Caroline imagined it might feel worse.
The crawling. The leash. The nakedness under the gazes of men and women who barely looked twice as they passed her in the halls.
It felt…freeing, as if there was a great weight lifted off of her shoulders. The years of holding the house together, worry over Ted’s comings and goings -- worries that he was having an affair somewhere far away, when really he was consorting with criminals and getting them into deep water. And Casey -- the pushback, the angst, the constant fights, and then her moving out and into that house with her friends. When she’d left, Caroline wasn’t sure if she was relieved or saddened. All she knew was that the house was empty and all of the windows looked out onto a life that she’d let slip by.
It was that window on the world that held her in solitude, and suddenly, here and now, that window was shattered -- and with it, the weight of everything she’d tried to control was gone. She was unburdened. Free?
The warm tiles under her knees, the occasional glance as Ethan read the paper, the way he reached down and cupped her breasts, squeezing gently while she waited patiently, the rush of heat between her legs with each contact—free. Free of that worry. Free of that angst. Free of the debt and the dangers that went with it. Free, but owned. Free, but shared with a couple on her very first night under this roof. And yet, everything they’d done, had wanted, had hinted at—she’d wanted it, too, the moment it was suggested --no demanded of her. The window was shattered now, and the world had found her, and all she could think of as she knelt there on the veranda was that she belonged to the world now, and Ethan was her world.
The shape of the deal they’d made, the line she’d chosen to cross. No one had forced her to sign that agreement. No one had fastened the collar around her throat. It had been fastened by her own hands. This was the cost of freedom. And she was willing to pay it.
Ethan fed her by hand. Bits of toast with butter and jam. Forkfuls of eggs. Slices of bacon torn into chunks, his fingers lingering in her mouth as she closed her lips around him, sucking gentrly. And then he turned, white cloth napkin in hand and wiped her mouth. He smiled and held his water glass to her lips to drink, and then he sat back and admired the naked woman before him.
“Let’s explore the house, pet. Come.” His words were as quiet as the morning, as warm as the sun, and Caroline leaned forward to let him attach the leash.
They walked slowly through the house, or rather, Ethan did, sipping from his coffee cup as though there were nothing unusual about parading her through the gallery, the drawing room, the long corridor where tall windows poured soft morning light across the marble floors. His posture was casual, his pace unhurried. He barely glanced down to check that she was keeping up.
But she was.
On hands and knees, head lifted as he had instructed, eyes on him. Always him. The rest of the house was a blur of motion and light. The staff walking by mere apparitions. A quiet word to the man of the house, but nothing more, as if she didn’t exist. As if they didn’t -- she couldn’t have described them if she’d tried. A soft set of footsteps approaching, a hesitation and greeting, a disembodied voice intoning words that she couldn’t catch. Then Ethan’s sultry baritone, and all she wanted to do was sink her cheek down onto the leather of his brown wingtips. Inhale the leather, feel the warmth underneath, perhaps his hand reaching down to stroke her raised ass.
Had she thought it would be like this? No. The fearful walk, the way Ms. Benedict had spoken to her, used her, and then just last night, suddenly on display, a strange couple having their way with her body. All of it alien, terrifying, and yet thrilling. Was this what it was to be owned by the lord of the manor? His light touch on her cheek, his fingers depositing morsels in her mouth, the casual morning stroll through his magnificent castle? How many times had she cum last night, she wondered? How many times would she cum when Ethan pushed himself inside her?
She shuddered, and then they were moving again.
When they reached the east wing, Ethan paused, surveying the room, then moved on to the distant corner, sunlight beaming in through towering windows. Caroline maintained her place, moving slowly but with purpose to keep up, her knees aching but the heat between her legs dulling the pain somewhat. They stopped at the window, and he turned, pulling Caroline around on her leash until they both faced a wide, alabaster pedestal beneath a grand oil portrait. The painted woman in the frame wore pearls and a faint, disapproving smile. Ethan gestured to the plinth beneath her.
“My mother, God rest her soul. She hated this place, and she would hate everything about today, Caroline, but I’ve a place for you in this gallery of souls, and Mother will have to roll over in her grave if she doesn’t like it.” He paused, then pointed at the pedestal. “Up and turn, facing me.”
Caroline crawled forward and climbed onto the low stone platform, positioning herself on her knees, back straight.
“Thighs open, pet,” he directed, and she complied immediately, feeling the rush again as she bared herself. She watched him, hoping he would look, touch, tell her how much he wanted to be inside her. “Hands behind your back, pet. Grab your elbows.” And when she complied, he smiled. “Good girl.”
Ethan stood a moment, studying her like one of the statues in the garden. “Wait,” he said, and then he turned, and from the doorway, Ms. Benedict appeared with a handful of documents. She stood attentively, spoke quietly with Ethan, then looked up for a split second and smiled at Caroline—posed, exposed, and waiting. He signed something, then crossed to the far side of the room with his blonde assistant, who’d delivered a naked Caroline to her first evening as a slave.
Caroline waited, watched them, her gaze drifting from one to the other — the way they conversed easily, her light laugh, the way he touched her arm. She flipped through the file, indicating where Ethan should sign, her eyes never leaving him, her stance as open as the top buttons of her blouse. Caroline blinked, feeling a moment of — something. She didn’t want to think about it, to feel it, to register it, but it was there.
At first, she counted the seconds he was there on the far side of the room. Then the minutes as Ms. Benedict walked him through the documents. Then her corner of the world seemed to fall out of time, frozen in place as she waited.
She didn’t want to feel it, but it was there, coiling low in her belly like a heat that had nothing to do with desire. Not the desire she knew—the burn of obedience, of submission, of praise—but something more sour. More human. Her chest tightened as she watched the woman lean in, her voice lowered to share something private, and Ethan smiled. Not the cold, controlled smile he gave Caroline. Something warmer. Familiar.
Caroline shifted on the pedestal, subtly adjusting the arch of her back. It wasn’t discomfort. It was instinct—some deep, stupid need to be noticed again.
The difference was glaring, and the moment began to unravel. Caroline was naked. Collared. Silent. Posed. And Ms. Benedict was none of those things.
But it didn’t matter that Caroline had suffered, given herself, knelt, crawled, kissed his hand. Because in that moment, Ms. Benedict was the one standing at his side, speaking into his ear, laughing at something he’d said. She was the one whose dignity was intact.
Caroline inhaled slowly, forcing her eyes forward again, her gaze fixed somewhere neutral—just beyond the frame of a painting. But she could see them in the corner of her eye, the way they moved with such familiarity, their bodies in sync as they worked through the files. She could still hear Ms. Benedict’s voice, light and efficient, as if Caroline weren’t even in the room. She hadn’t even acknowledged Caroline, or looked her way, as if she were already part of the decor.
When Ms. Benedict turned and walked away, Caroline could no longer deny it. Jealousy. Simple and ugly. Ms. Benedict was a person, full of agency and purpose, and Caroline…a slave they could do with as they wished, or simply ignore.
When Ethan returned, he offered no praise. He simply gathered the leash again and gave a soft tug.
She followed, climbing down, feeling a tightness in her legs now, registering every crevice and crack in the worn floors. And something else -- the need. More than a need for Ethan to see her, but to touch her, feel her, take her. The longer she’d waited, the longer Ms. Benedict had lingered, the more it had grown. The longer she crawled, the more desperate that need became. If only he would turn and push her over the back of a sofa and fuck her right there. Anything. His fingers inside her, touching her core, his cock in her mouth pushing into her throat, a harsh slap on her ass to remind her of her place in his life. The leash was a reminder that he could do what he liked, and as the moments passed, the craving for just that began to settle in.
But he walked on, she behind on all fours, eyes locked on him, hoping for a sign of his desire. Quiet. Patient. Available, she thought. Perhaps that was the lesson.
The estate began to unfold itself to her in patterns—the way the staff moved through rooms like currents, the ebb and flow of duties that kept the house breathing. There were spaces where no one walked unless summoned. Doors that remained half-open, half-listening. She began to notice the little things—the measured distance each servant gave Ethan as they passed, the way no one interrupted his path.
She learned where to kneel without being told. When to lower her gaze. When to hold it.
In the solarium, the light had softened into the lazy gold of afternoon. Ethan led her to the far side of the room and gestured to the floor at his feet. She knelt without instruction, the leash hanging loosely between her breasts. Somewhere nearby the kitchens were alive with scents and sounds that made her stomach rumble. Would he feed her by hand again? Or would there be something new?
“Stay,” he said simply, and turned to the young woman who waited patiently, her eyes never finding Ethan’s pet. “Bring the guests here. I want them to see her.”
Caroline’s breath caught. Guests again. And a little part of her hoped it was Colt and Daniella.
She kept her spine straight. Eyes down. Patient. Quiet. Available.
Two men and a woman entered moments later, all dressed in riding gear, jeans and boots. They stepped lightly across the tiled floor, pausing just inside the doorway as their eyes fell on Caroline.
“This is the new one?” the woman asked, tipping her head to the side, assessing.
Ethan nodded once. “Caroline.”
The older of the two men smiled faintly, circling Caroline as though she were an object in an auction house. “I'd like to see her run.”
“She needs breaking in,” Ethan replied, and he reached down and stroked her hair. “And her knees must be aching, eh, pet? Take her Candice. If you’d like to see her run, then run her.”
The woman named Candace moved closer, crouching gracefully beside Caroline, perfume curling in the air like smoke. Her hair was ashy blonde in a long braid that fell over the left shoulder of her tight white button down. She wore a tight black bodice that accentuated her waist and gave way to brown riding pants and high leather boots. “Yes. I'd like that.” she said, voice soft, green eyes curious. The woman smiled, satisfied, and rose to her feet.
“Excellent,” Ethan murmured and handed over the end of Caroline's leash. “Run her hard, and I’ll be out in a few.”
Author’s Note: I have to laugh at this point because I’ve been writing this story sort of haphazardly — by the seat of my pants, which is really my M.O. But, there are drawbacks to winging it after a while in a story — you start to forget things that needed to be remembered. And up until now — this episode, I was so focused on establishing the first 24-48 hours of Caroline’s new life, I forgot about Ms. Benedict, who we met in the very first episode.
Luckily, it’s all sorted out because Ms. Benedict, as I have decided just in the last hour in taking a little time to think things through, is going to play a much larger role. As I’ve said a few times in other stories in this Substack or in The Fictional, where I write non-erotic fiction, there’s the saying about Chekov’s gun — if you show the audience a gun in the first act, someone’s got to fire it later in the story. That’s a very loose paraphrase, but you get the meaning. Ms. Benedict matters, and I’m glad I didn’t forget her for too long.
