Despite Mark, despite his idiocy and dumb stubbornness and despite her own rightful anger, Gemma still was a professional. She’d cried in the car a bit, after she had pulled into the garage at work, granted, but then she’d pulled out her kohl pencil, adjusted the rear mirror, and fixed her eyeliner.
She’d aced her presentation. The numbers were flawless, her slides were well prepared, she’d been able to answer every question and even that stoic Richard from legal affairs had nodded in approval.
Anger was still seething under her skin, but it was slowly smothered by deep, exhausting disappointment. Gemma excused herself, asked for the afternoon off, and her bosses didn’t ask. She listened to some variants of “Of course, you deserve it,” and then she was outside again. She drove over to Vincent’s Cafe, where for the first time she tried their Cherry Cake instead of her usual order. It had been great, even better than the chocolate cake. That wasn’t the reason why she cried, though, despite what she told the waiter.
This time, she didn’t bother fixing her make up in the car. She checked their joint bank account instead, hoping to see a second payment to Vincent’s, desperately hoping Mark had had the common sense to go over there and buy her another piece of chocolate cake. Maybe not a piece, but a complete cake, and he’d say sorry and explain himself and she could forgive him.
There was no new transaction.
Of course there wasn’t. Mark just had the emotional maturity of a five year old boy riding a plastic car.
Time to re-evaluate.
She couldn’t just act like nothing happened. He probably would do just that, and think everything was alright, while she wanted him to understand he’d hurt her, and to do learn and do better. So the best thing would be to just leave the pet in its room, sit Mark down, and talk it through. She’d explain her job to him, the importance it held to her, and how he could support her. She’d be calm and reasonable. No crying, no shouting, no drama. Yes. She was a professional.
With her chin lifted, shoulders straight, she left the car and marched upstairs.
The apartment was quiet, when she entered. Marks shoes were still by the door where he’d kicked them off yesterday. Gemma nudged them under the shoe shelf with a frown. She’d told the pet to clean up such obvious things. It had done so well the past days. Today though it had been pretty oafish. At the end of the corridor, she could see the kitchen counter, dirty breakfast dishes still on it. Great. Pet was dumb, and Mark didn’t even care enough to tell it what to do. She slipped out of her own shoes and pushed open the door of the guest bathroom. The mat the pet slept on and its few clothes were nearly folded and tucked away under the sink. The pet itself wasn’t there.
It wasn’t in the living room either.
Gemma felt anger boil up in her stomach again, and she welcomed it. Better than the cold dread spreading through her body. “Mark?”, she called. “Pet?”
She opened the door to his office and peeked inside. His desk was a mess, as usual, but there were no discarded headphones on top of it, no used coffee mug. Didn’t look like he’d worked here at all today.
“Mark?”, she repeated.
Then she heard it, the sound of water running, from next door. The master bathroom.
She felt sick to the bone.
Her jaw clenched, and she had to force her hand open to touch the bedroom door and press down the handle, her other hand still balled into a fist.
She didn’t know what she’d expected.
Not this.
The pet was laying on the bed, their bed. Herbed.
Her pet.
Naked. Bruised. Bleeding.
And sobbing, soundlessly, only its trembling frame and shaking shoulders betraying it.
Its hands were tied to the bedframe with the cuffs WRU had delivered it with, its neat white hair was a mess, its body covered in - oh, no, Gemma didn’t even want to think about it.
“I…,” the pet whimpered. “Ms Gemma, forgive me, I… I didn’t want it, I said… no.”
Stupid fucking lying romantic. Just as her friend Lily had said. They can’t beat their training.
“You seduced him,” Gemma said flatly. “You did this.”
“Forgive me,” the pet repeated. “I was bad, a pet bad for you, I deserve -”
Gemma had stuffed the plastic cane from the WRU box into the back of her closet, sure she’d never need it. She didn’t know, how it ended up in her hand just so smoothly. All she knew was that this was wrong, everything was, and she had to make it right.
The cane hissed through the air, and the pet’s words dissolved into a tiny pained moan, when the cane smacked across its stomach.
“Ms Gemma? Ms Gemma, I’m sorry, please? Let me out?”
Gemma heard faint taps against the bathroom door. It was odd how the pet was soft and quiet, even in despair. Gemma knew she was desperate.
No. Not ‘she’. It. It, the pet. Ira wasn’t a person, Ira was a discarded toy, and Gemma had needed her - no, it - for a while.
She didn’t any longer.
It hurt a little, admittedly. She’d allowed the pet to grow close to her, to become a part of her life. She felt good when the pet smiled at her, felt safe in its arms, comforted by its love. She’d lost herself in its touch.
More than herself.
She’d lost control.
Of Mark, of her own emotions, of her life.
She’d be getting it back.
Gemma straightened her dress and turned away, checking herself in the hallway mirror. Her cheeks were still flushed from the last time she’d had with the pet, her hair a bit messy, her pupils still blown. It had been good, perfect, probably. Not great, though. She could see it more clearly, now that she was moving on. Great sex was - just in sex, in contrast to everything else - in the imperfection, in the giggles and the laughs and the insecurities and the 'do you like it when I do this?’.
And Gemma was ready to have great sex again, with new acquaintances or maybe with old ones. She didn’t need a pet with complex pet needs and peculiar pet feelings. She was in charge again.
“Ms Gemma? Please? Let me out! I’ll make up for it.”
It hadn’t done anything wrong. It had done everything right.
The doorbell rang.
Looking past the short term feelings of emotional attachment that had grown from heartbreak, Gemma simply just wasn’t cut out to be a pet owner. She lacked the patience and the willingness to invest more money, and she definitely lacked the depravity that pets like Ira were designed for.
The guy at the door, however, seemed to meet these criteria. Paul Summers, rich heir and investment banker. He’d contacted her via Craigslist, before they’d taken her ad down due to some ridiculous issue about community guidelines.
The camera showed a young man, slicked back blond hair, sunglasses, designer suit. On an afternoon at the weekend. Yeah. Definitely the kind to own a pet. Gemma buzzed him in, before she turned around and talked at the closed bathroom door.
“Ira.Pet. You’ve been delivered with some handcuffs, right?”
“I…” A pause. “Yes, Ms Gemma.”
“Put them on. Hands behind your back. And to your knees. I’m going to let you out in a minute.”
After she heard the two faint clicks of cuffs being closed, she opened the apartment door to let in the visitor.
“Miss Sinclair.” Summers grin was too wide and too white. “Thank you for making the time. That’s a once in a lifetime offer you put up there.” He took off his sunglasses and tucked them into his shirt while he looked her down. “You do look well fucked. Was that the pet?”
Gemma frowned at that level of disrespect, almost ready to show him the door again, were it not for the slim briefcase by his side. Cash, they’d agreed. There’d still be official papers to transfer ownership, but she didn’t want the transaction show up on her account.
“It was.” She smirked. “It’s worth the money.”
“Well, I hope she knows how to fuck a guy, too. You’ve had any chance to evaluate this?”
Gemma cleared her throat. What an ass. “My… ex. Yes. He was very satisfied.”
“Nice.” Another grin. “So, where is she?”
Gemma unlocked the bathroom door and pushed it open.
The pet was kneeling on the blue tiles, hands tied behind it, back straight, eyes cast down on the glossy blue tiles in front of it.
Tears were glimmering in the corners of its eyes. Gemma pretended not to see them.
Summers didn’t seem to notice them at all. “Well, aren’t you a beauty?” He grabbed her - its - chin and tilted its face up, thumb running over its lower lip. “Fuck, I can’t wait to try out that mouth.”
Without turning around, he asked Gemma, “What’s her name?”
“Ir…,” Gemma cleared her throat. Her mouth was dry, all of a sudden. Ridiculous. “Ira,” she repeated. It shouldn’t feel like a betrayal.
“Ms… Ms Gemma?” Ira breathed. “Ms Gemma, who - ? Why?”
“You’re a pet. I don’t need a pet. He does.”
“But I …” Ira swallowed back a sob and Gemma felt her jaw tense. Pets learned to manipulate. They were made to make people feel things. It was an uncanny act. “I love you, Ms Gemma.”
It stung. It stung so much, she didn’t even hear what Summers said in reply to that.
She shook her head in disbelief. She was a professional. This was a business deal. Nothing more. “Excuse me, what did you say?”
“I think she’ll do just fine. She doesn’t need to love anyone, she just has to keep her mouth shut and spread those long legs whenever asked to. Can you do that, Ira?” His fingers were still on its lips, and somehow that irritated Gemma.
“I…”Ira-the pet - swallowed, and its voice shifted to honey once more. This time, however, it sounded more viscous than sweet. “I am made to fulfill my owner’s desires.”
“Thought so.” He smiled fondly. “So, Miss Sinclair, if you have the papers ready, I’ll take her.”
It, Gemma thought automatically. It. It. It.
“Yeah,” she mumbled, gaze on Ira, one last time. Large brown eyes, silently pleading. Soft white hair, that Summers was curling around a finger already. Tense muscles under scarred brown skin. And the collar, marking it for what it was. “Yeah. You take her.”
“Smile, Ira.” She did. It wasn’t much effort, these days. Ms Gemma was pleased with her, and Ira was so happy, it made her stomach hurt sometimes. “Turn your head to the side? Perfect.”
Yesterday, Ms Gemma had been out with her friends. She had been a little different that day, irritated and emotional, and Ira had been stressed, too. She hated being alone, without her owner. Still, it was better being alone by herself than being alone with Mr Mark, she’d told herself. It wasn’t appropriate for a pet to judge her owners, but Ms Gemma insisted that Mr Mark had never actually been her owner; and Ms Gemma hated him so deeply that Ira decided it might be okay for her to dislike him in her own right.
“Chin up,” Ms Gemma said and snapped another photo. Her voice was a little hoarse. Ira suspected it was due to the hangover. She’d prepared some pills and isotonic drinks for Ms Gemma in the morning, and then they’d shared fries for lunch, which Ms Gemma would usually never do. Ira had liked it a lot.
“Strip.”
Ira tilted her head and cast Ms Gemma a coy smile, before she took the seam of her dress and slipped it off in one slow, languid motion.
“Oh wow,” Ms Gemma whispered. “That was lovely. Wait, do it again, I’ll make a video.”
Ira repeated it with ease, shy smile, downcast gaze, fluid movements, a sequence of motions and gestures deeply ingrained in her. She’d trained it to perfection. Good pet.
Gemma sighed contently. “Sweet. Yes, that’ll do nicely. They’ll love it.”
Ira blushed a little, a little learned, a little genuine. It didn’t matter who “they” were, she reminded herself. The only thing that mattered was her owner’s approval.
She ran her hands down over her sides, fingers brushing over her breasts, her belly, until her thumbs hooked into her lace panty. She looked at Ms Gemma, while she rolled her hips and slid the panty down slowly.
“Oh, oh no,” Ms Gemma hurried to say and slipped the broken phone into her pocket. “No this is not porn! It’s enough, Ira!”
Ms Gemma stepped forward and pulled up the panty again. Her hands lingered on Ira’s hips for a second, warm and gentle and Ira couldn’t help but moan softly. Ms Gemma was so beautiful. It felt so good to be touched.
“You are truly precious, aren’t you?” Ms Gemma whispered, and ran her hands up over her, following the lines of her scars. When she fondled her breasts, Ira’s head fell back and she closed her eyes, ready to give in to whatever her owner wanted.
Gemma’s hand wandered up over her sternum, until it met the collar. “I didn’t, at first, but I can see how people pay money for this.”
“I’m made to fulfil your every desire,” Ira mumbled, desperate for more touch. “Please, Ms Gemma. Allow me to please you.”
“Later.” A finger hooked into her collar, and Ms Gemma pulled her down to press a short kiss onto her lips. “I’ll have to finish some transaction on my computer first. But we’ll cuddle after.”
Ira fought back her disappointment when Ms Gemma pulled back and tried to focus on the lingering memory on her lips.
“Yes, Ms Gemma. What… What do you want me to do until then?”
Ms Gemma went down to pick up the discarded dress to hand it back, taking her body in with another appreciative look. “Get decent and then, well, whatever pets do to relax. I have no need for you. Just… Enjoy yourself.”
Ira frowned and gestured vaguely between her legs. “En… Enjoy myself like…?”
“Hell, no! Gross. No. Read a book or watch TV, or…” She ran a hand through her ginger hair and Ira winced at her impatience, tried to calm her heartbeat. Everything was fine. “Whatev, I’ll just turn something on for you.”
Ira nodded nervously. She felt her owner’s eyes on her, more thoughtful than usual. “You so peculiar, Ira. You know what? I might even miss you a little.”
Ira bit her lips. That was wrong. She should miss her owner, not the other way around. “I can…. I can come to the office with you?”
For some reason, that made Ms Gemma chuckle and ruffle Ira’s hair. “Not like this, bab-, pet. Just wait here and be good, alright?”
Ira nodded eagerly and sat down on the edge of the couch.
Gemma let the pet sleep in her bed now. It was a king size bed, after all, there was plenty of space, and she liked the pet’s soft warmth next to her. Ira whimpered in her sleep sometimes, or flinched at noises from the street, but it kept quiet and didn’t move much. It was just there, listened to Gemma, cuddled up against her, or, well, did that thing that Gemma liked.
Gemma hadn’t used her vibrator in weeks. There was no need.
Sure, the pet was more expensive in the upkeep, but it was warm and pretty, its kisses felt nice, and it always kept itself neat and clean. And, if Gemma was honest, Mark had surely burned more of her money - and of her patience, along with it.
She was so over him.
Next to her, the pet stirred, and Gemma ran her fingers through its hair, watching its eyes flutter open. “Ms… Ms Gemma, good morning,” it mumbled. “For… Forgive me, I’m sorry, I must’ve slept in, I…”
The pet blinked rapidly. “Do…” Its voice was raspy from having just waken up. Gemma liked the sound of it. “Do you want your coffee, Ms Gemma?”
Not necessary, Gemma wanted to say automatically, but then her gaze caught on the pet’s collar, a reminder of what it was. “Mmmmhm,” she mumbled instead. “Yes. And check the staircase for the pastry delivery. If it’s there, get me the croissant too. With a little butter and honey on the side.”
“Of course,” the pet whispered and slipped out from under the sheets.
Gemma smiled. Perfect. She didn’t need to fake politeness. Ira was her property, and the pet loved to be of service. It was made to, after all.
She watched Ira walk out of the room, in one of the silk negligés Madeline had left, and while she still found it tastelessly revealing, she could admire the way it danced around Ira’s body. Most of that had to be credited to the pet’s movements, though, not to the negligé. The pet’s own disposition, or WRU’s training. Whatever the reason, Ira was a lovely product, and Gemma found herself increasingly pleased with having it.
Her phone vibrated on the night stand, and with a soft groan Gemma rolled over to check her messages. There were several, all by her friends.
‘Fuck that jerk, bby. He never deserved you.'
'if u wanna get drunk, i’m free tonight.’
'He’s so gross, I’m sorry. I’m sure, it’s just a rebound. She’ll be gone by tomorrow. He’s totally not over you.’
Dread pooled in her stomach, as she scrolled through her contacts. Reeve, Mark. There was a story in his profile. Gemma’s thumb froze over the phone for a second, before she pressed it.
A lovely summer day. Some sort of party, probably a wedding reception of one of his soccer friends. Mark himself, looking smug in a light blue suit that matched his tanned skin. And a young woman, short and curvy, with a red dress and matching lipstick, Mark’s arm around her waist, and her eyes drowning in his.
The pictures on the screen trembled, as Gemma’s hold of her phone tightened almost painfully.
She couldn’t look at it. With a sharp cry, she chucked the phone against the wall, and buried her face in the cushions.
“Ms Gemma?” She heard the faint noise of the door opening, bare feet entering with soft steps, the clink of a tray being placed on the night stand. “Ms Gemma, are you alright?”
A warm hand caressed her shoulder, and Gemma flinched. “No,” she hissed. “No I’m not okay.”
The mattress dipped next to her, and then Ira huddled against her, pulled her into a gentle embrace. The pet was taller than her, all soft muscle, and it was easy to just shut off the world and sink into the safety and comfort of its touch.
Usually.
Now, there was something nagging at the back of Gemma’s conscious. Someone about the dark haired woman in Mark’s arm, about their smiles and the sun and that deep sense of understanding.
Mark had gone out there, and found a person. Maybe a rebound, maybe more, but a person to be with. Gemma had isolated herself from the world, the one thing she had found solace in a mindless pet, programmed to please her.
Ira’s lips brushed over the back of her neck, sending involuntary shivers down her spine. “I’m with you, Ms Gemma,” it whispered.
How could you ever be, Gemma thought.
“Get my phone,” she said. “It’s by the wardrobe.”
The pet got up - elegantly, of course, it always was, annoyingly so - and returned a moment later with the phone. “It… It’s broken, Ms Gemma.”
Gemma turned towards the pet and grabbed the phone from its hands. An ugly crack ran across the screen, rough under her touch, but it still worked. She’d have it fixed on Monday.
She opened her friends’ messages and read them again. 'Let’s go out tonight, Gem! We’ve missed you!’
They were right. She’d been pathetic. Forgetting the world out there, forgetting that she was a beautiful and successful young woman. She didn’t belong in her bed all weekend, alone with her second hand toy. She should be wearing make up and flirting and dancing. And tonight, she would.
“Pet?” It had sunk to its knees on the hardwood floor next to the bed, gaze flying up to meet hers at the sound of her name.
Gemma’s gaze wandered over its scars, some hidden under the flimsy nightgown, others standing out starkly against its tan skin.
She was better than Mark. She also was better than this.
“I’ll have breakfast alone. I… have some things to figure out for myself. Go eat something in the kitchen."
The pet tensed, and Gemma almost rolled her eyes. She couldn’t have any drama about these nutri loaves. "Have a yoghurt from the fridge,” she added generously.
The pet stayed frozen, though, eyes wide with fear. “Ms Gemma, what… what did I do wrong? Have I been a bad pet?”
Gemma shook her head. “Bad, no. You’ve been good. A good pet, Ira, okay?”
Its name seemed to soothe it, and Gemma watched it nod and walk out of the room with that perfect small sway of its hips.
The door opens before she can even knock and with a quirk of her blonde brow, she lets herself into the apartment, a bottle of wine and two slices of chocolate cake from Vincent’s Cafe in hand.
Mark’s key for the house had still worked, but the one to the apartment didn’t fit any longer. It had been a bit more than a day, since he’d stormed out, but whatever one could say about Gemma - she was efficient.
With a short sigh, he rang the doorbell. Like a guest, in his own place. He could crash at his uncle’s for a while, but it felt odd to not have a home. Not that he missed Gemma. He really didn’t. He was free, finally, could do what he wanted, eat what he wanted, say what he wanted. She’d kept him in a prison, and it had taken the pet for him to realize he’d never been anything more to her either.
From the other side of the door, he heard someone shuffle, and he pressed the doorbell again, longer this time, just to annoy Gemma.
But it wasn’t her, who answered the door a second later.
It was the pet.
Ira looked different. She was in a short white dress, white hair was tousled, a slight blush on her dark cheeks, lip swollen. She looked like seduction itself. Strange, to imagine Gemma allowing her to walk around like this. After she’d been so intent on beating her up for being… just like this.
“Ira,” he said softly. “How are you?”
Straight, thin bruises shone on her skin, marks of Gemma’s rage, drawn over her thighs under the hem of the short skirt, and on her upper arms.
She seemed to notice his gaze, and her hand wandered up, almost instinctively, to another bruise, around her neck. Long lined, almost black in colour, shaped like fingers. Hisfingers.
Mark bit his lip, and she tilted her head without a reply.
For a second, he understood it as a gesture of submission, but then he noted the packed bags by her feet.
“These are yours,” she said. “Ms Gemma would like you to leave.”
A quick glance was enough to tell him the content of the bags was far from everything he owned in this place.
“Well, Gemma can -” He interrupted himself. This was ridiculous. He didn’t have to talk to her. “Gemma!,” he shouted instead. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
He put a hand on Ira’s hip to shove her aside and get past her and toward his stuff.
She didn’t move. “No.”
He cocked his head at her and looked her down. His hand was still resting on her thin dress, and he was all too aware of her soft, warm skin under it. “You’re not meant to say no.” He whispered into her hair, almost conspirationally. “We both know you want to be good.”
“Not for you,” She tensed under his grip, but still didn’t step back. Somehow, she seemed taller than before. “I’m Ms Gemma’s.”
“Ms Gemma almost killed you.”
“Ms Gemma is my owner. You’re not.” He was close enough to her to hear her quick breathing, to see her bruised throat bob as she swallowed, before she added. “You almost killed me, too.”
Mark scoffed. “Come on, Ira. Did Gemma really paint me as the villain here?”
“Leave Ira alone, Mark, and just go.” He caught a glimpse of Gemma’s ginger hair behind Ira’s shoulder, but Ira shifted to the side to block his way. Elegantly, as everything that fucking pet did. It was infuriating.
“Ira?”, he repeated. “So you’ve bonded now? Oh, just perfect."
He looked at Ira again, her swollen lip and unusually messy hair, and finally understood.
"You’ve fucked the pet, Gem, haven’t you? Oh, you’re really so fucking simple. Constantly afraid of losing control, but with the pet, you’ll always get your will. She better than me, huh? Because you never wanted a person in the first place, did you? Just obedience and a warm body? Fuck you, Gem, you know what, you’ve failed. You’ve-”
She dove under Ira’s arm and appeared in front of him, jaw tense, face red with fury, finger raised at him like a tiny school teacher scolding a child. “You’re the failure Mark, I don’t even understand why I put up with you for so long. You’re lazy and useless, just laid back and let me take care of-"
Enough. That was fucking enough. He reached out to grab her wrist and slam her into the wall.
He wasn’t fast enough.
Ira’s hand around his felt like steel. Pain flared through his shoulder as she twisted his arm almost effortlessly. Mark yelped and stumbled to his knees. Her hold of him was relentless.
"Fuck,” he yelled. “Fuck, Gemma, call her off.”
Gemma’s eyes were wide in shock, but smoothed over with a smug satisfaction that he definitely never wanted to see again.
“In a minute,” she mumbled, looking down on him. He could see three red rims around her eyes, salty traces of dried tears. “I like this.”
New pain erupted in his strained shoulder. “Ira,” he begged. “Ira, please, let go.”
“You’re pathetic, Mark,” Gemma said softly, and stepped in, only to look down on him. With a frown, she ran her fingers down his cheek. “You shouldn’t have been able to break my heart like that.”
“Fuck, Gem, you-” He interrupted himself with a pained hiss. He shouldn’t. He’d seen her angry. He didn’t want to end up on the receiving end of that cane.
“What do you want, Mark? I packed your stuff.”
“My…” He felt like an idiot, fucking humiliated by Gemma and Ira, of all people. Ira, who’d been so soft and warm to him, compared to Gemma who had felt like stainless steel and sharp edges. Now Ira was the steel one, holding him down with an iron grip. “My work stuff?”
Gemma tilted her head. “In there. Along with your potted plant. Well, without the pot. Tried to be efficient.”
Mark bit back a sharp remark, cleared his throat instead. “My, uh… PlayStation?”
“Really, babe?” She laughed. “Your fucking PlayStation? After you disrespected me, and my things, what do you think I did to your own toy? It’s in the trash.”
“You did what?”
“Yeah. That’s kind of exactly what I thought when I walked in on you fucking my pet, when you knew I didn’t want you to.”
The grip around Mark’s arm tensed for a second, twisting his shoulder even further. “Ahhh”, he whimpered. “Fuck, Gem, you can’t let her break my arm.”
“You’re trespassing. It’s self defense.” Still, she gestured at Ira, and the hold of his arm was released.
Mark let out a relieved sigh, and rose back to a full stand.
Gemma lifted her chin. “Take your bags and leave, Mark. Don’t come back.”
He grabbed the bags. Sharp pain rushed through his right arm, and with clenched teeth, he threw the bag over his shoulder. “I won’t.”
He stepped out of the door, turning away just in time to see Gemma rest her hand on Ira’s cheek, and the way the pet’s face lit up when Gemma pulled her into a kiss.
The door fell close, cutting off the view. Instead, his gaze was caught by his old, wrong key still uselessly stuck in the lock.
Ira was laying in the bed, half asleep, curled up between Ms Gemma’s legs. Her head rested on Ms Gemma’s hip, her owner’s other leg holding her in place.
Ms Gemma was sleeping, her chest and stomach rising and falling with her steady breath. Ira had to hold back from kissing her, from pressing a kiss on the soft skin of her thigh, from confessing her love to her owner yet another time.
She understood this was fragile, a precious, perfect moment.
Ira was a pet, she knew how to be a pet, a good, well trained romantic pet. And she understood Ms Gemma was still learning how to be an owner. The cane marks on Ira’s stomach were itching and straining. The bleeding had stopped a while ago. She didn’t need to worry about staining the white sheets, now that she finally could sleep in her owner’s embrace. The caning had been necessary. She’d disobeyed her owner by letting Mr Mark touch her, by letting him see her naked, but she’d been punished, as she deserved.
Ms Gemma was doing good, Ira thought. It had been a good day. She learned how to punish her pet, and then she’d learned how to use her for pleasure.
So much pleasure.
Ira could still taste Ms Gemma’s pleasure on her lips, just as she felt her punishment on her skin.
She had an owner again.
She had purpose again.
I love you, she thought, as she felt Ms Gemma shift underneath her in her sleep, moaning softly in her dreams.
I love my owner.
For the first time since her arrival, the words felt real.
This is for @whumpawoman Angstpril, prompts Exhaustion and Left Behind. Set in Ira’s story, several months after Gemma and Mark, and a few weeks before she will meet Dami for the first time.
Cw BBU, pet whump, very briefly referenced forced prostitution, vaguely referenced noncon and the whole messed up WRU/BBU system. But this, well - this is a rescue.
At 34, Poppy DeMarco felt too old for her job. There were days that went alright, sure, but lately, the bad days prevailed and it grew harder and harder to unwind at night.
Today was a particularly bad day.
The case was routine, pimping and prostitution, some college kid wanting to make a quick buck by producing porn of his romantic WRU pet and selling her out to his most loyal followers.
And as always with these business majors, he’d been ridiculously amateurish. Felt invincible, even now, when two of her colleagues guided him into a police car. Thankfully, the car door slamming shut cut off his babble about his dad’s connections, about how they’d all get disciplinary hearings, and everything he’d done was legal. Spoilt asshole.
“Gotta loooove frat boys,” her colleague Rosa mumbled next to her. “Can’t believe I’ve dated one back in the day.”
“Mmh.” Poppy only half listened, focus set on the white-haired girl kneeling next to the huge bed, dressed in nothing but a white leather collar and some… thing of translucent white lace. Position 2. All pliant. She hadn’t moved during the entire operation. “Show me your wrist, dear?”
She obeyed without hesitation, even though her dark eyes were wide with fear, and her shoulders trembled, dry leaves in the wind. “Good girl,” Poppy said, sickening routine using WRU’s conditioning herself, and she could almost see the relief in the girl’s posture. Gingerly, she held the girl’s wrist in her own hand, careful to avoid the bruises coiled around her arms, while she scanned her code.
“805609,” the girl mumbled. “Designation romantic.”
“Right,” Poppy confirmed and nodded at Rosa. “Legally registered to a Adam Summers, the man himself. Third owner already.”
“She’s so young.” Rosa’s voice was flat.
Poppy sighed. “They all are, aren’t they?”
“Still.” Rosa shuddered. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t. Only makes our job harder.” Poppy let go off the girl’s hand, but she didn’t draw back. Instead, she inched closer, looking up at her from under long lashes. “I’ll be good,” she said, voice melodic and the tiniest bit hoarse, perfectly seductive, yet still seeming natural. “Please, don’t send me back. Please… let me be good.” She reached for Poppy’s forearm, graciously, and her whole body followed the movement.
Poppy had tried to learn that sort of elegance in her dancing class, back when she thought she could actually have a private life. She’d failed.
What did they do to you to make you like this?
No. Poppy was going to listen to her own advice. Don’t think about it.
“It’s okay, darling,” she said, gingerly brushing off the girl’s arm. It was scarred, under the bruises. The girl was scarred everywhere. Cuts, mostly. Burn marks. Something that looked like lashes, across her flat stomach and on her thighs. Poppy didn’t even want to think about how her back looked like. She just felt tired. “We’ll take care of you.” The words tasted like ash on her tongue. They wouldn’t. They’d follow protocol, and protocol said to bring her back to WRU, who’d make arrangements with the owner; either keep her there until he’d come back from prison at horrendous day rates, or refurbish and resell.
The kid faced at least a year in jail. Probably more, given the scale of his productions. He’d never pay the upkeep for a pet. He’d resell. She’d be a discount. She’d never look like the virgin every prospective wanted.
“What’s your name?” Poppy didn’t even know why she asked, she hated herself as soon as the words were out. It wasn’t even like she could have a name of her own. It had been taken from her, like everything had.
“Ira.” She looked up again, a shy smile on her face. “Ira Winters.”
Of course, she remembered. Summers had advertised with the name he’d given her. He’d made the girl a porn star, after all. Poppy’s stomach turned.
Rosa’s thoughts seemed to go in the same direction. “Have you seen these… clips he made of her?”
“What I had to.”
“Mh. Me too.”
They both looked at the half naked girl in silence. It took some minutes, before Poppy spoke to Rosa again.
“People disappear in the system, often enough, you know.”
“Mh. Pets, especially,” Rosa confirmed.
“Nobody bats an eye. And Frat Boy won’t miss her, where he’s going.”
The girl - Ira - glanced at them, gaze shifting from one to the other. Careful. Knowing. “He is…,” she whispered. “He is my owner, but I… uhm. I won’t miss him either.”
“She’s fucking bright,” Rosa mumbled under her breath. “You think she’d stand a chance?”
Poppy swallowed, pushed her hands deep into her pockets. Did she? Pets were made to be dependent on their owners, Romantics most of them. Being third hand helped, though, it seemed. The last pets she’d worked with would’ve begged to go to prison alongside their owners. This one, Ira, was a lot further, it seemed. She might have been over that bond - but her past was so clearly imprinted on her skin, she’d always carry it with her.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But she sure as hell deserves one.”
Gemma leaned to the headboard, breathing heavily. Her half closed eyes stared at the ceiling, lazily followed the patterns and shadows painted to it by the setting evening sun. The afternoon had passed in a haze.
The freshly made bed lay in crumples again, the air around them felt sticky on Gemma’s skin, like a veil of guilt and grief and ecstasy.
She wanted to feel only one of those.
“Again,” she rasped. Her voice was hoarse, if from crying over Mark or from the screams of pleasure her pet’s tongue had drawn from her she couldn’t tell.
She felt the pet shifting between her legs, and idly caressed its soft skin, ran her fingers over the welts from the scars Madeline had left. The pet moved a little slower, less elegant than it usually would, because of the strikes Gemma had given it with the cane. She wondered if it’d leave scars. If the pet would wear Gemma’s marks on her body like it did Madeline’s. And if she’d like it. She’d see it too, traces showing how she lost her composure, her control, and let her rage take the better of her. She should’ve argued with Mark, not punished the toy. Mark, who’d had-
The pet kissed the inside of Gemma’s thigh. Its hair tingled on her skin, its soft lips send shivers down her spine. She hadn’t kept count on the times she’d come, but her body was on edge, ready for more, eager for always, always more. “I’m yours, Ms Gemma,” it whispered, its breath hot against Gemma’s most sensitive parts, and Gemma’s hips bucked up instinctively.
Yes it was, the pet was hers. Ira was hers. Not Mark’s, it had said no to Mark, because it was loyal, because it loved her.
“Tell me again,” Gemma said, and carded her fingers through the pet’s soft white hair. “Tell me again, Ira.”
“You’re beautiful,” the pet purred, placing more teasing kisses to Gemma’s thighs, as it repeated her words. “You’re confident and bright and intelligent, you’re your own person, and you’ve always been too good for Mr Mark.”
“Yes,” Gemma breathed, hands curling up in Ira’s hair. “Yes, I am.”
“You’re -”
Gemma pulled her pet forward, and a flick of its tongue was all it took to send her away on another wave of pleasure.
