Olivia Shaw was a professor, a woman of reason and restraint — until the summer she signed away her freedom.
Find every episode of this deep, dark descent here: F.U.C.K.
“Tell me where you were just now.”
I hesitated. She knew. I knew it. But the fear — it was so much. Too much.
The panic didn’t start as panic, not at first; it began as a faint quiver low in my stomach, a wrong note in a melody I had finally learned to sing, a tremble that didn’t match the rhythm the Matriarch had carved into my body over the long days and nights when pain had been everything — my air, my language, my prayer. In the hood, that tiny flutter magnified until it was all I could feel, threading through my muscles in a way I couldn’t name, a sharp contrast to the steady hum of agony she had taught me to surrender to. Agony and silence, and I could feel the growing storm forming in my head.
For days — weeks maybe — my world had been reduced to a simple equation: obey, suffer, accept, and in the accepting find the quiet place where fear dissolved and I dissolved with it, floating somewhere between my own heartbeat and the brush of her fingers on my trembling jaw. And now…
I remembered one night in particular, almost lost in the blur of identical nights, where she had held me suspended in a cruel, perfect shape, my limbs stretched and trembling, my breasts clamped, my cunt aching from the slow pulse of the black box, and I had sobbed not from the pain but from the stillness inside it. The world shut away — silent, folded in on itself like a collapsing star — nothing but eternity, as if I’d ever contemplated it in any way.
The Matriarch had walked away, her crisp footsteps fading into emptiness. I hadn’t heard her return until I felt her touch. She wiped my tears — not with affection but with necessity — and whispered that I was learning the first true silence of my life, that the world would never be as quiet or simple or honest as the moment I finally stopped resisting myself. And she had been right; the pain had opened something in me, hollowed out a chamber I didn’t know existed, and inside it there had been peace, a clean, startling peace that no fantasy, no story, no trembling late-night exploration had ever hinted at.
I had thought I understood desire back then — back in my old life, in the glow of a laptop screen, with Amy curled at my side sometimes, her fingers tracing circles on my thigh as I read her stories I couldn’t admit I liked (yet), stories of cages and collars and women who broke and were remade stronger or weaker or stranger. I remembered the shock of my own arousal the first time I’d found one of those websites, the embarrassment mixed with fascination when a video autoplayed, a woman screaming into a gag, sweat and tears shining on her skin, a rope tightening slowly around her ribs. It had seemed too much, excessive, grotesque even, and yet my hand had crept under the blankets anyway, my hips rising in shameful, startled little jerks as I told myself I was only curious, only looking, only imagining — not wanting, never wanting, not really.
But here, with the Matriarch, I had learned that the line between wanting and imagining was much thinner than I ever believed, almost nonexistent, a veil that disappeared the moment she placed her hand on my collar and said, “Breathe.” The moment she pressed her body close enough for me to feel the weight of her certainty radiating through the dark. She had coaxed me into places I once swore I would never go, coaxed me gently, elegantly, relentlessly, her words like a sweet poison in my ears, until what once terrified me now steadied me, drove me, made me feel grounded in a way the real world never had. Pain had been the doorway, and she the hand on my back guiding me through.
But now — Naomi.
Naomi whose touch had been reckless and hungry and forbidden. Naomi whose moans were nothing like the Matriarch’s quiet commands. Naomi whose fingers had not asked, had not disciplined, had only taken and given in the same breath.
Where the Matriarch was a steady cold wind, Naomi was a warm tropical cyclone.
She had turned something over inside me, stirred up an old, messy, ungoverned pleasure I didn’t know how to control anymore — one I realized I didn’t want anymore the first time a strange young man at the farm had taken my ass. And that was the problem. Pleasure was not structured. Not steady. Not safe. Being fucked randomly and relentlessly at the farm had left me without a sense of direction, lost, reeling, waiting for Daddy to regain control, to settle and soothe me, to undo the chaos brewing in my head.
But pain.
Pain made sense. Pain had rules. Pain had a purpose in this place, a language the Matriarch spoke fluently and expected me to answer to. But Naomi — Naomi was chaos unbound, the same chaos I had once clicked through on glowing screens, the same chaos on my hands and knees, my face pushes into the black soil beneath a thorny rose bush, heart pounding with curiosity and dread, unable to look away.
The Matriarch tugged on my leash again, bringing my thoughts back with a jolt of pain that should have calmed me, should have centered me the way it always had, but instead it scattered me further, because the moment pain bloomed, my mind leapt to Naomi’s lips pressed to my gag, the low, involuntary sound she made as she slid her fist inside me, the way she had whispered against my mouth — not words, never words, just breath and heat and want. And I felt my body respond, traitorous and needy, the ache in my cunt flooding through me in a wave that had nothing to do with discipline or surrender and everything to do with the kind of pleasure I’d never allowed myself to crave so openly.
“Tell me where you were just now.”
Her voice again, bringing me back to the now — silence, obedience, pain and clarity. A lie. My knees pressed against unforgiving tiles, back straight, breasts pushed out and ready for punishment, the heavy collar around my neck more a comfort than a constraint. The hood held me inside the space she’d carved for me, where my silence bloomed and my mind blanked.
I… I am… I was… Thoughts coming unbidden, unwelcome. Panic rising. My cunt clenched, and I pushed my tongue out through the ring gag, offering her my surrender, my silence, my self.
“You were somewhere else,” she said, her hand tightening in the dark, and I felt the air in the room shift, the darkness fall over me as she leaned in, shadow and cold grace.
I shuddered, and she laughed. “You were somewhere else, and I’m going to make you admit it. How many times have you been somewhere else since you arrived?”
I tongued my gag, my body betraying my training, the words trembling on lips unable to form them. I felt the moment, the time. Her hands. The heat. The tenderness. The roughness. The touch. The tease. The welcome thrust of her fist. The rush of pain and pleasure and my cunt spasming as it surrendered to the tender brutality.
“I know,” she said, and the world went still. My heart stopped, and yet my cunt leaked, my clit twitching, my sphincter squeezing the thick metal plug that filled me day in and day out.
I heard nothing for the longest moment. Not even the sound of breathing. Not even the sound of my own heart beating. Nothing but the cold quiet of darkness, the mewling of the beautiful woman who cared for and prepared me, fed me, bathed me, broken me with her easy touches and tender kisses. In the midst of the harshest of imagined fantasies, her warm lips on mine had undone every moment I’d earned at the feet of the Matriarch.
“You were so easily broken, and yet, you have fallen farther. To tenderness? You who craved the discipline, the pain, the despair of my leash. How easily you forgot yourself when she touched you with that light in her eyes. I’ve seen it. Think I haven’t? Do you think I miss anything? Let me show you how easy it will be to break her, to turn her into the obedient thing she should be. As you should be — as you will be alongside her.”
And then she was gone, a cold space where she’d been once burning my skin with her fire. And I waited, the silence broken by the sound of my heart, my blood pounding in my ears, the muffled clicks of her heels fading away. And suddenly, I was alone.
I waited.
And waited.
Bodies passed. Voices like leaves whispering along a dusty path. The flash of sun and shadow crossing the dark of the hood. My knees ached, legs trembling from holding my position, the thought of the Matriarch gone, walking away leaving me shivering.
I waited. Just an obedient thing, knowing I’d betrayed her. My body betrayed her. And the punishment would come.
Hands pulled me to my feet roughly, and I groaned as I unfolded my body. Rough hands on my arms, tugging me blindly ahead along with two sets of footfalls. My breath came in quick, desperate gasps, my mind racing as fast as my heart. Naomi. She knows. She knew.
I’m sorry.
And suddenly, the scent of leather and wood filling my nostrils. A training room? Or worse? The hands pushed me to my knees and then I felt the bite of steel around my wrists as they pulled my arms up above my head, my body arched, my tits thrust out, my breath coming faster, a cold fear gripping me. The room was silent — a terrible silence, broken only by the sound of a hand sliding over latex, the whisper of a strap, the soft clink of a buckle.
The sound of feet, coming closer. A hand cupped my chin. The Matriarch.
“I’m going to show you how easy it is to break a woman.”
I waited, trembling.
“It won’t be me you fear when we’re done here.”
A shudder tore through me.
I… I’m yours. I’m yours, I thought, the only sounds from my mouth a low wail.
“You thought you were mine,” growled the Matriarch, as if she could read my mind, “but after today, you won’t belong to anyone. No name. No past. No future. Just a naked, broken thing that obeys. And beside you...”
Hands slipped around my throat, pulling my head back as they peeled the hood away. I winced, blinked against the full sunlight flashing across my eyes as the dark shape of the Matriarch pulled back. And I froze. My heart caught in my throat, my thoughts fading away to a dull roar when I heard the muffled whimpering, recognized the sound of her voice.
Naomi faced me. Naked, on her knees, a metal ring gag forcing her mouth wide. Two men stood on either side of her helpless form, strapping her to a short metal pole jutting out of the concrete — a scene I remembered and viscerally felt as I watched them strap her wrists and ankles into the stainless steel shackles. The barn, where I’d met her, where she’d watched and directed them as they pierced and shaved me. Where I first saw something in her eyes I didn’t understand.
And now those eyes were locked on mine. I blinked again to clear my vision, the tears coming in rivulets down my cheeks. But Naomi — her face was calm, serene even. Flushed, her chest heaving with each breath, but there was no fear there. I studied her, her eyes — it had always been in her eyes. And then I knew. I understood. I’d seen it then, but hadn’t recognized it. And each time thereafter. I’d seen it there even when I’d been in the hood, blinded, feeling her touch, hearing her breathing, her soft moans. I’d imagined her eyes, felt them see me — see me in ways I couldn’t see myself. See something she’d only been able to imagine — for herself.
She wanted this.
Is that what Amy saw in my eyes when I confessed my fantasies, when I begged her to tie me down, when I cried into her neck the first time she’d made me cum?
I could see it now in Naomi’s eyes and understood what it was that first moment in the barn. What I’d seen there was envy. Jealousy, even. She envied me. My willingness. My ability to let go. My acceptance and surrender. My submission and then my place at the Matriach’s feet, giving myself over to her tortures and letting myself be shaped by another.
The men finished tying her, leaving her naked and bound, the pole only three feet off the ground, a small platform, like a sawhorse, but metal. She knelt, legs spread, her arms stretched behind her, a perfect display.
The Matriarch turned to me, a wicked grin across her face, and leaned into my ear. “You thought I didn’t know,” she whispered, her breath tickling my neck. “You thought she could keep secrets from me.”
She pulled back, her gaze falling to Naomi, her smile turning to a frown. “That one thinks she knows how to keep secrets. Keep them then. You will never tell another.”
I glanced up at the Matriarch, then back down to Naomi, as helpless as me as they gathered around her. I watched them unmake her, just as they had unmade me.
Author’s Notes: Again, I had intended this to come later in the story, when I was considering this story for a few more seasons. But, here we are. Olivia’s journey started slowly, like a leisurely stroll, but it’s picked up some pace, and it’s about to turn into a full run. And, as with any good storytelling, you end up where you started — we’re not there yet, but we’re getting there.
There are three or four more episodes left — maybe five even; I’m not sure yet — but I do know where I want to end, and that’s key. We’ve still got some revelations to get to before we end this tale of glorious destruction.
Stick with me. And if you want more of these deeper stories, these longer arcs, and erotica that doesn’t flinch, paid subscribers make that possible. Thanks for reading!
I’m going to have to read this again, slowly. There’s a lot in it and it is deep. 🔥
I’m loving all of it 😈