Page 27 of Brave
“He sounds like a Dom,” Pony said flatly. The clatter as she dropped her fork on her plate gave all the voice to her displeasure that she kept locked behind her tightly pressed lips as she shoved her chair back and left the table.
Waiting until after Pony left for work—impeccably dressed for her secretarial job with a real estate mogul downtown—Puppy snuck her coat from the closet, grabbed her backpack, and walked a mile and a half to catch a bus to take her to the Deanwood Neighborhood Library. Climbing the stone steps outside, she was almost to the entrance doors before she saw the tiny square of paper taped to the glass. It read: Part-Time Help Wanted. Pausing at the door, Puppy re-read the limited information. Her past working experience made her more than qualified to work in a library, but in order to apply, she would first have to ask for an application.
Her anxiety ratcheted straight through her. She squeezed the strap of her backpack, hugging it over her shoulder, her palms already starting to sweat. She wasn’t good at talking to people anymore, and yet if she was ever going to regain her freedom and independence, then she had to get a job. She had to get herself back to what she was before Ethen.
She wanted to walk inside, but her legs stepped backwards instead. Turning, head down, she dodged another library patron on his way inside and fled back down the steps. Darting around the side of the building, she found the unofficial smoking area on a nearby bench. For forty minutes, she sat there, quietly hyperventilating with her head in her hands, her leg jiggling wildly up and down, and all the rest of her shaking.
She could do this. She hadn’t always been this afraid. She didn’t even have to pick up an application today at all. She’d just go inside, print out Carlson’s contract, and leave. She’d come back for the application later, after she’d had a chance to work herself up to the ordeal of actually talking to someone. It was ridiculous that she was falling apart like this. Nobody was going to care when she walked inside. No one would look at her twice if she asked for an application. They’d just hand it to her and get on with their day. She could do this.
Rubbing her sweaty palms against her thighs, Puppy made herself go inside. She avoided the front desk, making her way to the bank of public computers where she collapsed into the first empty chair that she found. Hiding her face in her hands, she got her shaking back under control. She was never going to get a job this way. Which was appropriate, since she was just as sure she’d never be able to work one without freaking out either.
She was useless.
Depressed, she logged in with her library card long enough to access her email and that started nightmare number two as she tried to figure out how to print out two copies (just in case she made a mistake) of the seven-page contract negotiation that Carlson had sent. She still had no idea where she was going to hide it until she met up with him again. But now she also had to figure out where and how to pick up all those pages without someone else here seeing them.
It cost her a dollar seventy-five and she had to get help from one of the attendants before she could make the printer work. That was a combination panic attack that physically hurt inside her too-tight chest as she tried to be normal, tried to deal with people, and tried so very hard to snatch each page as fast as the printer spat them out so the attendant wouldn’t accidentally read any one of the keywords that kept jumping out at her. Words like contract negotiation, BDSM, spanking, bondage, and hard and soft limits.
Retreating with that contract hugged tight to her chest, she found a mostly private table apart from the other patrons. It took a good half hour before she could calm enough to stop shaking. Drawing a deep breath, one question at a time, she filled the contract out.
How did she identify? Submissive.
Did she have any real-life experience? Three years.
A full page was dedicated to three columns of every kind of fetish and activities, listed in tiny font where she could check one of three options: Like, Don’t Like, Am Interested in Trying. Trembling hand pressed to her forehead, she stared at that page, fighting hard to blink back tears. Be honest, he had said. But the last time she’d been honest on one of these things, her Master had used her likes against her.
Carlson wasn’t Ethen, but before she could tackle any of that, she put a giant X through everything associated with Pet Play, gang bangs, and group scenes, and then she quietly gathered her things and went into the bathroom, where she hid in a small stall, crying into a wad of cheap toilet paper so no one coming in or out would hear her.
It took a long time, but she got through it. One question, one breakdown, and one crying jag at a time. She did her best to be honest, although as vague as humanly possible in some places. The hardest part was her likes and dislikes. Admitting to what she liked was mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausting. It took hours, with panic, anxiety, and a whole slew of dreadful what-ifs plaguing her every step of the way. For everything else, she simply checked the box marked Am Interested. She had no idea what Carlson liked or didn’t. He deserved someone willing to do whatever he enjoyed. Whether she liked it or not, she wanted to leave that option open.
Finally, she was done. It took hiding in the bathroom to finish it, but she’d filled out every page completely and she’d even been honest. Or at least, more honest than she’d have thought herself capable of, considering the content.
As relieved as she was that it was over, in retrospect it hadn’t been that bad. Draining, yes. But not difficult, not really. And now she could get out of here.
Contract hugged to her, she made her way back through the library, but the closer she got to the door, the more she found herself thinking about that application. She ought to get it now. She was here, after all. She eyed the front desk and, in specific, the college-aged redhead working at the computer there. Maybe the applications were just sitting out in the open. She could just take one and then get out of here without talking to anyone.
With every step reverberating through her on waves of apprehension, she approached the desk as unobtrusively as possible. The applications were not just sitting out in the open. She actually had to ask for them. Her face burning hot the whole time, she took two (just in case) and quickly walked outside. Back around the corner she went, back to the smoking section where she immediately collapsed on the bench, sucking hard for air.
She was so stupid. And now she was hyperventilating again, unable to draw breath enough even to laugh at herself over how scared, anxious, and now relieved she was. And she thought she could handle a job? Seriously?
It was just too much.
Holding her head in both hands, she struggled to slow her breathing.
Her phone beeped.
Digging it out of her pocket, she looked at the screen where one unread text from Carlson sat waiting for her. It read: Where’s your lunch post?
It was almost 3:30. She’d spent way more time here than she thought she had.
She wilted.
I forgot to eat, she confessed.
His response was almost instant. Do you want to take care of your punishment for that tonight, or do you want to wait until we get together later this week?
She went still and cold, staring at that text for the longest time. Maybe too long, because before she could figure out a response, he called her. She answered on the second ring, slowly bringing the phone up to her ear.
“Hello,” she whispered.
