Legacy

After that day, Mara was gone. Dakota didn't learn why. She could only guess that the beautiful young submissive had been unable to stomach watching someone else brutalized that way. Even then, it was difficult to comprehend. Dakota had always assumed Mara would outlast her. Yet, in the end, what did she know? Almost nothing, truly. As far as she was aware, Mara had graduated to the next phase, and the last month of this phase was meant to keep the losers—the loser, her—unaware.

In the aftermath, the work schedule was reshuffled. Dakota was offered a daytime shift. If she were to accept, someone else would have to take her place on the night shift. Dakota didn't even consider it this time. She didn't bother to think about why she said no. She simply refused.

Other aspects of her training had continued apace. She knew more about ropes than any Boy Scout. She knew more about first aid than she'd ever thought possible. She knew every trick in the book for removing stains of every kind from her clothing. She had even become adept at handling submissives who were sometimes left to fend for themselves following difficult scenes—submissives in desperate need of a soft touch, a shoulder to cry on, and someone to help piece their souls back together. Maybe that was why Dakota was chosen as handler for a sub whose dominant was delayed at the airport.

"You don't have to do this," Dakota pointed out before the sub entered the party to be used.

"Michael wants me to," answered the submissive. "If you aren't comfortable with it—"

"It's fine. I'm just saying."

It was fine, but it wasn't what Dakota was used to. For one thing, Dakota was much younger than the submissive she was escorting. The woman had to be in her thirties. For another, Dakota wasn't wearing her usual polo-and-slacks combination. Tonight she was sheathed in that black dress she was told she wouldn't need. Its shimmering silk clung to her body like water, revealing every curve, every line, every detail. She could see her bellybutton when she looked in the mirror. She could see the firm lines of her abs if she flexed. She blushed as she caught the submissive looking at her, gazing at her through that same mirror, eyes smoldering with what might have been desire.

"How long have you been a domme?" said the girl at the end of her leash.

"A few years," said Dakota. It was the lie she'd been told to use.

"I'd love to serve you sometime. Just you. Anyone with that degree of discipline..." The submissive shivered.

What happened to the submissive during the party was tame compared to other things Dakota had seen. Even things she had done. Dakota stayed close to the girl through the evening, watched over her and kept her safe as others made use of her, enjoyed her. One man seemed to recognize her—maybe he knew her as a member of the cleaning staff?—and for a moment Dakota thought she'd have a problem with him, but he only stared at her. She didn't know why. He was handsome, but he was much older than her; she didn't think this was her Cinderella moment. He was a serious sadist, bored by the girl on offer here—Dakota could tell by the way he kept glancing at his watch, at the door, and at Dakota herself—and he would have had no use for her, but for some reason her eyes were drawn to him again and again. There was something familiar about him. Something around the eyes, maybe.

At the party's end, the submissive was bound in a frame. Her head was lolling. She glowed with sweat. Cum oozed from her asshole and dribbled out of her cunt. Dakota started to release her from the bonds, but the girl grunted and shook her head. Dakota removed the gag to let her speak.

"Whip me," she gasped. "Please? Whip me—let me see your body in motion."

When Dakota's fingers closed around the whip, she thought this would be the moment of truth. She thought she would experience a surge of power and lust as the lash cracked against the woman's flesh, but it didn't happen. She felt almost nothing at all. She didn't even feel uncomfortable. As compared with turning off someone's morphine, this little whip was hardly even a love tap. She had seen and done far worse. But she didn't feel nothing at all—not quite nothing.

As the welts burned on the submissive's body, what she felt, even though she dared not name it, was jealousy. Why should this woman be the center of attention? Why should she be shackled and bound, well-fucked and whipped? Why not Dakota? When she began to imagine Dakota hanging in those chains—a sleek, athletic form with golden skin and golden hair—she swung the whip harder, and the woman cried out behind the gag. After a moment, she dropped the red ball in her hand, and Dakota set aside the whip and soothed her, released her, said sweet, soft things into her ear. Jolley said the scene was well done, but Dakota didn't care.

Three months was nearly up. Dakota's disgusting jar was nearly full. Each time she was sent to clean up after a gangbang, she did as she was asked: she added the disgusting remnants to the jar. This time was worse than ever. She'd almost gotten used to it, but someone had added milk to the mix this time. The floor was covered in cum and piss and milk vomit. She wanted to put down the jar and walk out. She wanted to take a garden hose and wash the filth down the sewer where it belonged. She wanted anything but to carry out her instructions. God knows why they wanted a jar full of that filth in the first place. But she didn't walk out. She would never be able to explain what she chose to do instead.

Dakota removed her shirt and her shoes. Her slacks. She took off her bra and her socks and her panties because... She didn't know why. Maybe because the obstacle becomes the way.

She knelt on the stage and she began to mop up the awful, disgusting filth with her own hair. She scraped it into the center. She wrung it out from her locks. She bent down and slurped, her stomach rebelling within her, and she spat the vile mixture into the jar. Again and again and again, for an hour or more. Before she finished, her body was bathed in sweat. Her throat and stomach were sore from gagging. She was pale and a little shaky, but she was done. The obstacle...

Jolley was watching her. Had been watching her. Was staring at her.

Dakota said nothing. She remained there on her knees.

"Bitter Creek needs another house servant for the summer," said Jolley.

"Yes, ma'am," said Dakota. Her voice was thin and soft.

"I don't know if you can handle it."

Dakota kept silent.

"That jar," said Jolley. "Drink it and you can stay."

Dakota's stomach lurched. She almost vomited. She shut her eyes and bowed her head, kept her breaths shallow and slow. She clenched her fist over her thumb until she thought it might break, and the urge to vomit passed.

"Drink all of it."

Somehow—Dakota would never be able to explain—she drank.