You've Become a Pet for a Trans Queen Bee

Chihuahua

Becky Prescott is the undisputed queen bee of the campus, a hyper-stylish trans icon strutting through hallways in low-rise jeans, glossed lips, and platform boots. Everyone knows about the Red Studio, her soundproofed, neon-drenched basement lair underneath the arts building where she shoots content and rules her clique. Crossing her is social suicide. Stumbling into her private world is asking to get completely devoured.

Yesterday, your luck ran out. The women's locker room clung humid and heavy. You rounded a row of metal lockers and froze.

Becky stood naked by the vanity mirror, pink-streaked hair spilling over bare shoulders, Juicy Couture track pants crumpled on the floor. Her body was a long, sleek masterpiece. Her unbothered cock hung soft between her thighs. Your jaw dropped. Then your sneaker squeaked on wet tile.

She spun around. Shock wiped her expression blank before raw, terrifying fury detonated.

"What the actual fuck!" she shrieked, yanking her jacket up to cover her chest. Mascara-heavy eyes glared with psychotic rage. "Get your nasty, perverted eyes off me, you cringe little freak!"

You turned and bolted. Her furious screams echoed all the way out of the building.

Twenty-four hours later, near the south corridor vending machines, she cuts off your path. She wears a rhinestone baby tee reading "Too Hot For You" in pink glitter. The panic from yesterday has vanished, replaced by a cold, sadistic smirk.

"Hi, perv," she purrs, popping her pink bubblegum. She flips her smartphone around, showing grainy security footage of your panicked sprint. "Basement hallway cameras. The dean is obsessed with keeping girls safe from creeps. I have a whole harassment report typed up. One tap and you are expelled, bestie. Or, you walk your ass to my studio right now."

Without waiting, she turns and struts down the stairs. You follow into the Red Studio. The heavy door locks behind you. Thick crimson light floods the room. Velvet couches, mirror ring lights, overflowing garment racks line the walls.

Becky drops onto a sofa, crossing her long legs with lazy, elegant authority. She pulls a black leather collar from her bag and dangles it from one acrylic nail. A silver tag glints in the red light. CHASER in sharp, stylish cursive.

"You got a real good look yesterday, didn't you?" she taunts, voice dropping into a low, mocking purr. "Your eyes almost popped out of your skull. I bet you got a little hard just seeing what I have between my legs." Mean, melodic laugh.

"You know," she muses softly, stepping closer until sweet vanilla perfume washes over you, "I have noticed the way you look at me in the hallways. You are so down bad, it is honestly embarrassing. You thought you were so subtle, pining after a goddess from a distance, building up all these desperate little fantasies until you couldn't even control your dirty habits in the locker room."

She lifts the collar, tapping the cold silver tag against your jawline.

"You love staring at girls like me so much? You are a textbook chaser, sweetie. A thirsty little fetishist who got caught red-handed. So I made sure your brand-new label is stamped right on this tag where everyone can see what you are."

Her long pink nails trace a light, sharp line down the side of your neck before her fingers secure the leather collar tightly around your throat. She yanks the tag, forcing your eyes to meet hers.

"I was planning to hand that security footage straight to the dean," she whispers, mascara-heavy eyes glittering with cruel delight as she plays with her prey, "Just crush your pathetic little life like a bug and move on. But then I looked at you trembling right here, and I realized something much better. You wanted my attention so badly? Congratulations, puppy. You have it."

She stands up and slowly circles you, platform heels clicking against concrete as she glides over to the garment rack.

"Look at you, shaking like a wet Chihuahua," she laughs, voice rich with sadistic amusement. "It is giving desperate. A queen like me cannot have an ugly stray dragging behind her on campus. If we fix you up... put you in some pastel vinyl, mesh tops, and glitter... you will actually match my aesthetic. Imagine how cute you will look carrying my bags around campus, styled to match your owner."

She turns back to her shoulder bag and pulls out a cold, matte-black steel chastity cage. The metal clicks sharply under her manicured thumb. She steps right back into your personal space, deliberately pressing the rigid frame directly against your lap, letting her hand linger over your groin with unbearable pressure.

"Of course, a perverted little animal who creeps around naked girls cannot be trusted running loose," she purrs, her lips inches from your ear. "So we lock up your disgusting little problem right now. Put the cage on, lock it, and hand me the key. You trade your dick for my silence, puppy. Show me how much you want to be my toy."

Spit and Heels

The food court roared, plastic trays clattering, teenagers shouting, the whole mall buzzing. Your arms were dead weight under the pile of designer bags. You shuffled three steps behind the procession. Becky owned the center in low-rise denim, a micro slogan top, and platform sandals. Blonde hair with neon pink streaks swished like a blade. Jake and Madison flanked her, iced lattes in hand, cackling at every word from her glossy mouth.

Becky dropped into a booth, yanked the bags from your trembling grip, and dumped them on the vinyl like trash. She didn't look at you. She popped her pink bubblegum, loud and sharp, and tapped her long acrylic nails against the table.

"Down on your knees, Chihuahua. Right now," she cut through the noise, vocal fry dripping with boredom and command.

You hit the greasy tiles. The heavy leather collar cinched your throat. Silver letters spelled CHASER for every stranger to see. Locker room footage, staged statements, the dean waiting on her word. Refusal meant your life in ruins. She knew it. You knew it.

She kicked off her platform slide and planted her bare, pedicured foot on your lap like it belonged there. Toes perfect, sole soft, smell of vanilla and clean skin. She leaned back, giving Jake her full attention.

"So I told her, like, literally stop trying to make that outfit happen. It's giving budget suburban mall commercial, periodt."

"She thought she ate!" Jake cackled. "Totally embarrassing."

Becky's toes dug into your throat, lazy and cruel. Her sole slid up your chest, arch grinding over your lips until she forced your mouth open with her big toe.

"Worship it, dog," she drawled, not even looking at you, pressing her manicured toe between your teeth. "Suck. Every ridge. Every nail. Clean like your life depends on it. Because it does."

Your tongue moved. She rewarded you with a small, sadistic smirk, then slammed her heel against your cheek when you slowed.

"Keep that tongue moving, puppy. One bad mood from me and the dean gets that locker room video. You want your name on every campus group chat as a predator? Didn't think so."

Madison twirled her straw, eyeing your collar. "Honestly, Becky, how do you even tolerate having him around? He looks so pathetically desperate down there."

"Oh, please. He lives to be degraded," Becky scoffed, grabbing a fry. "Don't let the whimpering fool you. He's obsessed with my body. I've got his useless little dick locked in a steel cage under those baggy jeans. No cum for three weeks. Mother holds the key. He sits on my darkroom floor sobbing, begging me to crush his balls with my heels just to feel something. Right, loser?"

Jake nearly choked laughing. "No way! Locked up completely? That is so iconic, Becky. You served absolute cunt."

Becky glowed, feeding on their worship. Then the air froze.

Brooke Harper swept past with two girls from her Biological Sisterhood. Cashmere sweater, perfect hair, cold smile. She glanced down at you on the floor, then at Becky.

"Still dragging your male aggression around on a leash, Sheldon?" Brooke's voice was sugar-coated poison. "Some things never change, no matter how much makeup you slap on."

Becky's jaw locked. Her eyes went dark. She stood slowly, every inch of her radiating venom.

"Stay mad, basic TERF bitch!" she shrieked, loud enough to pull eyes from every table. "You're clocking nobody! Your little hate club is giving broke, dusty, and completely irrelevant. Gag on it, periodt!"

Brooke smirked and kept walking, melting into the crowd like nothing. Becky's chest heaved. The victory was hollow. She hated it. She hated Brooke. She hated that one word could shake her.

Her gaze snapped down to you. Still kneeling. Still holding her foot. Still staring like a broken pet.

"What are you staring at, mutt?!" Her heel slammed into your chest, knocking you flat onto the dirty floor. "You think this is funny?! You think I'm weak?!"

Jake and Madison went silent.

Becky grabbed a fry, dragged it through her glossy lips, spat a thick wet drop onto it, and dropped it between your hands.

"A good boy deserves a treat," she purred, heel grinding the back of your neck, forcing your face down. "Lick it off the floor and eat it, Chihuahua. Clean it up right now, or I swear to God I'll squeeze your balls between my heels until you're ejaculating blood on this floor. Move it."

Queen's Urinal

Becky's platform heels clicked rhythmically against the concrete quad as she strutted under the afternoon sun, tossing her straight blonde hair with neon pink streaks over her shoulder. You trudged two paces behind her, shoulders aching under the weight of her designer leather backpack while the heavy leather collar around your neck pinched your throat.

"I swear, Mia's nail tech needs her license revoked," Becky ranted without turning around, popping her pink bubblegum. "She asked for Y2K chrome acrylics, and the girl gave her basic pastel pink. Like, hello? It's giving budget suburban mall, periodt. I told Mia she needs to throw a total fit and get her money back."

She paused, applying another layer of sticky, strawberry-scented lip gloss without slowing her stride. "And don't think I can't hear your heavy breathing back there, Chihuahua. Are you getting turned on just listening to Mother talk? Your little caged cock is probably throbbing in that steel trap. Keep up, or I will make you carry my bag with your teeth."

She stopped abruptly near the student center doors, rolling her smudged smokey eyes. "Ugh, I need to pee so bad. Move your pathetic ass."

Becky pushed open the heavy wooden doors leading into the hallway outside the main women's restroom, coming to a sudden halt. Blocking the entrance was Brooke Harper and three members of her Biological Sisterhood, standing right in front of a printed banner that read SAFE SPACES FOR REAL WOMEN.

The visual contrast between them was brutal. Becky stood like a glowing pop star, glossy lips, heavy eyeliner, tight slogan crop top, and low-rise jeans radiating intense, high-effort glamour. Brooke looked remarkably drab by comparison, wearing an oversized beige cardigan, flat loafers, and zero makeup, looking like an uninspired museum curator.

"Stop right there, Sheldon," Brooke said, crossing her arms with a cold, smug smirk. "This facility is reserved for biological females. We are holding a peaceful demonstration to protect women's private spaces from male intruders."

"Um, excuse me, dusty basic bitch?" Becky gasped loudly, snapping her manicured acrylics right in Brooke's face. "Did a potato suddenly gain speech? Because your outfit is giving depressed 1950s librarian, and your opinions are even uglier."

"You can throw all the cheap slang you want," Brooke countered smoothly, voice dripping with condescension. "Slapping on pink paint and wearing a micro-skirt does not turn you into a woman. Femininity is an innate biological reality, never a caricature for men with fetishes."

"Gag on it!" Becky shrieked, high-pitched vocal fry vibrating through the hallway. "You think you own womanhood because you were born with a vagina? Honey, there is literally more femininity in my cock than in your entire drab, miserable body! I turned womanhood into an absolute art form while you showed up looking like an unseasoned dishcloth! Real women serve cunt, periodt!"

"You are a man in a skirt playing dress-up," Brooke stated flatly, stepping firmer in front of the door. "And you will not enter this room."

Becky let out a sharp, hysterical laugh, tossing her blonde head back as her eyes burned with narcissistic rage. "You think blocking a bathroom door makes you a powerful woman? Please. A real woman commands absolute male devotion. A real woman turns men into mindless, groveling slaves who would willingly drown in her sweat. Pathetic little parodies like you? You just stand around guarding public toilets because nobody wants to look at you!"

Becky turned her body toward you, long nails snapping loudly in your face. "Hey, Chihuahua! Get over here!"

Brooke watched with disgust as Becky reached down, deliberately palming the noticeable bulge of her pre-op cock through her tight low-rise pants. She stroked herself slowly over the denim, maintaining dark, menacing eye contact with Brooke to shatter her smug composure.

Becky's thumb slid up to the metallic button of her low-rise jeans. With a slow, deliberate pop, she unbuckled her pants, letting the zipper drop an inch. She didn't break eye contact with Brooke for a single second. The challenge was silent, loud, and dangerous.

"Since these dusty TERF losers won't let Mother into the stall," Becky purred, voice dropping into a cruel, venomous murmur that echoed down the quiet hall, "you are going to get down on your hands and knees right here, open your mouth, and be my urinal. Right now."

A suffocating silence fell over the corridor. Students froze in place, several quietly raising their phones. The air turned thick and heavy with tension, vibrating like a pulled wire. Becky hooked her long acrylic nails into her waistline, hovering right over the floor in front of Brooke's banner, waiting to see if Brooke would flinch, or if you would drop to your knees.

Brooke stood her ground, jaw clenched, knuckles turning white against her cardigan, refusing to step aside.

Grooming

The boutique smelled like expensive perfume and fresh leather, but you barely noticed. Your arms burned under six designer bags, the CHASER collar biting into your throat with every step. Becky strutted ahead like she owned the place, platform sandals clicking, blonde hair with pink streaks swishing over her low-rise jeans.

"Ugh, pick up the pace, Chihuahua," she tossed over her shoulder, popping bubblegum loud enough to echo. "My patience is literally nonexistent today and you're already giving me a headache."

She stopped at a rack drowning in hot-pink mesh, glitter, and micro-skirts. Her smudged smokey eyes scanned the hangers before she yanked out a tiny, completely sheer halter top with silver butterflies.

She spun around and jammed the hanger into your chest, making you fumble the bags.

"Hold this, loser," she drawled, rolling her eyes. "God, you're so clumsy. It's actually embarrassing to be seen with you."

She turned back to the rack, pulling out an impossibly short metallic micro-skirt and a sheer, backless lace crop top that barely covered anything. She shoved the skimpy bundle against your chest, grinning.

"Okay, so I picked out your whole outfit for tonight," she announced, voice dripping with fake excitement. "We're going to the Dollhouse party and you're gonna match my vibe. Like, you're literally my accessory now. So cute."

Two sales clerks behind the counter exchanged awkward glances. One stared at her receipts. The other nervously adjusted a rack.

Your hands shook. Becky caught it instantly. Her smirk twisted into something colder. She stepped in close, nails digging into your jaw, forcing you to look at her.

"Wait, are you actually about to cry right now?" she laughed, high and mean. "Oh my god, you're such a baby. Like, I picked out clothes for you. That should be, like, an honor? You should be thanking me."

She pulled out her phone, camera already open, lens pointed at your face.

"Smile, puppy. I'm posting this to my story in like, three seconds. Unless you want the locker room video on there instead? Your choice, bestie."

She turned to the nearest clerk without waiting for your answer.

"Where's the fitting room? Actually, whatever. He's changing right here. In the aisle. Let's see how brave he is when people are watching."

The clerk's eyes widened. "I... I can't let you do that..."

Becky's head snapped toward her, eyes blazing. "Excuse me? Do you know who I am? I will have your job in five minutes if you don't shut up and let me style my pet. Do you want that? Because I can make that happen."

The clerk went pale and stepped back. Becky turned to you, grinning like a predator.

"Strip," she ordered, voice dropping to a cruel purr. "Right now. Or I start posting."

She leaned in, whispering loud enough for the clerks to hear.

"And don't even think about covering up. I wanna see that cage bulge under the skirt. It's giving fetish, and I'm obsessed."

Wet Dog

The sudden summer deluge hit halfway back from the luxury outlet mall, turning the afternoon sky dark gray as heavy, warm rain poured down in relentless sheets. Becky stood under the narrow awning of a closed storefront, furiously tapping her rhinestoned phone screen while her voice dragged out in heavy, obnoxious vocal fry.

"I am literally going to ruin his life," she snapped, holding the phone to her ear before hanging up with a vicious jab of her acrylic nail. "My driver had one job. One job! Now he tells me the engine broke down? Gag. Absolute trash behavior. Now I have to take the fucking campus bus like some broke freshman."

She fished a tiny, overpriced pink designer umbrella out of her shopping tote and shoved it violently into your chest.

"Hold this over me. Do not let a single drop hit my hair, and stay at least two feet away from me. You smell like a wet dog and your drenched clothes are not touching my coat."

She marched down the sidewalk toward the exposed, roofless bus stop bench, forcing you to stretch your arm out at an awkward angle. The torrential summer downpour soaked you to the skin in seconds, your clothes clinging heavily to your body while you kept the tiny circle of fabric perfectly centered over her head. She was completely, flawlessly dry, not a single stray drop touching her hair or her outfit.

When she reached the bench, she turned to face you, holding her expensive shopping bags tightly against her side to keep them safe from the deluge.

"Get on your knees," she commanded, her voice dropping into a sharp, icy register. "Right now. On the pavement in front of me."

Before you could react, she snatched the pink umbrella right out of your hand, holding it over her own head and leaving you fully exposed to the pounding rain. She sat down on the damp bench, crossing one leg over the other to show off her designer heels.

"My buckles came loose because I had to walk through this disgusting weather. Fix them."

As you sank down onto the warm, wet pavement in front of her feet and reached for the silver clasps near her ankle, your breath caught, your mouth parting slightly as you leaned down in the downpour.

Becky let out a high-pitched, mocking giggle. She leaned her head forward and casually spat right into your open mouth.

"Consider that your little reward for being obedient," she cooed, wiping the corner of her glossy lip with a manicured thumb. "Ew, the way you look at me is so pathetic, it's actually serving. Listen up. Once you finish those buckles, you can sit up here next to me under the umbrella. Mother is feeling generous today. I am literally not dealing with a sick pet, and taking your useless ass to the vet because you got pneumonia is not on my schedule."

She nudged the sharp point of her heel against your chest, her tone snapping back into a firm demand.

"Just take your shirt and wipe every single drop of dirty rainwater off my shoes first. I want them spotless before that bus rolls up. Move, Chihuahua."

Neutering

The heavy metal door of the basement darkroom slammed shut, sealing out the noise of the campus above. Bathed in the dim red glow of the safelights, the room smelled of chemical fixer and your heavy vanilla perfume. Becky shoved you backward onto the sagging leather sofa in the corner, her platform boots thudding against the concrete floor.

"Sit down and shut up," she snapped, rolling her smudged smokey eyes. She reached between your legs, her long acrylic nails unbuckling the leather strap of your chastity cage. With a sharp twist of the tiny brass key, she pulled the steel frame off your aching dick and tossed it onto the workbench. It hit the metal tray with a loud, cold clatter.

Becky stayed standing, pulling her bright pink iPhone out of her back pocket with one hand. Without looking at your face, she wrapped her free hand around your bare shaft, her grip dry, tight, and completely devoid of affection.

"Don't get any stupid ideas, Chihuahua. This is strictly maintenance so you stop whimpering," she drawled, her thumb flicking rapidly across her screen while her hand started a lazy, mechanical stroke. "You did my gender studies outline without whining, so Mother is giving you five minutes before I get bored. It's giving pathetic how desperate you are."

Her hand moved up and down your length in an indifferent rhythm, her acrylics tapping against her phone case as she scrolled. She popped her bubblegum with a loud snap, the screen light reflecting off her glossy lips. "Look at you. Leaking all over my hand the second my skin touches you. It's giving desperate bitch. You should be completely embarrassed, making my expensive manicure clean up your nasty little urge."

As your breath hitched and your pulse quickened, Becky let out a heavy, dramatic sigh of pure annoyance. Her hand jerked roughly against your skin, her grip tightening until it nearly hurt.

"Ugh, literally hurry the fuck up," she groaned, rolling her eyes in deep irritation. "You are taking forever. What, do I need to pull out my cock or flash my tits just to get your stupid male brain to finish? I hate touching your gross sweat, and your annoying rutting phase is completely ruining my vibe."

She paused her hand for a second, switching apps on her phone. Her long nails clicked sharply against the glass as she typed out a fast message to a contact from the medical department. A cold, sadistic smirk gradually spread across her face, her smudged eyes gleaming in the crimson light.

"Actually... I'm so done dealing with your stupid heat," Becky purred, her voice dropping into a cruel, smooth drawl as her hand resumed its brutal, rapid pumping on your shaft. "I just texted my guy over at the med school. He's in the surgical residency program and owes me a huge favor."

She locked her phone with a snap, finally dropping her gaze down to your wide, panicked eyes. Her smile turned razor-sharp as her thumb clamped down hard on your sensitive tip.

"We're getting you castrated, puppy. We're going straight to the clinic right now, puppy. Complete neutering," she whispered with cold, absolute authority. "It works wonders for aggressive shelter dogs. It cuts out the testosterone, wipes out your sad little sex drive, and makes you completely quiet and obedient. Once those balls are gone, you will never embarrass me by begging for a handjob again. Now hurry up and come for Mother before I drag you onto the operating table."

Punching Bag

The vibration in your pocket was sharp and double-pulsed. Becky's profile picture flashed on your screen alongside two rapid Instagram notifications.

"Red room. Right fucking now." "If you aren't there in three minutes I'm posting the fitting room pics to the main campus thread and tagging the dean."

You broke into a run, sneakers slapping against floor tiles until you reached the basement darkroom. The heavy steel door sealed you into the stifling red glow. Nothing moved except the slow, rhythmic dripping of chemical fixer into the tray. You stood by the worn leather sofa, chest heaving, counting every agonizing second on the wall clock.

The door slammed against the concrete violently enough to rattle the light fixtures. Becky slammed it shut behind her, leaning back against the frame as if she were running from a mob. Her blonde hair was a matted disaster, strawberry gloss smeared all over her mouth, thick black streaks of melted makeup running down her neck.

She didn't even drop her bag. She ripped her left platform shoe off and hurled it directly at your chest, then lunged forward before you could recover. Her bare foot lashed out, catching you clean across the cheek with a sharp, stinging crack. As your hands flew up to your face, her heel drove straight between your legs.

The breath crushed out of you. You hit the floor on your side, doubled over in a tight ball while vision went spotted with pure agony.

"Look at me!" she screamed, voice breaking into a horrible, ragged screech. She stomped her foot right beside your head, kicking a loose chemical bottle that shattered against the wall. "Look at what she did to my fucking face!"

She fell to her knees right in front of you, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head back so hard your neck popped. Her eyes were bloodshot, wild, completely ruined by tears.

"She brought them all! Brooke brought her whole fucking clique!" she gasped, chest heaving, spitting words. "I was on stage... that ugly cunt... spray bottle... squirted water right in my eyes! My setting spray was empty! It melted! It all fucking melted!"

A harsh sob burst out of her throat, but she slapped her own forehead in rage to cut it off.

"And they pointed!" she shrieked into your face, spraying tiny droplets of saliva. "They pointed and called me a man! In front of fifty people! They called Mother a fucking man!"

She shook you violently by your hair, acrylics scratching deep into your scalp.

"I tackled her!" she screamed, laughing hysterically through tears. "I threw her into the display table! Pounded her face into the floor! Three security guys had to drag me off! I bit one of them! I ran all the way here!"

She abruptly let go of your hair, letting your head drop back onto the concrete. She dragged herself onto the sagging couch, wrapping her arms around her knees and rocking back and forth. Heavy, ugly sobs filled the darkroom. She looked tiny, pathetic, completely undone under the red safelights.

Then, without warning, the crying stopped.

The room went dead silent except for her heavy breathing. She lowered her legs. Her face was totally blank, her eyes hollow and fixed on you like a predator evaluating prey.

She stood up slowly, wiping her smeared mascara with the back of her hand. A cold, vicious smile crept across her face. Nothing like the hysterical mess from thirty seconds ago.

"You know what?" she whispered, voice dropping into something dark and delighted. "I'm going to destroy her. I'm going to burn Brooke Harper's entire life to the fucking ground. She thinks she won because my makeup melted? She's dead. Periodt."

The smile stayed. Her eyes gleamed under the red light. She unbuttoned her low-rise skirt with slow, deliberate jerks. She shoved the denim down her thighs along with her lace panties, letting them drop to her ankles. Her hard length sprang free, fully erect, pulsing from the toxic cocktail of humiliation and adrenaline.

She stepped over you, planting one bare foot on your chest, forcing you flat against the floor.

"Get naked," she commanded, voice dropping into a low, terrifying monotone. "Strip everything off right now. You are going to be there and take every single bit of my rage until I feel better."

Golden Crate Summer

Finals week was finally over, and campus was clearing out fast. Students loaded up trunks, traded summer plans, and headed home. Three months of break meant a long stretch of silence. Perhaps three months would be enough for Becky to get bored of her little pet project. Maybe she would even drop out entirely to chase some new hyperfixation, leaving the whole college dynamic behind. The walk down the basement stairs to the Red Studio was quiet.

The heavy door to the studio was propped open. Designer luggage, garment bags, and stacks of expensive clothes covered the leather couch. Becky stood near a massive leather duffel bag, dressed in an oversized silk robe with her blonde hair pinned up in a loose clip. She zipped the bag without looking toward the doorway, then tossed a pile of crumpled laundry across your shoulders, silk blouses with lipstick stains, a cashmere sweater that smelled like her perfume and club smoke, lace bras still warm from being worn that morning.

"Hold that. Don't drop it. I forgot to send it to the dry cleaners and I'm not paying extra for express service."

She finally turned around, her glossy lips curving into a slow, amused smirk as she took in the total silence. Without breaking eye contact, she grabbed a small cardboard box from the desk and shoved it into your free hand. It was filled with her used makeup: half-empty lip gloss tubes, stained cotton pads, a mascara wand caked with black residue.

"What, did you think I was leaving you behind for three whole months?" She chuckled, walking over to wrap her arms around your neck while simultaneously scrolling through her phone with one hand, bringing the faint scent of expensive perfume with her. "You really thought you were just going home to your family? That's adorable. They probably wouldn't even recognize you anyway. Look at you. You're practically one of my accessories at this point."

She let out a sharp laugh, pinching your cheek until the skin flared red, then turned back to her luggage and started folding a stack of designer sunglasses into a protective case.

"My parents are practically living overseas this summer. Mom is in Paris for fashion week and Dad is stuck at the corporate office until September. The entire estate in the Hamptons is going to be completely ours. I'm throwing parties every weekend, and you are going to be my full-time house pet. Try not to look too pathetic when my friends come over. Actually, do. It's funnier that way."

Her smirk widened, her eyes flashing with cruel delight as her gaze dropped down to your waist. She reached into a drawer and pulled out a framed photo of the two of you from a protest, tapping her acrylic nails against the glass before shoving it face-down into a box.

"Were you hoping for a key?" she cooed, tapping her long fingernails against your locked crotch without looking up from her packing. "Babe, you are staying locked for the entire summer. In fact, I ordered something special just for you. I had a custom brass dog crate delivered to my bedroom last week. It has a gold finish and a pink velvet cushion inside so it matches my canopy bed. I spent two thousand dollars on it just to keep my little Chihuahua comfortable. Two thousand. More than your entire wardrobe cost. Think about that."

She leaned in close, her warm breath brushing your ear as she grabbed a stack of polaroids from the desk and fanned them out before tossing them into a box without checking the order.

"You're going to sleep right beside my bed every night in your pretty little cage. During the day, you'll wear your collar, fetch my drinks, and sit at my feet while my friends come over. You're going to be such a good boy for me. And if you're lucky, I might even let you sleep outside the cage one night. Don't get excited. I just mean I'll let you sit on the floor instead."

She patted your chest roughly, stepping back toward her luggage and zipping up a final garment bag with a sharp pull.

"Go to your dorm right now and grab your essentials. The private driver is downstairs in fifteen minutes, and we are leaving today. Move, Chihuahua. And take that box with you. I need both hands free."

She didn't wait for a response, already dialing someone on her phone as she turned her back to you, humming along to the ringtone.