(Which weirdly also turned her on.)
In fact, few things turned her on like her own impotence. The rage, the self-loathing, the helplessness… she was someone’s property, with no control over or say in anything. Her life for now—maybe forever—was drifting along and waiting to see what happened to her next. She couldn’t even follow the logic in her own feelings any more, and increasingly, she didn’t try to. She obeyed, she brought DJ pleasure, like a good girl. Why didn’t matter.
None of this was to say she enjoyed these feelings, in the conventional sense. She just felt them, and went along like a bit of flotsam adrift in a squally sea, waiting to see what fate would do to her next. If some of the waves thrilled her as they lifted her up and brought her crashing back down, it was as much a part of the storm as every desperate gasp for air.
She didn’t even know if this would ever end, if the rest of her life would be this. There was no finish, no goal, nothing that would mark the point where she had fully redeemed her miserable, judgmental, hateful soul. It was just a feeling, and she wasn’t sure she’d even know it when it happened. If it happened. Would she be DJ’s sex slave for the rest of her life? Well, until she was too old to please him any more; then maybe she’d just be a regular servant. Or he’d just kick her out on her ass.
She didn’t know what she’d do without the chance to atone. The dread of carrying that mountain of guilt and being able to do nothing to alleviate it was too horrible to think about.
It was more than six hours before DJ came back. The sound of someone fumbling with their keys at the lock woke her up, and she reflexively slipped back into perfect slave girl posture.
DJ didn’t notice. In fact, he looked like he was only half-conscious, drunken to the point that the unabashedly slutty girl on his arm was more or less carrying him. She was around their age, had a pair of huge, fake-looking tits threatening to burst out of a trampy strapless red dress, and tattoos in evidence all over—a black rose on her forearm, little angel wings showing above her dress in the back, something on each of her upper thighs she couldn’t make out.
Looking closer, Emily saw some dribbles of cum glistening on them, too.
The woman helped DJ into his bed, looking relieved to no longer need to support him—he wasn’t a big man, but he was bigger than her by a good margin. She hadn’t even noticed Emily when he grabbed her hand roughly and pulled her down into bed with him. “Ugh, again? Thought you’d be tired out from before,” the girl grumbled as he haphazardly planted slobbery kisses on her chest and neck.
The girl lay there for a few minutes as he clumsily groped and mouthed her; then, he fell asleep. Without skipping a beat, the girl disentangled herself from him, tugged her dress back into place, and hustled out the door as quietly as possible without ever even noticing Emily lurking in the corner.
With her gone, Emily rose and tenderly got DJ ready for bed, taking off his socks and shoes. She was working on his shirt when his eyes fluttered open. “Sydney?” he asked groggily.
“No, it’s your servant, sir.” She almost said something sarcastic, certain he was too drunk to have a chance of remembering it, but thought twice. Just because he wouldn’t know wouldn’t make it right.
“Emily,” he said, smiling dopily. Recognizing her, he relaxed and let her strip off his shirt and pants. She tucked him in and flipped the light off, got into her PJs—a skimpy set of underwear that served no real purpose except that DJ liked to take the packaging off his toy—and was heading for her little futon in the corner when she heard his voice in the dark room.
“Emily?” he called out.
“Yes, sir?”
“Would you come hold me?” He sounded so desperate, so pathetic, for a moment she almost felt for him. Just a moment.
“Of course sir.” She slipped under his sheets and wrapped an arm and slender leg over him. He clutched her to himself, and she could feel him shudder as he wept. Over that ruthless bitch Ashley Vandoren, of all things. But then, if anybody deserved her…
Ugh, she was a terrible person.
He blubbered for a while as she quietly stroked his chest, trying to lull him to sleep. Sober and in the light of day, he’d realize he could find a hundred girls hotter than Ashley, and a million nicer. Not that she wanted happiness for him. Still, he wanted happiness, so it was her duty to help him get it.
“Go to sleep, sir. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“Sir is most welcome.” She kissed his forehead.
“I love you, Emily,” he said.
He began snoring in the next breath, so he didn’t hear Emily gasp as her pleasure center lit up like the fourth of July.
One of her most deeply engrained instincts in her new life was to get a thrill at being praised by sir and mistress. It was the whole center of her life, to be a good girl for him, and nothing aroused her more quickly. Ashley had picked up on this early on and enjoyed teasing her with it; Emily suspect part of the reason so many fucked up things got her horny now was Ashley’s abuse of this weakness. “Good girl” when she fetched something for her; “good girl” when she found a way to make her outfit even sluttier; “good girl” when she took DJ’s cum on her face at the end of one of Ashley’s blowjobs.
This… this was like that, raised to the power of “good girl.”
He’s just drunk, she chided herself. It doesn’t mean anything. It didn’t. It couldn’t, could it? Oh God, but if he meant it…
As subtly as possible, Emily worked one hand down to her pussy, slipping easily inside the scant coverage of her panties, and started to tease herself. I love you, Emily, his voice echoed in her ears. Oh fuck, if he loved her… she was such a good girl. He accepted her servitude; he saw none of the malice behind her eyes; she made him happy. She served him so faithfully that he loved his little servant slut.
She was such a good, good girl—he loved her.
“Oh fuck,” she murmured as she slipped another finger inside. DJ didn’t stir, snoring away.
He loves me. Even though I hate him. I’m doing it. I’m tolerating him so well he forgives me for being such a selfish, mean, evil cunt, he loves me, he wants to hold me, wants to use me for his happiness, I bring him happiness, I’m a good girl, such a good girl, he loves me, fuck, yes, FUCK, EMILY’S A GOOD GIRL, SIR’S FAVORITE TOY, SIR LOVES ME LOVES ME OH YES LOVE ME LOVE ME FUCKING LOVE ME MASTER FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!
She hadn’t realized she’d been speaking out loud—shrieking, really—until she came down from that earthquake of an orgasm and realized he wasn’t snoring any more. “Um, Emily? What… um…”
Emily knew she couldn’t explain it—she didn’t even fucking understand it—so she just did what that woman—Sydney?—had done, and kissed him. He was confused a moment, then pleased, then unconscious.
The next few times she got herself off, she was quieter.
He loved her. That evil, horrid monstrous fucking piece of shit loved her.
Not really, she admitted to herself. But maybe… he could. And I could be free.
DJ’s vision was too blurry and his head throbbing too hard to read the clock when he woke up, but before he slammed his eyes shut again, he could see four digits in evidence, so either it was already mid-day or he’d slept to the next night.
Slowly, he started piecing together facts; most of the last night had been a blur. He remembered the scene in Anthony’s room. The fight with Ashley. Storming off to Scuttlebutt’s and helping himself behind the bar. Fucking Sydney—had he fucked Sydney? He thought he had. That was where things got blurry.