This story will make much more sense if you have read the previous episodes.
“At the party, you’ll say yes. Yes to whatever Jonny proposes. With one condition. You want me there as an observer, to keep you safe. And I will. I won’t touch you, Except to care for you. But I’ll see everything. How you respond, how you react. And then I’ll know.”
“It won’t take three weekends. Just one. I’ll take possession after that, if I think you can handle me. It will be OK, Wrenny. Terrible for you, of course; you’ll lose your freedom, lose yourself, become nothing but property, to be used as I see fit. But it will work out. You’ll see.”
There was no way Wren was processing any of this. It was too huge, too all encompassing.
I don’t have to, though, do I? I just have to say ‘Yes’, and he will do it to me, whatever I might think about it later.
Which means, I have to say ‘No’, now.
She waited for herself, looked for the part of her that would say ‘No’. It wasn’t that she didn’t have that part. It was there all right. But it wasn’t going to get to use her mouth, it seemed. Or her body. It was just there, passive inside her mind, defeated.
She shook her head; Trent was still on the line. She needed to pay attention.
I guess that’s all going to happen then.
It was wrong; she knew it was wrong. But now it was inevitable. Too late. So, not her problem anymore. There was a definite feeling of relief - a release of tension throughout her body, across her emotions, deep inside her. it was remarkable, how strongly she felt it. How nice it was.
“One last thing. I will choose your clothes. Have you been shopping yet?”
“No.”
“Good. I’m off work on Friday. We’ll find the dress that will get you raped.”
Wren’s breath caught, hard— not just at the words, but at how casually he said them, like discussing grocery shopping. Her fingers tightened around the phone. She should protest. Should hang up. Should—
It was one thing having not said no to that enormous promise, that ominous threat. But for now, she was still Wren. He would have to work to make his claim come true. She had just given him permission - irrevocable permission, perhaps - to do that work, but it hadn’t changed her, just like that.
But nevertheless, it made a difference. He would say things like that to her. And they would not be unreasonable. It would be him, working on her.
She bit her lip.
“Good,” Trent continued, oblivious to the storm inside her.
“Be in the Selfridges basement cafe at eleven. Wear ordinary clothes. Be Wren. We’ll buy you something extraordinary.”
A pause. A shift in tone;
“And Wrenny? Don’t eat beforehand. I want you hungry. You’ll mostly be a little hungry, when I have you. Keep you needy.”
The line went dead before she could process the implications.
Wren sat there, phone limp in her hand, knees still pressed into the carpet. The silence of the apartment yawned around her— no Jack shuffling papers in the study, no hum of the refrigerator. Just her pulse thudding in her temples and the slow, slick heat between her thighs that refused to fade.
She should be horrified. Should call Trent back and scream. Should pack a bag and disappear before Friday.
Instead, Wren pressed her thighs together, exhaled through her nose, and stood on shaky legs. The carpet had burned her knees.
She walked to the bedroom and opened her wardrobe with deliberate slowness. Ordinary clothes. Jeans. A blouse. She ran her fingers along the fabrics, imagining Trent’s rough hands replacing hers— yanking hangers aside, dismissing options with grunts. The thought made her swallow, hard.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Jack, texting about dinner plans. She ignored it, tossing the device onto the bed where it landed with a soft thump. The bed they hadn’t properly shared in weeks. Remembering how Trent had held her, his groin against hers.
She was not a masturbator. She had tried, a few times, as an adolescent, in college, but somehow she had always felt too embarrassed, even alone in the house. But now .. now ..
She peeled off her jeans, slowly, kicked them off. She felt the fabric of her panties— silk, satin, white— soft against her fingers as she rubbed herself, through them.
The fabric darkened, dampened, and her breath caught in her chest.
She shouldn’t be doing this— not now, not with Jack’s unanswered text glowing on the bedsheets— but her fingers pressed harder, circling, relentless.
The panties were soaked through. Wren tugged them aside, gasping at the cold air against her slickness. Her hips jerked when her fingertips finally made contact, skin against skin.
Trent will make me do this for him.
The thought was like a cold stone in her throat. He’d watch her, and then, at some point, he’d stand, and she’d know he was coming, and he’d shove her down, roughly, spread her wider, maybe use his hands on her, maybe his tongue— or just watch, until she begged.
Her fingers felt clumsy. She bit her lip hard, tasting the iron tang of blood, imagining his voice: “Pathetic. Can’t even make yourself come properly.” The humiliation coiled tight in her belly, hotter than the friction, made her fingers work harder, urgent..
The orgasm surprised her, shocked her with its force, thighs trembling— not from pleasure so much as from the sheer relief of release, like a pressure valve blowing. Collapsing backward onto the bed, she stared at the ceiling, pulse throbbing between her legs. A sticky mess. A wreck. Jack’s text still glowing beside her.
“Have a migraine, she texted; “Gone to bed”.
Shopping with Trent was, weirdly, the best day she’d had for years.
She’s never seen him in clothes which actually worked with his bony, angular frame. New clothes.
He’d smiled warmly at her as he approached, her friend, and seeing him answered all the questions which had tortured her; she knew she loved him. Knew that he would certainly make good on his terrible promise. That she was doomed.
I don’t know what it means, but he’s going to make me into a sex slave.
Her heart was hammering; she stood, though, almost formally; as she was meeting a superior, not a friend.
He is my superior.
She nearly spoke, then remembered, waited; his smile quirked a little, pleased,
“My obedient little slut,” he said, not quietly. She had gasped and giggled, to make it seem like a bit of banter to anyone who had overheard, but inside she was hot, and she let him see it, her eyes opening wide for him.
He’s really going to do this. Everything.
The thought hummed through Wren’s veins as Trent steered her through Selfridges with unsettling precision— past racks of sensible blouses, past dresses meant for garden parties, straight to the section where silk slithered against leather, where necklines plunged and fabric clung. Trent’s fingers brushed a hanger, dismissing a dress with a flick. “Too much,” he muttered.
She fluttered, wondering what he would choose for her.
When he finally held up a dove-grey sheath dress— backless, the hem asymmetrical, the material so thin it shimmered, Wren’s breathing went funny; this was too much - far too much. A whore’s dress.
“Try this.” No request. No please?
She wanted to tell him that there was no way she could carry such a dress off, that it was impractical - how could she wear a bra with it - it was too slinky, her panty-line would show…
But he had not asked her to speak, and so she could not.
And she liked it.
He was right about her. It was indeed a pleasure to be simplified, for there to be nothing to do but try the dress on. To remove her sensible bra and panties. to go out into the little area where he was waiting, barefoot, feeling all but naked.
A pleasure to feel controlled, to be his, without power, without responsibility. With nothing but feelings.
He was staring at her with such intensity that she felt pinned to the spot. Slowly, his gaze travelled up her legs, over the curve of her hips, lingering at her bare back where the dress dipped scandalously low.
“Turn.” His voice was a little hoarse, gratifyingly.
He says I’ll be nothing, but I’m something, at least, to him right now. The thought was a flower, blossoming in her chest.
Wren obeyed, pivoting slowly on the balls of her feet, the dress whispering against her thighs, only able to do it as Trent’s girl - his slut - not as Wren. The mirror showed her reflection— the way the fabric clung to her waist before flaring just slightly, how the high slit revealed a flash of skin when she moved. Trent’s shadow loomed behind her, his fingers hovering inches from the small of her back without touching.
“We’ll have it altered. Take four inches off the hemline, put two inches of white see-through lace back. Arrange that, please; to be ready Tuesday.”
Commanding the sales assistant, who was only too eager to assent.
Wren’s breath stilled. The lace would make the dress even more indecent— translucent panels cupping her ass, framing her thighs. The sort of dress you wore when you wanted men to know exactly what they were getting. The sort of dress she had never worn.
Trent’s eyes flicked to the assistant, still hovering, attentive.
“She’ll also need stockings. Hold-ups with seams, white. And a heavy lace choker - in baby pink, I think - or perhaps peach; bring us some choices.”
The woman nodded, eyes carefully neutral, but Wren saw the faint tightening around her mouth. She knows. Knows I’m a slut.
The humiliation curled hot in her belly. Trent leaned in, his breath warm against her ear;
“You’re trembling. Good. Means you understand.”
His fingers brushed the nape of her neck— brief, possessive— before he stepped back to inspect a selection of heels another assistant had delivered.
Wren clutched the back of a chair, her reflection blurring, knees weak. The lace choker arrived first, peach-coloured, delicate; the colour would jump out from the dove gray. Trent fastened it himself, his knuckles grazing her throat. “Tighter,” he murmured, and she arched into the pressure, her pulse thudding against his fingertips. The stockings came next— white, sheer, the seams crooked until Trent knelt to adjust them, his palms skimming up her calves. Wren quivering at his touch. His thumb pressed into the hollow behind her knee.
There would be a couple of inches of naked thigh between the tight lace top and the shortened hemline. Again, there was the urgent need in her to tell Trent that there was no way she could wear this dress, go to a party with Jack like this. She turned, urgent, her lips opening, clearing her throat, to meet his widening eyes, his sardonic smile, and had to swallow it all.
His words came back to her; “.. you will find it welcome to have no choices”. It was true, but it was also deeply unnerving.
I can’t do this. I can’t.
Then
That’s why he’s not giving me the choice. So that I have to.
The realisation settled over Wren like the weight of the choker around her throat. Trent had already chosen the shoes— strappy stilettos with cruel-looking heels, the sort that forced your hips into an unnatural tilt. No discussion. She wobbled when she tried them on, clutching his forearm for balance, his muscles unbelievably solid under her fingers.
“You’ll practice,” he said, unmoved by her unsteadiness. “Every night. Barefoot, right up on tiptoes on the carpet first, to improve your balance, then harder surfaces, then with the shoes. You will always be in pain, when you are mine. Pain, to remind you that I am cruel..”
The assistant’s eyes were wide, Wren felt her stare as her own cheeks reddened; but inside she was fiercely proud of Trent.
He owns me. The words were weird, but the feeling was strong.
Trent refused her when she passed him Jack’s credit card;
“You’re mine now.”
This perfect counterpoint to her own thoughts made a small firework go off deep inside her groin, so that she almost whimpered at the intensity of it.
He paid in cash, clean new ÂŁ100s from a substantial roll.
Everything was folded away in tissue, the dress taken off to be altered, and she was once more in her everyday underwear, baggy jeans, white sweatshirt, hi-tops, hair loose, messy.
He took her to a fancy rooftop restaurant, fed her seafood with his fingers.
“You won’t ever feed yourself, when you’re mine. You will depend upon me utterly. I’ll delete your faith in your ability to survive without help.”
He had hardly touched her. He gave her hardly any reasons to speak. It was noticeable.
He’s testing me.
It was shocking how docile she felt, how quickly it became strange, the idea of ever speaking out of turn to him, how pleasant it was to be mute; not to answer the waiter’s question as to whether she wanted a drink, but to meekly, obviously turn to Trent, deferring, eyes downcast, heart thumping.
The biggest problem was what to do with her hands. Hands that had nothing to do. She knew she would fidget if they were on the table. In the end, she placed them on the seat, at either side of her, flat, limp, useless.
She had always assumed he was penniless. The wad of notes, the flash restaurant— none of it aligned with the scuffed boots, worn-thin tee-shirts and frayed cuffs she associated with him. Trent caught her staring as he peeled the shell from a langoustine with surgeon’s precision.
“Slaughterhouse pays cash,” he said, flicking the carapace aside. “Tax-free.” The grin he gave her was all teeth. “I have plenty for important things.”
His thumb swiped butter from her lower lip, the contact fleeting, proprietary.
Wren’s chest swelled, her eyes filled up for a second. Important things like me.
No-one has ever cared for me like this. Enough to control me, to change me, so I become what they want of me. Made me feel this safe.
She watched him sip his wine, the way his throat worked. The way he moved— deliberate, unhurried— every motion carrying just the right weight. When he wiped his mouth with the napkin, she noticed the scars on his knuckles, old and white against his skin. Violence lived in him. It should have terrified her. Instead, she felt a fierce pride in him, a deep upwelling of gratitude, astonishment, that he had chosen her.
If Jack hadn’t christened me Wren, I’d never have met Trent.
And, like that, all her animosity for Jack, her disgust, was gone.
I’ll be nice to him tonight. Forever, now. Starting tonight. I’ll kiss him, seduce him, and - yes. Yes, he can fuck me; be the one to do me first. The first time since Trent changed me.
Then it occurred to her;
What will Trent think? I need to ..
Abruptly, the thought urgent in her, she turned to him, again unthinkingly opening her mouth to speak, again trapped by his amusement, his questioning eyes. Again, amazed by how pleasant it was to be stilled, stopped.
I still need to ask him, though .. how do I?
She looked the question at him, blushing.
Trent studied her face, then slowly wiped his fingers on the napkin. “You’re wondering about Jack.” His voice was quiet, almost conversational. “About what happens between you two now.” He reached for his wine glass, swirling the pale liquid. “You can fuck him tonight.”
“You’ll be sweet. You’ll do things for him you never have.”
Wren’s fingers clenched around her fork. She hadn’t— couldn’t— give Jack a blow-job; always, since university, she’d refused; always claiming gag reflexes, headaches. Trent’s knowing smirk said he’d guessed.
..or Jack’s told him.. They did tell each other surprising things.
Again, the feeling of being under Trent’s control was shockingly welcome.
It really shouldn’t be. This isn’t me.
Except that she knew it was. The Wren that had never had a chance, not until Trent.
The realisation that she was going home to Jack— to seduce him, to please him— without resentment, with love— was dizzying. She hadn’t felt this lightness in years.
The waiter appeared with the bill. Trent didn’t glance at it, just slid another couple of crisp notes across the table, then stood; they were leaving.
