Please make me your sub

Kyra wiped down the sticky counter of the small diner where she worked part-time. As a student, juggling college classes and this dead-end job should have been a stepping stone to something better, but it was just another way to escape the hell at home. 

The tips were meager, the customers rude, but it kept her mind occupied—away from the bruises blooming under her long-sleeved uniform, away from the suicidal whispers that haunted her nights. Her father's latest rage had left her with a split lip and a throbbing headache, but she'd covered it with makeup, forcing a smile for the patrons. Just get through the shift, she told herself. One hour at a time.

The dinner rush was picking up. Kyra moved on autopilot, jotting down orders for a family of four, her pen scratching against the notepad. 

Then, a voice cut through the din—deep, composed, with an undercurrent of authority that made her freeze. It was familiar, like a echo from that shadowy bar. Heart pounding, she turned slowly, her eyes landing on the corner booth.

There he was: the Head Master from the BDSM club, sitting with a stunning woman who exuded confidence in her tailored blazer and red lipstick. Her laughter was soft, melodic, as she touched his hand across the table—a gesture of easy intimacy. Kyra felt a sharp, inexplicable pang in her chest. 

Jealousy? Why? She didn't even know him. But seeing him there, so poised and unattainable, with someone who looked like she belonged in his world, twisted something inside her. 

Of course, she thought bitterly. Why would a man like that look twice at a broken mess like her? Fate's just mocking me now, throwing him in my path everywhere.

Their eyes met across the crowded restaurant. His gaze was calm, unreadable, those intense eyes locking onto hers without a flicker of surprise. Kyra's breath hitched; she felt exposed, as if he could see the fresh welts hidden under her clothes, the despair clawing at her soul. 

Flustered, she whipped around, nearly dropping her notepad. Get a grip, she scolded herself. He's just a customer. Probably doesn't even remember you.

"Kyra!" her manager, a gruff man named Tony, barked from behind the counter. "Table 12 needs service. They're VIPs—big spenders. Don't screw it up."

Her stomach dropped. Table 12 was his booth. "Can't someone else—"

"No. Go." Tony's tone left no room for argument.

Swallowing hard, Kyra approached, her legs feeling like lead. From this close, he was even more intimidating, his dark shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at the power beneath. The woman smiled warmly, oblivious to Kyra's turmoil. He, however, kept his gaze fixed on her the entire time, silent and steady, like a predator assessing prey.

"Good evening," Kyra murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She kept her eyes on her notepad, avoiding his stare. "What can I get for you?"

The woman glanced at the menu. "I'll have the grilled salmon with a side salad, dressing on the side. And a glass of Chardonnay."

Kyra nodded, scribbling it down. Then, silence. She risked a glance up, his eyes were still on her, unblinking. 

She gulped but blushed. "And for y-you, sir?"

He leaned back slightly, a faint curve to his lips that wasn't quite a smile. "What's the specialty tonight? I'd like your recommendation."

Kyra's cheeks flushed. Why was he asking her? The menu was right there. It felt intentional, like he was forcing her to engage, to speak when all she wanted was to fade into the background. Her mind raced—did he recognize her from the bar? Was this some game? 

"Uh... the ribeye steak is popular," she stammered, her voice pitifully small. "Medium rare, with garlic mashed potatoes. It's... hearty."

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving her face. "That sounds perfect. Make it rare, though. And a whiskey, neat."

As she wrote it down, her hand trembled slightly. The woman's brow furrowed in mild curiosity, but she said nothing. Kyra mumbled a quick "Coming right up" and fled to the kitchen, her heart racing. Why did his presence unsettle her so much? It was like he saw through her facade, straight to the scared girl underneath.

She delivered their food quietly, avoiding eye contact, but she could feel his gaze burning into her. When they finished, she cleared the plates, and as she picked up the check, she noticed the tip: $100 on a $50 bill. 

Her eyes widened. It was too generous, almost suspiciously so. Uneasy, she pocketed it, a strange warmth blooming in her chest. For the first time in forever, she felt... seen. Protected, in a way she couldn't explain. But why? What did he want from her?

The shift ended late, and Kyra trudged home under the streetlights, the tip money a small comfort in her pocket. But as she approached the rundown house, her blood ran cold. Two burly men stood at the door, their faces shadowed and menacing. Debt collectors— she recognized the type from her father's endless troubles.

"Where's your old man?" one growled, cracking his knuckles.

"He's not home," Kyra whispered, her voice trembling. "What do you want?"

The other sneered, stepping closer. "He owes us 5 grand. Gambling debts. If he don't pay, we take it out on what's his. That means you, sweetheart. We'll sell your pretty little body to cover it—plenty of buyers for a girl like you."

Terror gripped her. "I don't have that kind of money."

They exchanged glances, laughing cruelly. "Two days, kid. Or you're ours." They shoved past her, leaving her shaking on the doorstep.

When her father stumbled in an hour later, reeking of booze, Kyra confronted him in the living room, her voice cracking with desperation. "Dad, there were men here. They said you owe them money. They threatened me—said they'd sell me if you don't pay!"

He laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "So what? You think you're special? Pay it yourself, you useless girl." His eyes narrowed at the bulge in her pocket. "What's that? Hiding cash from me?"

Before she could react, he lunged, ripping the tip money from her. "No, Dad, please—that's mine!"

His fist slammed into her face, splitting her lip anew. "Everything's mine, you bitch!" Kicks rained down—her ribs, her stomach—each one driving the air from her lungs. 

She curled up, sobbing pitifully. "Stop... it hurts... please..."

He finally tired, snatching the bills and storming off. "Worthless, just like your mother."

Kyra dragged herself to her room, locking the door with bloody fingers. She collapsed on the bed, bleeding from her nose and mouth, every breath a agony. 

Tears soaked her pillow as suicidal thoughts flooded in: End it now. Jump out the window. No more pain. 

But then, her eyes fell on the drawer. The black card.

She pulled it out, the dim bedside lamp revealing embossed letters she hadn't noticed before: Silas Blackwood. The name suited him—dark and powerful. She remembered his calm gaze at the restaurant, the way it lingered like he knew her pain, like he could shield her from it. 

Maybe it's not coincidence, she thought, clutching the card. Maybe it's fate because she can't live like this anymore.

Determination flickered through the despair. She showered gingerly, wincing at the hot water on her wounds, then dressed carefully: a simple black dress that hid most bruises, makeup to cover the rest. Her reflection stared back—fragile, pitiful, but resolved. She slipped out into the night, hailing a cab to the alleyway bar.

The bouncer eyed her suspiciously but let her in after a nod—perhaps recognizing her from before. The moment she entered, the room shifted. The bold, erotic atmosphere hit her like a wave: dim lights flickering over scenes of dominance and submission, the crack of a whip, moans of ecstasy. 

All eyes turned to her—a fragile girl in a sea of leather and power, her wide eyes and timid stance screaming vulnerability. Whispers rippled about her. 

Kyra scanned the crowd, spotting him across the room at a secluded table, surrounded by other men in suits—fellow Doms, perhaps, discussing club matters. Silas Blackwood sat at the head, his expression as unreadable as ever.

Without hesitation, driven by desperation, she ran straight to his table. The room blurred around her; conversations hushed. She dropped to her knees in front of him, head bowed, voice breaking in a pitiful plea.

"Please...take me as your sub. I... I can't do this alone anymore. I'll do anything. Just... save me."

For the first time, the cold, composed Master looked shocked. His eyes widened, not with lust, but disbelief at her boldness. The men around him exchanged stunned glances. 

He stared at her in silence, the entire room holding its breath, as if something forbidden had just begun.