Part 2

Jolene awoke to the sticky warmth of another body against hers. The weight of an arm draped over her waist, a thigh caught between her own, the pleasant-smothering press of skin and heat and the faintest tang of sweat and something cloying that would never fully wash off. She didn’t open her eyes right away. She waited, savoring the near-unconscious drift, the way her breathing and her brother’s fell into an accidental, not entirely unwelcome harmony.

Her first lucid thought: I’m not horrified.

Her second: Why am I not horrified?

She shifted slightly and found herself tangled in a mess of sheets and limbs, her hips flush with Jason’s, his hand still cupped possessively over her lower belly. She arched her back a little, feeling the aftermath of their joining—her joining to him—in the dull ache of her thighs and the stretched, open feeling she couldn’t decide if she hated or relished. If she listened, she could still hear last night in the echoes of her own breathing. Jolene. Jo. Jolie. Over and over, his voice, low and ragged and so close to begging it almost made her laugh.

She had always been less of a morning person than her brother, but today she woke first and was content to remain still, inventorying her sensations. There was the somewhat-smooth, somewhat-rough friction of her garter belt and stockings, the only pieces of clothing she’d been permitted to keep on; the musky smell of sex overlaid by the subtle, almost forceful cleanliness of high-end laundry detergent; and the bright rectangle of sunlight slashing across the bed, slicing into the room. The space, as she noted the previous night, was aggressively masculine—dark wood, minimal but evocative art, trophies of corporate triumphs. The only things that were not perfectly ordered in the room was her heels, panties, and bra piled on the floor not too far from the bed.

She could have spent the entire morning in that liminal space between sleep and humiliation, but the sound of a footstep in the hallway, then a discreet cough outside the door, forced her eyes open.

“Master Jason? Coffee is—” The voice cut off mid-sentence as the door swung inward with practiced deference.

Jolene saw a woman in a crisp black-and-white maid’s uniform, carrying a silver tray. Clearly, the maid was not expecting Jolene to be in Jason’s bed. Jolene noticed her hands were shaking slightly, clutching the tray handles so tightly the knuckles were white and the contents on the tray rattled slightly.

The tray was set with a muted, practiced click on the nightstand. For a moment, nobody moved. Then the maid slowly turned her face toward the bed.

Their eyes met.

Jolene’s heart skipped. She blinked hard, certain she was hallucinating, but the vision remained: Her mother, hair pulled into a severe bun, lips painted a deep, somber rose, stood three feet from the bed, staring directly at Jolene with the flat, stunned expression of someone violently and unexpectedly struck by something far outside of their imagination.

Jolene was so absolutely shocked that she didn’t even grab the sheet until her mother’s gaze dropped to survey the scene of her children, lewdly entwined, where Jolene’s bare shoulder and leg poked out, still clad in lacy lingerie. With a gasp of utter horror, Jolene yanked the comforter up, instinctively shielding herself—and, by proximity, Jason’s naked back and ass—from her mother’s line of sight.

“Oh, God,” she breathed, voice cracking and high. “Mom?” Jolene desperately wracked her brain for a way to explain away this situation, but that was simply impossible. What the hell was she doing here?!

Her mother stood, silent, eyes darting from Jolene to the comforter to Jason’s sleeping face, then back to Jolene. Her mouth opened, but whatever words she could imagine for such a moment—if such a moment could possibly have been anticipated—died behind a hastily swallowed whimper.

Jason shifted behind her, roused by the commotion. He propped himself up on one elbow, peering past Jolene with a sleepy scowl.

“Morning already?” he muttered. Then, seeing the maid, “Oh. Hi, Mom.” He sat up a bit more, yawned and stretched.

Jolene saw her mother’s jaw clench at the sound of Jason’s greeting, her eyes widening as if the simple acknowledgement had stripped the last layer of insulation from her raw, exposed nerves. For a moment, it was unclear if she would turn and flee or simply collapse to the floor. Instead, she offered a rigid little bow and, in a voice so formal it was almost British, said, “Your coffee, Master Jason. I wasn’t aware Miss Jolene was here. I shall fetch another cup.”

Master. He had her calling him Master. It wasn’t possible, not really, not outside of the most unhinged family therapy sessions. But her mother’s eyes, glassy and dilated, told a different story. Jolene could only stare, caught somewhere between abject humiliation and a desire to laugh until her head exploded.

Jason leaned over his sister’s shoulder, unconcerned by his own nudity or his mother’s mortification. “Thanks, Mom. You can just leave it there.” He paused, as if considering an afterthought. “And can you remind Dad to get the south hedges trimmed today? I noticed a couple of uneven spots when I came in yesterday afternoon.”

The effect was instant and dramatic. Her mother’s face instantly stilled, her eyes cleared, and she murmured “As you wish, Master Jason” in a practiced voice; with a professionally placid expression, she turned on her heel, and hurried out with a precision that would have impressed a drill sergeant.

The silence in the room was complete, except for the soft, dying tremor of the door clicking shut.

Jolene rolled over to look at him slowly, clutching the sheet to her chest, eyes wide. “Jason, what the fuck—”

He grinned, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Yeah, I’d imagine it’s weird the first time. You get used to it quickly. At least I did.” His eyes suddenly narrowed. “And it’s ‘Master’,” he added, his voice suddenly a bit harsher.

She blinked and stiffened, suddenly remembering that command last night. “Yes Master, I apologize.” She shook her head, trying to process. “What is she ... why is she...?” She gestured helplessly at the closed door, at the coffee tray, at her own naked body.

“Oh, right.” Jason yawned, then slid his arm around her bare shoulders, trailing down to her breasts to trace the outline of an available nipple. “You were away at college and missed that part. When I sold the company, I sent Mom and Dad to the island for a free vacation. You know, like, I had all this money now, they could live the good life. Except I really signed them up for the ‘servant’s course.’ It’s a weeklong program, mostly hypno stuff, some pharmaceuticals and machines. Way less intense than what they gave you, actually.” He winked, as if this were a private joke.

Jolene’s mind reeled. “You’re kidding.” That meant that when they came to her graduation, they’d already been to the island? They’d seemed perfectly normal!

He shrugged. “They come back completely obedient and loyal—they’d walk through fire if I told them to—and they can’t help but to keep my secrets. So when they came back I hired them as my household staff. Mom cooks and cleans, Dad does the grounds. They’re happy. Or at least, they don’t mind much.” His tone was light, but the underlying satisfaction radiated off him like a heat haze. “I don’t think I told them I also sent you to the island. Or that I got you the ‘sex slave course’. I’ll bet that’s why she was so surprised.”

She tried to speak, but couldn’t find the words. All she could think of was her mother’s expression, a mask of shock so perfectly repressed it was almost funny.

“And you just—what, have them working for you like it’s Downton Abbey, only you fuck your sister upstairs while Mom dusts the baseboards?”

He laughed, head thrown back in genuine amusement. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Jolene’s stomach twisted. She wanted to throw up, but couldn’t quite muster the nausea. Instead, she stared at the coffee tray. A single cup, matching saucer, matching carafe. Perfectly placed in the center of the silver tray. Everything ordered, controlled, like everything else in the house. She remembered noting the perfection of the landscaping when arriving yesterday, and realized it was her dad making that happen according to her brother’s wishes.

And all she felt was a building arousal from her new owner’s casual caress. Was this what the three-week program did? Not just obedience and loyalty, but this strange, weightless euphoria that blurred the boundaries of shame?

Jason ran a hand down her back, fingers tracing the line of the sheet where it met the garter. “Don’t worry, Jo. We’re all one big happy family now. Everyone has their place.”

She thought of the look in her mother’s eyes—the flash of realization as she saw Jolene wrapped around her son. The moment the penny dropped, and she knew her daughter was no longer her own. That her daughter, too, was property.

“I need a shower,” Jolene said, voice hollow. “And coffee.”

He nodded towards the tray on the nightstand. “You can have that one. I have a few things to do this morning, I’ll get my coffee in the kitchen.” He gestured towards the far end of the room, next to the bathroom’s entrance. “Your closet’s over there, all your house clothing is in it.”

She peeled herself out of bed, sheets clinging to her skin, and crossed the room. She knew her “house clothing” would consist of matching sets of expensive lingerie. At the threshold, she hesitated, glancing back at her brother, his dark eyes already fixed on her, hungry and unrepentant.

“Jason? I mean, Master?” she said.

“Yeah?”

She hesitated, realizing she couldn’t even formulate the question she wanted to ask him. So eventually she said, “Never mind, Master. It’s not important.” And it wasn’t, she realized. There was no going back. Not for any of them.

And in a way that was almost comforting.

The steam from the shower lingered in her hair, and on her skin, and in her thoughts. It had chased away the nightmare taste of the morning, but not the memory. Jolene slipped back into the master bedroom, towel clutched around her, as if that thin cotton shield might hold back the enormity of her circumstance. The bed was empty; Jason was gone, leaving behind only the suggestion of his presence in the faint, impossible-to-place cologne he’d worn since puberty.

The tray on the nightstand had been refreshed. Two mugs, neither touched, both fragrant with coffee so dark and rich it looked more like lacquer than a beverage. Next to the tray, a neat arrangement of sugar packets, creamers, and what looked like a single, tiny glass bottle of imported vanilla extract. Jason did nothing halfway.

Her gaze drifted to the closet. Even before she opened it, she knew exactly what she’d find: something extravagant, expensive, and designed less for comfort and more for display. Her brother had told her she would find “a selection,” and he did not disappoint. She hesitated, one hand still pressed to the knot of her towel, then crossed the room in three measured steps and gripped the cool, polished handle.

The closet light came on as the door swung open, revealing a precisely organized visual feast: silk and lace in every possible shade, from obsidian black to champagne blush, deep crimson, pure white, and something just slightly blue. Bras, panties, garter belts, chemises, bustiers, slips, teddies, stockings—an entire boutique of intimate apparel, each item suspended from an ultra-thin metal hanger, spaced as if on the sales floor of a designer showroom, in a closet the size of her studio apartment. The lower shelves held rows of shoes, mostly heels, every pair somewhere between “practical” and “weaponized.” Each one was perfectly aligned, tips pointed out, ready to serve.

The sight should have angered her, or maybe shamed her, but Jolene just exhaled through her nose and let her eyes move from piece to piece. This was her uniform now, and she’d already worn worse for less. She let the towel drop, skin prickling as the air hit her dampness, and reached for a hanger.

Her fingers settled on a thin wire hanger holding a single, black piece. It was a wireless, unlined bralette made of a sheer tulle, so light it felt like a ghost in her hand. There were no heavy pads or underwires, just a pure, unadorned shape. It was ... a lot. A lot of very little. She tried to think of it as a statement of confidence she didn’t feel. She knew she’d be wearing all of these one day, and each was as exposing as the last.

Next, she found some matching bottoms, a high-waisted thong. The thin, almost nonexistent sides made them a second skin, and the high waist promised a long, elegant line. It was the antithesis of a simple bikini brief, a sophisticated tease that left nothing to the imagination and yet everything to the mind. Jolene felt she was getting a better understanding of her owner’s tastes from this collection. She was going to have to get over her embarrassment quickly.

She stepped back, the ensemble now held in her hands. The bralette and the thong were a perfect pair—simple, elegant, and impossibly sexy. But the look wasn’t complete. Her gaze dropped to the floor, where a pair of black, patent-leather stilettos sat waiting. The heels were needles of shiny, hard black, the toes a sharp, predatory point, very similar to last night’s pair. They were dangerous and beautiful, a final, lethal touch. She could feel their power just looking at them. But she needed something else; running around the house in almost see-through underwear is something Jason probably wouldn’t mind, but each of these items spoke of elegance and grace, and she imagined he’d find her just in bra, panties, and shoes to be somewhat gauche. What to bring it together? She peered further into the depths of the closet, her eyes landing on a section dedicated to softer, more languid pieces. Her hand reached for a hanger, her fingers brushing against the intricate, delicate pattern of sheer lace. It was a duster cardigan, long and flowing, nearly reaching the floor. The lace was a deep, rich black, and the pattern was a beautiful, almost artistic floral design that swirled and intertwined.

She pulled it out, examining it with appreciation. It was utterly weightless, a whisper of a garment. There were no buttons or ties, just an open front designed to float and move with her. Holding it up, she could see how the fine lace would play with the light, offering tantalizing glimpses of whatever lay beneath, yet providing an overall impression of graceful coverage. It wasn’t about hiding; it was about revealing just enough to keep the imagination engaged.