Page 69 of Pierced

Fuck it.

I take another step toward her and finally stop.

“So… Myrtle?” I say. “What are we doing?”

She looks down at the ground and it’s almost like she’s another person. That’s fine. I imagine that’s how I look to her too.

“Myrtle?” I ask again.

She glances up at me. Stares in my eyes. “What are we doing?” she repeats.

“Yeah. What are we doing?”

She’s breathing heavily. I watch her breasts rise and fall under the blouse that’s always open one button more than everyone else’s. I meet her eyes. The way the afternoon sunlight is hitting them causes her to almost look like she’s tearing up. If I didn’t know better, I might actually believe that was the case.

But I do know better. And I choose to believe it is not.

Finally, after several long seconds, she says, “We’re not doing anything.”

I squint. Draw back. “No?”

“No,” she says. “See you tonight.”

She reaches for the door and swings it open. She steps into the doorway and starts to exit.

“No test?” I ask.

She stops, turns her head to the side so that I can just see her profile, and lets out a long, jagged breath…

“You passed. See you tonight.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - MYRTLE

The rest of the day was a blur. A disturbing, nightmarish blur. I went back into my office and closed the door, shutting out Eden, and Valerie, and the whole damn office who all witnessed me cowering before Pierce with my back against the window.

What the fuck happened back there?

It’s like I… it’s like I went back in time. Became old, old Myrtle. That girl who entered her first dungeon a scared, timid wallflower.

I just packed up my bag and left after that. Didn’t even say goodbye to anyone. Just left.

And now I’m home, it’s dark, Pierce will be here any minute, and even though I’m dressed in an outfit I’ve always called the Queen—thick, light blue silk-jacquard corset binding me tightly with cream-colored satin ribbons and full rear-shirt made of chiffon; my breasts lifted so high they practically touch my chin; the stockings thin and silky, same color as the ribbons; hair piled on top of my head so that my silver tiara is fastened securely, and long, wispy tendrils flowing down to my shoulders like spirals; quite simply the most beautiful dungeon apparel I own—I don’t feel much like a queen.

I look at myself in the wardrobe mirror and feel a lot more kinship with the peasant-girl outfit that got tossed with the submissive collar the minute I did the switch from bottom to top than the queen I am now.

How did he do that?

I don’t understand it.

And all he did was speak. It’s not like he was holding anything over me. Not like he was threatening me with punishment. And the whole office seemed to be watching, so there was no chance of him dominating me.

But he did. He dominated me.

And I reacted.

I have several justifications for this.

One. We were at work. His kingdom. And while at work, I am his subject, just like everyone else.