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.
I woke inside the hood again, a sealed black void where the world was all but gone, like those silent, sleepless nights lying awake before the box came. How long ago was that, I wondered, my mind drifting to those moments, stirring something in me that I’d forgotten. That I’d tamped down. That the pain made me forget.
Fear. Anxiety. Dread.
I’d signed the papers, acquired the Power of Attorney, cleared my summer away with the college — all of it left to my TA. My best friend. My lover. My domme — could I call her that? Amy? That one woman I’d confided in. The one woman who’d soothed my fears about the exploration I’d admitted to one night over too much wine. The first time she kissed me, I knew. The first time she bound my wrists and straddled my face, I’d nearly panicked. The first time, she spanked me, I’d begged for more. The first time I felt her strap, I’d cried — orgasm after orgasm ripped from my core with her slow, easy thrusts and her soft growl.
Surrender. It was everything I’d wanted. Everything I wanted now.
I shifted, felt the twine tugging my nipples, a twinge of pain from clamps holding my cunt open. The ropes around my shoulders. The line attached to my head harness, holding me erect, like a statue. I slept kneeling each night, arms bound behind my back, my clit vibrating softly from the Matriarch’s instruments, none of which I saw — all of which I felt on the most intimate level. A pulse of pain. A subtle shock. The microscopic needle of the electricity again and again and again as I fought for sleep, and finally succumbed to exhaustion.
The screams had long since ceased. Those days were gone now. Since then, I existed in a state of soaring pain and the low, slow descent into serenity that followed, each session met with a state of utter submission and acceptance. Pain was transformation, she’d said. A straight line to clarity, to purpose, to place. I’d begged with my eyes to find that place. What was I, after all these weeks, but a vessel for the Matriarch’s sadism?
Inside the mask, there was nothing but silence and solitude -- my place beyond the world. I inhaled through my nose, tugging cool air through narrow slits, my mouth stretched and full. Another heavy rubber gag held my jaws open, my tongue down. Drool trickled from my chin with each breath. I swallowed what I could, but the position of my head left me drooling on my breasts all night, the cool air and warm saliva mixing as my nipples came alive under the clamps.
The nights stretched on, like the days, silent and purposeful, thought a kind of slow, drowning tide, dreams just blurs now that my mind had grown silent. And yet, Amy was there some nights. Some days, when I knelt in solitude, sailing over waves of pain and purpose. She touched me, kissed me, promises falling from her lips — what she would expect from me, want from me, do to me when I returned from my summer of slavery. Every vow filled me with need, my clit throbbing and me helpless to touch. The only promise now, the promise of the agony with the coming dawn, with the return of her, the Matriarch, a woman I’d only laid eyes on twice.
The latex clung so tightly to my face it felt like I no longer had features of my own, only the suggestion of a mouth forced open by the gag and the faint pulse of my heartbeat beating uselessly against the muffled dark. When had I last seen my own face? Or was I a mask now, plain and featureless? My world was touch now. Sensation. Cool air sliding over my clit, the warmth of the Matriarch’s hands on my ribs, her fingertips gliding down my legs, her breath hot against my neck. She came and went — one moment my skin igniting with her presence; the next, gooseflesh in anticipation of her next touch.
The Matriarch’s hand left my collar before I could even orient myself, a cool, certain pressure that left me kneeling while hands strapped me into place for another night. Or was it morning? I waited on knees that trembled not from fear but from the memory of the last position she’d left me in, muscles still echoing with the rigid, burning geometry of obedience.
Inside the hood, the world did not exist, not really; there was no color, no sound, no horizon, no depth. How long since I saw the sun? The moon? The face of the woman who ruined me each day? The face of the woman I’d begged to ruin me?
My own face. My own face. My hair. My smile. My eyes. Where had she taken them?
My breath caught when the clamps captured my cunt lips and I felt them stretched open. “There is nothing but pain here, and we will explore every inch,” she’d said, her fingers trailing across my skin, as if she were drawing a map. It was a map I’d hardly seen for days — weeks? — but I knew every road, every byway, every turn and twist. She’d made sure of that. We would travel every mile of the map, she’d said, and then retrace our steps until we were back to the beginning.
She had become the world and I the topography.
And yet, even in that total deprivation, Naomi’s touch still lived beneath my skin like a detour, a shortcut, a route less traveled. I tried to steer away, but the turn was always the same — in those quiet moments, when she came to tend to me, and I knew we were alone. I could feel her fingers sliding inside me again, not as a memory but as a sensation replaying itself without permission, the way her knuckles had opened me, the way her wrist had brushed my clit as her fist slid home, the way her breasts had trembled against my chest as she let herself come undone on me, her moans caught in the ring of my gag, her lips tasting of sweat and honey when she kissed me like the world was ending. Every command the Matriarch gave me — the gentle but absolute pressure at the base of my spine that meant bow, the subtle tilt of my collar that meant turn, the tightening of her fingers that meant stillness, now — all of it tangled with those sounds Naomi made, those helpless, hungry little sighs that had no discipline in them whatsoever, only want.
And it was everything I wanted. She was. And yet…my path. My path was set. Or was it? I knew the route. I’d traveled the high roads. But each time I hoped for the detour, the turn, the bumpy gravel of the byway named Naomi.
The moment came, and I felt the clasps undone, the clamps released — the first breath of pain across tender flesh. Inspection on unsteady legs as blood coursed the length of my limbs suddenly released from their prison. Then, on my hands and knees, a bowl placed before me to fill my belly before a walk. I ate my fill, licking the cool metal of the vessel, searching for every morsel with my tongue.
The leash snapped closed around my collar, and I rose, a practiced and perfected transfer carefully manicured by the unrelenting attention of the women who owned every inch of my being.
The Matriarch guided me down the corridor, her steps measured and unhurried, and I followed the way she’d trained me to follow, by the faint shifts of her hand and the subtle hitches of the leash. A long corridor, then a left and right, my toes retracing my daily route with precision learned through repetition. We were heading to the four seasons room, where she could show me off and take her tea. Despite the thick pads over my ears, I could hear the talk like leaves rustling, catch the clink of a spoon, but the moment we stopped, the moment I felt the world go still — when my own mind had once followed the world into silence and calmness, she was back in my thoughts.
My detour. Naomi.
The Matiarch was just there — I could feel her presence like a cold sun, but my mind drifted away from her like a body slipping underwater, sinking deeper into the warmth that Naomi had pressed against me, her touch so different from the Matriarch’s precise cruelty that I couldn’t stop comparing them, couldn’t stop tasting Naomi’s breath on my tongue even through the gag, couldn’t stop hearing the wet, broken sounds of pleasure she’d made even through the hood that should have muted everything. I tried to focus — I truly did — tried to feel the way the latex tightened over my scalp when I bowed, tried to anchor myself in the bright snap of pain when the Matriarch flicked the clamp she’d placed on my nipple earlier, tried to let the agony burn away every thought except her, but instead the pain only opened a door, and Naomi slipped through it again, soft and fierce and forbidden, her touch blooming inside the ache until I couldn’t tell where one sensation ended and the other began.
And suddenly, the Matriarch was gone — far away, as if I’d fallen from her orbit.
Naomi. What was she?
Each day she came — her touch was discernible, no matter the position, the agony, my level of exhaustion from the day’s play. The night’s trials. Between each session, she appeared to check on me, clean me, shave and soothe any scrapes or bruises. Like a nurse, she bathed and cared for me in the quiet moments apart from the Matriarch’s moods, when the house went quiet, and the afternoon sun lay low against the treetops. The morning sun climbing over the hills. I could always feel the warmth of the floor, a sense of the light streaming through tall windows. I imagined it all, except for the tenderness, the delicate strokes, the care that Naomi showed my body, and each time, a need that I couldn’t explain.
Was it my vulnerability? Was it my helplessness? I was no more able to resist her manipulations than those of the Matriarch — hands bound, body exhausted, mind open and accepting of any input. Blinded and deaf from the hood. Gagged, my mouth forced open by the metal ring, leaving my tongue at her mercy — the mercy of Naomi’s tongue. My cunt, swollen and throbbing from the day’s pain, ached for her now — her touch, tender at first, then teasing, then pure torture when her fist closed and forced its way inside me. I screamed in silence as I came, the orgasm shattering the stillness of my existence, until I stood before her, a hapless fool, slave to yet another being that owned me, body and soul.
I couldn’t deny it. Naomi was everything the Matriarch was not, and I would worship both sides of the coin, given the choice. And if not, I would simply accept and obey. Pain or pleasure — it was not for me to decide; only to endure.
I trembled, feeling the sudden ache between my legs at the thought.
The Matriarch paused, sensing the shift in me the way she sensed everything, and her fingers tightened on the leash — a single, elegant correction — but my knees buckled anyway, not because of the pain she inflicted but because Naomi’s hands were suddenly everywhere in my mind, sliding over my thighs, gripping my hips, pulling me forward as if she wanted to climb inside me and live there, her mouth hot and frantic on mine, her breath shaking as she whispered nothing at all, because Naomi didn’t need words; she spoke in pressure, in heat, in the wet glide of her tongue against the metal ring, in the tremor of her body as she came against me with a desperation that felt like a secret.
Our secret.
And then the Matriarch’s hand was under my chin, lifting my hooded face with fingers that were steady, unhurried, unambiguously in control. “You tremble, but for whom?” she said, her voice vibrating through the latex like a tuning fork striking bone, and I felt my pulse hammer against her thumb — too fast, too warm, too guilty. Did she know? How could she know? And yet, how could she not?
I tried to hold still, to breathe, to remember who owned my silence and who owned my pain, but Naomi’s pleasure was a stain inside me now, something sweet and dangerous that refused to wash away, and I knew the Matriarch could feel it, could taste the difference in my breath, could sense that the pain she gave me no longer fell cleanly into place but tangled with a hunger she had not permitted.
I swallowed, tried to steady myself. To focus. To recenter. To feel her presence and shut out the rest of the world because her presence was my world — or was.
I told myself to focus, to serve, to disappear into the shape she desired, but inside the hood, inside the darkness, Naomi’s wild abandon kept blooming inside my cunt, and the Matriarch’s discipline, that once felt like truth — the only truth I would ever know again — now felt like a knife carving the outline of something I didn’t yet understand, something I feared and wanted in equal measure. And as the Matriarch pulled me back into motion, elegant and certain as ever, I followed because I had no choice, but my mind — my treacherous mind, my ache, my need, and ultimately my fears — followed the wrong woman entirely.
Author’s Notes: It took me a while to get a sense of where this is going. After the last episode, when Naomi entered the story much sooner than I had planned, I knew I was going to have to shift some of the story forward and accelerate the plot and Olivia’s descent.
We’re about halfway to the end of this second and final season of F.U.C.K., but we haven’t gone as deep and dark yet as we’re going to go in this last half of the season. Be ready for a major shift at the end of the next episode; things are about to change, and the pace is about to race ahead.
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