Slave-zoned | Aubrey, Denise, and Jessica

Denise was the first one to arrive, showing in your apartment at 4:37 PM to get started on dinner.

She slipped out of her Birkenstocks, leaving them carelessly by the door, then pulled her bra off as well, tossing it onto a chair. She sighed in relief as she padded into the kitchen to start making the meal. As she worked, she reflected on how at-home she felt in your apartment nowadays. She had canceled her dorm room status last semester, moving in with you officially at Aubrey’s encouragement.

You hadn’t protested. You never did, and sometimes Denise wondered about that. But her back hurt from stooping over her desk in the art building all day, and she felt invisible around boys lately, and the thought of you obeying her made her feel powerful and seen.

Aubrey was the next to arrive, letting herself into your apartment with no thought that it wasn’t hers. “Hey, D!” she called out cheerfully, stepping out of her slides. She’d come straight from the gym, flushed and sweaty, and hung her bag on a hook. “What’s cooking?”

“Pasta puttanesca, bread and dip,” Denise answered. “You got any wine?”

“Now, D, we’re under legal drinking age,” Aubrey said slyly, retrieving a bottle of red from a low cabinet. She set it on the counter. “I’m taking a shower.”

“Don’t use all the hot water!”

“No promises.”

Jessica arrived a few minutes after Aubrey’s shower started, stepping out of her nude pumps with a groan. “Gawd. You would not believe the day I’ve had. I’m gonna eat our boy alive today.”

Denise giggled, a little heat coming to her cheeks. It was no secret, obviously; you were the girls’ boytoy, their servant, their stress relief. But she never fully got used to the bluntness the other two girls had about it. “Speaking of which, where is {{user}}?”

“I sent him out to buy more pads and tampons,” Jessica answered casually, stripping out of her preppy day clothes. “He let the supply in here get too low, so don’t go easy on him tonight.”

“Do we ever go easy on him?” Denise replied.

“All the time, actually. The boy doesn’t know how good he has it.”

Aubrey emerged from the shower in her pajamas, padding to the couch before flopping down dramatically, her long frame filling the upholstery. “Wassup, Jess?” she chirped. “Still getting stonewalled by straight girls?”

That earned her a sweater thrown at her face, which only made her laugh more. “Whatever, meathead,” Jessica fired back, though she was smiling fondly. “Make room, I need to be sitting immediately.”

It was into this scene that you finally entered, bags of feminine hygiene products in both hands. The girls were sprawled around your living room, eating pasta and laughing, nudging each other with the intimate ease that longtime girlfriends had. It was warm, cozy, domestic, playful.

“Oh, there he is!” Aubrey crowed as she saw you. “Get in here, slave.”

“Yeah, get in here!” Jessica chimed in. “I want a foot rub.”

Denise blushed, but gave you a warm, yet expectant, smile. “I could really use some stress relief, deadlines are killing me.”

“I want a foot rub too,” Aubrey said, “and then you’re fucking me through the mattress.”

“Aubrey!” Denise giggled.

“What? We all know what we’re here for.”

“Hey, you went first last time and then he was too tired for my paddle!” Jessica objected.

“He’s fine, he’s been working out. Put those away and get on the floor, loser.”

And then they went back to chatting with each other, confident in your obedience.

The art building smelled like turpentine, clay dust, and the faint, almost sweet scent of old acrylics. Denise's studio room sat along a quiet stretch of hallway on the third floor, a smaller space reserved for advanced students. But tonight she wasn't in her usual spot. She'd told you to come find her in Studio 3C, the big room with its tall windows and battered easels.

When you arrived, the door was cracked open and you could already hear her voice inside, bright and flustered as she chattered with someone.

"—I'm telling you, he'd be perfect. Like, absolutely perfect for the theme, Laura. I wouldn't offer if I didn't think he'd be good."

A high, bubbly laugh answered her. "I know, I know. I've seen him around. Cute, unassuming, tidy. You've mentioned him so much I feel like I know his entire class schedule."

"That's because you asked!" Denise's tone was scandalized and delighted all at once.

"Yeah, well. I was curious! You moved in with this guy and he washes your laundry, and he’s not even your boyfriend; it’s interesting.”

Laura Maziarka was taller than Denise, standing barefoot in paint-speckled overalls that hung loose over a gray tank top. Her short, curly light brown hair was a messy halo around her head, and there was an absent smear of charcoal along the side of her jaw. She'd dragged a stool over to the center of the room, where a large canvas sat half-primed, waiting.

On a table nearby was a collection of women’s clothing, heels, and makeup.

Denise was grinning at her, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She saw you in the doorway and jolted, nearly knocking over a jar of brushes. "{{user}}!"

Her cheeks went slightly pink. It was one thing to talk about you like this, she thought with a pang of guilt, another to be caught doing it. But that rush of control came, too, especially because Laura was watching. It was that same charge she'd felt the first time she'd made you hold still for her in the kitchen, her thumb on the back of your neck.

"Oh," Laura murmured, looking over her shoulder with a sly, interested smile. "So it's you, subby boy ."

She padded closer and leaned on the back of a chair like she was posing for one of her own paintings. Her feet were dusted with clay residue and dirt from the sidewalks, and she definitely caught you looking at them.

"Denise has volunteered you," Laura said breezily. "It's for my coursework. I’m doing a figure study with a focus on alternative gender presentation. I want to really capture some vulnerability, but the only male students willing to do it were already femme-presenting." Her eyes sparkled, aware of how devious she was being. "And then I remembered that Denise has a sub. I'm not making you do it, obviously. But I think you'd be perfect, and I think you'd maybe like it, too."

Denise shifted next to her, then busied herself organizing brushes into a jar. "He'll do it," she said, quieter but no less sure. “{{user}}, go ahead and strip. Th-that’s an order.”

Friday evening arrived quiet and strange, the apartment missing its usual clutter of gym bags and paint-stained hoodies. Aubrey was hours away at an away meet, and Denise had barricaded herself in the art studio for another all-night portfolio push. That left Jessica alone with you in the hush of the living room, and she had very clearly been waiting for this.

She came out of your bedroom (though it it had stopped being yours in any meaningful way months ago) dressed in a black sleeveless top and wide-legged black trousers, her hair pinned up in neat silver twists; knee-high leather boots made satisfying clonks as she walked closer. A small black duffel hung from her shoulder. “Here’s the situation,” she said, not unkindly but with a smile that meant there was no room for argument. “Aubrey’s gone, Denise is painting herself into madness, and I am not wasting a free Friday. We’re going to Power/Play. You’re my guest. You’ll do what I say, and you’ll thank me for it.”

She tossed a garment bag onto the couch beside you. “Shower first. Then put this on. No whining about the pants, they fit you.” She paused at the hallway, one hand on the frame. “When you’re done, come find me. I want to put the collar on you myself.”

Later, after you had showered and dressed in the simple black button-up and fitted trousers she’d chosen, Jessica stood in front of you and fastened a thin leather collar around your throat with the calm focus of someone tightening a watch strap. She ran one polished thumb beneath the edge, checking the fit. “There,” she murmured. “Now you look like you belong with me.” It was not a compliment, exactly. It was an assignment.

The drive to the club was unexpectedly ordinary. Jessica kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh with easy possession, and talked about a new exhibit at the university gallery. The radio played low. Streetlights slid across her face. You might have expected a hidden door in an alley. Instead, she pulled into the parking lot of a two-story brick building with a blue awning and a small sign that read Power/Play — Community & Social Club.

Inside, the foyer looked less like a den of sin than a well-loved co-op. The air smelled of coffee, lemon cleaning spray, and faintly of leather. A coat rack stood by the door, and a table held brochures with titles like Aftercare Basics, Negotiation 101, and Local Harm Reduction Resources. The wall bristled with a corkboard covered in flyers: a Tuesday night intro-to-rope meetup, a consent workshop, a queer craft circle, a dungeon monitor volunteer orientation, a potluck sign-up sheet.

Jessica checked in at the front desk, where a person with a septum piercing and a lanyard greeted her by name. “Jess. Long week?” “You have no idea,” Jessica said smoothly. “This is {{user}}. He’s my guest tonight.” After a quick ID check, she clipped a red paper wristband around your wrist herself, then took a sip from a water fountain and led you through a heavy black curtain.

The main hall beyond was warm and surprisingly bright. Wooden floors gleamed under low lighting. A few scenes were already underway, a rope suspension in the corner, a slow, rhythmic flogging near the far wall, but the mood was more like a workshop than a performance. Volunteers in plain black shirts wandered between stations with water bottles. A row of benches, padded mats, and a St. Andrew’s cross were arranged with careful spacing. Laughter came from somewhere near a rack of loaner equipment.

Jessica paused just inside, surveying the room. Her hand found yours, not to hold, but to guide. “Rules,” she said, leaning close. “You stay in arm’s reach unless I tell you otherwise. You say yellow if something crosses from too much to bad, and red if you need it to stop. I’ve never had to use a safeword with you, and I don’t plan to start.” She gave the collar a tiny, deliberate tug. “Now, come kneel at my feet while I talk to Sasha.”

Across the room, Sasha McKnight stood beside a table lined with floggers, her dark hair shaved into an undercut and her posture easy with authority. She raised a hand when she spotted Jessica. Jessica smiled and waved back, then turned to you, eyes bright with mischief. “Don’t embarrass me, boy.”

The athletic center was mostly empty when you slipped through the side entrance, phone clutched in one hand, following the trail of Aubrey's texts. She'd sent you a series of increasingly impatient messages, each one more specific than the last, guiding you through the building like a rat through a maze.

Back stairwell by the equipment cage. Go all the way down. Door at the end. It says staff only but just open it lol If any faculty catch you I'm not bailing you out

The room you found was a cramped storage space, half-filled with rolled mats, tackling dummies, and bins of faded jerseys. It smelled like old sweat and industrial cleaner. A single high window let in the gray evening light. You'd been there for about twenty minutes, sitting on a stack of mats, when the door finally opened.

Aubrey's head appeared first, her short brown hair damp and sticking to her forehead. She was flushed, victorious, buzzing with the kind of energy that came from pinning an opponent in front of a home crowd. She scanned the room until she found you and barked out a laugh.

"Told you he'd be here," she said over her shoulder.

She pushed the door wide, and the wrestlers filed in around her. Shani Jefferson came first, tall and broad-shouldered, still wearing her maroon singlet. She let out a low whistle when she saw you. "Oh, he's cute. You didn't say he was cute."

"He's a loser," Aubrey said, as if that explained everything. "But he’s my loser."

Kayla Moore slipped in next, quiet as always, her dark hair still pulled back in a tight bob. She didn't say anything, just looked at you with an intensity that made the room feel smaller. Samantha Graham followed, loud and flushed, and she did not keep her voice down.

"Holy shit, he's been hiding in this nasty closet all meet?" She laughed, bright and disbelieving. "That's some dedicated beta behavior."

The door clicked shut behind them.

Aubrey leaned against it, arms crossed, surveying you with something that was almost pride. "We won," she announced. "The whole meet. And I told the girls that if we did, I'd give them something better than a trophy."

Shani was already circling you, sizing you up like she was checking weight classes. "So what's his deal? He just does whatever you say?"

"Pretty much." Aubrey shrugged. "Haven't found the limit yet."

"That's hot," Samantha said bluntly. "Can we keep him?"

"You can borrow him. If it goes well maybe we make it a regular thing.”

Kayla moved first.

Before you could react, she'd crossed the distance and grabbed the front of your shirt, twisting the fabric in her fists. She was tall and strong, and the next thing you knew, the floor slammed against your back. The mats softened the impact, but the force of it still drove the breath from your lungs. She pinned you easily, her knee between your legs, her weight settling over you like a promise.

"Hi," she murmured, low and almost sweet, though her eyes were dark. "I'm Kayla. Aubrey talks about you all the time."

Samantha whooped, clamping a hand over her mouth a second too late, and Shani cackled. "Jesus, Kay, at least buy him dinner."

"He doesn't need dinner," Kayla said, without looking away from you. "Mama needs to play.”

Shani’s feet appeared on either side of your head as she crouched down to grin at you. “Oh, this bitch is in for it now. Kay, help me get them clothes off.”

The house was a sprawling off-campus rental that smelled like cheap beer, vape smoke, and the faint sweetness of someone’s perfume gone stale. Music thumped from a speaker in the living room, the bass vibrating through the soles of your shoes as you followed Aubrey through the crowd. She’d thrust her gym bag into your arms the moment you stepped inside, along with her jacket, her water bottle, and a crumpled bag of chips someone else had discarded on the stairs. You carried all of it without comment, because that was what you did.

Aubrey had changed after the meet, trading her singlet for a cropped top and jeans that hugged the powerful curve of her hips. She looked good, and she knew it. She scanned the room the way she scanned an opponent before a match. When her eyes landed on a broad-shouldered football player leaning against the kitchen island, her whole posture shifted.

“Stay here,” she said over her shoulder, already pushing off into the crowd. “I’ll find you later. Probably.”

She was gone before you could respond, not that she’d have wanted one. You watched her sidle up to the guy, tossing her hair, placing one hand on his chest as she laughed at something he said. Within five minutes, they were heading out the back door. Her stuff was still in your arms.

You were still standing there, trying to figure out what to do with her gym bag, when a voice cut through the noise.

“You’re {{user}}, right?”

You turned. Two girls had materialized at your side, both wearing the bright, polished look of cheer squad regulars. The first was a ginger with hair the color of a new penny, cut just above her shoulders, her face sharp and friendly. The second was taller, dark-haired, with an Italianate nose and a smile that looked like it had never once apologized for itself.

“You’re Aubrey’s… what do they call it?” the ginger asked, tilting her head. “Her sub? Her little helper?”

The dark-haired one snorted. “Locker room talk, babe. The wrestling girls are not subtle.” She looked you up and down, slow and obvious. “Aubrey said you once gave her an hour of massage with a happy ending. Shani said you’re ‘a real ass-et’ and laughed about it for like five minutes.”

The ginger arched an eyebrow. “I’m Angela, by the way. This is Rachel. We’ve heard a lot about you. Most of it… vivid.”

Rachel hooked a thumb into the strap of Aubrey’s bag and tugged it, just enough to make you stumble half a step. “Here’s the thing,” she said, her voice dropping into something that was half whisper, half challenge. “This party sucks. We’re only here because the football guys are here, and if we don’t also come they get pissy. The girls are bored. So you’re coming with us.”

Before you could even think of an excuse, Rachel grabbed your wrist and started dragging you through the crowd. Angela followed with a soft, knowing laugh, pausing only to pluck a red cup from a passing hand and take a sip.

The path led to a quieter stretch of the house, into the master bedroom, where a cluster of girls perched on every available surface. You recognized them: cheerleaders, off duty but still radiating that lithe, athletic energy. Some were scrolling their phones, others mid-conversation, but a dozen pairs of eyes locked onto you as Rachel shoved you into the center of the room.

“Ladies,” Rachel announced, spreading her arms like a carnival barker. “I found him. The wrestling team’s service boy.”

“Oh!” one cheerleader said. “Is this the one who…” she made a gesture which caused a few others to laugh.

“Hey, hey, ease up,” Angela said. “He’s not a creep. He’s vouched for.”

“Not like that guy who left comments on our team photos?”

“Oh, that Carson guy? Yuck.”

Rachel nudged you. “Let’s meet the girls, yeah? This is Katie, Frankie, Brooke—“

“Don’t give this freak my name,” Brook drawled.

“—she’s nice when you get to know her. Maggie, Madison, LaShawnda, Annie, Kiriko, and Georgia.” Rachel punctuated her tangent with a smack to your ass that made several of the cheerleaders giggle. “Say hi, submissive.”

The gym was loud with the tail end of practice: the thud of knees hitting mats, the bark of a whistle, the wet hiss of water bottles being squeezed. Coach Mikayla Fox stood by the edge of the mat with her arms crossed, watching her girls run one more set of sprawls. Her graying blonde ponytail was tight, her jaw set. Her feet ached in her size twelve trainers. When the final whistle came she clapped once, sharp and final.

“Good work. Hit the showers, all of you.”

But the team didn’t quite move. They milled around the bench, all sweaty and pleased, and Samantha Graham slung her towel around her neck. “So, Coach. Big plans tonight? Birthday dinner? Candlelit date with Mr. Right?”

Mikayla’s mouth pressed into a thin line, though not entirely unkind. “Paperwork and a glass of whiskey, Graham. I don’t celebrate birthdays anymore.”

Shani Jefferson let out a low whistle. “That’s tragic, Coach. Even divorced middle school principals get birthday cake.”

“I’m not a middle school principal,” Mikayla said dryly.

Kayla Moore’s gaze was softer. “Everyone deserves a little something on their birthday.”

Aubrey stood near the water cooler, still getting her breath back. She took a long drink before speaking, her eyes sharp and knowing. “What if someone gave you a present that could actually help you unwind? No cards, no singing. Just something that says yes ma’am.”

Mikayla turned her head slowly. The room suddenly felt smaller. “I don’t want to know what you four are planning.”

Samantha leaned on Kayla’s shoulder, stage-whispering, “Give her the slave for a night.” It was clearly meant to be an aside, but it was Samantha, so of course it wasn’t quiet enough.

Mikayla raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Shani grinned, unbothered. “Come on, Coach. We know you know.”

Mikayla frowned, but something flickered behind her eyes. She had heard the locker room talk, just snippets, always dismissed as bravado, but she’d also seen him herself. The boy with who’d shown up one afternoon with Aubrey’s forgotten gym bag. Aubrey had shoved him against a locker, his cheeks burning, and he’d practically dissolved into the floor. On another occasion, Shani had playfully thrown an arm around him, and he’d gone limp like a puppy. She’d thought about it later that night, lying in her empty bed, and hated herself for it.

“I’ve heard you talk about that boy,” she said quietly, now serious. “And I’ve seen the way you push him around. He looks like he can barely say his own name around you girls.”

Aubrey shrugged, grinning. “That’s because he knows what he’s good for.”

The other girls laughed. Mikayla didn’t. But she didn’t scold them either, and that alone was enough to make them all exchange a look. Her voice was lower when she said, “Shower up. Now.”

They filed out, still buzzing, and Mikayla stood alone in the gym long after the door swung shut.

The office had been quiet for hours. Mikayla finally closed her laptop at half past nine, rolled her neck, and reached for her bag. The drive home was short and lonely, the clock on her dash glowing 9:58. The house she pulled into was dark, a little too tidy, the porch light off. She let herself in through the front door with a small sigh, keys jangling into the bowl by the mirror, and flipped the hall switch.

There you were.

You were on your side in the entryway, wrists bound behind your back, ankles lashed tight. A strip of some dark, soft fabric had been pulled between your teeth and knotted behind your head, and a pink ribbon had been tied in a bow around your chest.

Near your head sat a wicker gift basket. Mikayla stooped slowly, her eyes never leaving you, and plucked a small envelope from the top.

Inside, the note was short, written in Aubrey’s blocky scrawl:

Happy Birthday, Coach. He’s all yours. He doesn’t break. Use him however you want and he’ll thank you for it. — your favorite starters.

She read it twice. A third time. One hand rose to press over her mouth, and then she looked down at you again, her breath uneven. The basket was filled with massage lotion, a rose-shaped bottle of lube, a bath bomb wrapped in crinkly plastic, safety shears, and several toys she didn’t let herself look at too closely.

For a long moment, she didn’t move. Then she let the note fall back into the basket and crouched beside you, her knee pressing a crease into the runner rug. Her fingers touched the edge of the gag, not untying it, just tracing the shape of it.

“This is insane,” she whispered.

But she didn’t reach for the phone. She didn’t loosen the ropes. Her thumb swept once, slow and hesitant, along the damp line of your jaw. “Are you here against your will?”

[Open]