Put to Good Use

Chapter 1 - Green Deal

Marcus woke to sunlight slicing through the nursery blinds, his body a map of yesterday's marks: faint bite welts on his neck and chest, hand-shaped redness across his stomach, the lingering ache in his balls that had only deepened overnight. The aphrodisiac had mostly faded, leaving behind a dull, insistent throb-less fire, more pressure cooker with no valve.

He sat up slowly, naked except for the collar, and listened.

Silence.

No heels. No voice. No rustle of silk.

He padded barefoot through the house, heart thudding louder with every empty room. Kitchen-spotless, no sign of breakfast prep. Living room-velvet sofa still rumpled from last night. Hallway-his phone gone from where he'd left it charging. The front door was unlocked. He stood in front of it for a long minute, hand hovering over the knob.

He could leave. Right now. Call a car. Be back in his penthouse by lunch, shower off the last forty-eight hours, pretend the Labyrinth had been a bad dream.

But something in him didn't allow him to move. He wondered what it was, despite all the humiliation, he was staying back for more. Why he wondered. There were no answers..

His balls ached with the load, he remembered last night's denial, how Elara brought him to heightened ecstasy only to deny and keep him high and dry. He needed that release and his hand went towards his crotch. But she had warned him not to. What if she figured it out. And the next time-if there was a next time-she would make sure the punishment matched the betrayal. The fear was real.
He let his hand fall.

On the dining table lay a folded piece of green fabric and a folded note. No greeting, no signature-just block letters:

WEAR THIS.
PHOTO WHEN DONE.
SEND TO MY NUMBER.
DON'T MAKE ME WAIT.

He unfolded the fabric. A green mankini. Thin elastic strings, a pouch barely large enough for modesty, the back a narrow strip that would disappear between his cheeks. He stared at it, stomach twisting.

He considered jerking off-just once, quick relief, ease the ache. His hand drifted down, fingers brushing the swollen skin. Then he remembered her again. She would know. And whatever reward she had dangled last night would vanish forever. She was not around but she had completely taken over his mind.

He dropped his hand.

Ten minutes later he stood in front of the full-length mirror in the guest bedroom, green strings cutting into his soft hips and shoulders. The pouch strained, barely containing him. His chubby middle spilled slightly over the waistband; the back strip rode high, exposing pale cheeks still faintly pink from Jenn's palm. He looked ridiculous. Small. Exposed.

He took the photo with shaking hands-full body, head bowed, face flushed-and sent it.

The reply came in under thirty seconds:
"Living room. Vacuum the velvet. I want the lines straight. Photo when done."

He moved like a man in a trance, the vacuum's roar drowning out his own uneven breathing. The task was absurd-his nearly naked body straining with the effort, the thin straps of the mankini digging into his shoulders as he pushed the machine across the rug. Once done, he snapped the photo-the carpet perfectly groomed, his reflection caught in the window, flushed and disheveled-and hit send.
The next ping was instantaneous.

"The master bath. Scrub the tub on your knees. Use the hand towel, not a brush. Photo."
By the time he finished, his knees were raw and stinging from the tile, and the ache in his groin had reached a fever pitch, a heavy, rhythmic pulse that made his hands shake. He sent the second photo, a shot of himself kneeling by the gleaming porcelain, head bowed in a posture of forced submission.

He waited, dripping a bit of sweat onto the floor he'd just cleaned, until the final vibration hummed against his palm.
Good boy.
Wait for me.