning, sir,” Emily said, apparently having seen him wake up.
He groaned as he made himself open his eyes, and there she was, kneeling beside the bed in her little pink cut-off unzipped coveralls, his favorite of her costumes. She was smiling, which she seldom did. He forced a smile back. “Heya. Fuck my head is killing me.”
Instantly, she produced a saucer from beside the bed, atop which was a glass of water and some aspirin. “I thought you might be hung over, sir.” She held it out to him, and he swallowed both gladly. “Perhaps sir needs to build up more of a… tolerance?” She grinned. DJ was pretty sure she hadn’t been consciously aware of his gift until Ashley took to discussing it openly in front of her. It didn’t seem to bother her, but then, the girl was unflappable.
DJ chuckled as much as his hangover let him. “Nice one.”
She helped him dress himself—not something she usually did, but maybe she was trying to go the extra mile because of last night. Did she even know? From the shouting match they’d had right after he’d caught her, the whole floor probably knew by now.
Once he was dressed, he checked his phone; there were three texts from Ashley and a voicemail, all of them apologetic. “Please, please can I come talk to you?” she ended the voicemail with. He’d never heard her sound contrite before. About anything.
He deleted it and put his phone away. If only there was somebody to talk to about it, vent to, only… who was left for? He hadn’t seen Derek in weeks, and Logan IMed him periodically but usually as a nearly transparent veil to get DJ to let him fuck Rachael again. Poor Rachael. There were the guys on his floor—few of whom he was even remotely close with, and he didn’t especially feel like owning his girlfriend’s infidelity to them. He could call his family, but they didn’t really talk about this kind of thing, on the rare occasion they talked at all.
Well, Emily would have to do. She may have all the personal graces of a cardboard box, but she would at least listen patiently, and he just wanted to talk it through.
“So I guess you heard. About Ashley.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I can’t believe she cheated on me. What that fucking twerp Anthony, no less. You know, his girlfriend just broke up with him last week? Guess he got over it pretty fucking fast.” Emily was listening, nodding, but not responding, so he just went on, letting flow his stream of consciousness ranting.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do to that guy when I get my hands on him, but… man, it’s going to have to be something creative. ‘What’re you thankful for this year, Anthony?’ ‘I’m thankful DJ didn’t rip my asshole six fucking inches wide for fucking his fucking girlfriend.’ Fucking asshole.”
Still no response. “What did she even see in him? What was missing that she let that prick talk her into his bed? Do you think he might have rufied her or something? So help, if I find anything even remotely illicit in that fucker’s room…”
Emily nodded.
“You know, feel free to chime in here.”
“Your slut apologizes, sir. She was unsure if you would rather blow off steam, or have a conversation.”
“Well, both, but give me something to work with,” he grumbled.
“Of course, sir. Humbly, your slut suggests that perhaps it was not Anthony’s doing, so much as mistress’s.”
“What? You think this was Ashley’s idea?” He stood up, scowling down at where she was kneeling at his feet. He felt foolish, directing his anger at the top of her head. It was like yelling at a cat—improved nothing, and served only to upset the cat. Still, what she was suggesting…
“Why would she want to cheat on me?” DJ continued. “I’ve been good to her, right? I gave her everything she wanted, everything I thought she could want. What could that prick Anthony give her that I can’t? Nothing, that’s what—I’ve got the world in the palm of my hands, and you think she’d pass up on that just to mess around with some fucking freshman?”
Emily lowered her voice, taciturn. “Your stupid little play thing apologizes, sir. She did not mean to offend, only offer another perspective.”
DJ sighed. “It’s fine, Emily. I’m sorry I yelled. I’m just upset.” He sat back down, then snapped his fingers and gestured; immediately, she obeyed him and sat beside him where he pointed. He didn’t even notice the oddity of the gesture any more. Ordering Emily around had become second nature.
“Sir never has need to apologize, but your slut is glad you are not cross with her.”
“Emily… I tell you, you’re much too good to me.”
He’d not intended it to give her the little thrill that his praises seemed to give her—those were words he just doled out like one would throw a treat to a dog when she’d done something simple but praiseworthy—but nonetheless, she groaned happily at it. “Thank you, sir.”
“You know, maybe you could leave off with the third person yes-sirring shtick, just while we’re talking here.”
“As you wish.” She smiled softly—that made twice in one day now—and spoke as though she were choosing her words very carefully. “It will take some getting used to. Your sl—err, I am not used to speaking with s… you. Like this.”
He patted her leg. “Not that I mind the other thing—you know I don’t—but it’s nice.”
“Do you mind if I ask you a question, sir? Err, DJ?”
“Shoot.”
“Are you going to break up with her, do you think?”
“I don’t know. I should. I know I should. Every time one of my friends or residents or my sister has been cheated on, that’s the advice I’ve given them, and I’ve never seen anyone ignore that advice and have it work out well. Part of me wants to dump her, for sure—a big part. I’m just not sure.”
“What about the other part of you?”
He considered. “I think the other pieces of me are still too hurt to have an opinion. I still don’t want to believe it’s true.”
“But it is true. You saw it with your own eyes.”
“Yeah, I sure did.” He sighed. “Still, maybe there’s more going on than what I know. Maybe they have some kind of history, like it was an old fling in a moment of weakness? Or maybe he drugged her like I was saying, or… I don’t know. Maybe it’s my fault.”
“An old fling? He’s only been in college for three months. She…” Emily’s jaw clenched for a long moment. It was as if now that she were speaking like herself, her poker face was weakened.
“You have something to say?” She hesitated again, and months of handling her like an extension of his id asserted itself. “Tell me what you’re thinking. Now.”
“I… Well look at it this way. Suppose you were a normal relationship like most folks have. How many times would you say you’ve fooled around with another woman since you two hooked up?”
He frowned. “She told me she wanted me to. I didn’t cheat on her—you can’t cheat on someone who’s telling you to fuck another woman. That’s not cheating, that’s just… her little kink. Hell, more often than not it’s her idea, not mine.”
“I didn’t mean to say you were cheating. Only that maybe she thought that if she lets you sleep around, maybe she felt she deserved the same privilege.”
There it was again, that evasive expression, not quite able to meet his eyes. “What exactly are you saying?”
“Nothing, sir, DJ—nothing, I just… I just wanted you to see you’re not to blame, that’s all. Honest. I swear.” She looked down at her lap, hands fidgeting.
He eyed her suspiciously. “I think you know something. Emily, if you’re holding out on me, so help me… I order you to tell me what it is. Right now.”
“Sir! No, I… please, sir, your slut doesn’t want to, please don’t make her—”
“TELL ME!” he shouted.
“Um, just that, um, maybe… Anthony wasn’t the first!” she squeaked, flinching away from him.
DJ was thunderstruck for a moment. What she was suggesting… that was bullshit. It had to be. Emily sunk to her knees beneath him, then pressed her forehead to the ground piteously. “What do you mean? Emily, you know something—it’s obvious, don’t try to deny it. Tell me everything, right goddamn now!”
“Ashley ordered me not to, sir!”
“Fuck Ashley’s fucking orders! You’re MINE, not hers! What happened?!”
“There were others, sir!” she moaned. “Many others. For weeks now! She used sir’s orders to his residents to obey her as a tool, then seduced them, threatened them, made them do things!”
DJ stepped away turning his back to her. “I know Ashley pushes them around, but what you’re saying… that’s not possible!”
Emily crawled frantically back in front of him, head still sunk submissively. “But it is, sir! You’ve seen how she gets her way with people—you know what a bully she can be, what a temptress!”
“You don’t know anything! You’re just jealous of her and you’re trying to drive us apart so you can have me all to yourself! How could you even know?”
“Because I’ve seen her do it!” Emily cried.
DJ’s voice was ice cold. “Bullshit.”
“No, sir—there have been several! Mistress even used your filthy little gutterslut once to help her seduce a guy in her chem lab.” Hastily, she scurried across the room and snagged her phone; DJ watched numbly as she fiddled with it. When she handed it to him, it was a text conversation with a number he didn’t know. He was thanking her for an amazing night “with the both of you,” and her reply was a picture of both Emily and Ashley topless, blowing kisses.
He looked for only a second, then dropped the phone and fell on his ass on the floor.
His chin quivered. “But… why? Why would you help her?”
Emily’s voice was interrupted by her own sobs. “Because sir demanded his servant obey her unquestioningly! Because mistress threatened me—with pain, with banishment! Your slut was too afraid, sir, that is the only reason she didn’t tell you!”
“I… I can’t believe you would… I thought I meant something to you. All this time, I thought you actually cared about me, beneath all your fucked-up fetishizing and sucking up, I thought… This is how you repay me for all I’ve put up with from you, you crazy bitch?”
Emily lifted her head, and a look of pure rage was on her face, so stark in contrast to the remorse he had anticipated that he actually stumbled backwards. “You… you ‘put up with’… from me…?! You question mycharacter?! You, who goes out and fucks—sorry, rapes—any semi-attractive girl unlucky enough to cross his path, you abuse them, let it be watched and recorded and shown to the world, you let that sociopathic cunt you were duped into falling in love with join you and laugh at it and get off on watching you inflict suffering?! And you call me a bitch?!”
Emily rosed to her feet, mouth twisting in a feral snarl. “You fucking monster. You take, you manipulate and bully and antagonize and humiliate anyone you want any time you want for no reason but to give yourself a sick little thrill! You ruin lives like it was a fucking game, DJ! And then when you finally suffer one little setback, when that psycho lunatic does the same fucking thing to you that you’ve been doing to her with fuck only knows how many women, what do you do? Oh of course, you go out to a bar and rape someone else to make yourself feel better! Then come home to cry about it like you deserve a single drop of fucking pity.”
She loomed over him, voice lowering menacingly. “You fucking disgust me. Ashley calls you an asshole, but that doesn’t scratch the surface—you’re the fucking Antichrist, and she’s the queen devil of the universe herself. Do everyone on this campus—on this whole fucking planet—a favor and go fucking die already!”
DJ, totally unprepared for this—from Emily! sweet, submissive little Emily!—scrambled backwards, tried to get up only to be pushed down to the floor by her as she finished. He’d never seen that look on a woman’s face before—pure, unadulterated malevolence. For a moment, he thought she really might try to kill him.
Then, the next instant, she fell to her knees and vomited.
DJ scuttled back as she heaved over and over. Her anger disappeared, or at least he thought so—when he could make out facial expressions through her sickened state. Not knowing what else to do, he knelt down beside her and patted her back, and after a moment she stopped puking and started gasping for air, face bright red, a haunted look on her face.
It was a panic attack—he’d seen them before. She needed a moment to catch her breath and calm down, so he stood back and collected his thoughts.
What had happened? Emily—submissive, selfless, slutty Emily—had just completely freaked out on him. Rape? When had he ever raped someone? Never once since he’d gotten his power had anyone told him no. About anything. Nor had they complained about being embarrassed or ashamed or any of those things she’d accused him of. What he did was harmless—victimless! He wouldn’t go doing those things if it actually hurt anyone!
Images of some of the things Ashley had done to people—thing she’d had him do—things he had done of his own volition—flashed before him, and he squelched them.
No. No, it wasn’t like that. She’s wrong.
Little by little, she regained her breath somewhat, though before she could get back to regular she threw herself at his feet, literally kissing them all over with bile-dripping lips. He tried to escape the awkward display, but there was no way to move without kicking her in the face. “Emily, stop that,” he said with what little authority he could muster.
Suddenly, he was much less confident of his capacity to control her.
“No, sir, please, please, your slut begs you to forgive her, she meant none of those terrible things she said—” she gagged, and for a moment he worried she was going to puke on his feet before she continued, “—and she begs you, from the bottom of her soul, forgive her, forget her outburst, she was stupid and wicked and evil and must be punished, forever, punished and punished until she understands what a bad girl she is, and please, sir, please let me make it up to you, let me redeem myself, oh God, please DJ, please let me make it up to you, love me again, let me show you I didn’t mean it, please…”
She continued, continued for so long he wondered if she was ever going to stop, kissing his feet and sobbing and begging him to forgive, to punish, to forget. Yet all he could see was that look of raw, seething hatred on her face when she’d denounced him, the righteous wrathfulness in her voice.
The fear he’d felt. Fear that she might try to hurt him.
Fear that what she said might be true.
There was a soft knock at the door, and without waiting for an invitation, it opened. Standing there was Brittney, looking concerned at DJ then puzzled at Emily, who didn’t let up her murmured petition for a moment.
“Is everything OK? I heard yelling, and…”
“Yeah. We were just having a little talk.”
“You’re sure? I was worried you… she… I just worried.”
DJ drank in the tender, concerned expression on her face; measured it in contrast to the visage he’d seen moments ago.
“Yeah, Brittney. Thanks.” He snapped his fingers; by reflex, Emily looked up and saw him gesturing for her to stand. She was on her feet like she was spring-loaded.
“Emily, what you said…” She winced and opened her mouth, doubtless to resume her pleading, but DJ forestalled it with a raised hand. “I will never forget it, and I will never forgive it. I don’t trust you any more, and if those are the kinds of things you’ve been thinking about me, I don’t want to see you any more.”
“Sir…!” she gasped.
He gestured for silence. Emily obeyed. “I mean ever. Not in this room, not on this floor, not in this building. You’re fired, as of now. Now get the fuck out of my sight.”
With a final, soul-rending sob, Emily obeyed his final command.