Keeper of My Peace
Copyright© 2025 by Danielle
Chapter 1: The Acquisition
The whole week had been a fittingly nasty prelude to my final year at Aethelred University, an institution perched on the salt-sprayed coast of Delaware. As I crossed the campus on that dreary Friday evening, the fact of my impending graduate degree settled upon me, a heavy and expected crown. The upcoming week would mark the first half of the semester before midterms, but my reign as queen bee was already firmly established.
I pushed into the student union, escaping the rain that lashed against the windows with a frantic percussion. Inside, I watched it smear the world into a greyish blur—a perfect mirror of the dullness I was so desperate to escape.
Then I saw her. Violet Delford. A second-year student who lived invisibly to everyone and everything around her. As predicted, she was huddled in an armchair like a little mouse, trying to become one with the ugly upholstery.
My heart didn’t beat faster with excitement; it slowed, steadied, like a predator locking onto prey. There, I thought. The perfect diversion. From what I had gleaned, her interactions with others were few to none, her family life distant. She was alone, as always.
“Well, well, well,” I drawled, my voice cutting through the humid silence. My most senior sorority sisters, Chloe Procular and Sasha Marquez, fell into flanking positions without a word. We were a perfectly coordinated organism. “Look what we have here. Little Violet, hiding from the rain and the world.”
She looked up, and those wide, doe-like eyes seemed to take up half her face. I could almost smell the anxiety on her, a sweet, cloying scent of vulnerability.
“Just studying,” she said, her voice a tremulous little thing. A weak smile flickered and died on her lips.
I laughed, and the sound was harsh, even to my own ears. It was a tool, like everything else. “The place is deserted, and you’re studying? On a Friday night? You’re such a good little bookworm.” I let my gaze travel over her, a dismissive, sweeping assessment of her tattered jeans and that ridiculously oversized sweater. She was trying to disappear inside it. Unacceptable. “Too bad you’re so ... plain.”
I took a step closer, the space shrinking around us. This is where the sketch ends, and the canvas is primed. “Let’s spice things up a bit, shall we?”
Her protest was a formality, a whispered “Bethany, please—” that was lost under the drumming of the rain. My hands pulled her to her feet. I placed my hands on her jeans’ belt and pulled it open with no resistance. I popped the button, loosened the zipper, and let the pants fall—the first line of text in a new, thrilling story I was writing.
She didn’t gasp or cry out as others had in the past. Her hands remained at her sides, her posture unnervingly relaxed as she looked deep into my eyes. It was my hands that fluttered with a strange urgency as I pulled the hem of her sweater up to just below her breasts.
Her calmness was shocking, a stark contrast to the cool amusement I was feigning. This was the most interesting thing I’d done all week. “We want to see what we’re working with.”
I nodded to Chloe, and with practiced efficiency, we continued stripping her. The sweater came off, revealing a thin, soft body sheathed in a simple cotton tank top. She was pale, almost luminous under the harsh fluorescent lights. The jeans pooled at her feet. Then the tank top, and with a final, dismissive tug, her plain cotton panties followed. We slipped off her shoes and socks.
Standing there, Violet was completely and utterly exposed. She trembled, though it seemed more from the cool air than the stripping itself. Her arms attempted a futile cross over her chest, and her cheeks burned with a fire I wished I could harness.
I reached out, my grip firm on her upper arm to stop any feeble attempt to hide; there was none. Her skin was warm, surprisingly soft. A possessive thrill shot through me. Mine.
“There. Much better,” I said, surveying my work. My voice was calm, analytical. “A little ... soft, maybe. But we can work with it.”
“Bethany, really...” she managed, her voice barely a whisper.
I ignored her. The person was gone. Now there was only the project. “Now, let’s give the campus a little show, shall we?”
With that, I took her hand. It was cold and clammy in mine. I led her out into the hallway, Chloe and Sasha forming a protective, possessive barrier around us. We moved slowly, deliberately, a perverse royal procession through the mostly deserted student union.
Heads turned. Whispers followed, hissing like steam. I could feel Violet’s shame radiating off her in waves. I squeezed her hand, a gesture that could be mistaken for reassurance but was, in truth, a reminder of my claim. I know, and it’s glorious.
“See?” I said, my voice carrying, clear and sharp. “This is what happens when you’re a little too quiet. You get a little exposed.”
We passed a group of guys lounging near the vending machines. Their laughter died. One of them whistled, low and appreciative. I felt a spike of irritation—they were looking at my artwork without my permission—but it was quickly replaced by a smug satisfaction. The reaction was part of the design.
Violet’s legs trembled, a mix of cold and pure, undiluted humiliation. She tried to meet the eyes of the people we passed, a silent, desperate plea. But most just looked away, or worse, watched with a detached, morbid curiosity. No one would help her.
We completed a full circuit of the first floor. Finally, I guided her up the stairs and brought her to a stop in front of the large windows that overlooked the rain-swept quad, the storm a perfect backdrop.
“A final pose, darling,” I said, positioning her so her pale, naked form was fully illuminated. “Let them admire the view.”
She closed her eyes, a single tear tracing a path through the blush on her cheek. She was utterly at my mercy, a beautiful, broken thing on display. The rain kept falling, washing over the windows, and I felt cleansed, baptized in the raw, unvarnished power of total control.
This is just the beginning, I thought. The stripping of the clothes is nothing. Next comes the stripping of the mind.
The silence that fell between us was louder than the storm. I watched her reflection—a pale statue in a temple of her own humiliation. Yet, she didn’t break. The tremor in her legs was the only betrayal. The rest of her was ... still. Accepting. It was infuriating.
The thrill of possession began to curdle into something sharper, more obsessive. This wasn’t the broken surrender I was used to; it was a quiet void.
“Are you finished?”
Her voice was quiet, but the tremor was gone. It was flat. She wasn’t asking if the humiliation was over; she was asking if I was.
The question was a slap. It repositioned us. Suddenly, I wasn’t the master of the ceremony; I was a performer who had reached the end of my act. Chloe shifted her weight behind me. This wasn’t following the script.
A cold fury tightened my grip on her arm. “I decide when we’re finished,” I said, my voice losing its calm analyst tone and turning brittle.
She finally turned her head from the window to look at me. Those doe eyes weren’t wide with fear anymore. They were deep, ancient, and knowing. “Okay,” she said simply.
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