"Tonight, you sleep in my bed."
The command was simple, domestic, and utterly terrifying. It stripped away the last barrier Yanna had erected—the physical separation of Room 2. Room 2 was a cell, yes, but it was her cell. It was a place where she could curl up in the dark and pretend, for a few hours, that she was still Yanna Rivera, the student, the sister, the human being.
"Yes, Ma'am," Yanna whispered.
The elevator doors slid open. They weren't in the hallway anymore. The private elevator opened directly into the master suite.
Yanna stepped out onto a carpet so thick it felt like walking on moss. The room was vast, a cavern of shadows and minimalist luxury. The walls were glass, looking out over the sleeping, electric skeleton of Manila, but heavy, motorized blackout curtains were already drawn, sealing them inside a tomb of silence.
The centerpiece was the bed. It was a platform of black wood, low to the ground, massive enough to sleep four people. The sheets were charcoal gray, crisp and unwrinkled, a flat expanse of waiting territory.
Camille walked past her. She threw her velvet tuxedo jacket onto a chair with a careless, fluid motion. She didn't look at Yanna. She walked to a small table where a crystal decanter sat. She poured a single finger of amber liquid.
"Lock the door," Camille said, her back turned.
Yanna turned to the heavy double doors that led to the rest of the penthouse. There was a silver thumb-turn lock. She twisted it. Click.
The sound was loud. It was the sound of the world being shut out. It was the sound of the law ending. In here, there was no board of directors. There was no Philippine Civil Code. There was only the Acquisition Agreement.
"Come here," Camille said.
Yanna walked toward her. The heels—those four-inch spikes of steel—sank slightly into the carpet, making her gait unsteady. She felt precarious. She felt like a fawn trying to walk on ice.
She stopped three feet away.
Camille turned. She took a sip of the whiskey, her eyes scanning Yanna over the rim of the glass. She looked at the disheveled hair, the swollen lips, the black silk dress that was wrinkled from the violence in the car.
"You look..." Camille paused, searching for the word. "...used."
Yanna flushed, the heat rising from her chest to her hairline. "I... I'm sorry, Ma'am. I can fix—"
"Don't," Camille snapped. "I like it. It proves a point."
She set the glass down. She stepped closer. The smell of her was overwhelming—the expensive alcohol, the lingering sweat from the gym, the metallic tang of the dried blood on her bandaged hand.
"The dress," Camille murmured, reaching out to touch the thin silver strap on Yanna's shoulder. "Take it off."
Yanna reached up. Her hands were shaking so badly she couldn't find the clasp of the necklace first. She fumbled.
"Leave the collar," Camille ordered. "Just the dress."
Yanna let her hands drop to her sides. She shimmed her shoulders. The silk straps slipped. Gravity took over. The black fabric pooled around her waist, then her hips, then fell to the floor in a soft, whispering heap.
She stood there.
She was wearing nothing but the high heels and the silver necklace with the CN bar.
The air conditioning in the room was set to a frigid temperature, but Yanna was burning. She felt the cold air biting at her nipples, hardening them, betraying her arousal. She felt the draft between her thighs, where she was still slick from the car.
Camille didn't touch her. Not yet. She circled her.
It was the inspection of a predator. Camille walked slowly around Yanna, her eyes tracing every curve, every flaw, every scar. She lingered on the yellowing bruise on the knee. She lingered on the bite mark on the thumb.
"Turn around," Camille said.
Yanna turned. She faced the darkened window, seeing her own ghostly reflection against the black curtains. A pale, trembling shape in heels.
She heard Camille move behind her. She felt the heat of her body.
"Bend over," Camille whispered. "Grab your ankles."
Yanna hesitated. It was such a crude command. It belonged in a cheap porno, not in a billion-peso penthouse.
"Clause Twelve," Camille reminded her, her voice a silk lash. "Immediate. Unquestioning."
Yanna bent.
The movement stretched her hamstrings. The heels made it difficult, forcing her to balance on her toes. She gripped her ankles, her knuckles white. Her posture presented everything to Camille. It was a position of total defenselessness.
She waited for a touch. She waited for a spanking. She waited for pain.
Instead, she heard a sound that made her blood freeze.
Zzzzzzip.
The sound of a zipper.
Yanna's head snapped up, trying to look over her shoulder, but she couldn't see.
"Don't look," Camille growled. "Stay down."
Camille stepped in.
She pressed her body against Yanna's back. Yanna could feel the rough texture of the tuxedo trousers against her bare skin. She could feel the buttons of the shirt.
And she could feel something else.
Camille's hand—the left one, the strong one—slid between Yanna's legs.
"You're wet," Camille observed, her voice clinical, cold. "Disgusting."
She didn't use fingers. She used her palm. She slapped Yanna's vulva.
Smack.
It wasn't hard enough to bruise, but it was shocking. The sound echoed in the quiet room.
"You were thinking about me in the car," Camille accused, rubbing her palm against the wetness, smearing Yanna's own arousal over her thighs. "You were thinking about what I did to your throat."
"Yes," Yanna gasped, her forehead resting against her own knees. "Yes, Ma'am."
"Good."
Camille moved. She grabbed Yanna's hips, her fingers digging into the bone. She pulled Yanna back, hard, impacting her against Camille's pelvis.
"Up," Camille commanded. "On the bed. Crawl."
Yanna stumbled forward, climbing onto the black mattress. The sheets were cool silk, slippery under her hands. She crawled to the center of the bed, her heels digging into the expensive fabric.
"On your back," Camille said. "Legs open. Arms above your head."
Yanna flipped over. She lay there, spread-eagled, a specimen pinned to a board.
Camille stood at the foot of the bed. She had removed her tuxedo trousers. She was wearing black boxer briefs. And in her hand, she held a length of black silk rope.
"I told you," Camille said, climbing onto the bed, crawling over Yanna like a panther stalking a trapped deer. "I want to own you. And ownership requires... security."
She grabbed Yanna's wrists. She pulled them to the black wooden headboard.
Yanna didn't fight. She lifted her arms willingly. Tie me, her mind screamed. Tie me so I don't have to be responsible for what happens next.
Camille wound the rope. She was efficient, her movements practiced. She tied Yanna's wrists to the slats of the headboard. It wasn't tight enough to cut circulation, but it was tight enough to eliminate escape.
Camille sat back on her heels, straddling Yanna's chest. The weight was heavy, crushing the air from Yanna's lungs.
"Comfortable?" Camille asked, looking down.
"No," Yanna whispered.
"Good."
Camille leaned forward. She placed her forearms on either side of Yanna's head. Her face was inches away. The dragon tattoo on her chest was right in Yanna's line of sight.
"Tonight is about amortization," Camille whispered. "We are going to calculate the value of your submission."
She kissed Yanna.
This time, it wasn't the violent collision of the car. It was slow. It was deep. It was a drowning. Camille's tongue explored Yanna's mouth with a terrifying thoroughness, tasting every corner, claiming the breath from her lungs.
Yanna tried to kiss back, but Camille bit her lower lip. Stop.
You don't participate, the bite said. You receive.
Camille pulled back. She sat up. She looked down at Yanna's body.
"Eight hundred and fifty thousand pesos," Camille murmured. "That's a lot of nights, Yanna."
She reached down. Her hand—the left one—moved to Yanna's breast. She squeezed. It wasn't sexual; it was a stress test. She pinched the nipple, twisting it sharply.
"Ah!" Yanna cried out, arching her back against the restraints.
"Pain creates focus," Camille recited.
She moved her hand down. She traced the ribs. She traced the belly button. She stopped at the apex of Yanna's thighs.
She looked Yanna in the eye.
"Beg."
Yanna stared up at her, wide-eyed. "For what?"
"For me to use you."
The humiliation was a hot, thick liquid in Yanna's throat. She was a scholar. She read Marx. She understood the exploitation of the proletariat. And here she was, tied to a bed, begging the capitalist to exploit her.
But the need was stronger than the theory. The ache between her legs was a physical pain now, a throbbing void that needed to be filled.
"Please," Yanna whispered.
"Please what?"
"Please... use me."
"Louder."
"Please use me, Ma'am," Yanna sobbed. "Please."
Camille smiled.
She didn't use her fingers. She didn't use a toy.
She moved her body down. She positioned herself between Yanna's spread legs.
Camille lowered her head.
The first touch of Camille's tongue was electric.
Yanna screamed. It was a ragged, broken sound that was swallowed by the high ceilings.
Camille didn't stop. She was relentless. She ate Yanna with the same intensity she applied to the heavy bag. It was violent. It was mechanical. It was masterful.
She used her tongue like a weapon, flicking, pressing, digging. She used her teeth to graze the sensitive skin of the inner thighs. She used her hands to grip Yanna's hips, pinning her to the mattress, preventing her from squirming away from the over-stimulation.
Yanna's mind shattered.
The internal monologue—the constant, buzzing noise of anxiety, of math, of fear—finally, mercifully, went silent.
There was no debt. There was no sister. There was no mother. There was only friction. There was only heat. There was only the wet, rhythmic sound of Camille's mouth and the feeling of the rope biting into her wrists.
She was floating. She was falling.
"Camille," she moaned, forgetting the 'Ma'am,' forgetting the rules. "Camille, please, I'm close, I'm..."
Camille stopped.
The sudden absence of sensation was worse than pain. It was a physical loss.
Yanna opened her eyes, gasping, disoriented. "Why? Why did you..."
Camille was looking at her. Her face was wet with Yanna's fluids. She looked savage.
"I didn't give you permission to come," Camille said calmly.
She crawled back up the bed. She loomed over Yanna again.
"You don't own your pleasure," Camille whispered. "I do. I hold the deed to your orgasm, Yanna. And I haven't decided if you've earned it yet."
Yanna writhed against the ropes. "Please. It hurts. It aches."
"Good," Camille said. "Let it ache. Let it build until you think you're going to die from it."
She reached for the nightstand. She opened a drawer.
She pulled out a small, silver object. A vibrator. Cold metal.
"This," Camille said, turning it on. It emitted a low, menacing hum. "This is a machine. It doesn't get tired. It doesn't care about you."
She pressed the cold metal against Yanna's clitoris.
Yanna bucked, a cry tearing from her throat. The sensation was too much—too direct, too cold, too fast.
"Hold still," Camille commanded, pressing down harder.
She watched Yanna's face. She watched the eyes roll back. She watched the mouth open in a silent scream.
"Look at me," Camille ordered.
Yanna forced her eyes open. She looked into the amber abyss.
"Who owns this?" Camille asked, nodding at the trembling body beneath her.
"You," Yanna gasped. "You do."
"Who owns the debt?"
"You."
"Who owns the release?"
"You. God, you."
"Then take it," Camille whispered. "Take it for me."
She pressed the device harder. She kissed Yanna again, swallowing the scream as Yanna finally, explosively, fell over the edge.
It wasn't a wave; it was a seizure. Yanna's entire body went rigid. The muscles in her legs spasmed. Her vision went white. She felt her soul leave her body and pour itself into Camille's hands.
She shook for a long time.
When she came back to earth, she was crying. Silent, hot tears that tracked into her hair.
Camille turned off the device. She set it on the nightstand. She untied the ropes.
Yanna's arms fell to the bed, heavy and useless. Her wrists were marked with red lines.
Camille didn't offer comfort. She didn't cuddle. She lay down next to Yanna, pulling the black duvet up over them both.
She turned on her side, facing away from Yanna.
"Sleep," Camille commanded.
Yanna lay in the dark. She was exhausted. She was raw. She felt hollowed out, scraped clean.
She moved. Tentatively, terrified, she scooted closer to the woman who had just dismantled her. She pressed her chest against Camille's back. She curled her knees into the backs of Camille's knees.
She waited to be pushed away.
Camille didn't push her. She stiffened for a second, then relaxed. She reached back with her hand—the bandaged one—and rested it on Yanna's hip.
It was a claim.
Yanna closed her eyes. She breathed in the smell of the woman who owned her life. And for the first time in months, she fell asleep without doing the math.
The Morning
The light didn't wake her. The room was still pitch black, the blackout curtains doing their job.
It was the cold.
The duvet had been ripped away.
Yanna gasped, curling into a ball, shielding her nakedness against the sudden chill of the air conditioning.
"Up."
Camille was standing by the bed. She was already dressed. She wore a severe gray pencil skirt and a white silk blouse. Her hair was pulled back into a tight chignon. She looked immaculate. She looked like a CEO.
She looked at Yanna, who was a mess of tangled limbs and bedhead.
"It is 6:00 AM," Camille said, checking her watch. "You have five minutes to shower and dress."
Yanna rubbed her eyes, sitting up. Her body ached. Her wrists burned. Her inner thighs felt bruised. "The... the coffee?"
"No coffee for you today," Camille said. "We have a schedule."
She threw a bundle of clothes onto the bed.
It wasn't the black trousers and white shirt. It wasn't the catering uniform.
It was a maid's uniform.
But it wasn't a standard uniform. It was black, short, with a white apron that looked more like a decoration than a tool.
"Put it on," Camille said.
Yanna stared at the fabric. "Ma'am?"
"My cleaning staff arrives at 7:00," Camille said, walking to the door. "They are going to clean the penthouse. Every inch of it."
She paused, her hand on the doorknob.
"And you," Camille said, her voice devoid of any warmth, any memory of the intimacy of the night before. "You are going to kneel in the foyer while they work."
"Why?" Yanna whispered, horrified.
Camille smiled. It was the smile of the monster.
"Because the staff needs to know their hierarchy," Camille said. "They need to know that even the lowest maid is above the Pet."
She opened the door.
"And Yanna? Wear the collar. Nothing else."