In my early drafts of TIGHT, 'Kitten' was named Golden, and she was Brett's ex-girlfriend. And ... she fell in love with her Master. Here's a peek into when she was taken, along with a few more deleted scenes from that version.
The Master came into my life on a Friday.
The beat pumped so hard it hurt. I raised my arms over my head and swiveled my hips, the guy behind me swearing into my ear, his mouth lowering to my neck and I felt the wet swipe of his tongue before I pushed away. I could taste the smoke, it hung in the air like a veil of energy, the wisps of cancer dancing when the crowd jumped as one. I caught the eye of Shanika and smiled. She moved closer, our hands joining and we shouted the last lines of the song together as the push of hysteria and alcohol hit a level of sound that was deafening. I don’t think she heard my cry of pain when the needle jabbed in. I reached out and gripped her arm. Felt my knees give way. Saw the confusion in her eyes before everything went black.
When I opened my eyes, I was still in the club. The beat still hard, the lights still a dizzy array of dark with colors. Shanika leaned over me, alcohol on her breath, her hands on my cheeks. “We’re finding a doctor, stay with me.” I blinked at her and tried to speak. Tried to lift my head. Felt the rip of hair as someone’s heel caught. Her and I, in a sea of bodies, the bass not starting, the party barely interrupted by our huddle of confusion. Then, bodies parted and Shanika moved, making room for a new person, a man who knelt beside me, whose hands ran over me and lifted my wrist, held it as my eyelids were pulled and I stared into his face. Handsome. Safe. He smiled down at me and I tried to return the gesture.
“I think she’s been drugged.” He turns, our eye contact breaking, his mouth moving to Shanika’s ear, a bit of jealousy coursing through me despite my haze. “We need to take her to the hospital. I have a car.”
A hospital. My mind seizes, taking me to the place in Chicago. The smell of bleach and antiseptic. The still body of John, on the bed. The uncompassionate face of the busy doctor. The drone of the machine when he flatlined. Hospitals are where people go to die. I found that out at seventeen. Two years later, I had had no new evidence to the contrary. I gripped the stranger’s arm and searched his eyes for reassurance. Found them in the warmth of his smile. He leaned forward and I felt his hands as they moved underneath me, lifted me into his chest. “It’ll be okay,” he whispered into my ear. “I’ll take care of you.”
I curled into his chest and fought off another wave of blackness. Inhaled the scent of him, strong and clean and so different from this club. A doctor. One who would take care of me. He carried me through the club and I recognized the light touch of Shanika as she trailed behind, her hand patting my shoulder when the crowd would allow it. We moved into a quieter area of the club, my eyes closing against the cloth of his shirt.
He was a doctor.
Shanika was with me.
They would protect me from the hospital.
He would take care of me.
The next time I opened my eyes was to Shanika’s scream.
I had never heard her scream before. Shanika had shrieked, hollered, and yelled. Never a scream, one of terror - not grief. I opened my eyes and tried to lift my head, tried to turn against the seat that I sat in, tried to look behind me. I couldn’t see, my body wasn’t responding, wasn’t helping. I tried to fight, succeeded in a gentle flop against the seat but I couldn’t get high or left enough to see what was happening - could only realize that I was in the front seat of a dark car and something was going on in the back seat, something with Shanika, something terrible enough to make her scream.
A hand settled on me, gentle and firm. Calming. Patting me as if nothing was wrong. I froze under its touch, unsure of its source. Unsure of why - suddenly - no sound was coming from behind me.
Then, with the hum of tires beneath us, I started to cry. I started to cry and prayed for another blackout. But it didn’t come.
Instead, I saw the moment when we came to a stop, my limited vision letting me see his hand shift the gear into park.
I heard the click of doors and felt the car lift up as someone left the backseat.
Stiffened as the door behind me opened and I heard the rustle of clothes and the clink of something - a watch? Her shoes? - Bump against the door’s window.
“See you soon.”
I heard the sound of finality, as the door shut behind her and I was alone with the doctor in the car. A doctor that probably wasn’t a doctor.
We sat there, the car in park, until another engine started. I tried to speak, tried to beg for my life, tried to beg for Shanika, but a mumble was the only thing that came out.
Spring break. It was supposed to be fun. Cancun. I’d packed sunscreen, alcohol, and swimsuits. I’d saved for four months so that I could spend three days partying away the drab pieces of my life. Had convinced Shanika to come because no one can go to Spring Break alone.
We’d had one day.
On my last morning with the Master, we eat breakfast together on the balcony. I devour eggs and bacon, he watches with a slight frown.
“Are you nervous?”
I blink. Say the answer that would make the most sense. “Yes.”
“You don’t seem nervous.”
I laugh lightly. “I’m just hungry. I haven’t had eggs in...well. A long time. Or bacon.” I smile at him and his frown deepens.
“You might as well know today’s schedule. I have business to attend to during the day, so you will be here. The team will arrive at five and dress you for dinner. I will fuck you. We will eat. Then we will leave for the tradeoff, which will happen at nine.”
I swallow. Nod. “Have you already received the money?” I steel myself, a punishment-worthy question, but he lets it slide. He’s been letting things slide for a while now.
“No. He’ll transfer it once he verifies that you are undamaged and present.”
Undamaged. I wonder if the bite mark on my shoulder, bright red this morning, counts as damage. Wonder if Master put it there on purpose, a power play to territorially mark property that is no longer his. I know that Brett will take me anyway, but Master doesn’t. I’m surprised, the Big Money so close, that he would risk it. I reach for the glass of orange juice and take a sip.
“I’m sorry that I never gave you eggs. Or a real breakfast.”
I shrug. “We had a few nice meals.” Yes. A few five-course meals, ones where I wore a collar and often ankle shackles. An early meal, in an unknown location, where I was instructed to crawl onto the center of the table and various dinner guests licked chocolate mousse off my skin.
“Not like this.” The tone of his voice let me know that his recollections echoed mine.
“It’s fine. I’m a slave. It is what it is.”
His cheek jumps, a controlled tic, and I look away.
Our last fuck is quiet, the type of fuck that is more of a mourning ritual than an erotic experience. I, at one embarrassing moment, cry - the surge of emotions, so much happening at once, breaking the thin veneer of my composure. He kisses my cheeks, cradles my face, and whispers my name. Golden. When he comes, he gasps. Grips me so hard it hurts. Buries himself so deep I moan. Rolls me onto my side, wraps his arms around my body, and stays in me so long that I almost fall asleep. Then he kisses my forehead and leaves.
Twenty minutes later, my makeup blotted, a robe pulled on and sashed, there is a knock at my door. I open it to find a polite smile, a suited woman wheeling in a tray with food. I wait her soundlessly, watching her fold out the leaves and uncover the plates, setting up an elaborate feast for one.
“Please be ready at eight-fifteen.” She turns and leaves, not waiting for a response, her short quick stride shuffling her out of the door before I can compose a question.
I stare at the food, a weight of disappointment settling on my silk-covered shoulders. Alone. Our dinner together, our last supper, would be a solo event. I should be grateful for the fine food. For the moment to compose my thoughts before I see Brett, but I am only sad. SAD. Such a tiny word for such a huge and complex emotion.
I eat a flaky white fish with crab meat on top. Open the bottle of white wine and have a glass. Push sautéed spinach around with a fork. Dig my finger into the slice of cheesecake and give it a taste. Push away from the table and return to the balcony. The balcony that I now have unfettered access to, the Master seemingly unconcerned. I settle into the lounge chaise and curl my legs to my chest. Close my eyes and listen to the waves. Try to picture tomorrow. I imagine Brett still has a plane. Will fly us home and I will see my family. I wonder what happened to my apartment. Matty, my cat. Wonder if she will still remember me or if I have burned that bridge past repair. Matty’s a fickle personality. Once clawed my couch to shreds because I switched her to dry cat food. I smile at the memory. Work through twenty more before the light behind me flips on, illuminating the cloud of mosquitoes that were about to descend on my unprotected flesh.
“Ready?” I turn my head at his voice. Feel a little like Matty, irritated at my solo dining experience, wanting to dig my claws into him and cut flesh. I swing my legs off the chair, placing my bare feet on the ground and standing.
There. There is my cut. His eyes drop down my body, my sash undone, the silk robe open, my naked body exposed, the cold air from the room floating around him and hitting my skin. His face hardens, his eyes fixated on my breasts, the nipples of which are painfully tight.
“You were told to be ready at eight-fifteen. Did you misunderstand?”
“No, I just lost track of time.” I reach over my chest, pushing the robe off my right shoulder, then my left, the silk material sliding down and puddling on the floor. “I’ll get dressed now, Master.” I step past him, his hand reaching out, catching my stomach and stopping me in place.
“Losing track of time is unacceptable. Go over to the railing. Bend over and grab it.”
I look over, wanting to read his face, but am stopped again, this time by his voice. “Don’t. Remember your training and obey.”
I lower my eyes and turn. Walk the ten steps across the wide balcony and stop a few feet from the stone railing. Bend over and grip the handrail attached to it. Lower my face until my cheek rests on the cool metal. There, I wait.
My legs are spread apart, the raw concrete floor biting into the pads of my feet as I stand slightly on my toes. I can still feel the room’s air-conditioned breeze, it now wafting over my exposed pussy, the caress of air gentle and teasing. I swallow, anticipation growing, not knowing what is coming and where.
“You know how important tonight is. And you’ve failed me. Is that how you want me to remember you? As a failure?”
I swallow, shame suddenly coming over me. I hadn’t lost track of time. I had waited, on that chair, hoping that he would come and find me. Hoping, upon seeing my naked skin, that he would decide he couldn’t part with me. I shake my head. “No sir.”
“Say my name, pet.” His open hand falls so hard on my ass that I yelp.
“No, Master.” I try to catch a breath. Try to calm the trembling of my legs.
His hand falls gently now, a second hand brushing across the other cheek, his palms squeezing and spreading my ass, the angle of his hands changing as he squats and examines me at eye-level. “Jesus, Golden.” His voice tight. “What has you so wet?”
I swallow and close my eyes. Push my lips together. The next hard spank, on the other cheek, reopens my eyes. The push in of two of his fingers, sliding in and curving, opens my mouth. I shudder around his fingers, my hands slipping on the railing as I try and lean closer to him, try to have more of his fingers in me. He pulls them out, wiping my moisture across my ass, another unexpected smack of his hand stinging across my tender skin.
“Answer me,” he growls, his fingers biting into my skin.
“Undamaged,” I whisper, a reminder. I know what I am doing with the word, know the reaction it will cause. And I want it so badly, am greedy for it, waiting, with expectant skin, when it comes.
The man I love roars, the flip of his belt’s leather slapping my ass when he rips it from his pants, the jerk of his zipper lost in my moan, his hand shoving up my back and wrapping tight around my hair, fisting in it and pulling -- at the same time as his free hand positions my hips and he shoves inside.
His fucking is harder, rawer, then I’ve ever had it. His hands slip and grip over my body as if he is trying to sample it all at once, his mouth against my back as he bends over me and fucks me like an animal.
“I will damage you in any way I see fit,” he growls against the nape of my neck. “You are mine, Golden. You have always, and will always, be mine. Tell me.”
I say nothing, the pounding of his cock, the press of his fingers as they slide from my breasts down to my clit. “Tell me,” he begs, his voice breaking.
“I am yours,” I whisper, turning my head so that he can hear. “I love you.”
The next sounds from his mouth, raw and gut-wrenching, are pure animalistic, the soundtrack to his orgasm, the soundtrack to my destruction. I buck underneath his hands and my cries join the chorus.
Thirty minutes later, his cum still wet on my thighs, I step into the dark room, a heavy chair set out for my use, and sit. Face the door and meet the eyes of my Master, his hands wrapping around my wrists. I look down, at his strong hands, watch them click handcuffs around my left wrist, his body moving around the chair as he threaded my wrist underneath one arm, then did the same with the other side. I didn’t fight, the moment when he clicked the other cuff bringing a brief surge of claustrophobia. What if there’s a fire? “He’ll pick you up here,” he says. There is a long moment of silence, one where I beg and he resists. What am I begging for? I am about to be free. Then, he speak the final words of our three-year-long relationship. “Goodbye, Golden.”
I wet my lips. “Goodbye, Master.”
When he shuts the door, the lock flipping into place, I want, for the third time in twenty-four hours, to cry.
Thank you for reading these alternative scenes! I hope you enjoyed them!