Black Iris

His place

Warning: chapter contains coercion and violence.

Iris

Later that night, or maybe it was the morning, I heard Blake leave.

He had gone into the gym for a while, I heard him punching up a storm as I stumbled back to my room. I crawled under the covers and waited to sleep but it never came. I felt too wired.

Then he left, and I couldn't stop thinking about where he'd gone.

Back to that factory? Or something else. Something insidious. What if I'd pushed too hard? What if he was going to take it out on me by hurting someone else. Like Jackson.

I could hardly bear the thought.

I drifted in and out of consciousness for a little, never sleeping more than half an hour at a time. Finally, I watched as the sky started getting lighter. Feeling sluggish, I pulled myself from bed, and wandered out and down the hall to the kitchen. The apartment was eerily quiet, with just the hum of the air conditioner and the wind whistling slightly outside. Craving routine, I put the coffee machine on and popped a pod in, then pulled my favourite mug from the cabinets above, reaching past the boring white ikea mugs to the few different ones at the back. The mug in question was one my mother had given me for Christmas a few years ago, an old fashioned teacup painted with beautiful ceramic flowers. Iris's.

Because it had been her nickname for me first.

When Blake and I started playing, he used to just call me Gwen. Or other pet names. Babe, love. Then as the play got more extreme, so did the names. Pet. Slut. Whore. And when he called me Gwen, he said it felt wrong.

"Come on, pet. Don't you think it's weird?" He said, when he was stroking my hair after a scene one day. Back when he actually did the whole aftercare thing.

I had shrugged. "I don't know. Why would it be?"

He smiled condescendingly. "Well, because you're not Gwen when I'm playing with you. You're like, a different person, babe. My sexy little slut, hey? And Gwen isn't my sexy little slut, is she?"

I had frowned, confused. Something felt off, even then, but I couldn't explain it. And he made me feel so small. So stupid sometimes. That I just nodded, and let him coddle me.

We visited my family a few days later. "Iris," I had heard him echo under his breath that day, a glint in his eye. I didn't put two and two together until mid-scene back at home that night, he called me Iris.

I had stiffened, immediately uncomfortable. "Blake," I had said. "No, I don't like that."

"Aw, does it make my pet feel bad?" He had replied condescendingly.

"Blake," I had whispered. He had tutted.

"Nuhuh, Iris. That's master to you. Plus, you know it makes master happy, right baby?" He had said.

"But sir-" I had tried, but he cut me off.

"No buts, baby. You agreed to this, remember. You want to make me happy, right?"

And with no power, no energy, filled with guilt and self hatred, I had nodded.

"Mmm, good girl," he had said. "My pretty little Iris. Now, be an obedient little slut and suck masters cock, pet."

God, I hated him.

I recollected my thoughts and returned to the task at hand, sliding the coffee cup beneath the spout of the machine and flicking it on. While it was whirring away, I shuffled to the fridge. Looking inside, I paused. It was full of fresh ingredients — Blake had a delivery come each week, and the housemaid had to go through and clean out all the old stuff to make room for the fresh stuff — but I just felt like none of it. It all required effort to prepare and make, and I didn't feel like putting any effort in. Even the act of putting a bagel in the toaster seemed like too much work.