He works the padlock on my gag. The one on my leash, too. He helps me stand, and then he walks me down the corridor, to the jacks at the end of the hall.
He leaves the door cracked, and I can see his shadow on the floor. I want to scream at him to let me pee in peace, but part of me is afraid I’ll need his help to stand again.
It’s humiliating, knowing he’s listening to every sound. I feelmy cheeks color, which only makes me angry. The blush spreads to my chest. After I flush the toilet, I lather my hands twice, delaying opening the door for as long as I can.
“Kate—” He starts talking before I step into the hall.
“Fuck off.”
“I was wrong?—”
“Do you fucking think?”
“There was so much blood…”
“Jaysus,” I swear. I was wrong to cut, but his reaction was so far beyond a normal response. “Yer a lousy Dom.”
“I—”
“Yer one job is t’ be in control, and ya didn’t come close t’ that.” Irish makes my voice run thick.
“I brought you pillows. A blanket. I?—”
“And ya didn’t think t’ take me off my leash?”
“I didn’t want to wake you. You were so exhausted?—”
“Tryin’ t’ get free!”
“I left the light on!”
He honestly thinks that makes it better. I storm down the corridor, rage keeping me steady on my feet.
“What are you do—” he starts to ask.
I throw myself across the room. There. His phone is on his desk. I snatch it up, whirling around to shove it in his face, to unlock the screen.
“What—” he tries again.
“Alert the feckin’ media! Call the goddamn police! You left the fucking light?—”
On.
That’s what I’m about to say. He left the fucking light on.
But my hip bangs against the desk when he grabs for his phone, and I jostle his computer mouse. The screensaver on his computer monitor clears.
The banner at the top of the page is familiar—ice blue and winter white. The stylized lettering spells out words I know well: Winter Reckoning.
Beneath that, though, is a screen I’ve never seen before. I glance at the first line—this is an administrative page. Something behind the scenes. Something only a superuser can see.
My profile is there. My character name—CyberGhost—my weapons, the names of everyone in my raiding party.
“What the fuck—” I start, but I don’t bother completing the question. Instead, I scroll further down the page.
There’s a record of every action I’ve ever taken in the game. And at the very bottom of the page, in stark red letters framed by ominous black boxes, there are three options:
Delete player account.