“You’re late,” I said, watching her walk in. “Did something happen? I tried calling, but it went straight to voicemail.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied, a note of frustration in her voice. “Class ran over. The instructor was going over something important for next week’s test, and I couldn’t just leave. And I had my phone off—he’s strict about calls and notifications during class.”

“Are you okay?” she asked immediately. “What are you doing out of bed? Did something happen? Did you fall again?”

“No,” I snapped, then quickly softened my tone when I saw the worry in her eyes.

“I’m ... I’m fine,” I added, trying to calm the situation.

I—I just ... needed her. I needed to breathe. To stop lashing out at her. I’d done enough of that over the years.

None of this was her fault. I knew she was doing the best she could. This was hard for her too.

“If you’re worried about the weekend, don’t be,” she said, seeing that I seemed okay. “I called Michelle and Sebastian. They’ve got someone to cover the roles. And the girl playing Yvette ... we can keep her restrained the whole time.”

“Michelle said that?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “You actually heard her say we can keep her locked down the whole time in front of the clients? And she’s fine with that?”

Liri nodded. “Yeah. She’s worn cuffs—she’s fine with full shackling. And she’s open to other setups too.”

Her eyes met mine, steady and unwavering. “So ... we don’t have to cancel. Everything’s covered. You don’t need to worry.”

But she knew I was. All the payments had already been processed—and most of it had already gone to bills. If we canceled now, it would destroy us. There’d be no way to refund the event. No way to dig ourselves out. We’d have to dip into the money I’d been squirreling away for Liri’s tuition.

“Full shackling?” I pressed. “That’s what Michelle said?”

“Yes ... Phina,” she said, irritation creeping into her voice as she saw I wasn’t dropping the subject. “She told me she spoke with them on the phone—and that she’s fine with full restraints.”

“So, she’ll wear the collar?” I asked, needing to be absolutely sure.

“Yes,” Liri replied, her irritation growing. “She’s been to their studio and can tolerate things others can’t. She said the bitch is different.”

She paused for a moment, then added, “If she can wear all that maximum-security prison shit, you really think a fucking collar’s going to be a problem?”

She had a point.

I braced myself against the kitchen table, trying to catch my breath—hoping she wouldn’t notice.

But she did.

“What ... what are you doing out of bed?” she asked again, her voice quieter this time.

“We have a—bitch,” I said, gesturing toward the playroom.

“One of yours?” she asked, her tone heavy. I was used to it by now—she never liked that I kept submissives around, especially outside of scheduled sessions. Even though it had been a while since I’d had one here.

“No,” I replied, feeling the sting of her tone but too exhausted to challenge it. “New client ... Sort of.”

She gave me a glance, then turned her attention to the calendar on the kitchen desk. I could practically hear her scanning for the booking.

“It’s not there,” I added before she could ask. “It was last minute.”

“We don’t take last-minute,” she pressed. “That’s how Carrie ended up with a broken jaw. That’s why we don’t do fucking dogs anymore. And even the bitches need to be vetted now.”

“That potential gig in July—the one I told you about. The talent agency casting for the new streaming show?”

She paused, a slight frown tugging at her lips as she tried to remember. “Yeah. What about it?”

“One of the casting directors is here,” I said, gesturing toward the playroom. “She’s changing.”

“Why?” Liri asked, still sounding irritated—but also tired. “Why is she in our house?”

“She wanted a session.”

Liri huffed. “Our résumé should be enough. People know who we are. We’ve done consulting work before—for actual productions.”

“Like that last show ... the one with the stupid premise?” She was thinking aloud now. “Something about a student—a Domme student. Is that right?”

She waved it off. “Doesn’t matter. We consulted on that abomination—or tried to, anyway. Not like they listened to a single goddamn thing we told them.”

“I know,” I said. “But she still wanted a session.”

“To see for herself if we’re the real thing?” Liri asked, leaning against the pantry, arms crossed. “Or ... does she want the session for herself?”

“She’s putting on the leather teddy, panties, garter, seamed hose, and ... the handles.”

She looked at me, a little surprised.

“Really?” she asked. “That’s what she wants?”

“Told her to be on the kneeler when we came in ... fully dressed, blindfolded, and cuffed. And if we saw she could get them off, she’d be punished. She’d be leaving in them.”

“We?” she repeated.

“She asked for both of us,” I told her.

Liri didn’t look thrilled, but she nodded slowly.

“She’s paying,” I added. “Or the agency is. Or whoever she works for.”

I shrugged. “Someone is. I already processed the payment.”

I turned my head to say something else, but a cough caught me off guard—dry, sharp, and too loud in the quiet kitchen. I brought a hand to my mouth, waiting for it to pass. It didn’t, not right away. When it finally did, I caught Liri watching me.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t have to.

“So, you already took the money?” she asked with a sigh. She nodded slowly again, knowing what that meant.

“I charged her for two sessions,” I said, hoping that news would help. I knew this was the last thing she wanted to come home to. But she also knew we needed the money.

“Fine,” she replied, unzipping her backpack and plugging in her laptop so it would charge.

“So, how are we running this?” she asked. “Which one of us is ruining her?”

“You’ll be going in July,” I told her. “So ... it makes sense if she’s yours.”

“And there might be another session while you’re there that’s more you than me,” I added.

“When did that happen?”

“A while ago,” I said. “I only considered it because it’s in the same town as the July gig. Figured it’d be easy to fit in.”

“What is it?”

“A bitch kept in full shackling. She lashes out, and gets violent sometimes. She’s been arrested before. Husband’s looking for someone who can help him figure out how to manage her.”

“The authorities keep her in the full transport setup? Waist chain, leg irons, box—the whole thing?” Liri asked, her voice edged with skepticism.

“Not the authorities,” I clarified. “The husband.”

“Since mid-December, I think he said.” I nodded. “I vetted them. It’s legit.”

I looked at her. “It’s just one session. He’s not expecting miracles—he knows she won’t walk out submissive and obedient. He just wants help figuring out how to handle her.”

“Why doesn’t he hire someone to teach him proper restraint techniques?” she asked. “Like ... how to handle her like a psych inmate?”

“He already did,” I said. “I suggested it too. Physically, she’s locked down—tight. She can’t lash out, can’t throw things, can’t even reach anyone. That’s not the issue anymore. He needs help dealing with another matter.”

“If it’s her mouth, tell him to muzzle the bitch,” Liri snapped. “And if he’s into the metal shit, have her fitted with a scold’s bridle. Once that plate’s in, it’ll shut her up for good.”

I pointed to a note on the desk.

Liri picked it up and read aloud, “Severe mood disorder and comorbid dissociative identity traits, including an alter presenting with hypersexuality and violent tendencies.”

She blinked. “She needs a psychiatrist. A psychologist. Meds.”

“He knows that. And they’ve been down that road,” I said. “He’s looking at alternatives now to help deal with her needs.”

“To deal with the fact that he married a bitch who needs sex all the time and gets dangerous when she doesn’t get what she wants?” Liri asked.

She then shrugged. “Tell him to cuff her to the bed and fuck her. Or better yet, if she’s too much for him, tell him to keep a dildo inside her. It’ll help her feel full. Stretched. And if she’s really locked down in prison shit, she won’t be able to pull it out.”

I looked at her. “It’s just one session. It pays well. Can you think about it?”

“I’d do it,” I then said. “But I’ll be too weak to fly. If I’m even here at all.”

She bit her lip the way people do when they’re trying not to cry, fidgeting with her backpack so she wouldn’t have to look at me.

I knew I shouldn’t have said it like that. Not so blunt.

But she needed to hear it.

She needed to understand.

“Okay,” she said, swallowing hard, shifting the subject to the matter at hand.

“I’ll start the session. You come in, sit down, and watch me make the bitch mine.”

“Good,” I said. “Not too rough ... You’re the nice one, remember?”

She finally turned around to face me, signaling the conversation was over. I could see it clearly now—she was fighting tears.

“I’ll change. I’ll go get started with her,” she said, brushing past me on her way to the stairs.

She reached the first step, then paused—one foot poised, as if reconsidering something.

“Did the nurse come by?”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding toward the counter where the boxes of neatly organized pills sat. “Earlier today. Everything’s ready for the week.”

I made my way to my bedroom, which was now on the ground floor, to get ready. By the time the makeup was done, the outfit on, and I walked into the playroom, Liri was already deep into it.

She already had the bitch in place, cuffed down across the horse—face-down, stomach pressed into the curve, arms stretched forward and secured at the wrists. Her ankles were pulled wide and locked to the base, knees bent, heels hovering just above the padded stirrups.

The whole piece was matte black. That’s why I had the bitch dress in black too. Aside from the faint contrast of her skin against the steel reinforcements beneath the frame, she almost disappeared into the dim, uneven light of the room.

There was no noise from her. No voice. No pleading.

Just the quiet pull of her breath—shallow, measured, like she knew exactly what was expected of her, and exactly how far she was about to be taken.

The truth was, she didn’t know.

Not really.

She had only asked to be taken to the point of blacking out.

I’d explained what that meant—what it meant to us.

That she wouldn’t be walking the next day. Not well anyway.

That she could forget about wearing a tight skirt—or even sitting comfortably for a while.

That she wouldn’t be able to take a man inside her for at least a few days—not without wincing, or more likely, not without being tied down again, legs spread, body braced, just to keep from squirming away when it started to hurt.

Because it would. And she’d know why.

Liri also had her hooded.

It was one of the hoods I used for my keeps—especially when they were allowed outside the playroom. I never wanted them to see the rest of the house. To know what it looked like. What it meant to us.

That was ours.

That was private.

So, they stayed hooded.

The kind with no eye holes. Just a mouth opening—or rivets near the nose so they could breathe. Nothing more.

Well ... aside from the padlocked straps and the collar to make sure they couldn’t take it off.

Assuming I hadn’t already put them in mitts. Or an armbinder. Or a jacket.