Chapter Text
Ben got it in his head to adopt a pet after one of his mother’s friends pointed out his relative stability in life. “Single guy,” she’d said, “big condo, no debt, retirement fund...it’s honestly kind of a crime that you’re not using it to give.” She’d been tipsy, teasing, maybe even flirting, nevermind her husband a few tables off. She’d gone on about marriage, charity donation, babies—leave it to one of Leia Organa’s trust-fund friends to be obsessed with the greater good out of privileged guilt—but she’d also, sometime in her long-winded guilt-trip, mentioned “pets.”
Ben likes that. He likes animals well enough, though dogs, in particular, seem not to like him for some reason. He’d thought about getting one of those designer breed cats, something pretty to add to the carefully curated chic of his condo, but he had realized quickly it was far more ethical to adopt from a shelter. Better yet, to take in a complete stray, one of the ones that hung out on sidewalks and in alleys, nuzzling into the hands of passers-by for treats and the hope of a warm bed, little beggars. He could do that, he realized, quite easily—like pigeons and ducks, they’re free, so long as you can catch them. As he got more and more into the idea, he started wandering the city at night, feeling like it was meant to be. His perfect little stray would materialize, like something out of a dream, and he’d hold it in his arms. Take it home, give it everything it needs to thrive and feel safe, be its salvation from the cold and grime of the outside world. Sure, it would be simpler to pick something out from a reputable shelter, but Ben was convinced that if it was truly the right thing to do, the universe would send him a way.
In the meantime, he started getting ready. All the tricks and trappings of pet ownership wormed their way into his condo, decorating the once-modern, sharp-edge guest room (empty of a bed and all the other trappings, really just for storage; nobody ever stayed there) with baubles and bits. Big, soft fluff in the shape of a pet bed. A kennel, just in case. Toys galore. All the frilly things. I’m ready, he said to the universe every night as he wandered. Show me a sign.
He'd had the same feeling when he’d applied to the little startup right out of college, which became a big corporation, which Ben had rose through the ranks of. The same feeling when he’d refused to return to the office post-COVID, knowing his seniority would grant him favors, feeling, somehow, like this was where he was supposed to be: at home, open, waiting. It had been for this, he was certain of it now. And his certainty grew when, finally, like a break in the clouds, moonlight making silvery trails against neon, he found his stray.
She was a dancer. Graceful, in the kind of way that dancers have—lithe, soft-edged, but if you looked closely enough, you’d see her muscles hidden under the skin, driving her up and up like she was flying. Her talents were wasted on a pole in a sketchy club downtown. He waited for some weeks after he spotted her first, zipping on a ratty hoodie over the neon nylon of her dancewear, lugging an equally ragged duffel bag with her, going home. Home, he found out, was a shithole basement room shared with two other girls and owned, tangentially, by the same guy who ran the club. He kept their tips. It was abhorrent.
Ben went to watch her dance a couple of times, his mind ticking off some of the concerns he had, health-wise: she was fit, but not well fed; he’d have to fix that. She gave blowjobs, he was pretty sure, in the back, if her manager pressured her to do so, but in the weeks he watched he never saw a cold sore, so he wasn’t too worried. Still, a thing to keep an eye on. And, universe help him, on stage, she was radiant. She made the most tips out of all the girls there, at least during his visits. She clung to the pole like it was a long-lost lover, a cold, sweaty partner in her dances, instead of using it like a tool the way the other dancers did. The slutty getups she wore were, he knew, just part of her club persona—they called her “Glitterbomb” because of all the festival glitter she wore, but he can think of better names. Bambi for her leggy, foalish gait, the dapple on her thighs, the soft lashes. Precious because she’s precious. Princess because he’s gonna treat her like one.
She doesn’t belong on a dingy stage in harsh-yet-dim lighting, exposed for the slack-jawed lechers that frequent the club. She doesn’t belong in a basement with a crumbling popcorn ceiling and no insulation against the coming chill of winter. She’s a stray, wandering through life, unprotected. She’s Ben’s omen, his sign from the universe. And he’s about to be hers.
*
His opportunity comes on a weekend night, when the club is open until 3 AM. Usually he’s tired if he stays up this late, but he has a strong feeling tonight’s gonna be his night. He leaves his car parked a few blocks down where her route home cuts through an overgrown, unkempt green space, rusty playground sets and all, no security cameras, no traffic. He lingers in the brush, waiting, holding his breath. He feels her before he sees her, a prickling on his side that grows in intensity as she rounds the bend and he sees her. She looks forlorn and exhausted, poor thing. Weekends must be so tough for her, with the late hours and the packed floor and a million leering old fucks clamoring for her attention, yelling rude comments as she dances. She’s thrown sweats over her dancewear bottoms, and he can see that the hoodie is just thrown on over pasties—she was ready to get out of there. Her slides shuffle against the cracked pavement, and he knows, with them on, she probably can’t run too much, which will help, but he waits until she’s just past the place he’s hidden. He slides free from the brush with nothing more than a soft crackle, and while she glances off into the trees, she’s unbothered, unaware.
He doesn’t give her the chance to get skittish. He doesn’t have the time to lure her with soft words and treats and tender pets, the way you’re supposed to do with most strays; something is telling him that, if he doesn’t do this right now, something bad’s gonna happen. She could just as easily get mugged or killed in this park—as easily as he takes her from here, someone with bad intentions could do the same. She’s too naive, too alone. The needle goes in before she has the chance to react to hearing someone behind her—all she has the time for is a startled gaze, a strangled “wait—” and then she’s falling, and he’s catching her for the first, he hopes, of many times.
She’s warm, pliant, in his arms as he bundles her into his backseat. Nobody comes. Nobody sees him. He fastens her seatbelt carefully, tenderly, and a watery noise comes out of her mouth, but she doesn’t stir. He’s breathing hard as he throws the car in gear and pulls out of the inlet, tires squealing towards the direction of his condo. It’s not an overly long drive, but it’s also not a short one, and he keeps looking at the rearview mirror anxiously, his heartbeat slowing as he sees her still angelically unconscious, only to pick up again a moment later. Even though he tested the sedative on himself in a small dose, just to be safe, suspicious the dark web dealer was fleecing him, he’s still nervous. He breathes a sigh of relief as he pulls into the parking garage and eases her out of the car. After some thought, he throws her bag over his shoulder, too—it might help her adjust if she has some things from “home,” at least. Because it’s how she naturally falls, he props her on his hip, her head lolling against his shoulder, her breath leaving condensation on his neck, and he’s struck with a mixture of thrill and tenderness, carrying her like a little kid who’s fallen asleep on a long drive.
In the elevator, he fumbles for his phone, jacking it into the control panel; he’d written a program that will keep it from slowing for pings from other floors, gliding uninterrupted to his floor. At this late hour, it’s probably not necessary, but he’s nothing if not cautious. He’s been smart about it.
A flood of contented excitement washes over him when he crosses the threshold: finally she’s here. Thank you, universe. Like a wounded pigeon or an orphaned duckling, he snatched her up, because strays are free if you can catch them, and then they belong to you. He eases her down onto the fuzzy throw rug he’s put in the playroom and surveys her matter-of-factly. First things first: he needs to get her into something more comfortable.
Her post-work comfort clothes are absolutely on their last legs, threadbare in patches, ragged—the sleeves are also chewed. A bad habit that can be redirected, for sure. Gently, still afraid of waking her, he takes off the offending items, huffs at the neon mesh of the dancewear she has on still—Lycra or Spandex, definitely. Fucking terrible for vaginal health if worn every day. He eases them down, cock twitching momentarily at the sight of her little landing strip, her chubby pussy, but he shakes it off—he just needs to get her dressed, put her to bed.
The wardrobe he’s been putting together is haphazard, but he’s been having to guess her sizes. She looks to be a small in some things, a medium in others. He settles on a pair of soft cotton panties, Winnie the Pooh, found on sale at Target. He couldn’t resist them when he saw them. They fit her perfectly, bridging her hips snugly, and he takes care as he puts them on—he doesn’t want her to wake up with a wedgie. That would suck. He also found her a pink sweatshirt with little kitties all over it, much softer than her other one. He takes off the tags first, doesn’t want her to know how much he’s spent—that’s just tacky. He puts some fuzzy socks on her little feet so they don’t get cold, and then he affixes his finishing touch: a wide leather collar that locks in the back, just in case she panics and tries to take it off. He’s gotten her a little jingly tag in the shape of a heart that says “baby” on it because he doesn’t know her real name yet.
Hands-on-hips, he surveys his work appreciatively. She’s still splayed out on the fuzzy rug, her limbs all askew, falling wherever he dropped them as he dressed her. Her mouth is slightly open, the breath whooshing in and out, sleep-sweat sticking her hair to her face. She’s perfect. Precious. She fits in this room like it was made for her—like she was made for it. The clothes fit. The collar fits. Everything fits just right.
With tender care, he scoops her sleeping form up in his arms again and presses a chaste kiss to the crown of her head. Her curled fist falls on his neck, and then he’s depositing her into the kennel, an XXL dog crate with some modifications, plenty of space. She might panic when she wakes up in an unfamiliar place, and he doesn’t want her to hurt herself by accident. He drapes a soft blanket over her where she rests on the cushioned bed, then closes the kennel, affixes the two sturdy padlocks to both the side and front doors. Then he sits close by, just watching her, worried at first that the sedative will lower her resp rate while she sleeps, but reassured by the even rise and fall of her chest. In her sleep, her hand falls against the bars, her fingers flopping out, and he strokes them gently and leans his head against the cage. “You’re safe now, sweetheart,” he whispers. “You’re safe and sound. Welcome home.”
*
Rey’s drifting, tumbling slowly into waking from what seems to be the best sleep she’s had in a long, long time. She thinks blearily that it’s weird how quiet her roommates were this morning, not waking her. Eyes still closed, she stretches a little, and her hand meets the wall, the frame of her bed; cramped as hell, this little basement room she calls home.
Only, when she opens her eyes, blinking the blur of sleep away, she sees some weird shit: for example, the color of the wall is a soft baby blue. There are sleek, shiny, thin bars cutting it into pieces. She’s surrounded by fuzzy, soft things instead of her raggedy blanket, rescued from a Salvation Army.
This isn’t her room. What the hell? And...these aren’t her fucking clothes, either. Pink sweatshirt with little cats on it. So damn cute, exactly the kind of thing Rey never buys for herself—whoever owns it, she’s stealing it, once she figures out what in the shit is going on. Her head and mouth feel like they’re full of cotton, and she lazily sweeps her gaze over to the other side, finding bars there too, bisecting a wash of faux-fur carpet, throw pillows, fluffy bears and bunnies. It’s like a little kid’s room or something. And the bars—
Fuck. Fuck. She’s in a cage. Blearily, she scrambles up to her knees halfway, unable to sit up in the cage without hunching over somewhat. The blanket falls off, and she sees she’s in (admittedly very comfortable) panties and soft socks. Everything is soft, soft, soft, except the fucking cage. (Also, Winnie the Pooh? Really?) Her hands map the outline of the cage, as it’s dimly lit in here by a string of little lanterns near the ceiling. It seems to be a normal dog crate, which has—yes! Latches that it’s not too difficult to wiggle about from the inside and undo. But—no! She sits back on her heels with a huff, brain sluggishly reeling. There are some seriously heavy-duty padlocks snapped around the doors where they meet the frame. Even with the latches undone, there’s no way to get out.
She realizes she’s panting, fear and confusion setting in. She whips her head around, looking for something, anything, that will get her out of here, or at least tell her how she ended up in here, and hears a jingle between her collarbones. When she bats at it, seeking the source, she finds a wide, stiff leather collar around her neck, snug enough that she can’t crane her neck down and see what the tag (a fucking dog tag) says. There’s a buckle in the back, but that, too, is kept secure by a lock.
What the hell happened last night? She tries, desperately, to remember. All she remembers is dancing. Some asshole badgered her backstage, where he wasn’t supposed to be. Did he do this? Snatch her up from outside the club or some shit? Her manager had shooed him off and told him not to come back but—fuck. Plutt. He owns both the club and her shithole basement room. She has to give him her tips and pay him rent, but she’s been saucy lately, tired of living like this. Did he sell her off to some freakazoid who keeps women in cages? Is she at a serial killer’s house?!
She settles on the rage, on the betrayal. Even if he didn’t, it’s more useful than fear in this situation. She slaps a palm against the bars, hearing them rattle, and yells, hoarsely, “Hey! BITCH! HEY! You let me out of here right fucking now!”
Distantly, she hears footsteps, and then the door to the room is swinging open. A man walks in, and she has to bend her neck at a weird angle to see all of him, because this motherfucker is big. Not fat, in fact he’s extremely well built, but very tall, and even if he wasn’t, his presence, his mien, is imposing. In any other situation, she’s have clamored to give him a lapdance. They never get the hot ones at their club, just the old pervs, the divorcees, the occasional bachelor party squad. This guy—this guy she’d drool over. That is, if he wasn’t some psycho who has her locked in a fucking cage and collared like a dog.
She swallows her fear, her shakiness at his arrival, and, with only a slight tremor in her voice, she says, “You wanna fucking explain yourself?”
He crouches, broad thighs bending and curling, to see her at eye level. There’s a twinkle in his eye, a predatory tenderness that has her reeling—she doesn’t quite know how to categorize it. The motherfucker has the nerve to tsk disapprovingly like some kind of prep school matron. “You’ve got quite the mouth on you,” he admonishes coolly. “It’s not polite to swear at people.”
“Yeah, well,” she bites back, already losing her nerve from the intensity of his gaze, the way he’s so fucking casual about it. “It’s not exactly polite to put people in cages either, so you’ll excuse my fucking French.” His eyes narrow, gaze sharpening, and damn her, she feels small.
He sighs patiently and says, “Couldn’t have you freaking out. Doing anything stupid. Getting hurt. It’s for your own good, and clearly I was right to be cautious. You’re feisty.” He sticks a finger through the bar and flicks her nose, looking amused, and she’s too stunned to summon that rage again, bite back a fiery reply. “You’ll learn, though.”
Well, that’s ominous. “Learn? Learn what?” she pleads, and he chuckles as if to himself.
“Learn to behave, pet.”
“Fucking ew,” she complains. “I’m not a pet, pal. I have fucking obligations. I gotta work tonight. I’ve got—there’ll be people looking for me! You’re not gonna get away with just snatching me off the street.”
“Little one,” he begins, sounding like he’s working very hard to keep from snapping, “I’ve seen your life. I don’t make decisions lightly. And your work? Your obligations? Your ‘friends?’ It’s all killing you from the inside, slowly. You never would’ve gotten out of there. It wasn’t worth it. You don’t have to worry about work anymore. You don’t have to worry about anything. And let me tell you something else.” He leans in close to the cage, his breath tickling her cheek. “Your friends aren’t gonna be worrying about you. Nobody’s looking, pet. And nobody will.”
She swallows hard, fighting back hot tears, certain her face is flushed with the effort. “You’re fucking insane,” she whispers, and instead of coming out angry, it comes out scared. Quick as a flash, his long, sturdy fingers reach through the bars, snagging the loop at the front of the collar and hooking her forwards, her face smushing into the bars.
Still with that infuriatingly calm tone, he says, “I expected this. You’ll have trouble adjusting to such big changes, I know it’s hard.” He’s talking to her like one would talk to a young child or a disobedient dog. Fuck him. “Fuck you,” she says, meaning to spit, but whimpering instead. Unfazed, he continues. “The adjustment will take a long time. I can’t fix that in a day. But your attitude? That filthy mouth you have? That’s gonna have to go.” He rummages in a pocket for a long chain of keys, more keys than there are locks in sight, but she doesn’t have time to think too hard about it because he’s reaching for the padlocks on the wide side door. She skitters further back into the cage, suddenly wanting, desperately, not to come out.
“Easy,” he purrs, liquid and soothing, like calming a frightened rabbit. “You’re okay. Hey. What’s your name?”
Caught off guard, she answer, “Rey.” The door opens, and he wiggles his fingers just outside it, snapping them a few times. “Come here, Rey. Come on out. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Wanna come out?”
“I,” she croaks, haltingly. “Um—are you—please don’t hurt me?”
“Come out and you can go potty and have some water and food. Wouldn’t you like that?” he croons. “Lemme prove it to you, Rey. I’m gonna take care of you.”
She has no other options, really. She doesn’t trust this man as far as she can throw him, and considering his staggering frame, that’s not far at all. On shaky, cramping legs, she scoots out of the cage onto the luscious rug, and he hums approvingly. “There’s a good girl. Aren’t you, Rey? I knew you could do it.” And the way he cocks his head, the approving warmth in his eyes—damn her, in a vastly different situation, she might actually...be into this. Weird. He hooks her collar again and says, “C’mon. Up. There you go.” It’s hard to stand, her legs aching from being awkwardly cramped for so long, and then he’s grabbing a chair, scooting it so that it faces the wall, and suddenly, dizzyingly, he’s tossing her over it, legs and head hanging down on other side, and she struggles, but there’s a chain affixed to the bottom rung and he’s already snapped it to the collar. Oh, what the fuck.
She twists this way and that, but is like a fish out of water, one elbow hitting the wall, the other hitting the back of the chair. She tries to topple it, but he’s got one imposing arm braced against it, keeping it still with barely any effort. “There, there,” he whispers, “settle. Shhh. There you go.” She’s gone limp, but it’s not because he’s being soft with her, it’s because she’s fucking scared out of her mind. “Listen,” he says, and what the hell else can she do? “I want you to be happy here, but you’re gonna have to learn some manners, okay? Taking care of you means helping you break bad habits. And it’s certainly not a good habit to swear at people. Especially me.”
She starts to grit out another fuck you but is interrupted by a sharp pain where her ass meets her thigh—the sting of his hand meeting skin. She yelps it instead, a truncated “F-uuck!”
“No,” he snaps sternly, “try again.” Another smack, this time on the other side. “FUCK you! ASSHOLE!” she screams, tears gushing over her cheeks. “I will FUCKING scream until somebody comes. I swear to fuck.” She sniffles, humiliatingly, and his hand pets the skin he’s just hit, “Oh, that’s okay,” he answers, sounding amused, which is infuriating. “These are luxury condos, honey. They’re soundproofed.” Another smack, and she bellows, her voice cracking.
“There you go,” he soothes. “Get it all out, pet. Get all those bad feeling out, you’ll feel so much better.” After a few more smacks, Rey thrashes, wresting the chair from his grip and toppling it. She lands hard, her teeth jarring, and fumbles for the chain, but it’s fucking childproofed or something, difficult to undo if she can’t see it. She hears a barely-restrained growl from the man above her, and then he’s lacing his fingers through her hair and pulling. Another thing she’s surprised she’d find arousing if it were anywhere but here. Anyone but him. One hand in her hair, one on the chair, he hauls her back up effortlessly, shoving the chair back against the wall roughly, and she bangs her shoulder and whines.
From behind her, she hears a belt buckle. “Wait,” she chokes, fear making her whole skin go cold, “w-wait, please, no, don’t—don’t make me—”
“Easy, pet,” he says hurriedly, “it’s not—I won’t.” Still, she whines with unease, wondering what in the hell he could be undoing his pants for. The answer comes from the bite of leather on her ass, his belt folded and snapped like a short, flat whip. It fucking hurts, a whole lot more than just his hand, and she wails. Begs him to stop, tells him it hurts. “I know it hurts, Rey,” he says patiently, as if she’s being silly. “That’s the point, hmm? It’ll teach you not to swear at me anymore. Won’t it?” Another hit. She feels welts rising up on her skin. “Tell me what you’re learning, baby. Why are you being disciplined?”
“Because—you’re—a FUCKING PSYCHO,” she screams, throat ragged and aching from howling. He answers that with four more hits in quick succession, not even giving her the chance to draw breath. The last blow nicks her tailbone, and the white-hot force of it makes her head go blank for a moment. It feels like he might break skin, if he hasn’t already. In hindsight, Rey’ll think this is probably the smart choice, the obvious one, but there’s no such calculation going through her mind when she bawls that she’s being disciplined for swearing. That she’s sorry, that she won’t do it again, anything to make it stop.
She hears a carpet-dampened clink as the belt buckle hits the floor, and then the man is loosing the chain from the chair and she’s dropping to the floor like a ragdoll, utterly exhausted. Too exhausted to protest when, bewilderingly, frighteningly, he gathers her close and rocks back and forth, saying things like, “Shhh, I know, you’re okay. Such a good girl, know you’ll try your best, I forgive you.” The still-conscious, still-Rey part of her brain puts up mild protest—the fucking audacity, him forgiving her—but her animal instinct nuzzles into him, seeking comfort after pain.
The care he takes with her after his brutality is even more confusing. Still foggy from a drugged night of sleep, she’s having trouble keeping up, overwhelmed with everything shoved at her, helpless to do much but follow along numbly, hoping, eventually, it will just end. He pulls a comb through her hair, rubs lotion on her sore ass, gives her pancakes, and then coffee when she asks for it. He takes her to the bathroom, lurking by the door, herding her along fast enough that she can’t catch a glimpse of much of anything, then shepherds her back to the playroom. Where she breaks again, though, is when he asks her if she’d like anything, if something would make her more comfortable. When she doesn’t answer, he gestures towards the dog crate. “Go on, then,” he supplies, expectant. She starts crying and says “I just want to go home, sir, will you please? I—that’s where I’m more comfortable.”
He cocks his head at her, getting that infuriating look again, like he’s being very patient with someone who just isn’t understanding, who’s stupid or young or not paying attention. “You are home,” he says quizzically. She’s rooted to the spot, crying into her hands even as he nudges her towards the crate door, then gently scoops her up and tumbles her inside. “You’re just tired, poor baby,” he fusses, and slides a few paperbacks in between the bars. “You’ll be okay, you’ll adjust. It'll just take awhile, but I’m right here to help you through it, okay? I need to go work for awhile in the other room, but before I go, do you have any questions?”
Throughout his self-congratulating, falsely-sweet monologue, Rey’s been curled up, her back to him, running desperately through her options. She doesn’t have the keys, and it’ll take awhile of sussing him out to be able to steal them. She has nothing to pick the locks with. She doesn’t have strength or size on him. She doesn’t have a way to get in touch with anyone. No matter her plan of escape, it’s going to take time. The least she can do for herself is make it bearable—make him complacent, lenient. So after a deep breath, she rolls over and gives him her best, watery-eyed, puppy-dog pout, watches him lean forward, taking the bait, drawn in. “What’s your name?” she asks, doing her best to sound shy.
He smiles then, and it seems to be genuine. “Ben,” he answers, “but to you, ‘daddy.’” She nods meekly, ignoring her guts twisting, refusing to investigate if it’s from disgust or from mild arousal. Never, NEVER in a thousand years, she tells herself when she’s alone again, pretending to read a book, would she be into this man. Not under these circumstances, not knowing what he is. But someone who looked just like him, who had the same kinks, but none of the control issues—that guy, the imaginary, benign twin, he’s harmless to fantasize about, surely. Nevermind that when she takes the whole against-her-will thing out of it, she’d not be against spending some time in a cozy room, being fed and cuddled and given books. Nevermind that when he took her to the bathroom earlier, she pulled her panties down and found them wet. Rey is getting out of here, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.