Chapter 7: Karen’s Favorite

Two Weeks Later...

Karen kept Bianca at full tilt for the better part of her entire time since her loss of their “parlay”. Bianca even found herself enthusiastically suckling back with full meaning when Karen pushed her against the wall and made out with her. She would pin Bianca’s wrists above her head with one hand and wait until Bianca stopped struggling before she asked the questions.

“What are you?” And Bianca would have to say it, out loud, into the pillow or into Karen’s ear, whichever Karen chose: “A dirty slut.”

“Whose dirty slut?”

“Yours.”

“Say the name.”

“Bubbles.”

Not once. Three times, five, until Karen was satisfied the words came out without a fight. And then the last one, the hardest one, the one Bianca sometimes whispered and sometimes had to be dragged out of her by the hair: “Tell me you want this. Tell me you never want it to stop.”

She would cum right on her fingers and pant out, “I don’t want it to stop Goddess.

Whether it was true or not was another story, but it would be hard to tell if it was not especially with how wet Bianca started to get around Karen. Just the day prior Karen shoved Bianca to the ground with her foot and made her play with herself until she came with her heel on the back of her head. After which Karen like so many times since being under her heel she ate her out, but what was different this time she kept licking her pussy even after she orgamed and continued for three more without being bade to. Karen and her had about a thirty-minute make out session where Bianca gushed being her Bubbles, she was starting to become openly undone by her Goddess and her wife was openly noticing. Not that it mattered, she had came undone on Frank’s cock more times than she could count, they were losing themselves in the dominion of the married couple.

While technically Frank and Karens, fuck toy, Bubbles what have you, Karen monopolized her time increasingly the way that Frank monopolized Carmen.

It was a new kind of torture, the ritual Karen invented for their outings. She took special delight in transforming Bianca into something unrecognizable from the fiercely independent executive who’d once made interns and VPs alike cower in conference rooms. On these days, Bianca was nothing but a vessel for Karen’s vision: lips lacquered in pink so shiny it bordered on obscene; eyelids dusted with glitter that caught every flickering fluorescent, lashes spiked to cartoonish lengths. Her nails once cut short for tennis were now grown out and painted a pearlescent white, long enough that she’d once struggled to text Carmen a simple grocery list. Karen picked the clothes too: cropped tank tops that left her midriff bare, high-waisted jean shorts that barely contained her ass, and strappy heels, so tall Bianca was sure they’d leave her hobbled before noon.

The first time Karen said, “You’re coming shopping with me, and you’ll do everything I say,” Bianca had braced for some elaborate, degrading public performance. She didn’t expect Karen to act so normal, to walk through the aisles of the upscale organic market with the confidence of a woman born to wield the privilege, dropping overpriced avocados and imported cheeses into the cart while Bianca trailed behind, hands folded demurely at the small of her back. But there were rules. Bianca wasn’t allowed to speak unless spoken to. She had to keep her head slightly bowed, her gaze downcast. If she was caught fidgeting or God forbid trying to adjust her shorts or tug at her top, Karen would lean close and murmur, “Bad display, Bubbles,” and Bianca would feel as if she’d failed some impossible etiquette exam.

It was a performance for an audience of one, but Karen made sure the possibility of being seen by anyone from their neighborhood was always present, always looming. Once, a coworker from Bianca’s firm passed them by the seafood case, giving her a confused doubletake before glancing away. Karen only smiled, squeezing Bianca’s hip possessively. “Good girl,” she’d whispered, so quietly only Bianca could hear. “Keep your eyes down. You’re here to serve, not to socialize.”

But the real game began when they made it to the parking lot. On that first trip, Karen had found a shadowed corridor between the store and the attached dry cleaner, a relatively private nook but one still open to the world should anyone walk around the corner. With practiced efficiency, she pressed Bianca back against the rough brick, one palm flat to Bianca’s chest, the other snaking between her thighs. Bianca gasped, the heel of Karen’s hand grinding mercilessly against the damp heat beneath the denim. Her knees weakened instantly; she went from rigid to pleading in the space of a heartbeat.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” Karen growled, her own breath tight with anticipation. “That’s your real job, isn’t it? Not marketing, not running meetings. Being a hole for me to fill whenever I want.” She pinched Bianca’s inner thigh, nails digging crescents into the flesh. “You know what I love about you? You always pretend you’re too good for this. But you’re not. You’re mine. Say it.”

Bianca’s composure cracked on command. “I’m yours, Goddess Karen.” she managed, breath stuttering as Karen’s fingers found their mark, rubbing through fabric, making her whimper.

“Louder.”

“I’m yours. I’m only yours.” It came out in a moan, and ashamed of it, the possibility that someone could walk by and see this tableau only made her wetter.

That day, Bianca had climaxed so violently she’d bitten through her own lip, the taste of iron sharp and bracing on her tongue. Karen hadn’t stopped until Bianca was shaking, her mascara streaks down her cheeks and sweat glued to her hairline. Then, as if nothing had happened, Karen fixed Bianca’s top, dubbed at her face with a tissue, and handed her the grocery bags. “Let’s get home,” she said, voice casual, as if she hadn’t just finger-fucked her neighbor into submission in broad daylight.

And that sets the precedent. Every time after, the same choreography: Karen would pick out the day’s uniform of humiliation, sometimes a sheer blouse with no bra, sometimes a micro-miniskirt that rode up with every breath and parade Bianca through errands that started mundane and ended in private violations. Target, the pharmacy, the wine shop. Once, at an upscale boutique, Karen had let Bianca try on a cocktail dress behind the curtain, then joined her in the dressing room and made her drop to her knees, mouth wrapped around Karen’s fingers, while the saleswoman hovered just outside asking, “How’s the fit in there?” Bianca had choked out, “Perfect,” the word slurred by the intrusion in her mouth.

After each outing, Bianca promised herself she’d put a stop to it. She’d muster the old executive’s steel, look Karen dead in the eye, and say enough. But each time, when Karen’s hands were on her, when the rules were clear and the boundaries were set, she felt a quiet inside her and orderliness she’d never known she craved. The last time she thought she was going to finally stand up for herself she was ordered under the table where she wedged her tongue into the high heel pump of Karen to lick her arch of her foot while she fingered herself to orgasm inside a mom and pop Italian Restaurant. Karen then took a slice of pizza rubbed it all over Bianca’s clit and made her eat it. Bianca blushed deep red as she thanked her Goddess for the slice of pizza. The humiliation was a kind of permission to let go, to not be responsible for anyone or anything but Karen’s approval.

One excursion took them to a suburban strip mall, a place crawling with khaki-clad moms and elderly couples. Karen had chosen a mesh tank over a neon sports bra and leggings so tight they mapped every muscle on Bianca’s legs. “You look like a slutty influencer,” Karen declared, pleased with her handiwork. “Stay close. Carry my purse and don’t speak unless I tell you.”

Inside the gourmet grocer, Karen loaded the cart with items that read less like a shopping list and more like a collection of aphrodisiacs: dark berries, honey, figs, chocolate, a wedge of brie so pungent it made Bianca’s mouth water. They glided through the aisles, Bianca’s cheeks burning as strangers tracked their progress, drawn to the spectacle of a beautiful, brown-skinned woman in such obvious thrall. At checkout, Karen made Bianca reach for her wallet, made her pay, made her sign the receipt while Karen rested her hand possessively on the small of her back. Every small gesture was a reminder of her place, of the new world order.

But it was in the parking lot, as Bianca loaded bags into the trunk, that Karen struck. The sun was blinding, the air shimmering off the hot asphalt. Karen waited until Bianca’s hands were full, then pressed her body up behind her, pinning her to the rear bumper. She whispered, “Spread your legs,” and even though Bianca could see her own reflection in the SUV’s glossy finish hair perfect, lashes on point, lips bruised and parted she obeyed. She always obeyed now.