Page 29 of Shy Girl

I crawl forward, my movements slow, as I step into the small space. Nathan closes the door behind me, the latch clicking intoplace with a sound that feels final, unyielding. “Good girl,” he says. “This is your bed for the night,” he says, his voice even, as though

MIA BALLARD100

––––––––

he’s pointing out something mundane, like a coat rack or a spare chair. “Get comfortable.”

I lower myself onto my stomach, the mat beneath me thin and unkind, the cage bars pressing cold and rigid against my skin whenever I move. My first position doesn’t work—the collar catches awkwardly at my throat, and the angle feels wrong. I turn onto my side instead, curling inward, my knees pulling tight to my chest. The collar shifts slightly, settling in a way that feels no less strange but at least doesn’t constrict. I close my eyes, but my mind won’t quiet. It moves instead, rapid and analytical, replaying every detail of his instructions, every nuance in his tone, every flicker of expression that might’ve hinted at what’s next.

He lingers for a moment, watching me, his shadow cutting across the soft light. When he leaves, the sound of his footsteps fades slowly, each one an echo of presence retreating into absence. The house hums faintly around me, a low, constant vibration that settles like static in the corners of the room. I breathe evenly, counting the inhales, holding the exhales, trying to tether myself to the rhythm.Eight hours,I think.I can do this.

The cage is too small, the mat barely a buffer between me and the hardness of the floor. Every time I shift, a new ache blooms—my knees pressing against steel, my back stiff from the forced curvature of the space. Still, I stay as still as I can, my breath shallow, my body compliant. I tell myself it’s part of the work, part of the deal, but my thoughts loop, circling back to the thinness of this arrangement and the weight of it all at once.

Time stretches and contracts in uneven increments, elastic and unmeasured. Every so often, I hear the faint creak offootsteps in the distance, a signal that Nathan is near. My chest tightens with each approach, and when he finally returns a few hours later, the anticipation solidifies into something sharp and unrelenting. The

SHY GIRL101

––––––––

cage door swings open with a sound that feels louder than it should, and he clips a leash to my collar, the cold metal brushing against my neck. “Come,” he says, his voice calm.

I follow on all fours, the leash pulling taut but never jerking. My hands and knees move in time with the rhythm of his steps, each one anchored to the soft pad of his soles against the hardwood. He leads me to his bedroom, the space a study in masculine—deep greys and blacks, clean lines, an absence of warmth.

“Up,” he says, gesturing toward the bed. I hesitate for a fraction of a second, then climb onto the mattress, my movements careful, my body hyper-aware of his gaze. He watches me with a focus that doesn’t waver, his expression unreadable as he begins to undress. His movements are deliberate, unhurried, as though this is more ritual than routine. When he joins me, his touch is firm but gentle, his voice steady as he murmurs, “Good girl,” the words soft but charged.

The sex surprises me. I had expected something rough, something unkind, but instead, it’s careful, intimate in a way that feels almost romantic. He doesn’t rush. His hands are sure, his movements measured, and the repeated cadence of “Good girl” punctuates every moment, a refrain that threads itself through the air, making it heavier, denser. I don’t hate it. That fact alone catches me off guard, a realization that settles somewhere I can’t quite reach.

When it’s over, he doesn’t leave me to clean myself up. He disappears into the bathroom and returns with a warm, damp cloth, his hands precise as he wipes me down. His touch is impersonal, detached, as though this is just another part of the arrangement. Still, there’s something jarring about it, the intimacy of being tended to even in the absence of care.

MIA BALLARD102

––––––––

“Good girl,” he says again when he’s finished, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. The leash clicks back into place, and he leads me down the hallway again, the cage waiting like an inevitable destination.

“Sit,” he says once we’re back in the study, his tone sharp but even. I drop to my knees, my body moving before my mind catches up. My hands rest on my thighs, my posture stiff, waiting.

“Beg,” he says next, gesturing with his hand. It takes me a moment to understand, but then I raise my hands in front of me, mimicking the motion of dogs I’ve seen on the videos I watched. He watches closely, his gaze intent. “Higher,” he says, and I adjust, lifting my hands closer to my chest.

“Good girl,” he says again, the words landing differently each time, shifting from praise to command to something else entirely. He moves through more instructions—“roll over,” “crawl to me,” “stay”—each one executed without question. His approval follows every act, consistent, predictable, and I find an odd kind of solace in the structure of it, in the absence of ambiguity.

When it’s over, he gestures toward the cage again, and I climb in without hesitation. The latch clicks shut, the sound final, and I curl up inside, my body folding into the tight space. The bars press against me in uneven intervals, and the thin matbeneath me does little to ease the ache, but I stay still, my breath shallow, counting each exhale as though it might tether me to something solid.

The house hums again, low and steady, and the light above me feels sharp, cutting through my closed eyelids. I think about asking him to turn it off, but the thought loops in my head, circling until it exhausts itself. I stay silent; unmoving.

FOURTEEN

––––––––

The hours stretchthin, each one a wisp of thread pulled too taut. The house creaks around me—footsteps in the hall, water falling somewhere distant, the faint groan of a chair leaning under him. He doesn’t come back until the air feels stale with waiting. When he does, his voice is a flat blade. “Wake up.”

I surface slowly, the weight of sleep heavy on my skin. Light leaks in through the window, pale and forgiving, and I know the night is over. Relief is a gentle thing, pooling in my chest. Eight hours. I made it.

The cage door groans open, and the leash is back—cold metal clipping into place with a finality that presses against my ribs. I wait for him to say something like, “You’re done for the day” but the words don’t come. Instead, his voice is steady, like a hand pressing my shoulder. “Let’s get you to the bathroom.”

My body protests as I crawl out, vertebrae grinding in their sockets, each movement a reluctant surrender. Palms and knees hit the floor in rhythm, the leash pulling softly as he leads. I follow, focusing on the scrape of skin against wood, the small noises that tether me to the present.

SHY GIRL104

---