Peter slouched on his couch, the glow of the hockey game flickering across his face. The familiar grunts and slaps of skates on ice filled his apartment, a comforting white noise that drowned out the usual hum of the city outside. He hadn’t seen Gabrielle in weeks, not since she had called him, saying she was taking some time for herself. She didn’t elaborate any further, but her words had left him with a sour taste in his mouth and a pit in his stomach.

His blue eyes remained fixed on the screen. Peter adjusted his body, his tall frame protesting as he tried to break free from the worn-out cushion. The almost ginger strands of his hair caught the flickering light around him, casting half of his face in shadow. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that had become habitual when he was lost in thought. His fingers brushed against his temples, massaging away the tension that had built up over the past few weeks, or at least, trying to. He missed her.

The hockey game droned on. Peter grabbed another slice of cold pizza from the box on the coffee table, not bothering to look away from the screen as the commentators dissected the plays. The apartment was a mess, as usual, but it was his mess. He liked it that way.

The sudden, sharp knock at the door made him jump. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and his friends knew better than to interrupt during a game. He looked through the peephole and saw Gabrielle standing on the other side, her arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently.

The knock came again, more insistent this time. Peter undid the lock and swung the door open. Gabrielle stared at him, the hallway light behind her casting a halo around her figure.

Peter’s gaze lingered on her attire for a moment. She wore a white low-cut top that contrasted with the leather jacket draped over it. A silver chain necklace disappeared into her cleavage, and her short skirt revealed long, toned legs. Her high-heeled boots were shiny and mesmerizing. For the first time, he couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated by her presence, but there was no denying the allure that came with it.

“Hey, Gabby,” he said. “It’s good to see you. Do you want to come in?”

She looked up, her eyes meeting his with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. Without saying a word, she stepped forward, forcing him to back up as she entered the apartment. Her scent was heady and musky, a departure from her usual soft, floral perfume. It almost reminded him of Hannah.

“It’s Gabrielle. You know I hate it when people call me Gabby,” she said, tossing her jacket onto the nearest armchair.

Peter raised an eyebrow, taken aback. “Okay, sorry. What brings you here?”

Gabrielle surveyed the room, her lips curling in disdain. “This place is a pigsty, Peter. How can you live like this?”

He shrugged, closing the door. “It’s just a bit of a mess. Nothing major.”

She turned to face him, her eyes narrowing. “You’ve gotten complacent, Peter. Lazy. It’s not attractive.”

He blinked, surprised by her abrupt tone. “Gabrielle, what’s going on? You’re acting... different.”

“Different? Perhaps so. Or maybe I’ve just stopped pretending to be something I’m not.”

A slow smile spread across her lips, and she took another step closer. He retreated, his senses heightening, alarm bells ringing in the back of his mind. This wasn’t the Gabrielle he knew, the one who’d blush at a stray compliment and shy away from confrontation. No, this woman oozed aggression and seemed to relish it.

“What do you mean?”

Gabrielle reached out and grabbed his left wrist. Her touch was electric and demanding. “I mean, Peter, that I’m done playing nice. I’m done being the sweet, understanding girlfriend. It’s time for you to step up.”

“Step up how?” he asked, confused and aroused.

“You’ll see,” she smirked. “But first, clean this place up. I won’t stay in a dump like this.”

Before Peter could respond, Gabrielle turned on her heel and strode into the kitchen, leaving him standing there, bewildered and more than a little excited. He could hear her rummaging through the cupboards, likely searching for a clean drinking glass. Her words still echoed in his mind, confusing and thrilling him in equal measure.

With a shake of his head, he tore his gaze away from the empty hallway and surveyed the apartment: dirty dishes, clothes strewn over the furniture, empty beer cans everywhere. It had never bothered him before, but now, under Gabrielle’s critical gaze, he felt a pang of embarrassment.

He started to clean up, moving through the rooms. Dirty dishes clattered into the sink, clothes were tossed into the laundry basket, and empty cans were gathered into a recycling bag. The entire time, he was aware of Gabrielle’s presence in his apartment, her silent scrutiny a heavy weight on his shoulders.

Peter finished stacking the last of the plates in the dishwasher, his sense of accomplishment undermined by the steady, melodic clinking of bottles as Gabrielle now rifled through his fridge. He wiped his hands on his jeans and peered around the doorway. There stood Gabrielle, perched on the counter, one leg swinging as she chugged a cold beer straight from the bottle. Her eyes found him right away.

He could only stare for a moment because Gabrielle had never, not once, drunk a beer in front of him before. She had always claimed to hate it, wrinkling her nose at the mere suggestion, but now she took a long pull and smirked at him over the rim.

He cleared his throat and tried to sound casual. “I didn’t know you liked beer.”

She shrugged, rolling the bottle between her palms. “I like a lot of things you don’t know about, Peter. You’d know if you paid more attention.”

Her words were venomous, but before he could plan a reply, she hopped down from the counter and strode toward him. She moved like a predator, gaze locked onto him, each click of her boots on the kitchen tile making his pulse thump faster. He thought she would say something more, like deliver another withering critique of his hygiene; Instead, she waved her fingers and pulled out a small, capped syringe. Where she had been hiding it, he couldn’t tell.

He froze. It looked out of place, absurd, like a prop from a hospital drama. His brain failed to process what he was seeing until she yanked the cap off with her teeth and advanced the last few feet between them.

“Whoa, whoa, what the hell—” he stammered, stepping back, but she was faster than he expected. She grabbed his wrist, twisted it, and drove the needle into the side of his neck. The sting was sharp, but it was the utter casualness with which she did it that made him panic. He tried to wrench away, yet his body was already betraying him. His arms were like lead, his knees loose and rubbery.

“What the fuck, Gabrielle?” he gasped, his voice slurring as the kitchen began to spiral all around him. He staggered, reaching for the counter, but she caught him by the front of his shirt. Her eyes were cold and bright, no trace of her usual hesitation or warmth.

She pushed him down, hard, and he collapsed onto his knees in front of her. The world was muffled, underwater, but he could still hear the cruel satisfaction in her laugh.

“Don’t fight it, Peter. It’s better if you don’t. Not that you have a choice.”

His mind fought to stay awake, but his limbs were dead weight, his thoughts thick as syrup. He looked up at her, blinking, and saw that she was savoring every second of his helplessness.

Gabrielle set the used syringe down on the counter and snapped her fingers in front of his glazed eyes. When he failed to react, she patted his cheek with deliberate, almost mocking tenderness.

“Hmm, yes… I like this look for you…” Gabrielle purred, crouching next to him. The world kept pulsing in and out of clarity, Gabrielle’s voice distorting - sometimes shrill, sometimes warm, but always inescapable.

“You want to know what happened, Peter? You want to know why I’m like this?” She smiled, not waiting for an answer. “I had an awakening. A spiritual rebirth, you might say. And it’s all thanks to your darling little ex.”

Even drugged, Peter’s heart lurched. “Hannah?” he mumbled.

Gabrielle nodded, her expression a mix of mischief and scorn. “Yes. She showed me who I am. Who I’ve always been, under the layers of sugar and self-doubt. And you—” she jabbed a finger at his chest, “—you’re going to help me become my best self.”

He could only stare, mouth half-open. His limbs were heavy, but his mind was starting to hum with panic. Gabrielle pressed her advantage, clasping his cheeks in her hands and steering his gaze to meet hers.

“Listen to my voice,” she said. “I’m never going to explain this again. Relationships don’t work when both people are equal, not for people like me. I was born to lead. You were born to follow. If this is going to work, you need to accept that you are, totally, beneath me.”

Her words stung. Peter winced, but Gabrielle only squeezed harder, digging her thumbs into the hollow just below his eyes.

“Let me be clear: You are my property, Peter. From now on, you’ll do as I say, when I say it. Every hesitation will be punished. Every defiance, every little slip, will have consequences. I don’t care if you’re confused, or scared, or hurt. Those feelings are irrelevant. You don’t get to have feelings unless I allow it.”

He tried to respond, but the words stuck in his throat. Gabrielle released him and stood up, looming over his kneeling form, her boots planted inches from his knees. She rocked back on her heels, studying him.

“Strip.”

He fumbled with each plastic button of his shirt, his drug-heavy fingers betraying him like foreign appendages. One button popped free and skittered across the linoleum. Gabrielle watched from above, her silhouette haloed by the kitchen light. When he peeled the damp cotton from his shoulders, the shirt caught at his elbows, tangling around his wrists before collapsing in wrinkled folds at his waist.

Cold sweat beaded across his chest and trickled down his spine like melting ice. The heat of shame burned his face while a contradictory chill of forbidden thrill spread through his belly - a cocktail of emotions more potent than the drugs she had injected him with. He hadn’t felt so alive in years.

She brought her boots closer to his face. Gabrielle reached forward, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and tilted his head back.

“Now, show me what you are. Kiss my boots!”

He hesitated for a moment - just a heartbeat - but her hand tightened in his hair, and there was a sharp, electric pain at the nape of his neck. The contents of the syringe had left him pliant, his willpower a thin membrane stretched to the snapping point. He bent forward and pressed his lips to the tip of her boot, the taste of leather and city grime spreading across his mouth.

Gabrielle released a low, satisfied exhale. She rotated her foot, forcing him to kiss along the curve of her ankle and up the side, then dragged the boot away and placed the other in front of him. He complied, kissing the second boot, feeling every groove and ridge against his lips. She made him linger, tracing a slow path up to the zipper.

When she let go of his hair, Peter slumped forward, both hands braced on the floor to keep from collapsing. His face was fiery and bothered.

“There you go,” she purred. “You’re learning already. Keep that up, and maybe I’ll let you sleep at the foot of my bed tonight.”

He glanced up, searching her face for some sign of mercy, but found only the cold, glittering certainty of a woman who had decided her place in the world was above everyone else’s.

“Stand up,” she commanded.

Peter struggled to rise, the world swaying around him. For a moment, he just hung there, bent and shivering, the echo of Gabrielle’s command pulsing through his brain like a high-voltage jolt. He got his feet planted beneath him and straightened slowly until he stood before her.

Gabrielle watched his effort with amusement, her lips pursed and her head cocked like a bird’s. When he held himself upright, she wasted no time in making her next move. She snatched a thick, heavy wooden spoon from the countertop and began to tap it against her palm.

“Good boy,” she said, voice saccharine, her eyes never leaving his. “But you need more discipline, Peter. More incentive to remember your place.”

Before he could form any words, Gabrielle lashed out, the wooden spoon whipping through the air and landing on his chest with a sharp, meaty thwack. Peter yelped, more in surprise than pain, but the next blow landed higher, on the collarbone, and the next on the tender flesh just above his heart.

He tried to shield himself, but his arms were too slow. Gabrielle saw the flailing and laughed. She circled him, striking again and again, each contact of wood and skin leaving a bright, hot afterglow that made him gasp and tremble. The kitchen, with its cruel fluorescent lighting and stench of stale beer, became a torture chamber; each clang of the spoon echoed off tile and glass, doubling the humiliation.

“You like this, don’t you?” Gabrielle taunted. “You’ve always wanted someone to take control. Admit it.”

All he could manage was a strangled sound, half-moan and half-whimper. The spoon cracked against his ribs until he was sure the bone would give way. Each time he faltered or threatened to collapse, Gabrielle would prop him up with a rough hand or a boot to the shin, keeping him upright for the next blow. Somewhere inside the haze, Peter drifted in shame and something else, something spiked and forbidden that he dared not name.

After a dozen hits or more, Gabrielle relented. She tossed the spoon into the sink, where it landed with a hollow, mocking clatter. Peter sagged, arms limp at his sides, mottled red marks already beginning to rise on his chest. He looked up, watery-eyed, pleading for mercy or at least a truce. Gabrielle only smirked.

She jerked Peter to his feet by the collar, half-shoving him out of the kitchen. He stumbled, still naked, his body glazed in sweat. She marched him down the hallway with the same efficiency she’d shown in the kitchen. Not once did she look back to see if he was following; she assumed, correctly, that he would obey.

In the living room, she thrust the battered couch pillow aside and pointed at the greasy cushions. “Sit,” she said, and Peter folded himself onto the couch without hesitation, his hands clasped over his lap.

He watched as Gabrielle moved to his backpack, which lay forgotten under the scratched coffee table, and reached for his laptop. She yanked it free, flipped the lid, and stabbed the power button.

As the laptop booted, Gabrielle fished inside the inner pocket of her leather jacket and retrieved a small, sleek flash drive. It was crimson, almost bloody, with a strip of matte black electrical tape wrapped around the end. She rolled it between her fingers, smiling.

She plugged the flash drive into the laptop. A blue LED lit up, and a folder window opened on the desktop, entitled: “My gift to you, slut.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “What is that?”

Gabrielle ignored him. She clicked open the folder and navigated to a file labeled “PETER_REVISED.” She double-clicked it, and the screen went black for a moment before a blizzard of code began scrolling down. Then, in a second, the screen was awash with color: shifting, strobing mandalas, fractal spirals, and pulsating geometric patterns that seemed to throb in time with his heartbeat.

The program was familiar to Gabrielle, a modified version of the conditioning she had been put through by her Mistress. Now, it was her turn to break Peter’s will for good.

Peter bit his tongue. Within seconds, the patterns seized control of his vision, and his muscles tensed against the urge to look away. The shapes and colors flickered and overlapped in ways that made his brain itch. Text began to appear: first as single words, then as sentences, then as entire paragraphs. The words repeated, folding over themselves and growing louder in his thoughts.

YOU ARE NOTHING.

YOU EXIST TO SERVE.

YOU WILL OBEY.

The messages scrolled faster and faster, each iteration hammering the truth a little deeper. The sound system played a series of tones - low, thrumming, almost sexual - and over it all, a woman’s voice recited the words on the screen. Sometimes it was Hannah. Sometimes it was Gabrielle. Sometimes it was a synthesis of both. Peter stopped thinking, his identity dissolving into the ooze of color and sound.

“That’s it,” Gabrielle whispered. “Let it in. Let it change you.”

Peter’s body slackened. The words on the screen began to strobe in time with his pulse, each phrase a blow to his sense of self. His last threads of resistance frayed and snapped. The shame and horror drained from him and were replaced with something else: a serene, almost religious acceptance. He realized that he wanted this. He needed it.

“Yes… Watch this and learn,” Gabrielle purred. “My Mistress will be so proud of you.”

He stared, unblinking, as the code rewrote him line by line.

((to be concluded))