Page 65 of Savage

Stef

I don’t know how many days I’ve been relegated to the floor, forced into solitude while Hunter comes in only long enough to feed me and make sure I have water—like I really am nothing more than a pet—before leaving again.

Even though I try to earn his attention each time—crawling toward him and bowing my head—he ignores me completely. Sometimes he even nudges me aside with his foot to keep me from trying to perform the ritual I’d desperately wanted to avoid.

Today when he enters the room, I jolt upright like usual. I can’t help the bitter gratitude I feel just from seeing him. I can’t fuck up. I don’t want him to leave again after another silent non-interaction.

Without hesitating, I crawl to him before he can get more than a few steps into the room, then bow my head until it’s almost against the floor. Anything I have to do to keep him from deserting me again is better than the alternative, and for maybe the first time, the required greeting is genuine as he finally allows me the time to utter it.

“Thank you for… for taking me in, Master, and for not…” My voice catches, but I force myself to continue, “For not throwing me away like…” The words hurt. The words hurt so much. “Like the trash that I am.” I know my voice is barely audible, but I can’t bring myself to speak them any louder.

I kiss his feet, bracing myself from some terrible fear he might decide to kick me while I’m down.

Hunter doesn’t, thankfully, instead saying curtly, “We’re doing something different today.” He sets a bag on the floor. “There’s an outfit in there. Get dressed.”

I bite my bottom lip, but I peer into the bag and pull the… outfit out.

It reminds me of something I might’ve worn at Ntimacy, but nothing there would’ve been nearly this elaborate—or expensive. The… thing is some kind of bondage gear, complete with straps and mesh and buckles, that looks vaguely like it might pass for a dress.

God, is he going to make me wear this in public?

I can’t keep the edge of panic from my voice when I tell him, “I don’t… I don’t know how to put this on.”

He lets out an impatient huff, like it’s somehow my fault that I’ve never put anything like this on before. “Get up.”

I scramble to my feet, and he holds out a hand for the outfit. I hold it up, fumbling with the straps as I try to figure it out like the puzzle it is.

He scowls at me. “It isn’t that difficult,” he snaps before snatching the dress back from me. “Do you need me to dress you, too?”

I bite back a whimper, hating that I feel so fucking helpless, but this is just out of my depth. I shake my head, but he ignores me, starting to pull the straps loose with a deft hand. All I can do is stand there, shivering, as he dresses me as dispassionately as if I were a doll.

I can see more easily now that the “fabric” the dress contains is sheer gauze that covers only small triangles over my nipples and my cunt. The rest of it is comprised of leather straps, which he tightens until my breasts are painfully constricted.

He loosely connects straps around the bottom of the outfit, turning it into a semblance of a skirt.

Despite all of the leather, I’m still pretty much naked, and I’m dreading finding out what he intends to do with me in this outfit.

He’s too deliberate, too calculating, to simply have me wear this for his pleasure.

I hope I’m wrong.

I don’t think I am.

He fastens the final strap around my throat, and it constricts me like the collar he made me wear before. His hand lingers there, stroking the leather, and I fight to keep from trembling too severely. My own fingers itch to touch the leather, to try to pry the thing off of me, but I keep my hands at my sides.

“Go brush your hair and clean up your face,” Hunter orders. “Then come to the kitchen.”

I nod quickly, scurrying off with my shoulders hunched. I scrub my face clean as quickly as I can, then brush my hair. I can’t help but marvel at how soft it feels, how full, since coming here. I want to attribute it to the fancy shampoo he bought for me, but I know it’s equally because I’m no longer on the drugs, which means I’m able to eat more regularly.

I hover in the doorway, touching the frame and waiting for another order.

“There are trays of food in the fridge,” he says without looking at me. “Wait here. When I ring this bell,” he lifts a small bell and rings it, “you will bring the trays. There will be no delays. Got it?”

My heart sinks. He’s not taking me anywhere, but this can only mean he’s going to have people over. With me dressed like this… It doesn’t bode well for me.

I nod quickly. “Yes, Master,” I say, my voice hitching a little. “I… If you’re having… company…” I nearly choke on the word, then force myself to swallow hard to try to clear my throat, “What should I call you?”

“Call me Master.”

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