The ride to the girls’ house was a blur—Ethan blindfolded, wrists still raw from zip ties, bundled into the trunk of Sasha’s beat-up sedan. When the engine finally cut off, he was hauled out, the gravel crunching under his sneakers as they dragged him through a doorway. The blindfold came off in a dimly lit basement, the air cool and damp, smelling faintly of mildew and lavender. Lila, Sasha, and Tara stood before him, their silhouettes framed by a single bulb swinging overhead. The space was sparse—a concrete floor, a metal cot bolted to the wall, and a small table cluttered with tools that made Ethan’s gut twist.
“You’re staying here,” Lila said, her voice clipped as she tossed a thin blanket onto the cot. She’d stripped her lab coat for a black tank top, her arms lean and commanding. “Our parents are gone for the semester—some research gig overseas. This is our house now. And you’re ours.”
Ethan didn’t argue. The surgeries had left him hollow, a shell too battered to resist. His body ached where they’d cut him, the bandages chafing against his borrowed shorts. Sasha shoved him toward the cot, her athletic frame towering over him. “Sit,” she ordered, and he obeyed, the metal frame creaking under his weight. Tara lingered by the table, her red hair catching the light as she sorted through a pile of leather straps and chains.
They didn’t waste time establishing the rules. Lila crouched in front of him, her green eyes locking onto his. “You cook. You clean. You do whatever we say. Disobey, and we’ll find more pieces to take.” Her fingers brushed the bandage at his groin, a light tap that sent a dull throb through him. He flinched, and her smirk widened.
The first task came that night. Sasha dragged him upstairs to a kitchen cluttered with takeout boxes and dirty dishes. She handed him a sponge, her nails digging into his wrist as she leaned close. “Scrub everything. Spotless. And don’t touch the knives.” He nodded, his hands trembling as he filled the sink with scalding water. The soap burned his chapped skin, but he worked silently, the clink of plates drowning out the hum of the girls’ laughter from the living room.
Tara appeared later, her soft voice cutting through the steam. “You’re slow,” she said, holding a thin leather collar studded with metal rings. Before he could react, she fastened it around his neck, the clasp clicking shut with a finality that made his breath hitch. A chain dangled from it, which she looped around a pipe under the sink, tethering him in place. “Finish by midnight, or I’ll tell Lila you slacked.” Her fingers lingered on the collar, adjusting it with a care that felt mocking.
Midnight came and went, but the dishes were done. Exhausted, Ethan slumped against the counter, the chain clinking as he shifted. Sasha stormed in, her blonde hair loose and wild, a beer bottle dangling from her hand. “Up,” she snapped, yanking the chain. She led him back to the basement, her grip unrelenting, and shoved him onto the cot. “Sleep. You’re on breakfast duty at six.”
The days blurred into a routine of servitude. Lila liked her coffee black and scalding, barking orders from a leather armchair while he scrambled eggs over a stuttering stove. Sasha demanded the floors swept daily, her sneakers tracking mud just to test him. Tara was quieter, her tasks more insidious—polishing their boots until the leather gleamed, her soft hums filling the silence as she watched him work. The collar stayed, a constant weight, its chain swapped for longer ones depending on where they needed him.
One evening, they gathered in the basement, the air thick with tension. Lila held a riding crop, tapping it against her palm as she circled him. “You’ve been good,” she said, her tone deceptively light. “But we need to remind you who’s in charge.” Sasha grabbed his arms, pinning them behind him, while Tara knelt to secure his ankles to the cot’s frame with leather cuffs. The first strike landed across his back, a sharp crack that stung through his thin shirt. He bit his lip, tasting copper, as Lila delivered five more, each one precise, the welts rising in neat lines.
“Pretty,” Tara murmured, tracing a finger over the red marks when it was over. She unchained him, her touch gentle again, a contrast that left him dizzy. Sasha tossed him a rag to wipe the sweat from his face, her smirk lazy. “Get used to it, pet. This is home now.”
Ethan lay on the cot that night, the blanket rough against his bruised skin, the collar’s edge digging into his throat. The house creaked above him, the girls’ voices drifting down—planning, laughing, living. He was theirs, bound by more than chains, a shadow in their world of cruel whims.