Everything is Grace Ch. 07

Trigger warning: As in earlier chapters, the relationship depicted here involves abuse - emotional, psychological, and, in this chapter, also physical. The narrative frames this abuse through layers of mutual rationalization, making it all the more important to state plainly: what's happening here is coercive and harmful, even when the main characters don't name it as such. This is also by far the darkest chapter so far - please proceed with caution.

Chapter 7

Emily stood outside Grace's flat.

Her fingers were numb from gripping the strap of her bag, but she didn't move. A couple walked past behind her - laughing, loud - and she flinched like she'd been caught doing something embarrassing.

Her phone buzzed once. She didn't check it. Something twisted low in her gut - not quite fear, but close - as she pictured Grace on the other side. She imagined her making tea - slowly, calmly - the way she always did, even when things were tense.

Her body was dull, heavy, but her thoughts kept sprinting in circles - anger, guilt, fear, repeat, anger, guilt, fear. And under it all, the ache: to be noticed, appreciated, anchored, made safe by someone who moved through the world like nothing could touch her.

But now, as she was standing in front of Grace's door, that ache curdled into dread.

She drew a breath and knocked.

The door opened after a moment. Grace stood in the doorway, barefoot, in tailored black slacks and a cream blouse - unruffled, composed, eyes sharp. She looked Emily over, head tilted just slightly, but not with surprise. Then, without a word, she turned, neck angled in a silent command, and walked back inside.

Emily stepped over the threshold like she was entering a courtroom. The air was cold.

Grace was at the kitchen counter, back turned, pouring hot water into a mug like Emily hadn't entered at all.

Emily hovered near the threshold, bag still in her hand, unsure where to stand. She crouched and placed it by the entrance to the kitchen.
"Pick it up," Grace said - calm, still facing away.


Emily grabbed the bag in a rush, the clumsy motion giving her away.

When Grace finally turned and faced her for the first time, Emily felt a jolt - a rush of nerves, guilt, need - and her mouth opened before she could stop it.

"Don't. Just don't."

Grace's voice stopped her cold. What really froze her, though, was the look. Those pale blue eyes cut straight through her, cool and steady, with not a trace of softness. Grace was composed, yes - controlled, poised - but beneath that calm was something unmistakable: fury. Not rage, not heat, but the colder kind. The kind that doesn't flinch.

"You ran. Again. After everything we said. After you agreed - you agreed - that this works when you stop trying to rewrite it every five minutes."

Grace took a step closer.

"But no. You had to test it. Again. You walked out without a word. Left me there to clean up the mess, to deal with the stares, the silence, the aftermath - like I meant nothing. Like we meant nothing."

"I didn't mean-"

"Of course you didn't mean to. You never do."

Grace's voice didn't rise. That would've been easier, almost.

"That's the problem, Emily. You feel something, and you react. You trust your gut like it's gospel - and then act shocked when everything falls apart."

Another step.

"I told you what this was. You agreed. I was clear - you need to be under me, because left to your own devices, you spiral. You disappear into your own head. I'm the one who pulls you back into something real."

Emily shook her head - barely. "I just needed-"

"No," Grace cut in, voice like a scalpel. "You needed me. That's the part you seem unable to say out loud."

She looked her over slowly - the limp hair, the blotchy cheeks, the dull denim of her jeans.

"Look at you. Two days without me and you're already unraveling. You haven't slept. You've been thinking in loops. You probably haven't eaten anything that wasn't beige."

Emily flushed.

"You say you want this. But then you push, you run, and then you crawl back - and I let you. Every time. But that ends now."

Grace walked to a drawer Emily had never seen her open.

Emily stayed still. Her mind wasn't quiet, exactly - but it had narrowed. Grace's words still echoed. Maybe Grace was right. Maybe she did need to be told who she was.

Grace set a box on the counter. Opened it.

And when she took out what was inside, something in Emily jolted.

A collar.

Real leather. Black. Unadorned, but unmistakable - the kind made for obedience, not aesthetics. Not dainty. Not figurative. The kind that made her, suddenly, remember what she looked like from the outside.

Her stomach twisted.

But she didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched as Grace held it up, calm as ever.

"I had something else planned," Grace said. "I wanted this to be solemn. Beautiful. A gift. But no - you ruined that. So now it's a correction. We are turning away from abstraction - and making that little brain of yours remember."

"You keep pretending we're equals," Grace said, holding the collar like it was an argument. "But we're not. I move through the world whole. You fall apart unless someone holds you. So now - for the final time - we spell out what this relationship is about. You obey, and I make the world make sense for you."

Emily's breath caught. Her pulse was loud in her ears. The collar sat between them, weighty, unreal - and somehow inevitable.

Grace didn't move.

Emily did. A step forward - then she stopped herself. Her fingers twitched. She wanted to explain everything and nothing at once.

"I'm trying," she said. Her voice was low, barely audible. "I really am. It's just... you ask a lot. And I want to be enough for it. But sometimes it's like- like my own brain keeps working against me. Even when I know you're right. Even when I know you're trying to help."

Grace didn't interrupt.

"I want to be with you," Emily said. "I want to be close to you. And I'll stop questioning it, stop second-guessing, I promise. I just- I need you. I need you to keep me here. Please."

Grace nodded once - a signal, not a gesture of softness.

"Then kneel."

Emily did. No pause, no flicker. Down, fluidly, like it was the only thing her body could do.

The floor was cold through her jeans.

Grace stepped forward, collar still in hand.

"Before I fasten this," she said, voice even, "I need to hear it. For the one, final time. That you understand what this means. That you want it. That you consent."

Emily looked up. Her throat was tight, but the words came clear.

"I do. I consent. I want it. I want you. I trust you - with all of it. With me. With everything." Her voice wavered, but didn't break. "When I'm with you, I feel real. Just... hold me together."

Grace said nothing.

She stepped behind her.

Emily stayed perfectly still.

The collar slid around her neck - cool leather, a firm pull, the click of the buckle as it fastened in place. Not tight, but definite.

It grounded her. A slow exhale left her chest.

Grace circled back to face Emily again. "Say thank you."

Emily bent forward. Her breath caught against the weight of the collar.

"Thank you."

"Lower."

She dipped further, knees pressing into the cold floor, spine folding tight. Her cheek hovered near Grace's foot now - pale, arched, perfectly still.

Emily hesitated. Just a second.

"Lower."

Her lips met skin.

She kissed the top of Grace's foot.

And then again - slower, more deliberate - just below the ankle.

"Thank you," she whispered.

The words came out like breath, but inside, her whole body pulsed with heat. Not arousal - not exactly - but exposure. Disbelief.

She was kneeling on the floor in front of another girl. In her flat. Wearing a dog collar. Kissing her foot like it was sacred.

And yet - there was no panic. No urge to run.

Just the pressure of her knees against the tile, the strange, dizzying peace of having no decisions left to make, and the faint scent of Earl Grey in the air.

Grace's fingers brushed the collar.

"From now on, you live it. No more spiraling. No more panicking."

Emily's eyes burned. "Please..." she whispered. "Please make it stop. The thinking. The guessing. Just- tell me what to be, and I'll be it."

Grace didn't reply. She just laid one hand, light and certain, on the back of Emily's neck.

The world went quiet.

Emily closed her eyes.

And for the first time in days, she wasn't afraid.

****

Emily held the position.

Collared. Kneeling.

Knees wide apart, the tops of her feet resting against the cold floor. Arms behind her back, fingers interlaced at the base of her spine. Chin tucked. Back arched - tight, deliberate. Mouth open. Not speaking. Just open. Eyes locked on the strip of light under the curtain.

The only sound in the room was the tick of the clock - and the occasional shift of Grace's weight on the sofa.

It all looked simple. It wasn't.

Every joint screamed. Her thighs were trembling. Her shoulders burned. Her forehead shone with sweat, and she could feel a drop trickling down between her shoulder blades - slow, itchy, maddening.

She blinked hard, kept still.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The wall clock was the only sound, apart from the occasional rustle of fabric from the sofa. Grace hadn't spoken in minutes. She didn't need to. She was watching - that was enough.

It was 2:17 pm. Middle of the day. Emily knew because she'd seen the time when she knelt. She should've been in lab - Molecular Genetics, Tuesdays at two. But instead, she was here. Naked, locked in a pose called "Open and Hold".

As Emily knelt in silence, she replayed what Grace had told her the first time, two days before.

"Every part of the body is saying something. So you make it say the right thing. Then you hold it there."

Her knees were wide enough that balance felt borrowed, not earned. Nothing about it was stable. The way her feet lay - tops flat against the floor, heels lifted and useless - meant there was no push, no readiness. Just stillness. Her arms, locked behind her back, pulled her chest forward and left her belly open - nothing to guard with, nothing to hide behind. Her shoulders throbbed. Her legs shook. But Grace had warned her: "If it's easy, you're doing it wrong."

The mouth was the worst part. Not open to speak, not open in shock - just held open. Still. No purpose except to stay that way. Her lips were dry, her jaw already sore. Two days ago, Grace had looked her straight in the face and said: "Keep it open. Don't close it unless I tell you to. Doesn't matter if it feels stupid. Let it feel stupid. That's the point."

So she did. Because the more unnatural it felt, the more real it became.

Emily shifted - barely. A twitch in her heel.

A sharp 'tsk' came from the couch.
Grace didn't say a word, but Emily knew what that sound meant. The warning.

Her eyes flicked to the cane, resting against the sofa. Long, pale, with that slight curve at the tip. Not there for show.

Her ass still wore it - not the usual flushed pink, but a thick, uneven bruising: purple black fading to rust at the edges, like something rotten just under the skin. It throbbed when she breathed.

She'd shifted her schedule - just moved a thing around, told herself it wasn't a big deal. A study group ran late, so she skipped their evening call without asking. Just sent a text after, casual and late: "Ran over - will call tomorrow xxx" Grace waited until Emily came to her flat the next day to remind her, in no uncertain terms, that autonomy wasn't the point anymore. Schedules weren't hers to rearrange. Not without checking first. Not like that.

It had been a week since Grace fastened the collar around her neck. Not long, technically. But things have changed so much since then that it felt like eternity already. Grace didn't just raise the bar, she tore out the floor beneath it. Punishments escalated fast. And they weren't the half-playful swats Emily had once braced for, back when all of this still hovered somewhere near "normal." The pain now was real. Serious. Focused. And that last caning? It broke her in a way she hadn't thought possible. The marks on her ass weren't just bruises; it was the kind of hurt that stayed with you, deep and spreading.

But the strangest part wasn't the pain itself. It was the after. The calm. She hated the cane. Hated the way her breath caught whenever Grace picked it up - that jolt of dread, the animal part of her brain flinching before the rest caught up. But somehow, under all that, a different kind of stillness had started to grow. The pain didn't make her like it. It just made her quiet. Like she'd paid something back. Like she'd reset the scales. Grace was furious, yes - but Emily had taken it. And there was peace in that. Maybe not comfort. Definitely not pleasure. But peace.

Grace stood, finally, and crossed the room. Her shadow passed over Emily's body like a tide.

"That's enough," she said.

Emily blinked, let her jaw close slowly. Her mouth ached.

Grace leaned down, pressed a kiss to the top of her head - brief, direct - then tipped her chin up with two fingers and kissed her on the mouth. Not long. But full. Present.

"I love you," she said, quiet. Clear.

"Get some water," she added. "Then come sit by me. You can rest your head on my thigh while I eat."

A pause.

"I saved you the crusts."

****

After the Siobhan fallout, Grace had stopped bringing Emily to social events.

It wasn't about trust. It was caution. Grace had handled the situation, yes - but she couldn't afford another slip. Not with people watching. Not with questions still lingering under the surface. The issue now wasn't how she meant to act - it was how she might, if she wasn't careful. The real risk was the new habit: treating Emily like property. Like she belonged to her. That kind of thing seeps in. It shows up in tone, in looks, in the way your hand moves when someone speaks out of turn.

It wouldn't be coherent, either. What kind of message would it send, if Emily was coddled the moment there was an audience? Grace wasn't running a performance. She was building something. Control had to be consistent. Intent didn't matter - effects did.

So, she stopped bringing her. It made sense. Emily didn't contribute to the group dynamic anyway, didn't add ease or presence. She wasn't missed. And for Grace, it was a relief, in a way. Because whatever anyone said, having a slave was work. Constant awareness, constant upkeep. Gratifying, sure. But intense. Grace enjoyed control, but she also liked peace of mind. And for a few hours, going out alone gave her that.

Grace could step away when she wanted. That was part of the deal - part of the power. She could pause the dynamic, take a night off, breathe. Emily couldn't. She didn't get breaks. She didn't get space. There were no evenings off, no soft reset when things got too much. For her, there was no outside. No suspension. Being a slave wasn't a part-time role - it was meant to become the whole shape of her life. That was the point.

And after Siobhan, Grace found new ways to make sure that was understood.

She introduced the café visits. A controlled environment. Public enough to matter - enough traffic, enough risk to keep Emily on edge-but still low-stakes. No one from their core group. Just a rotating cast of vaguely familiar faces: undergrads, grad students, staff in passing.

It was the right level of exposure. Just enough danger to make the lesson land.

Emily had already learned the rules-how to sit, how to speak (or not), how to walk that thin line between strange and unacceptable. Between embarrassing and unexplainable. That was key: it always had to be humiliating. Grace didn't want displays of submission only when it was safe. She wanted proof. Daily. Costly.

Emily had to pay. Every single time.

*

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon in Oxford. Crowded pavements, the usual weekend traffic of students and locals. Grace walked like none of it concerned her - calm, upright, unhurried in her trench coat and sunglasses. Emily followed one step behind, collar snug at her throat, gaze down. Her legs worked to keep up; the rest of her stayed quiet.

They reached Marcy's Coffeeshop. Grace pushed the door open without looking back. Emily stepped in after, the collar not hidden, but not flaunted either - just there, blunt and unignorable.

Grace stood still inside the entrance, waiting. Emily, already taught, moved into position - took her coat first, then helped with Grace's. Folded it over her arm, careful not to let it drag. Then to the table - she pulled Grace's chair back, waited while she sat, and stood behind her with her hands behind her back.

Grace picked up the menu, flipped through it like she owned the place. Emily waited, motionless. Her eyes hovered over the pastries in the display, but didn't land.

A few minutes passed. Grace made no indication of noticing her.

Then: a flick of her fingers.

Emily sat.

Grace didn't ask what she wanted. When the server came over - a young woman, polite, tight-lipped - Grace ordered flat white for herself, black filter for Emily, one avocado toast with poached egg. Just one. She didn't look in Emily's direction once.

When the drinks arrived, Grace didn't touch hers right away. Instead, she swiped her phone screen with two fingers. No rush, just casual. Emily blinked - a sharp wave lit up inside her. The plug shifted, a low buzz blooming through her hips and curling under her. Her breath caught. Grace didn't look up.

Another flick of the screen. The vibration intensified. Still quiet - but insistent now, humming against her in pulses. Emily clenched her thighs. She glanced up at Grace's face, hoping for some signal. Nothing.

Grace tapped her nails against the table once, then said: "Two sips."

Emily picked up the cup and obeyed. The coffee was bitter and scalding. She didn't flinch.

Grace, watching now, smiled just slightly.

"Next time you make that face in front of the server, I'll have you lick spilled milk off the floor."

Emily swallowed.

The food arrived a few minutes later. Grace's plate. Nothing for Emily.

Grace pulled off a corner of toast - dry edge, no topping - and handed it to her across the table. Emily took it in her mouth without using her hands. Another piece, this time with a smear of avocado, followed. Grace placed it on her tongue slowly, fingers grazing her lips.

The server passed again. Grace didn't look at her. But as Emily chewed, Grace said, loud enough to carry: "I've found she does better when she doesn't have to think about it."

The woman glanced back. Briefly. Emily looked down.

More toast. More crumbs passed by hand. Then Grace's fingers lingered at Emily's mouth.

"Tongue out."

Emily obeyed.

Grace wiped her fingertips across it. Not to clean - just to feel. Then again - this time tracing around inside her mouth, slow, almost bored. Emily kept still. Her jaw ached, her cheeks burning.

"Messy girl," Grace murmured. She pulled her fingers out and wiped them dry - not with a napkin, but on Emily's cheek. A single, light stroke that left a smear of her own saliva cooling on her skin.

Grace returned to her toast.

Another flick of her phone. Emily tensed. The plug kicked up again - stronger now. A slow, punishing rhythm. Her hips shifted in her seat before she could stop them.

Grace leaned back, eyes still on her food.

"Don't even think about coming in the middle of a café without permission."

Not loud. Not whispered either.

Emily nodded quickly. Her hands curled into fists under the table.

Grace picked up her coffee.

"Four sips."

Emily obeyed.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes. People buzzed around them - students with laptops, couples with prams. No one stared directly. But a few glanced twice.

Grace looked over at Emily.

"So," she said lightly. "Have you seen the new housing plan they're floating for the second-years?"

Emily blinked. She shifted, braced for another command - but Grace just raised her eyebrows.

"Well?"

Emily cleared her throat. "I... saw something. A post on the college board, I think. They want to consolidate housing zones or something?"

"Mhm." Grace stirred her drink with the back of her spoon. "Claiming it's about efficiency. But mostly they just want tighter oversight."

Emily nodded. "Yeah, sounds like they just want to keep tabs on everyone."

Grace tilted her head. "Interesting opinion for someone who can't piss without her girlfriend's permission."

The shift landed like a pin drop.

Emily's mouth opened, then shut again. Her cheeks flamed.

Grace smiled, just barely. "Sorry - continue. You were saying?"

Emily swallowed. "I... I guess I just meant, it makes sense to try and manage things."

Grace nodded, like she was listening to a friend's anecdote. "Exactly. People forget how much falls apart without control. They like to pretend everyone's just... naturally functional."

She cut another bit of egg and placed it delicately on her toast.

"You've been better with that lately," Grace said. "Following instructions. Not skipping things."

Emily looked down.

"Drink. Two sips."

She obeyed. The coffee was still extremely bitter and oily - but she swallowed it anyway, carefully measured.

Grace watched, pleased. Then: "Not that you have much room to skip anything now, do you?"

Emily said nothing.

The truth was, there was nothing left for her to skip. Not anymore. Over the last few weeks, Grace had closed the gap - one restriction at a time. Emily no longer had full access to her own phone. Most apps were gone. The few that remained, Grace had admin access to - full sync. Some days, Grace sent her a list of links to browse. On others, she blacked out the browser entirely.

Her laptop was locked down the same way. Parental controls Grace set up herself, with a separate password only she knew. No private tabs. No incognito. No loopholes.

Even books were assigned.

Messages? If Emily received one, she was expected to show it. Immediately. Didn't matter if it was from an old classmate or her own mother - especially not her mother. She had to ask for permission to reply. To call. To answer. Nothing happened outside Grace's line of sight.

And on the rare nights she stayed in her own room, she wasn't really alone. A webcam stayed on, propped in the corner of her desk, red light always watching. Grace had said it helped with accountability. It also meant she could appear at any time, a single message away from demanding to know what Emily was doing, why her posture looked lazy, why the book in her lap wasn't the one Grace told her to read.

"You're still showing me every message?" Grace asked.

"Yes."

Grace tilted her head. "Phone's still syncing to mine?"

Emily nodded. "Yes."

"And your screen time?"

Emily hesitated. "I still ask if I want extra. After curfew, I mean."

Grace wiped a crumb off the plate with one finger. "Good."

Another pause.

"You haven't tried to contact anyone without permission?"

"No."

Grace glanced up. "No texts to your mother I haven't seen first?"

Emily's jaw tensed. She shook her head. "No."

A beat.

"I wouldn't."

Grace's mouth curved slightly. Not warm. Just knowing. "Of course you wouldn't."

She said it like a fact - because it was. Emily no longer had the space to hide anything, and they both knew it. That was the point. The changes hadn't come all at once. Just one after the other - reasonable enough to accept at first, until one day Emily woke up and realized that every email, every tab, every conversation now passed through Grace.

Grace took another sip of coffee, then reached under the table. Another flick of her phone.

Emily's body jolted - sharp, this time. She swallowed a sound. Her thighs clenched.

"Three sips," Grace said.

Emily's hands shook a little.

"Nice," Grace murmured.

She leaned back again, finally finished with her plate. Her eyes drifted across the room, then back to Emily.

Emily sat stiffly. The plug still vibrated low inside her. Her stomach twisted. She didn't want to be seen like this - crumbs on her lip, black coffee she never liked burning in her chest. People looking. The server definitely aware. She hated it.

And still - she stayed perfectly still.

Because if she could just hold on, if she could just take it - the embarrassment, the rules, the endless humiliations - then maybe, when they left, Grace would say it again. I love you. Maybe she'd even touch her hair, pull her in close, say something kind.

That was what kept her spine straight, hands flat, mouth shut.

Grace, who could go to brunch alone, who could laugh with friends without looking over her shoulder, who could turn the whole world down to a low volume when she felt like it.

And still chose her.

Even as Grace's slave, Emily knew she was punching above her weight. And that, more than the collar, more than the ache between her legs, was what left her breathless.

****

Grace had made tea. That was always the start - ordinary things before the other ones. She moved through the flat with a kind of clean precision, like every motion cost her nothing.

She set her tea down, leaned back on the sofa, and looked at Emily.

"Ankles and open"

No hesitation. She knew her positions by heart at this point - at least the old ones, before Grace introduced a new set last weekend. She dropped into a squat, spine bent forward, knees apart, fingers wrapping around her ankles. Her thighs trembled slightly from the stretch, but she held it - back arched, head low, pussy fully exposed. She had practiced this one before.

Grace let her eyes trail over the shape. "Good," she said softly. "Finally starting to learn the vocabulary."

Emily didn't answer. She wasn't meant to. The pose made it hard to breathe, harder to think. That was by design.

Grace didn't move at first. She just watched. Let the silence settle around them. Then she slid one foot forward, her toes brushing lightly against Emily's inner thigh.

"I'm going to train your body," she said, matter-of-fact. "So that it only knows how to come when I say a specific phrase. Not 'yes.' Not 'come for me.' Not 'good girl.' Just the one."

Emily's breath hitched.

Grace ran her toes up, slow, until they were resting against her clit - warm, already pulsing.

"For the next few weeks, that'll be the only way. If you come without the phrase, we start over. And I promise, you won't like what that looks like."

A pause.

"I still haven't ruled out the whip with the weighted tip," Grace added casually "Naked. Standing on salt. Don't test me."

Emily shivered. She nodded once, tiny, still gripping her ankles.

"But," Grace continued, "the upside is this: if you do well, you'll get to come more often. That hasn't happened in a while, has it?"

Emily shook her head - eyes still lowered.

"No," Grace echoed. "You've been slacking a little. I've been generous, but also fair. Maybe you needed that. But now, I want to shift things. Bring you closer. Make your pleasure really mine, and for me."

Her toes started to move.

Not quickly. Just pressure and motion - slow strokes, imprecise, more about exposure than pleasure. A humiliating rhythm. Toes teasing, slipping, brushing where it counted but never where it satisfied.

Emily's legs shook. Her mouth opened slightly. She whimpered once.

"Count," Grace said. "From one to ten. You tell me how close."

"O-one..."

"Keep going."

"Two... three-ah-four."

Grace gave a sharp tap with her toes.

"Back to one."

Emily's voice broke. "One."

The next build was slower. Grace alternated the pressure - feather-light, then firm, never letting the pattern settle. Emily's thighs trembled harder. Her fingers dug into her ankles.

"Seven," she choked out. "Eight-"

Grace pulled her foot away. "Back to one."

A small, involuntary cry escaped Emily's throat. She stayed down, shaking.

The third round took longer. Grace toyed with her now - brushing her foot along the crease where thigh met groin, not quite touching the center. Emily's body reacted anyway - hips twitching, clit swollen, slick obvious now in the light.

She reached ten this time.

"I'm-ten, I'm at ten-please-"

Grace's foot paused. She let the pressure sit, unmoving.

Then, low and firm, she said it.

"Release, slave."

The release hit instantly. Emily's whole body jolted. A cry left her - half strangled, almost scared - and her cunt clenched hard under Grace's foot. She didn't move, didn't collapse, just held her squat and shook violently through it, sweat streaking down her back, cheeks flushed, eyes shut tight.

Grace didn't say anything. Just watched. Calm. Curious. Pleased.

After a minute, she pulled her foot back and reached for her tea.

Emily stayed where she was. Still in position. Still holding her ankles.

"I didn't say relax."

She didn't move.

Grace sipped, quiet.

Then: "We're going to do that again tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that. Until your body forgets anything else."

A pause. Then softer:

"This is how I want you now"

Emily let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Grace tapped the floor with her heel. "You can sit back. For now."

Emily moved slowly - folding into herself, breath shallow, face turned away.

Grace didn't say "good girl."

****

It wasn't always like that. Not only bruises, barked out commands, days where she was aching in four different ways before lunch. Those were fairly frequent, but still - just peaks. The moments Grace needed to prove a point, or draw a line, often directly in response to Emily's own shortcomings. And yes, they were real. But they weren't the whole story.

There were the other parts too. The quiet stretches. The days that blurred together, not because they hurt, but because they didn't. Something like softness. Predictability. Her own kind of care. Her own rhythm.

Emily needed to remember that. To hold onto those parts. Because that's what made it work - that's what made the other stuff survivable. Maybe it wasn't standard, maybe it wouldn't make sense to anyone else. But it was real. And it held. It held her.

And if she kept remembering those small, held-together moments - the days where Grace said "I am proud of you" instead of "on your knees" - then maybe this whole thing really could be sustainable. Maybe it already was.

*

For example, there was this one day when Emily was hunched over a thick biology paper - plasmid vectors, protein expression, gene splicing. It made her feel stupid in that particular way only science could - like the words were English but her brain hadn't been invited. Subject line after subject line blurred.

And the Grace's voice broke through.

"If you can't explain what a plasmid vector does in plain English, you're spending the night in 'Hold-and-Bind'. With nipple clamps. Reciting the paper by heart. Don't test me."

Emily knew Hold-and-Bind. One of the worst ones. Knees wide, arms forced high behind her back, shoulders screaming within minutes. Spine arched, chest exposed, nowhere to lean, no way to shift. With clamps? It was agony on a timer. Pure calculation: how long could you hold still before the pain tipped over into panic.

She blinked hard. Straightened slightly. Then, slowly - carefully - she spoke.

"It's a circular DNA tool in bacteria... like a USB drive. It carries genes so they can be copied."

Grace smiled, just a flicker. "Better. Tomorrow, say that in lab. Fail - and say hello to a Hold-and-Bind sleepover. Don't think I won't."

Sure, there was the threat. There was always a threat. The hierarchy never slipped. But Emily kept telling herself that it was also care. Maybe sharp-edged, but real.

Grace wanted her to succeed. To understand. To improve. She pushed because Emily wouldn't have done it herself. Not like this.

That was the thing no one would ever understand: it wasn't cruelty. Not to Emily. It was love, sharpened into discipline. Support, built from control. Grace's way of saying: I see what you could be. Let me drag you there.

She turned back to the paper. Same sentences, same diagrams - but they read differently now. The pathways clicked into place. The tangle started to unknot.

Maybe she could actually learn this. Gene expression, recombinant DNA, host-vector systems - the whole dense, feral world of bacterial genetics.

Maybe she could actually win. Because Grace wouldn't let her fail.

*

Or that time - weeks ago now - when Grace came home from some party Emily wasn't allowed to attend. There'd been music in the stairwell, heavy perfume in Grace's coat. And Emily had been waiting, kneeling already, because that's what she was supposed to do.

Grace hadn't said much. Just tossed her heels off and looked down at her once with a slow, strange smile. "Living room, now. Naked. Hold 'Brace-and‑Bare' and wait for me."

Brace-and‑Bare. Emily's mind connected the dots immediately. The position that screamed "pain is coming". One of many, but especially cruel in its demand for total vulnerability. Standing upright, feet planted, knees locked, hands pressed firmly on top of the head-chest thrust forward, spine arched, completely exposed.

Before Emily scrambled to obey, her eyes widened, wordless. Asking. She paused for the barest moment.

Grace shrugged. "I just feel like seeing you suffer for me. Just for fun."

What followed had been... hard. Grace's latigo flogger - a recent addition to her growing inventory - struck fast and hard with no warm-up, no build-up. Emily's brain scrambled-the instinct to curl into herself, to shield her face, to flinch, to run. She thought of dropping her hands from her head, pulling them forward to protect herself. But she didn't. Of course she didn't. Her orders were to hold the position. So she had. She always did.

But that wasn't really the bit that mattered.

What really mattered, and - to Emily - really showed what the relationship was about - was that quiet after.

Grace had put the flogger down - just let it drop. Then she stood there for a moment, just swaying slightly, head tipped like she'd forgotten what room she was in.

Then: "Come here."

It wasn't a command, not really. Not like the others. There was no sharpness in it.

Emily had crawled - slowly, awkwardly - and Grace sank to the floor beside her like she'd melted. Her hands were warm. Clumsy. She guided Emily's head to her lap, pulled a blanket from the sofa, draped it around her shoulders.

"You're so good," Grace murmured. "My good girl."

Her fingers moved gently through Emily's hair, scratching lightly at the scalp. Every now and then, she'd press a kiss to the crown of her head. Like it was for her.

The flat was spinning slightly. Emily could smell the gin - sweet, sharp, clinging to Grace's breath. But her voice was steady.

"You're safe now," she whispered. "I've got you."

And Emily had believed her.

Grace reached over to the coffee table, grabbed the little bottle of lotion she kept by the side. "Turn," she said. Emily did.

She flinched when Grace's hand grazed the line where skin had been split. But Grace just whispered, "Shh. It's okay."

Slow fingers worked the cream into her back, her shoulders, her thighs - slow, careful circles. The pain was still raw, sharp beneath the surface, but the touch made it distant. Muted. Emily lay still, letting herself be handled.

"You'll have bruises." Grace said softly. "Deep ones. But I'll keep the skin from tearing."

She said it like a promise.

At one point, Emily let out a small breath - half a whimper, more surprise than anything. Grace leaned down, kissed the space between her shoulder blades.

"I love you," she said. Like it was obvious. Like it didn't need context.

And Emily - still trembling, still burning - nodded against her thigh.

"I love you too."

Grace wrapped the blanket tighter.

"You're mine," she said. "That means I take care of you. That means you don't need to think so hard anymore. Just do what I tell you, and nothing else."

Later, Grace made her drink water. Three sips. Then more.

"Don't argue," she said. "You're going to be sore enough tomorrow. I'm not dealing with your brain fog on top of it."

She tucked her hair behind her ear, pulled her into her lap.

That night, Emily slept curled up under Grace's arm. The bruises throbbed when she moved, but Grace's fingers didn't stop tracing patterns on her side. At some point - maybe at 4 am - Grace whispered it again:

"I love you, Emily. I take good care of what's mine."

And the thing was: Emily believed her.

That was the memory she returned to, sometimes. Not the flogger. Not the panic. But the fingers, the blanket, the water. The soft voice. The way her name had been said like something precious.

She held on to that. Because if that was real - if even a part of that was real - then maybe this whole thing wasn't a trap. Maybe it was love, just the hard kind of it. Right?

****

Emily knelt almost perfectly now.

That was part of the problem.

Grace watched from the doorway - leaning lightly against the frame, glass in hand - while Emily held serve-tall on the bedroom rug. Legs together, spine straight, eyes forward but not too high. She didn't fidget. She didn't blink too much. Her breathing was controlled, shoulders loose. No effort visible.

It was beautiful.

It was also boring.

Not completely - not yet. But the edges had dulled. The sharp, desperate energy of those early weeks, when Emily's body fought itself in every position, when her mouth stammered through obedience and her knees begged for relief - that chaos was disappearing.

And Grace missed it.

She walked in slowly, circling. Emily didn't move. Didn't even shift her weight. Just followed her with peripheral awareness, body still, waiting for touch or voice.

Grace crouched beside her. Traced one nail along the seam of Emily's collarbone. No reaction.

"Still," Grace murmured, mostly to herself. "Always so still now."

Emily didn't answer. She knew better now than to speak unprompted when in position.

Grace's fingers moved to her jaw. Tilted it slightly. Inspected.

Perfect.

That was the word that should thrill her. Should make her wet. And sometimes, it still did. When she watched Emily fall into subspace, eyes glassy, lips parted, too deep in surrender to even think - that still had power.

But sometimes Grace wanted Emily back.

The version that flinched. That trembled. That whispered, "I don't know if I can do this," even as she did it anyway.

That was the part Grace fed on: the overcoming. The sacrifice. Not just obedience, but conflicted obedience - where every "yes, Grace" was paid for in blood and selfhood.

Now it was increasingly becoming free. Automatic.

Grace stood again. Walked behind her.

She remembered something Emily had once said, early on - quiet, ashamed, trying to assert some boundary Grace had already stepped over. "I just... I still want to feel like me, sometimes."

Grace hadn't responded then. She hadn't needed to.

But she thought about it now.

Maybe that was the key.

Let her feel like "Emily," sometimes. Let her remember who she was, just long enough for it to hurt when it's taken away.

And - if Grace was being honest - there was something else, too. Not quite guilt. But the faint, flickering recognition that breaking someone too completely was a kind of failure. Not ethically - Grace was a political activist, not a sentimentalist, and wasn't afraid to get her hands dirty when the situation required it. But you couldn't sculpt beauty out of vacancy. Real control required material: friction, emotion, a pulse.

Emily needed the discomfort. The flicker of resistance. The sense of choosing this, again and again. That's what kept it real. What made it effective. That's what made it work. Not only for Grace - for the both of them.

Too much erasure, and Grace was just managing a trained animal. Too much freedom, and she risked disobedience.

But... a flicker of identity? Just enough self to have something to offer again?

That had gravity.

She could push further. She knew that. With just a little more time, a little more structure, she could condition Emily into full silent service. No personality. No hesitation.

But that wasn't what she wanted. Not entirely.

She walked back to Emily. Ran a hand through her hair.

"What are you thinking right now?"

Emily answered without pause: "I'm thinking I want to hold still. So you'll be pleased with me."

Not wrong. Not bad. But too clean. Too easy.

Grace crouched again. Tilted her head.

"I think tomorrow," she said, "You're going to go a full day without the collar."

Emily's eyes twitched. That was all. But Grace saw it.

"And you'll speak first. And freely. After I wake up, when I eat breakfast. I won't prompt you. You'll have a little more freedom. For a while."

Now Emily blinked. The surprise and unease were faint, but real.

Grace smiled.

"Don't worry. You won't enjoy it."

She stood.

"And that's why we're doing it."