Chapter Text
“Oh, remind me later to pay the rent when I come back later”
My best friend and roommate called out as she hastily pulled on her boots near the front door with her keys dangling from her mouth. I looked up from my laptop and tried not to grimace at the talk of money and just hummed in response. Eloise was too busy running late to notice my reaction.
“Also, don’t forget to put in your phone that we have Benedict’s birthday lunch next week at Ramiro’s”
Of course, the Bridgerton family would have the lunch at the new high-end restaurant out of my budget. As much as I wanted to decline the invitation, I had been an unofficial Bridgerton since my early teens, so even when Eloise had an actual date all those years ago, I was still invited and, in fact, requested by the matriarch herself.
Without waiting for my response, Eloise called out her love and left, slamming the front door, which would undoubtedly upset our elderly next-door neighbours, as it always did. Sighing out my frustration, I opened the website for the restaurant and accepted that not only will I struggle with the price,s but the dress code if the images of the interior were anything to go by.
Ignoring my essay page, once again, I opened my emails to reread my rejection as a literary reviewer for the university page; they chose to go with someone else. It didn’t offer much but it did offer a small salary that would be helpful to at least let me afford my rent since losing my job as a waitress. Apparently, turning up late repeatedly due to classes running over was not a valuable excuse and ended in my contract termination. My friends didn’t know I worked, so I had no one to rant to about the loud and obnoxious customers or the leary boss who was clearly leering at the two eighteen-year-olds that work for him.
This time last year my mom was still managing the dwindling funds our father had left us, this time two years ago my father had not run off to continue with his gambling addiction without my mother’s interference, three years ago we didn’t know that my fathers gambling had put the family in so much debt and I wasn’t lying to everyone in my life.
Scrolling through Vinted for any dresses that could pass for expensive and fit the dress code next week, my email pinged again for the university page.
‘Hi Penelope,
Sorry about the Literary position, we decided to go with an assistant we had, which tends to happen for new positions. I did enjoy your example of work, but was outvoted.
We do have the vacant position of assistant if you are still interested in a job. It’s to edit the written pieces when requested, and some writers outsource research to you. This position will also help you acquire any future vacancies. It is unpaid and completely voluntary; you are invited to the gatherings and meetings, though.
The only other position we have is a trial column related to sexuality and the exploitation of that from a woman’s perspective to help acceptance. Manchester Uni has a sex advice column, so it was floated that we do something similar, but more of an informative piece. Again, it might not work out, but it is a paid position with a chance of bonuses. We would need a piece by Friday night.
Thanks,
Heather
Assistant Student Pages editor.’
A sex column? The unpaid assistant role was out, but the idea of me, someone with minimal sexual encounters and lacklustre orgasm experience, was not the person to write this, but as I closed the email to try to focus on my essay, the restraint website stared back, and I found myself searching the sex column from Manchester University instead.
A quick scroll through the page showed me that the writer told women to feel empowered by their body and sexuality, but also suggested scandalous things to help people explore giving links and website names. She suggested things like try selling your used underwear on this website if you want to feel kinky and liberated for a first step, but be aware that anyone can own these and may not be for everyone. An app that was like dating apps but specialised more for hookups was also suggested as she explained the less popular side if the app that helped people who sought kinkier relationships like BDSM, sugar babies, or sharing. Not once did the other clarify if she used any of these things, and even explained that she would not confirm or deny in one of her earlier columns, so try at your own discretion due to her identity being known.
Spending over an hour reading through her archive, I could see why it was so popular, not only was I entertained but I felt invigorated to be a woman. I found myself scanning the comments for anyone who admitted to trying her more interesting suggestions, but instead I found others like me asking if anyone had dared to sell a used pair of their underwear, questioning if someone had met their kinky equal or if anyone had even attempted the random hookups and how it went. That is what I would read, someone going through this and telling people what happened, how it went, how it felt afterwards. Maybe that was the angle, maybe that is what people would read. Fuck it.
Ignoring my calendar reminder to send Eloise my portion of rent, I clicked the link supplied and landed on the registration page to sell used underwear and filled in my information without stopping, too consumed to stop, I even clicked the random name generator to not stop and think of something myself. Filling in personal details such as natural hair colour, body type, and even pubic hair, I landed quickly on a page filled with multiple boxes of text. Each box contained something different.
‘Seeking used knickers, female, no appearance preference, pubes required.’
‘Seeking old, ripped knickers, plus size ladies only’
‘Seeking dirty socks worn to the gym. Black socks are preferable.'
Clicking on my profile page, I saw the option to make my own listing for people to buy similar to vinted that I was scrolling through only moments ago. Without a second thought, I placed the laptop on the coffee table and raced to my room, dumping out the laundry hamper and piling the four pairs in a pile along with socks in the second pile, one pair removed that had bears on the ankle.
Would anyone even want what she had to offer, dirty knickers that were worn by her as she went to university, lounged on the sofa, and walked aimlessly around the flat? With my determination diminished, I walked back to the sofa and retrieved the laptop, returning to the home page. Maybe an informative essay on the website would work best like the others would be submitting.
‘Seeking Red full knickers, preferably plus size, pubes preferred (ginger or blonde), used’
That advertisement called from the new post section of the homepage, I needed this job, I needed this money, I needed to stand out. There were no red knickers in the pile, though. Pulling down my leggings quickly in the mirror, there was my red pair, lightly used, would do right? It was mid-afternoon, and I dressed this morning at 6 am when I got up. To not talk myself out of it, I quickly pressed accept on the ad and raced to my desk for an envelope and then to the kitchen for a food bag, which seemed like the best option. Then a clean blue pair replaced the red ones that now sat sealed in my tote bag as I pulled my coat on and left for the post office.
My phone pinged when I got on the pavement of the emailed QR code to be scanned at the post office so that no addresses were exchanged. Feeling giddy, a smile worked its way on my face, and I tried to keep a laugh held back. It was a short walk to the post office, and no doubt had crept back in. Was this the liberation and freedom the advice column promoted so strongly?
Before I could open the door, someone walked out and I crashed straight into them, as they held my arms to keep me upright.
“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t – “
“Pen?”
Looking up, I realised it was Colin, the third oldest Bridgerton, the one I met first, the one that was my first crush, the one that often forgot I wasn’t actually his sister, the one that I often thought of late at night when I felt lonely.
“Colin? What are you doing here?”
He was smiling and still holding onto my arms as he moved us out of the doorway to be out of the way for any other customers. He finally released my arms and pulled a bag forward that was hanging off his shoulder.
“I’m still having trouble getting my deliveries with my flat being in a new building, it was easier to pick them up from here than to redeliver and missed again. What about you? What have you been ordering? More books?”
His smile never left his face as he spoke to me and kept me in a trance like state as I continued to stare and enjoy his undivided attention.
“Books? I wish, no, I have something to send off” I cringed at my own voice, realising that I shouldn’t have even divulged that much. What if he asked more questions? Would I crumble into submission then, too? ‘Why yes, Colin, it's red knickers I wore this morning, I’m sending off to a complete stranger from the internet. Why? Oh, because my family are broke and I’m too embarrassed to tell you, I’m going to write an article about this for a job, and if they don’t hire me at least, I have £50 for my underwear. Whilst I’m on a role I love you. Yep, that’s all.’
“Oh, ok, want me to come with? I can walk the long way back to pass your building?”
“No!” shit. “Sorry, I mean no, that’s alright, I might pop to the shops afterwards for some food for later on or see if Eloise wants me to meet her after class.”
“Oh, ok. I'll see you soon, though, right? If not this wee,k at least next week at Ben’s lunch.”
His smile faltered, not used to my decline, but we both said goodbye, and I kept my momentum up to the cashier as she scanned the code.
“And what is it you are sending?”
“What? What do you – what?”
“Like it’s not batteries or anything?”
“Oh no, no, not batteries.”
The older woman smiled at me and then stuck the label on my package, handing me a receipt.
“Ok, you should get an email, but that is all done for you.”
Mumbling a thanks I raced back home and opened a new document, needing to write this before I lost my nerve.
Just two hours later I had full article written and briefly proofread. Before I could read it for any mistakes once more, I heard Eloise greeting our ninety-year-old neighbour Rose, who strongly disliked Eloise, so I attached the file and hit send before the lock turned and Eloise came walking back in, sighing dramatically.
“I swear that woman hates everyone.”
“Just you, El. She prefers being called a lady, by the way, not woman”
“She should act like it then, you are a lady, Penelope, she is a demon from hell”
Flouncing over and folding dramatically next to me, Eloise put her head on my shoulder, causing me to open the long-forgotten essay from earlier. She laughed as she reached for the remote and put Netflix on the TV.
“Can’t believe you spent all day writing the essay and you’ve written nothing.”
Damn it, I really needed to finish this.
…………..
It was two days later, as I lay on my bed this time mindlessly scrolling TikTok, when I got the email.
‘Hi Penelope.
We are writing to inform you that you have been offered the position of writer – Sexual informative column and would like you to start immediately. We would like to post this by tomorrow morning, and to keep the column weekly, we would need your first draft in two days, please let us know if this is feasible. You will be paid for both articles at the time of the finished articles being ready to post due to the trial nature of the role.
Your column does not end with your name, so I wanted to clarify if you wanted your pen name to be Penelope Featherington or if it was purposeful of not writing your name to stay anonymous? If so, we would need a moniker ASAP to release this.
Please let us know at your earliest convenience.
Heather
Assistant Student Pages editor.’
I’ve got it. I got the job. They wanted another article so quickly? About what? My eyes glanced to the laundry hamper, but I couldn’t recycle the same topic; I needed something new and exciting to keep me on the payroll. Searching the Manchester advice column again, I remembered the app she described, about meeting people with similar kinks or finding someone to help find those kinks. Searching the app on my phone, I bit my nails as it downloaded agonisingly slowly. Taking the brief minute to respond to the email, I accepted the job position and hesitated on my pen name, just as the app finished installing and opened, calling for a username too.
What did the other app suggest? Whistledown? Taken. Somehow that moniker was taken on a kink website, Lady Whistledown, however, was not. Adding my personal information went as quickly as before; it was only when I got to the kink page that I hesitated. There were so many options to tick. Clicking interested in all, I unchecked Knives, bodily fluids, whips and any other extremities I couldn’t find myself enjoying.
The page then loaded with an optional questionnaire that would attempt to send better matches my way.
‘I like being told what to do sexually’, I guess I preferred that to being in charge
‘I like being told what to do in everyday situations’, I mean, it did help not get things wrong.
‘I like being cared for.’ Who didn’t?
‘I like being humiliated’ God, no.
‘I like being called a good girl’ … yes.
By the end, I was identified as a mostly submissive receiver, and they suggested soft bdsm, DDLG, and dom/sub communities. Knowing roughly what two meant, I clicked on DDLG and scanned the overview.
‘DDLG is an acronym that stands for “Daddy Dom Little Girl”. DD/LG is a type of BDSM relationship where the dominant partner takes on the role of a nurturing OR strict caregiver (ie: Daddy), while the submissive takes on the role of a youthful “child” (ie: Little Girl).’
That didn’t sound so bad compared to some of the things I was imagining being suggested. Maybe I could reach out to one of the 350+ members in this community to sort of interview for the next column.
My excitement at my new job amplified with the ideas turning in my head as I mindlessly clicked on a profile after scrolling the member list.
Wandering Traveller.
His bio was only a few sentences with his preferences of gender and sexuality above it.
‘Just someone trying to find the right person to care for, to be there for them and build trust so that we can both trust each other to meet our needs. I like being a daddy to a little girl who just wants to be pampered, spoiled, and loved, with some discipline to add to the fun. Never been allowed to fully explore this dynamic long term due to travel, but am seeking that ultimately.’
He sounded nice and sincere; maybe he wouldn’t mind telling me about the lifestyle and what it was about. I clicked to message him, but it was locked; the conditions read that messages revealed photos from the users’ profiles, but my account was locked until I uploaded a picture of myself. Too deep into my path, I quickly uploaded the selfie I used on nearly all my social media profiles and finally sent the message, not wanting to lose my possible source.
‘Hi Traveller, I’m very new to all of this, maybe you could talk to me about being a daddy, walk me through it?’
Happy that this might secure my next paycheck, I finally felt the adrenaline fade. Being reminded of the column, I finished my email back to the university, deciding on my name, Lady Whistledown, for easy remembrance, logging into all these accounts I might need to make.
A notification came through, he had responded.
‘Hi, how new are we talking? Because I would be happy to help no matter what, but I need to know our starting point. I would more than happy to play with you.’
Play with me? Shit, my message sounded like a pickup line instead of a journalist finding information. Quickly clicking on his message to straighten this out, another message came through as the app opened.
‘Want to play with me, Penelope?’
My blood ran cold at him identifying me. Did I accidentally give the website my real name? Clicking back from the messages landed me on his profile, and my whole body froze. The pictures were unlocked, and I knew my pictures were available to him, too.
I was staring at Colin Bridgerton.