Annie's Game

The front door slamming shut sounded like a gunshot in the quiet house. Chloe jumped awake, her heart hammering against her ribs. The scarves lay limp and useless on the bed beside her. Gary was home. She scrambled from the bed, pulling on jeans and a sweater, her fingers fumbling with the buttons in her haste. She rushed downstairs, her bare feet silent on the carpet.

Gary was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with Annie. They were close, their heads bent together in intimate conversation, their hands almost touching on the tabletop. As Chloe entered, they both seemed to flinch, pulling apart with a suddenness that was palpable. Was it her imagination, or was the air thick with the residue of a shared secret? Chloe shelved the thought, a painful, unwelcome guest in her mind, and set about making dinner, her movements mechanical, her ears straining to catch the snippets of their laughter.

The night was a masterclass in Annie's cruel artistry. She played her games with the effortless grace of a grandmaster. Every time Chloe left the room, she'd catch a glimpse of Annie's hand on Gary's thigh, her lips whispering in his ear. When Chloe returned, they would be the picture of innocence, but Gary's flushed face and Annie's knowing smirk told a different story. Then, in a fleeting moment alone by the sink, Annie would press against Chloe from behind, her hand sliding down to cup her sex, her lips finding the sensitive spot behind Chloe's ear. "Tonight," she'd breathe, and Chloe's body would betray her, a tremor of anticipation warring with a wave of sickening dread.

Bedtime was a silent affair. Gary turned his back to her, and Chloe lay awake, a chasm of unspoken words between them. When he left for work in the morning, the house seemed to sigh with relief, and then it began.

Minutes after Gary's departure for work, the bedroom door slammed open so violently it rattled the frame. "Up, bitch. Now!" Annie's voice was a shard of ice. Chloe lay there, frozen in shock, her mind refusing to process the sudden, violent shift from the night before. Annie didn't wait. She stormed across the room, grabbed a handful of Chloe's hair, and yanked her from the bed with a guttural grunt. Chloe cried out as she was dragged across the floor, her scalp on fire.

"I said, get the fuck up!" Annie snarled, kicking her lightly in the ribs. Soon, Chloe was kneeling on the cold hardwood, her mouth pressed against Annie's pussy, the familiar, degrading ritual of her morning toilet beginning anew. But this time, something was different. After Annie had finished and Chloe had cleaned her, Annie produced a collar. It wasn't the leather one from before. This was made of cold, heavy metal, with a hinge and a small, almost invisible clasp. She clicked it around Chloe's neck, the sound final and absolute. "No key for this one," Annie said, a cruel smile playing on her lips. "Only me."

Chloe soon discovered its purpose. As she opened her mouth to ask a question, a sharp, jarring electric shock shot through her, making her yelp in pain and surprise. A second, stronger shock immediately followed, making her muscles spasm. "Bitches don't talk in this house anymore," Annie stated calmly, holding up a small phone with a single button on its screen. "Any noise you make will result in a shock. Learn to be silent."

The day that followed was a symphony of suffering. The shocks came for a whimper, for a gasp, for the clatter of a dropped spoon. Chloe was sobbing silently for most of the day, her heart a shattered ruin in her chest. The brief warmth of the weekend, the illusion of a positive turn, had been a cruel lie, a baited trap she had willingly walked into.

At three o'clock, Annie ordered her upstairs to the spare room. The bed was no longer a bed, but a display table. Laid out on it was a creation of pure, black nightmare. A heavy rubber maid's outfit. Its bodice was a brutally tight corset, but its most horrifying feature was two huge, solid, rounded imitation breasts, complete with protruding nipples, crafted from the same thick, black rubber. The skirt was short and flared, with dangling straps for the rubber stockings. Beside it lay a rubber hood, a pair of thigh-high boots with impossibly high heels, and a small, frilly white apron.

"Get dressed," Annie commanded.

First, Annie forced a rubber hood over Chloe's head, ignoring her muffled grunts as the material pulled at her hair and compressed her skull. She adjusted the opening so Chloe's lips pouted and stood out through the mouth-hole, her eyes wide and visible. Then came the suit. Annie forced Chloe's arms into the tight rubber sleeves, slapping her around the head when she struggled. The material was stiff and unyielding. As Annie pulled the bodice up, Chloe's breath grew shallow; the corset tightened automatically, its internal clips cinching her waist. A flap covered the clips and was secured with a small padlock. Chloe's waist was now crushed, her lungs screaming for air. The huge, false rubber breasts were heavy and alien, pressing against her own small, real ones.

Then came the stockings and boots, which Annie laced up tightly. She finished by applying thick, deep-red lipstick to Chloe's protruding, rubber-framed lips, making her look like a grotesque parody of a doll. Then Annie turned her to the full-length mirror.

Chloe gasped, the sound swallowed by the hood. Staring back at her was a creature, head to toe in gleaming black rubber. Its waist was impossibly small, its breasts grotesquely large and fake, the nipples erect and obscene. The picture was completed when Annie tied the small white rubber apron around its waist, a final, mocking touch of domesticity. It wasn't her. It was a thing. An object.

Annie wasn't finished. She rummaged in another box and brought out heavy, gleaming manacles with six-inch-wide steel bracelets. She locked them around Chloe's forearms, then brought her arms behind her back, connecting them with a short, heavy chain that immobilized them completely. Then Annie hooked a leash onto the metal collar. "Come, bitch," she said, her voice dripping with venomous satisfaction. "Let's go greet hubby."

She yanked the chain, and Chloe, a prisoner in her own body, a monster in the mirror, was forced to stumble forward, out of the room and down the stairs, to await the return of the man who thought he was her savior.