“So, Jess, for your own sake, I have to rip away that mask of yours. The best way to do that…” He leaned even closer, turning my head slightly to the side so he could whisper in my ear. “Is to punish you until your silly pride doesn’t matter anymore. The best way...is to make you cry.”
I folded my arms, the only way I could think of to stop them from shaking. I realized my lower lip was pouting, and when I spoke, my voice came out as a whining, weak protest. “I don’t need to be punished. That’s stupid.”
“It’s exactly what you need, Jess. What’s even better is that as much as you’re dreading it right now, you’re still going to follow me.” He released my chin, chuckling. “You’re going to follow and accept your punishment like a good girl, aren’t you?”
He didn’t give me the opportunity to respond. Instead he turned his back, and wandered his way down the hall. I stood there, frozen in my hesitation, torn between the urge to run and the urge to follow.
He was right. Following won out.
The entertainment room occupied a large portion of the front corner of the house, but tonight the lights were off and the door was barely ajar. There was a massive TV on the wall, playing some classic 80’s horror film. A girl with long blonde hair fled from a masked killer through a suburban neighborhood, shrieking uselessly. Blacklights flashed in the corners, and there was at least one jack-o-lantern on every available surface, including lining the pool table and the shelf above the long, sectional couch. The room was isolated, dark, and currently vacant. It would probably be overtaken later by couples looking for privacy and sleepy drunks seeking a place to curl up. But for now, we had the room to ourselves, and Manson shut the door behind us.
The girl on screen went down in a spray of blood. The killer’s knife glinted, dripping as it plunged into her again and again. Manson sat down on the couch, right in the middle, spreading his arms across the back.
“Good slaves don’t sit on the furniture, Jessica,” he said, as I turned away from the TV. There was still a smile lurking behind his serious expression. He was enjoying every second of humiliating me.
I mustered up my trembling, shrinking pride. “Where the hell do you expect me to sit then?”
“On the floor, on your knees, at my feet. Like a good girl.”
I closed my eyes slowly. Every time I cursed at him, I was certain I was making my punishment worse - whatever it was. I had to do better at watching my mouth. At least here we were alone, with no crowds to see my degradation. I knelt, and crawled toward him until I was on my knees at his feet, facing him. He smiled.
“So much better, Jess. Doesn’t that feel good? Just letting go, accepting the embarrassment? It’s one of my favorite things to see…” He watched me in silence for a few moments, likely waiting to see if I had anymore snarky responses, but I bit my tongue. “Should I make you kiss my boots again? Hm? Since you’re down there already…”
“Please don’t,” the words slipped out in a whisper, in desperation, fear blossoming at the prospect of more humiliation. I bit my lip, regretting that I’d let Manson hear that tone in my voice. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, so close I could smell the mint on his breath.
“Please?” he mocked. “Begging already, Jess?” His eyes searched over my face. It was difficult to see that one white contact up close. It was creepy, like seeing a shadow in the background of a family photo that wasn’t supposed to be there. “Such a silly girl. Why are you down there, on your knees, begging for me not to order you to embarrass yourself?”
“I don’t know,” I said softly. But I did know: I was understanding it more and more with every order, with every condescending glance and mocking word. I liked feeling as if I had no choice. I liked that I had an excuse to let go of my pride and do the filthy, degrading things that made my belly light and my pussy clench. I couldn’t resist diving deeper; I couldn’t resist getting more of that feeling.
If he ordered me to do the most utterly degrading, public act he could think of - I’d do it. Whatever punishment he came up with - I’d let him administer it. I’d throw a fit about it, curse at him, call him names - but I’d do it. I’d do it because I wanted that twisting in my belly to tighten and the heat inside me to become a blaze. I’d do it because it was the closest thing to freedom I’d felt: no room for pride, no place for carefully constructed laughter, no fake smiles, no pretending. My attempts to keep up my mask - sarcasm, arguing, disobeying - were quickly falling away, dismantled, piece by piece.
Giving Manson Reed that power over me...maybe it was karma for what an asshole I’d been to him. Maybe it was the biggest self-discovery I’d ever encountered. Whatever it was, I couldn’t resist it.
“You do know, Jess,” Manson said calmly. “You know there’s the surface level reasons: you accepted my dare, you acted like a disobedient little brat, and now you have to be put in your place. But you know there’s the deeper reasons too: you want to explore something that’s probably pretty new to you, something that’s giving you feelings you didn’t expect. Something you’re enjoying, even though you don’t think you’re supposed to.” He waited, probably hoping for another aggressive reaction out of me, but my lips remained tightly sealed. He smiled slowly, sadistically. “I’d hate to deprive you of something you enjoy, even if it scares you. Get your head down, angel. Left boot only. Kiss it. Clean it with your tongue.”
“Please,” I whispered again. Tighter this time, more desperate. He just laughed.
“You’re going to do exactly as I say,” he said softly. “No matter how much you whine and cry about it, you’re going to do it, Jess.”
“I’m not crying.”
The idea of breaking down in tears in front of him sounded delicious. The idea of crying, begging, sobbing uncontrollably, only to have to give in and accept it in the end. I wanted to imagine he was forcing me. I wanted to imagine there would be dire consequences for refusal, instead of none at all. I wanted to imagine I hated him - just like I’d always insisted I did. The fantasy of it took me over like a high.
Manson leaned back in his seat again - calm, collected, waiting. “Obey me, Jessica. Get your head down and let me see those pretty little wings of yours.”
An actual whimper came out of my throat. I looked down at the boots I’d been commanded to put my mouth on once again. I could see the pale pink of my lipgloss shining on the leather, and I could still imagine the smell of them - that rich, sweet scent. The urge to run my tongue over them was strong, that strange desire returning with a vengeance. I dared one last look up at Manson. He was smiling as he watched me.
“Do it,” he said. “This is what you get for being a bad girl. You’ll learn.”
My stomach knotted up into a ball as I lowered my head. Crouched there, curled up small, I nuzzled my nose against the wrinkled, worn leather at his ankle. I let the roughness of his tight laces brush against my lips. I inhaled deeply, the intoxicating scent flooding my brain. I nearly moaned just smelling it. What the hell was wrong with me? Since when did something like boots turn me on? It had never even crossed my mind, never worked its way into any fantasy I’d touched myself to. I pressed my lips to the leather, lingering there now that I no longer had all the eyes of a crowd on me.