I don’t usually remember my dreams—if I have any at all. I think my mind keeps working, sorting through theorized matter and experienced truths. I woke mid-gasp from another dream I couldn’t remember. I stretched, and the dried crusts of Sander tugged between skin and cloth. I felt satisfied—as if hunger and thirst had been quenched—but it didn’t last.

The house felt different. Like pressure simmering under the lid of a pot meant to cook for hours. A slow boil, waiting for everything to be tendered down to perfection.

I existed in a space between. Not only between them, but between versions of myself.

Every look, every touch was loaded—a fuse waiting on the right spark. Every word carried an undertone, a meaning layered over meaning, each sound slightly off-kilter. Nothing real was spoken.

My skin felt bare. Nerve endings jumped at every touch, every sound, every scent. I could smell their desires.

I was reaching overload and under-stimulation simultaneously.

And then there was Sander. Existing, to the rest of us, in his own sweet oblivion. Hinting at a blowjob—possibly received, certainly not by me. Not that day.

I smirked over dinner just because Thomas sat so still, so focused, so… tamed. Because Jolene kept adjusting her breasts like they felt too tight beneath her clothes. Because Dad remained untouched—physically—but dominant in presence.

I think Mom had it worse. Her words spilled, almost wet, nearly incoherent. She hardly looked at me. But it didn’t feel like shame.

It felt like anticipation.

“What’s going on?” Sander asked as we headed upstairs.

He wasn’t in on it. Wasn’t invited and had no clue. God, my brother is gorgeous—even when he’s not trying, even when he’s outside the current.

I could’ve fucked him separately, outside everything else. But it’d have to wait.

It wasn’t for today. Possibly a need meant for tomorrow.

“I don’t think you want to know,” I said.

“A part of your games I’m not allowed to play? Scratched and sent to the press box?”

His disappointment was sharp enough to sting. But this wasn’t for him. I couldn’t think he wouldn’t break. Not from whatever’s waiting inside tomorrow.

“Press box?” I mused, half a smile playing at my lips. “God, Sander, I hope there’s no press.”

He sighed.

“Is this you playing God again, Hannah? Deciding who lives it and who doesn’t? What gets taken and what doesn’t?”

I tilted my head and studied him.

“No, Sander. That’s the brilliance of it. I have no idea what tomorrow brings. I have no control. No hand in it. I just get to observe, calculate.”

I paused and let it settle.

“I don’t even think I’m meant to be a part of it.”

Then, quieter—like a confession that didn’t need forgiveness:

“If anything… I think I’m the one in the press box.”

He didn’t get any of it.

“So… injured reserve? Stay-at-home?”

I grinned. “Yeah, but don’t beat off. I suspect I’ll need to play doctor and nurse. Later.”

He probably didn’t go to sleep.

I did.

I dreamt of Shavonne. Not indecent, just a fleeting dream. First, that day in Boston—Kelly was there, eating pizza. Because Boston. Alicia entered behind her father, mother, and brother. She sat in a booth by the window. Everything about her was perfect. Tidy.

She had a tidy black bush. And I’d always left her tidy. There.

She used condoms when she fucked. I’d only gotten so far as buying them.

But she wasn’t thinking about condoms. Or how neat her pussy was. She was trapped under family.

Not entirely Alicia.

Not the one I knew.

I made a mental note to text her in the morning.

 And then the dream shifted into snowy hills. Horses grazing in a wide field. Chimneys stretching white smoke into a pale blue sky. Eight freckles.

A knock at the door.

Eight freckles, drifting into darkness, slipping as I reached for them.

Another knock. A little heavier this time.

“Hannah?”

Not Kelly.

Aunt Jolene.

I felt strange, as if I wasn’t entirely in my body. Like I had to reach for myself and pull myself back inside again.

“Hannah!”

The door cracked open, and Jolene’s voice jolted me together. The pieces scrambled into place.

“Yeah,” I answered, my voice still tangled in sleep.

“Better get up. Unless you intend on missing out.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. Just gone.

I sat up, stretched, and swung one foot, then the other, onto the floor. The floorboards were slightly cold. I moved to the bathroom, peed—longer than expected. Long enough to catch the tail end of a dream, slipping like smoke. I remembered to text Alicia. To ask how she was.

I showered without knowing what to wear. Something borrowed, maybe, so it wouldn’t feel entirely like me—just in case I got lost in something I couldn’t untangle. Sander’s boxers. His T-shirt. Thought about a skirt. Sweatpants. Maybe Sander’s, but they were too big. I didn’t want sexy. But I didn’t not want sexy either. I wasn’t there to seduce. Or be seduced. Not that I knew.

What if that was exactly why I was there?

I hadn’t done anything about the stubble, and now I questioned that. I hadn’t entertained the idea of her being presentable—and now? What if she needed not to disappoint?

No, Jolene would’ve told me exactly what to wear—and what not to wear. As well as what to be.

I wasn’t a player. I looked like a mess.

No bra. Sander’s baggy T-shirt. His boxers. A skirt I only wore to proper occasions—whatever the hell that meant anymore. The only one I owned that went past my knees. Long, white stockings. Sneakers.

My breasts were too large for this. I put on a bra. Swapped the T-shirt for a tighter top. Showing but not spilling. Not looking better, but at least like I’d tried.

There was no breakfast waiting. I made myself toast, dry, chewing between thoughts. The others were already in the den—talking, drinking water.

Then they stopped talking.

They didn’t greet me. They scanned me. Each in their own way.

Aunt Jolene smirked. Uncle Thomas stayed indifferent. Mom… didn’t look. Dad pretended not to care.

“You ride with us,” Jolene said, rising to her feet.

Because I couldn’t ride with Mom and Dad.

They all brushed past me, already moving, already knowing. I tagged along.

Bakersfield lay sleepy outside the front door, though it was nearly noon. But Bakersfield was always halfway between rest and wake. Always trying.

Jolene drove. Thomas beside her. Me in the back—silent, composed, intrigued as fuck.

But I didn’t show it.

The streets led us through the parts of Bakersfield never meant for postcards. The radio played Springsteen. Warehouses. Long-haul trucks. The slow grind of industry and concrete. Nothing like the lived-in rhythm of Bakersfield. This wasn’t built for families. This was built for work. For use. And, sometimes, for disappearance.

We pulled into a narrow lot. The air was still when the car came to a stop. Five doors slammed in near-unison. Aunt. Uncle. Mom. Dad.

Me.

They pulled their coats tighter, even though it was unseasonably warm.

Mom’s eyes flicked to Jolene’s.

A question: Are we sure?

Jolene answered with a nod. Collected. Absolute.

This was Aunt’s world. Mom, Dad… even Uncle Thomas? They were just characters in her play. I didn’t know their roles yet, but my mind was already sketching the script.

We approached a big steel door. Jolene knocked. Hard. Purposeful.

We waited.

Thomas stared at his shoes. Dad sighed. Mom took her sister’s hand. Tight.

I observed.

A loud thud. A latch pulling. Then the door opened.

He was tall. Not friendly. Not unfriendly. Just… discerning.

His eyes landed straight on me. Measured me.

“That her?” he asked, not looking away.

Only Aunt could answer.

“Yeah. She’s the one I told you about. The psychology student.”

He turned to her.

“How’d she even find you? How did she know?”

Jolene exhaled.

“You tell me, Jerome. It’s your website.”

He straightened slightly. Shoulders back. Chin lifted.

“You saying someone hacked us? Tracked your name? You said Harvard. Why Harvard? Why now?”

“Because, Jerome, they’re the new generation,” Jolene replied. “They dig deeper than we ever dared. They’re better at our game—because they’ve evolved it.”

He considered her for a moment.

Then nodded once and stepped aside.

He had the kind of eyes that didn’t undress you to desire—but to evaluate. They stripped away top, skirt, everything, scanning for proportions, measurements, yield.

“Sure she doesn’t want to play, Jolene?” he grinned, eyes still on me.

I itched to speak. But the real power is in restraint. You wish, Jerome. But if you want this—you better be holding something better than cheap cards.

Jolene didn’t flinch. “What’s your rule, Jerome?”

“Consent,” he said.

“Did you ask?”

He hadn’t. And he didn’t. Because no one had reminded him he should. It wasn’t on his checklist. No consent, no question, no care.

This wasn’t in any of my textbooks.

The hallway was narrow—concrete walls, worn floors, the kind that remembers every boot, heel, and scream.

Jerome stopped at a door. Plain. Heavy.

“This is where you get off, Miss Student,” he said, pushing it open with a press of his palm.

A small room. Not suffocating. Not padded. Just… plain. Empty. Waiting.

I stepped inside.

The door closed behind me.

Locked. From the outside.

I was there until they decided I wasn’t.

Only a faint, red glow illuminated the room—a lamp underneath the ceiling.

A stained office chair sat behind the desk. It had once been comfortable, but now it was worn, stained, and crusty—served through too many fantasies. I sat down.

The desk had three computer screens, a control panel, six buttons, and a joystick. Beyond the desk, a large window stared into a black void.

Two speakers were integrated into the wall beside the window.

This room had a purpose. To see, hear, and observe everything. Perhaps to dictate. But not today. The input on the desk marked ‘mic’ had no cord attached. There was no microphone. I wasn’t meant to attend, to be seen.

Which meant the window was a one-way mirror.

Which meant I couldn’t be a distraction.

A sound. Loud in its simplicity. A switch manipulated, the hum of power surging through hidden wires. Industrial lights flickered on, buzzing, stabilizing. And just like that—the dark void disappeared.

I’d seen this kind of room on my laptop before, but only in passing. Not the kind of porn I sought out, but the kind I stumbled upon, the kind I absorbed for a few seconds before clicking away. Now, I couldn’t click away. Now, I was inside it.

Everything had a purpose.

The walls—smooth, dark concrete—stretched outward, cold and soundproof. Heavy iron rings were bolted into them at various heights, some with thick leather straps hanging loose, some pulled taut as if recently used. The floor was black rubber—easy to clean. I imagined the scent of disinfectant still lingering, the way sweat or something worse might stick to it despite all efforts.

To my right, a padded bondage bench, shaped like an altar. The leather looked worn, creased, broken in by the weight of bodies. Nearby, a metal rack displayed an array of instruments—whips, floggers, crops—all lined up like surgical tools. Hooks held coils of rope—thick hemp, silken, paracord—some still knotted from prior use.

To the left, two upright wooden pillars, each fitted with adjustable iron collars. Between them, a spreader bar dangled from a chain, swaying slightly as it waited. Beyond that, chairs with built-in restraints—heavy straps along the arms and legs, steel cuffs bolted into the frame. Not meant for comfort, nor for escape.

And in the center of the room—a pillory, no…two.

The wood was dark and polished from use, touch, and the wear of skin. They stood like relics, like something historical, except they weren’t museum pieces. This wasn’t about the past. It was built for now.

Motion.

A door hidden within the wall itself opened. People.

Leather hoods, leather garments. No faces. Only bodies enhanced by cowhide.

Three men. Reasonably endowed, but not hard. Two women. Only…one had a cock. I wasn’t sure how to read her. But I wasn’t unwilling to accept her. Her tits were round, too round, pushed up by leather restraints and straps.

The other one was…natural, small breasts. Her pussy was exposed—redhead.

None of them were remarkable. But they played a part. I wasn’t unwilling to accept either of them, given a choice.

They found their places. It was rehearsed. Up against the wall. Waiting.

Jerome entered. Suit and tie. He sat in a deep chair, almost out of view.

The monitors flared to life. Angles zoomed in on the pillories, the chair, the bench. I tapped buttons. Cameras switched. The joystick controlled only one feed at a time—so there was room for improvement.

But this was just the setup. The setting of the scene. The setting of lights.

The button marked ‘rec’ was inactive. Served no function. Today.

I wasn’t here to record anything; this wasn’t meant for anyone besides me. It was orchestrated with purpose.

My fucking Christmas gift.

Another door opened. The lights dimmed.

A sound like breath—soft, deliberate—murmuring through the speakers. Chants, low and rhythmic, looping over themselves. Monotonous. Timeless. Not the voices of the people in the room. A recording designed to fill the air and layer itself into the scene.

This wasn’t silence. This was ceremony.

I wasn’t part of it. This story wasn’t mine. I wished I’d shaved.

And then—movement.

Dad first. His suit was pristine, black, unbothered by the chains in his hands. A slow, easy grip. Firm but not tense. He walked without hurry, leading as if it were a natural thing. As if nothing was unusual.

At the end of his chain—Jolene.

I barely recognized her. Her body, yes. But everything that made her her had been buried under leather and laced restrictions. A skintight corset curved her waist unnaturally tight, amplifying the fullness of her hips and chest—a creation of compression, not indulgence.

The collar at her throat was thick. Silver, locking. Not decorative—functional. A single chain threaded through a ring at the front, the length running taut between her and the hand that led her.

Her steps were measured. Practiced. She was not resisting. But she wasn’t eager.

Her chain, in turn, was attached to Mom. The weight showed. Her posture was drawn, slightly slumped. Her arms rested too still at her sides as if she’d been told not to move them. She followed, not reluctantly, but more slowly.

A pause. A slight weight shift.

Then forward again.

Her hands gripped another set of chains.

At the very end, Thomas. I wasn’t surprised. His arms were pulled tight behind him, bound at the elbows, forcing his chest forward. The only bare skin in the room. His chastity cage glinted, small, restricting—a polished, inescapable denial.

The mask forced his mouth open, and a black leather strap locked it in place. He was not struggling, nor was he relaxed; he was just there.

Their procession was silent.

They moved like a system, a sequence, a diagram drawn in real time. Not puppets, not forced, but following a pattern already learned.

Jolene’s shoulders squared, her gaze forward.

Mom’s chin dipped, her hands gripping a little too tight.

Thomas just walked.

Dad led them all.

And I watched.

The first hooded man took Jolene’s restraints and led her to the first pillar. Attached her collar to the ring, her arms above her head, locked. Finally, he spread her legs and attached the spreader bar. Then, he returned to his wall. His set of tools.

Mom was offered the same treatment, but her thighs were already shaking slightly as the man pulled her apart.

Mom always came easily. Freud said, “If you don’t fuck her, either of you would go mad.”

Melanie Klein thought I’d envy her—her breasts, her power, her sexual fulfillment.

Jessica Benjamin saw us as competitors, mirrors, locked in a loop of domination and recognition.

And Lévi-Strauss? He said it was all cultural—like that meant it wasn’t natural, too.

For all their wisdom, Kant preached morality like a virgin at a gangbang—full of rules, no clue what to do with the mess. As if swallowing were optional and soreness was a sin.

Thomas was designated for a different purpose. The girl with the cock took care of him. Straight to the pillory. Her cock in his mouth. No foreplay, just purpose.

The redhead took care of Dad. He was placed in the chair but not strapped down. She knelt and sucked.

I zoomed. She had pristine, white teeth, and her lips were a deep, rich red.

The women were given different treatments. They were prepared differently. The magic wand. I’d always wanted one. If I'd had a signal in that room, I’d have ordered one.

Mom broke almost instantly. It was her voice that I heard first. Moans. Shrieks. Whimpers and legs thrashed, but the man was relentless. Carried on. But now, he was hard.

Jolene was a different beast to tame. She egged. Pushed.

“Do your worst.”

But her eyes widened as her pussy soaked. I didn’t need to zoom in. Not on that. Not yet.

The third man hadn’t moved yet, but now his assignment was given. The girl with the cock and rubber chest left Thomas's mouth only to walk behind him and take what she was meant to take. Thomas’s mouth wasn’t left empty for long—the third man’s assignment.

Thomas was there to be fucked.

That’s what I focused on. Everything else was, if not familiar, not entirely unseen. Unimagined.

But a man fucked like that?

The camera angle wasn’t right. Different camera, perhaps. Surely, they’d make sure to cover every angle.

I needed to see her inside of him. Not just fucking—but shifting something. How his caged cock and balls reacted to service. To being used. To meaning something because he meant nothing. Details mattered. The tremble in his thighs. The way pre-cum clung to the steel, hesitated, then dripped—slow, almost reluctant—onto the floor. A wet theory in motion.

I shifted angles, watching for the giveaway. But his face was masked, sealed in leather and intention. No tells. No traceable fear or pleasure. Just body. Just tension. And yet I knew something was cracking—had to be. Theory is worthless without proof.

Was he Lacan’s phallus undone? The lack revealed not through penetration, but submission? Was he Reik’s paradox—seeking mastery through surrender, pulling power out of powerlessness like a kinked equation?

Deleuze would say the masochist writes the scene, that he scripts his own ruin for maximum release. That this wasn’t her scene. It was his. His rules. His destruction. His sting. His flood.

Baumeister would argue he wanted to disappear. Not die—but vanish. Escape the weight of self, let go of performance and collapse into purpose. Lose the name, the job, the bank account, the gym body. Just become a thing to be used.

And Foucault—God, Foucault—he’d insist it wasn’t disappearance at all, but discovery. That...