Chapter 3

The card burned a hole in Lila’s sock drawer for thirteen days. She’d shoved it beneath mismatched pairs on the first night, then dug it out every day since—always at 3 AM. She always masturbated with the card in her hand, with the dog collar around her neck. Sometimes with her dad’s cum still inside her. She did like her dad dominating her sometimes, but with Officer Hartwell, there was something about Hartwell she created and always wanted. The ink hadn’t smudged. The date hadn’t changed. 10 PM. Thursday. And she couldn’t wait.

Jen, her best friend in the whole world, called her every night to make sure she was ok.

It was a Friday night, and Lila perched with her laptop balanced on crossed bare knees. The screen glowed unnaturally blue in the dark bedroom—her father wouldn’t be home for hours, if at all—and her fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating before typing the URL she knew by memory. It wasn’t the kind of site you left in your browsing history. Not that anyone ever checked.

At 8:59 PM, she adjusted the clip-on lamp above her, angling it just so. The webcam flickered to life, and she exhaled through her nose. Right on time, the chat window populated with a single message: You’re late. Lila’s lips twitched. Diana always said that, even when she wasn’t.

Lila’s fingers trembled as she typed the apology, the keys clicking louder than she intended in the quiet bedroom. “I’m sorry, Mistress Diana.” She hit enter before she could second-guess the words, then immediately pressed her palms flat against the floor to stop their shaking.

The response came instantly—Diana never made her wait. You know what happens when you’re late. The words pulsed on the screen, white text against black, no emoji, no softening. Lila swallowed hard and reached for the velvet pouch she kept tucked between her mattress and her bed. The zipper sounded obscenely loud as she opened it.

The velvet pouch yielded its contents with a whisper—three alligator clamps with wires hooked to them. Diana had sent them months ago in a plain cardboard box with no return address; the front of the box read “Obedience.”

The first time she’d held them, she’d laughed at the melodrama of it. Now her throat tightened as she placed them, one on her left nipple, one on her right nipple.

On the screen, Diana’s cursor blinked. Waiting. Lila knew better than to stall—this time, she didn’t hesitate.

The third clamp hovered between her fingers for a heartbeat too long—long enough for Diana’s next message to snap onto the screen: Don’t make me count. Lila’s breath hitched. She lowered the final clamp to rest against her clit, its edge digging in just shy of pain. Diana typed again: “Better.”

A car door slammed outside, and Lila’s entire body flinched—but it was just old Mrs. Henderson from next door, home from her night shift at the pharmacy. The sound faded, leaving only the fridge’s arrhythmic hum and the faint click of Diana’s keyboard. “Now tell me why you hesitated.” Lila’s fingers twitched toward the keyboard, but Diana added, “Out loud.”

Lila’s breath fogged the webcam lens as she exhaled shakily. “I—” Her voice cracked. Diana hated that. She swallowed hard and tried again. “I thought it was my dad coming home early.”

The cursor blinked three times—Diana was counting Lila’s pulse beats through the screen. “Would that stop you?” The question glowed accusation-white. Lila’s fingers dug into her thighs. She knew better than to lie. “Yes, Mistress.”

Diana’s cursor pulsed—once, then vanished entirely for five agonizing seconds. Lila’s skin prickled, her muscles tensing as if bracing for a slap. When the response finally appeared, it wasn’t what she expected:

“Thank you for being honest,” Diana typed, the words appearing slower than usual, each letter materializing with deliberate weight. “That was not the right answer.” Lila’s pulse thudded in her ears as the next line loaded. “You’ll continue doing what I tell you even if your dad walks in.”

The clamp on her clit twitched with her sharp inhale. Outside, a gust of wind rattled the loose pane in her bedroom window—the one her father kept meaning to fix—and Lila imagined it was Diana’s breath against her skin, disapproving. Her fingers curled into the carpet fibers, grounding herself as the screen refreshed again.

Lila’s breath stuttered as she reached for the battery pack tucked beneath her pillow—the kind photographers used for ring lights, innocuous enough if anyone ever found it. The wires trailed from the clamps like black veins, coiled neatly until she unspooled them with trembling fingers. Diana’s next message appeared before she could connect them: “Setting five.”

Lila’s fingers fumbled with the connector—she’d done this a dozen times before, but tonight the metal prongs felt foreign, slick with nervous sweat. The click of the wire snapping into place echoed like a gunshot in her skull. Setting five. She hadn’t gone past three before.

The battery pack’s LED display flared red as she scrolled past the familiar numbers, her thumbnail catching on the dial’s ridges. At four, her nipples hardened involuntarily beneath the clamps—memory overriding logic. When the digit flicked to five, her entire body clenched like a fist. Diana’s next message bloomed across the screen: “Attach them.”

The first jolt hit before her fingers left the dial—a white-hot spike of electricity that arched her spine off the floor. The clamps bit deeper with the movement, metal teeth finding new flesh to claim. Lila’s gasp never made it past her lips; her throat locked around it, trapping the sound inside her ribs, where it vibrated like a plucked string.

Lila’s vision whited out for three seconds—long enough for Diana’s next message to appear ghostly against her retinas when she blinked: “Breathe.” She sucked in air like she’d been drowning, the clamp on her clit buzzing faintly even at rest now, a persistent threat humming against hypersensitive skin. The battery pack’s display glared up at her from the carpet, its red digits burning 5 into her peripheral vision. She couldn’t look away.

Diana’s cursor pulsed—a metronome counting the ragged intervals between Lila’s breaths. “Tell me what you feel.” The command glowed, sterile and clinical. Lila’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She imagined Diana’s nails tapping the desk wherever she was, that particular impatient rhythm that meant Lila was taking too long to articulate. “Out loud,” Diana added, though Lila already knew.

Lila’s lips parted, but the words tangled in her throat—half-formed syllables dissolving into static. The clamps buzzed faintly against her skin, a constant reminder of Diana’s presence even through the screen. She forced her fingers to uncurl from the carpet, pressing them to her sternum as if she could physically push the confession out. “It’s like—” Her voice wavered. She closed her eyes, focusing on the electric current spidering up her nerves. “Like my skin is the wrong size. Too tight. Everywhere.”

The cursor pulsed once. “Where specifically?” Not a question. Lila’s fingertips drifted down to graze the clamp on her left nipple, her breath hitching as the movement sent a fresh current crackling through the metal teeth. “Here,” she whispered. “And—” Her hand slid lower, stopping just above the third clamp. The words came easier now, loosened by the ache. “Like I’m hollow. And the electricity is the only thing filling me up.”

“Did you like it?” Diana’s words materialized on the screen, the letters sharp enough to cut. Lila stared at them, her body still thrumming with aftershocks. The clamps had gone dormant after the last surge, but her skin remembered—every nerve ending singing a chorus of yes and never again in perfect harmony.

She hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The truth coiled in her stomach like a live wire. Admitting pleasure felt like handing Diana a weapon—one she’d already proven she’d use without hesitation. But lying? That was worse. Diana always knew.

The battery pack’s display dimmed to a dull crimson, its numbers blurring as Lila blinked away tears she hadn’t realized had formed. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, tracing the outline of keys she wouldn’t press. Diana’s cursor blinked—patient, expectant—but for the first time in eighteen months, Lila didn’t feel the compulsion to answer. The clamps still bit into her flesh, their dull ache a familiar comfort, but the electric current had dissipated into something softer, quieter. Like a storm receding.

She inhaled sharply through her nose, catching the faint metallic tang of her own sweat on her upper lip. Tomorrow Detective Hartwell would be waiting for her answer.

The clamps lay heavy against her skin, their weight suddenly unbearable—not from pain, but from the realization that this might be the last time she’ll mark her. Lila stared at Diana’s blinking cursor, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She could lie. Say she hated it. Give Diana the excuse to sever their connection first. But the truth lodged itself in her throat like a swallowed key: she’d already packed the velvet pouch in her schoolbag for tomorrow, ready to hand it over to Detective Hartwell along with everything else.

Diana’s cursor pulsed again—impatient now—and Lila imagined her leaning forward wherever she was, those perfectly manicured nails (she’d always pictured them lacquered black) drumming against a mahogany desk. The fantasy had sustained her for 3 years.

The cursor blinked seventeen times—Lila counted—before she realized she was holding her breath. The clamps had gone cold against her skin, the electricity drained from them along with her resolve. Diana’s silence stretched thinner with each passing second, the blank screen a yawning void where punishment should have been. But punishment required investment. Ownership demanded presence. And Lila was already gone.

Detective Hartwell’s phone number glowed on her phone screen where it lay face-up beside the keyboard—3-12-4782—the digits imprinted on the inside of her eyelids every time she blinked. She’d memorized it two weeks ago when Hartwell slid the card across the table, her thumb ring leaving a faint smudge on the laminate. No demands. No threats. Just a phone number and four words: “When you’re ready, Lila.”

The dial clicked past seven—each increment sharper than the last—and Lila’s thighs began to tremble. Eight made her teeth clamp down on her lower lip, the metallic tang of blood blooming across her tongue. Nine was a white-hot brand pressed between her ribs. But ten—ten was the sound of her own pulse screaming in her ears as her body arched off the floor, every muscle locked in a seizure of pleasure so acute it bordered on agony.

Lila’s throat worked soundlessly, her vocal cords paralyzed by the current still spidering through her nervous system. The clamps were molten now, their teeth fused to her flesh in a way that felt permanent. She forced air into her lungs—just enough to whisper “fuck” before her jaw clenched again, the word dissolving into a fractured moan.

The battery pack’s display burned 10 into the darkness, its crimson glow reflecting in the sweat pooling at the hollow of Lila’s throat. “That’s a good girl, Lila Jean.”

Some detached part of her brain noted that this was new; Diana had never used her middle name before. She was sure she had never told her her middle name, so how does she know? The realization sent a different kind of current through her: Diana knew. Knew about Hartwell’s. Did they know each other?. Did she know this was their last time?

Outside, a branch scraped against the loose windowpane in a rhythm that matched the pounding of Lila’s pulse. The detective’s card lay precisely where she’d left it—centered beneath her phone, edges aligned with the keyboard. She’d spent hours staring at those ten digits, memorizing the curl of Hartwell’s handwriting where she’d added her personal cell beneath the precinct number.

The words glowed on the screen like neon barbed wire: “I think you are ready. Do it, Lila Jean Miller.”

Lila’s fingers froze mid-tremble. Diana had never called her by her full name. Not in three years. Not once. The clamps seemed to tighten of their own accord, their teeth sinking deeper as if responding to the unspoken threat in those six words.

Diana typed, “I had fun.” She then left the chat without waiting for a reply—no goodbye, no lingering cursor pulse, just the stark emptiness of a disconnected session. The sudden absence of her presence hit Lila harder than the clamps ever had. The screen dimmed to idle darkness, reflecting her own wide-eyed expression at her—lips parted, sweat-slick hair clinging to her temples, the clamps still attached like grotesque jewelry.

Lila exhaled a shuddering breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Diana never signed off first. Not after a session, not even when Lila had begged her to stop last winter after the incident with the ice. The rules were clear: Diana decided when it was over. Always. Yet here was the evidence glowing in the dim bedroom—disconnected at 9:47 PM. The timestamp burned into Lila’s retinas.

Lila’s finger hovered over the battery pack’s dial, the plastic ridge biting into her fingertip. Ten had been a white-hot oblivion—a number she’d never dared before tonight. Her body still trembled with the aftershocks, muscles twitching like a plucked guitar string. The clamps felt heavier now, their teeth sunk deep enough that removing them would tear skin. She knew she shouldn’t. Knew Hartwell would see the marks tomorrow.

She turned it to ten anyway.

The second shock hit harder than the first—not in intensity, but in intimacy. This time her body recognized the sensation, anticipated it, every nerve ending lighting up in dreadful synchronization. Lila’s back arched off the carpet, her shoulder blades grinding against the floor as the current locked her muscles rigid. A sound escaped her throat—not a scream, not a moan, but something raw and guttural that vibrated against her clenched teeth.

The red digits blurred as her eyes rolled back. Time distended—three seconds stretched into thirty—and when she came back to herself, her left hand was clutching Hartwell’s business card so tightly the edges had creased. The detective’s smudged thumbprint now pressed into her own sweaty palm like a brand.

Two weeks to the minute since Hartwell called, “Do you still want this?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Ok, go to the precinct’s back door, wear your black dress with nothing under it and the dog collar, and I’ll be waiting.”

Lila stood outside the precinct’s side entrance, her breath fogging in the cold air. The streetlight above flickered, casting her shadow long and wavering across the damp concrete. She’d rehearsed this moment a dozen times—the casual lean against the brick wall, the way she’d say, “Hey, detective,” like it didn’t claw at her throat—but now that she was here, her hands betrayed her, clutching the strap of her bag as if it might float away.