A Badge of Submission

An hour later, Katherine's skin was flushed raw and tingling from the scalding shower. She was swaddled in her favorite joggers and a soft sweatshirt, a uniform of comfort that felt like a joke. A bottle of cold beer sat on the coffee table, condensation weeping down its side. Next to it, the burner phone lay like a venomous snake. She’d just gotten off the phone with James, her on-and-off boyfriend/fuck buddy. "Not tonight," she’d told him, her voice flat. "I'm not up for it."

She sank onto her sofa, took a long, needy swig of beer, and then, with a hand that shook slightly, she picked up the phone. She was startled when it lit up with her fingerprint. Of course, they had everything. She went to the contacts. Three numbers, all labeled "One," "Two," and "Three." Utterly fucking arrogant. Then she found the video folder.

She clicked on the first file, dated three years ago, mere days after her father was sworn in as MP for Medway. It was security cam footage from a dim, noisy bar. Her father, Thomas, sat opposite a woman whose face Katherine knew from a dozen news reports. Helen Jameson. The matriarch. There was no audio, but the body language told a story of a transaction. Helen pushed a thick file across the table. Thomas opened it. Through the grainy lens, Katherine watched his face drain of all color, the seemingly unflappable politician turning a deathly shade of white. He shot to his feet, his mouth open in a silent roar. Helen didn't flinch. She just smiled, a slow, predatory motion, and gestured for him to sit back down. And he did.

The clip faded, replaced by another. This was from inside a room, probably the very one she’d just been in. The sound was crystal clear. Jamie and Helen Jameson were there, towering over her father, who stood, his face a mask of panic. They began to lay out their arsenal of evidence. Katherine couldn't believe what she was hearing. Financial irregularities from his time as Chief Constable, bribes taken, evidence "misplaced." As an MP, it was worse. Kickbacks from developers, voting patterns that perfectly tracked the Jameson gang's business interests. He was a puppet, and they were pulling all the strings.

She watched in horror as her hero, the man who had taught her about honor, was systematically dismantled. His defenses crumbled, his voice breaking, his posture collapsing. He fell to his knees. He was begging. Pleading with the two women to forgive him, promising them anything, everything. And they began to beat him. Not with whips this time, but with open-handed slaps and sharp, contemptuous kicks, laughing as he flinched and cried.

Two more clips followed, labeled "Two" and "Three of 99." A tap on the window of her phone revealed a total of 99 files. They had given her more than enough. The new videos were variations on a theme: her father's complete supplication, his body a canvas for their whims. In the third clip, it was just Jamie, and she held out the tube of bright pink lipstick before commanding him to kiss her strap-on cock. The video ended with Jamie whispering instructions for how he was to vote on an upcoming piece of legislation.

Then she saw it. A fourth file. "KJ 1." Her blood turned to ice. She clicked it.

The scene was a different room; she recognized it. It was her father's kitchen. And she was there. A thick leather collar was locked around her neck, and she wore a vapid, gormless smile. She was stripping, her movements clumsy and eager, like a slut performing for an audience. Once naked, she knelt, and a woman's hand—Jamie's hand—snapped a leash onto the collar. Jamie's voice, slick and evil, cooed from the speakers. "Does little piggy want to go for a walk?"

The woman onscreen, the woman who was her, answered in a breathy, thrilled tone. "Yes, please, Mistress."

She was led into another room, her father's lounge. Three men were there, two white, one black. All were naked, all of them sporting impressive, semi-hard cocks. "Why don't you make our guests comfortable?" Jamie's voice instructed. "Get them all nice and hard."

"Yes, Mistress," Other-Katherine replied, her voice thick with lust.

What followed was a vortex of pure carnal depravity. The video captured a scene of raw, animalistic fucking. She watched herself, her body a stranger to her, suck and be fucked by all three men, her cries of pleasure echoing in the room. She begged for their cocks, her body writhing, a creature of pure, insatiable need. When they were finished, she was led away, come dripping from her pussy, a look of glazed satisfaction on her face. They entered a third room, her old bedroom, now devoid of furniture. A man hung from chains, slightly tubby, his cock slightly smaller but hard and ready. The camera scanned his beaten body. On his head was a rubber pig's head, the snout pointing forward obscenely.

Jamie's voice. "Want to taste one more cock, little piggy?"

"Yes, please, Mistress."

And then, the ultimate horror. The watched in wide-eyed revulsion as Jamie fed the bound man's cock into her willing mouth. She worked it with an adoring, expert intensity, as if she were in love with it, her hands and mouth moving in perfect, practiced union. The man in the pig hood groaned and lurched, coming in great, powerful gushes into her mouth. Other-Katherine swallowed it all, then smiled at the camera, a single, perfect dribble of cum escaping from the corner of her lips. The camera panned back; the man's pig hood was removed. It was her father.

Katherine sat there, her hand clamped over her mouth, a sick gag rising in her throat. A sob was torn from her, a sound of pure terror. Jamie's face filled the screen, a glitch in the footage. She spoke one word. "Eggs and toast."

Katherine stared in confusion, and then something inside her clicked. A memory gate, sealed shut, was blasted open. She remembered. A blind date. A man, charming, so gentle. He'd made soft, slow love to her. He had held her hands and talked to her in a low, soothing voice. Her eyes had closed. When they opened, Jamie was there, smiling. She held out the collar. It had felt so right to feel the leather, to snap it tight. It had felt like love. She had trusted Jamie. The memories flooded back. It had been three weeks ago. Everything since then—a fuzzy, dreamlike recollection of following orders she didn't understand—was a lie.

She looked at a picture on her mantelpiece, one of her and her beloved, deceased mother, with a beaming, proud father. She shot to her feet and knocked it face down on the shelf, unable to bear the sight of him. With angry, shaking hands, she grabbed the burner phone. Her thumb hovered over number one. She found the message icon and, through a haze of tears, typed the words. "I understand, Mistress." She hit send and threw the phone across the room, where it shattered against the wall. Then she put her head in her hands and screamed. Big, loud, body-racking sobs of a woman who had just watched herself willingly suck her own father's cock.