I should really be working on the new stack of manuscripts that landed on my desk, but I’m not. Ever since I decided I was going to place a bid on a submissive, it has dominated my thoughts. That, and the sound of the man in the coat’s voice. I still can’t place why it sounds so familiar, but I wish I knew. It might give me some hint as to why he would confront me with a gun, at the least.

I’ve been browsing the new postings, waiting for one that really catches my eye. I’m about to close my laptop and dive into the manuscripts when a notification appears. A direct message.

VirginPrincess88: I have something you want.

I frown at the message. She’s claiming to be a virgin. It’s an easy thing to claim, but it’s risky to lie. It’s not unheard of for a dominant to request the submissive go to a doctor for confirmation, not that even a doctor can be certain. Still, the request for verification alone usually weeds out the pretenders.

Pierce: Would you allow a doctor to verify?

There’s a lengthy delay. I wouldn’t actually subject a woman to that. All that matters is she is willing to be tested. That’s proof enough.

VirginPrincess88: Yes. But I want to meet in person first.

I look at the message for a few moments before closing the browser and running a hand through my hair.

Fuck.

Meeting a submissive in person is part of the thrill. That’s not what has me on edge about this “Virgin Princess”. What has me on edge is that I haven’t ever posted to the boards requesting a submissive. I haven’t even placed a bid in nearly a year. So when I receive direct messages like this, they are always from the strange women who have made a hobby out of stalking me through the internet.

I must really be desperate, because I’m actually considering agreeing to meet this woman. I’m almost certain she’s just another fraud, but if she is really a virgin and a willing submissive, I don’t know if I can risk passing that up.

I open my email and begin the drudgery of getting through the hundred or more emails that are waiting for me every morning. Some are notices about authors we have under contract reaching the bestseller lists, some are from our big name authors trying to throw their weight around to get better contracts or privileges. I’m about halfway through when I open an email from Brianne Hartley.

Mr. Pierce,

You seem to have something long and hard firmly lodged up your ass, so I expect this email will never actually reach you, but I thought I’d send it anyway. I’m one of the college students who submitted a sample to you last month. The purpose of our assignment was to see the kind of feedback we would get from a real publishing company and reflect on it.

You couldn’t be bothered to tell me more than the fact that my submission was forgettable and prudish.

Anyway, I wanted to just take a minute out of my day to say fuck you very much, Mr. Pierce. Your advice was the single most depressing, unhelpful piece of criticism I’ve ever received. I hope one day you grow a heart.

Hatefully yours,

Brianne Hartley

I re-read the email, running the back of my thumb over my lips as a smile crosses them. This woman has some fucking nerve. I hardly remember reading those submissions. For all I know, I may have just been in a shit mood and I never even read the thing. Still, I’m so surrounded by people who just want to kiss my ass and women who just want to get into bed with me that her anger is actually refreshing.

Unfortunately, my particular tastes between the sheets aren’t exactly mainstream. Even though this stranger’s email has me dreaming up punishments that have my cock stiffening, the chances that she would be the rare type of woman to appreciate it are abysmal. I’ve learned the hard way that very few women I meet in my everyday life are open to the kind of sex I need to get off. Very few.

So even though the thought of meeting this woman and dominating her has my cock hard, I know it’s a pipe dream. She’d probably draw the line at light spanking, like most women.

I think about the email during the entirety of my thirty minute drive to Fairfield's Center for the Mentally Disturbed. By the time I pull up to the guardhouse at the front gate, I’ve already dreamed up an image of this Brianne Hartley. Long legs, sultry lips, and eyes that burn with a defiant glint that I would have to spend weeks disciplining her for.

“Evening, Mr. Hartley,” says Brandon. He’s a college kid who works the security gate. He’s always on his phone, even when he’s talking to me, but I like him well enough.

“Evening.”

“You know the drill,” he says, eyes still on his phone.

I flash my ID and snag a sticker for my windshield from his extended hand. He doesn’t even look at my ID before waving me forward and sinking back into his chair, thumbs tapping rapidly at his phone.

I move through the reception area and nod to the nurses, who don’t pay me much notice. The building was in slight disrepair when I first had to commit my sister here five years ago. The walls were yellowing, the floors were damaged, and the rooms were small and cramped. I made sure that was all fixed before my sister set foot inside. Now the building hums with electronics, clean lighting, and crisp white walls with enough decorations to lessen the sterile atmosphere. I had some original artwork brought in from my personal collection, hand-crafted carpets and rugs, and anything else I could find to make the place feel more like home for Sarah. If she knew how much of it was my doing, she never would have agreed to stay here. She has always turned away my help, but it just means I have to find more creative ways to give it.

I find Sarah’s room and knock gently before letting myself in. The setting afternoon sun comes through her window, bathing everything in gold. She sits on the edge of her bed, looking out over the oaks and the hills that roll into a forest a few hundred yards away from the building. Her features are unreadable, as usual. Her eyes are distant and sad.

As always, the sight of her sitting by the window calls up unwelcome memories. Old memories. Dark memories.

I put a hand on her back, hating that I can feel her spine through the thin gown she wears.

“Hey sis,” I say.

She doesn’t respond, but I’m well past being surprised by that.

“You need to eat.”

She shifts, almost imperceptibly, but I notice. She moves away from my hand. It’s as close to a response as I’ll likely get and if I know my sister, the meaning is clear. Don’t lecture me.

I sigh. “I got an email today,” I say. “It was from an author I sent a rejection letter to. Well, a student, really. You would’ve liked it. She really let me have it.”

Sarah’s finger twitches on her knee. “Good,” she says. Her voice is soft and damaged. Frail.

My sister doesn’t talk often anymore, but when I hear her voice it tears at my chest. She used to sing, and when she did people fell silent. Women were moved to tears and men fell in love. She was a caged bird--we both were--when I heard her sing, my heart broke because I knew how deep her pain ran.

“Hey, I brought you something.”

She turns her head slightly, the corner of her mouth twitching. almost imperceptibly.

I lift the pink primrose flower, presenting the small token to her. She reaches an unsteady hand toward me, plucking the flower from me and carefully holding it in her lap, tilting her head as she looks down at it. After a long moment, she raises her hand to tuck the flower behind her ear.

We sit together in silence, watching the sunset like we used to wish we could when we were kids. Back when I thought neither of us would ever escape. Sometimes I wonder if we ever did.

It’s only when the sun finally sets behind the treeline that I notice the faint orange glow of a cigarette butt on the road below. It temporarily grows brighter as the man in the car sucks in. I narrow my eyes, leaning closer to the window. There’s an abandoned service road that runs behind Fairfield’s, and the car is parked on it, directly in front of Sarah’s window.

A few seconds later, the lights inside the cab of the car turn on and I can clearly see two men. One of them mimics pointing a gun at me and firing. Twice.