Docile

by K. M. Szpara

  “And on what occasion.”

  “They’re considered casual, but you can dress them up with the right top and accessories. Want to try them on?”

  “I think I do.”

  “Might want to put your new underwear on, first. Once we get these leggings on, you might not be able to get them off. You might not want to.”

  “Okay,” I say, because that sounds nice.

  “Do you want me to turn around, while you change your underwear?”

  “No, it’s okay.” I push them down to my knees, then step out. Onyx’s mouth hangs open as if he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he clears his throat and glances between me and a nearby rack of ties. I’m used to people seeing me naked. I’m surprised he’s not more so, himself, acting the part of an on-med.

  “I’m not holding your dirty underwear,” he says, remembering himself. “Put them in the package.”

  I take the new pair out and put my old pair in. They’re almost indistinguishable, except for the color. I pull the new ones on, stretch and flex, and know I made the right decision. “I like these,” I say, smoothing my palms down the front of my thighs.

  “Good,” Onyx says. “Leggings?”

  It takes a bit of maneuvering to get them on correctly, but once the fabric is untwisted and unbunched, they bend and move as easily as my underwear. I bend my knees, lifting each as high as they’ll go. “They’re nice. No pockets, though.” I mime pushing my hands into side pockets.

  “Yeah, but what are you carrying around, really?” Onyx says. A fair point.

  “What kind of shirt do I wear with these?” I look down at my legs. They look long and athletic. I feel the urge to run my regular route, around the harbor. The route that begins and ends in Alex’s home.

  Onyx shrugs.

  “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

  “No.”

  The shirts section is the largest in the whole closet. Since I don’t know where to start, I choose the closest rack. I know what I don’t like. I can work from that. From the rainbow of tee shirts, I pull several that are long and colorful. I’d prefer something a little nicer, but they are comfortable. Most of the button-downs stop awkwardly at my waist, where they want to be tucked into slacks and belted down or strapped on with suspenders. I trace my fingers down the front of my chest, where those lines would lie.

  “Why do you keep doing that?” Onyx asks. He’s been mostly quiet, not wanting to influence my decisions, so the question startles me.

  I don’t have to answer him. Should I not, to prove it? Before I can decide, I feel the answer coming up in my throat like vomit. “I miss the feeling.”

  “Of what?”

  “Straps. Suspenders, harnesses.” I rub my hands over my arms and squeeze my own shoulders. “I like the pressure. I miss it.”

  “Clothes aren’t the only way to meet that need,” he says. “But that’s for a different day.”

  I assume he’s talking about sex, from the way he shrugged off the topic, and I decide to move on as well. From the rack, I pull a button-down that’s longer than the others, with a floral print that Alex would’ve picked out. “This one,” I say, holding it up.

  This time, I don’t wait for Onyx to offer to turn around. I take off my shirt, toss it on the floor, and pull the new shirt on. The sleeves come down around my hands, but no matter. I roll them up one, two, three times—up to my elbows. Button the black buttons up the front, stopping short of my neck. I’m not going to wear a tie or bow tie. I can leave it open.

  “How do I look?” I ask Onyx, holding my arms out to my sides. The shirt stops in the middle of my thighs, almost like a dress.

  “Pretty damn cute.” His eyes trail up and down my body, like I’ve been looked over, so many times before. “I’d fuck you.”

  “You already have.”

  He shrugs. “I’d do it again.”

  I look down at my bare feet so I don’t have to look Onyx in the eyes. “Can—can I ask you a question?” It’s personal. I’m not sure I should.

  “Of course. Whatever you want.”

  “Why do you keep saying stuff like that, to me? I know you were talking about sex, earlier, too.” I fiddle with the cuff of my shirt so I won’t play with the cuff around my wrist. Onyx doesn’t like that.

  “It’s called flirting.” He winks.

  “Aren’t you, um.” I look in the direction of the first warehouse, where Onyx and Dutch had talked to me about their relationship. “With Dutch? Does he mind?”

  “Nah, we’ve negotiated that we can flirt with and fuck other people; we’re poly. He has another relationship with Opal, but she and I aren’t a thing. We all live together because of the fake Docile shtick.”

  “Cool,” I say, and then, “my parents are poly, too,” because I don’t know what else to add. “My mom and dad are each other’s primary partners, as are Nora and— Well, her husband died while he was a Docile. They all loved one another. Now that Nora’s husband’s gone, and my mom’s no longer herself…”

  “What about you?” Onyx asks, breaking the silence. “Ever consider multiple partners?”

  “Before I sold our debt, I’d never considered any partners, to be honest. Didn’t have the energy, after taking care of the farm and my family and community. But now … I don’t know. I don’t think there’s enough space inside me for more than one relationship at a time.”

  “You don’t have to be in love with someone to fuck them. You know that.”

  “I do, I—” I know because Alex and I fucked multiple times before I fell in love with him. I’m afraid to say it out loud. Afraid the words will undo all the work I’ve done so Onyx and Eugenia and Verónica will believe me, that I love Alex, now. I didn’t always, though, and now I wonder whether or how much it colors my memories of him. The notion is uncomfortable.

  Onyx dumps the rest of the clothes I’ve picked out, along with my dirty underwear, into my arms and says, “You don’t have to figure it all out, now. I was curious, is all. Seems like we’re done here, though.”

  “Yeah, this is good.” I readjust my hold. I’m leaving here with more than clothes. With doubts, but also with help. Maybe, a friend.

  * * *

  The rest of Onyx’s “help” is harder. He never tells me what to do, and the constant guessing stresses me to the point of inaction, more than once. Other people at Empower Maryland follow his lead and bombard me with questions, all day.

  “What do you want?”

  “Are you sure you like that?”

  “Maybe you only do because Alex told you.”

  “Try something different.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Stop!” I shout, during dinner. Everyone stops. Eugenia, Onyx, Roger—half a dozen other people I’ve just met. They’re all staring at me, these people I don’t really know—who don’t know me or what I’ve been through.

  “Please, stop,” I say, softening my words so they won’t think I’m losing it. Regressing—I’m trying, but I’m shaking so hard, my utensils clang onto my dish when they fall from my hands. “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “Elisha, it’s okay,” Eugenia says. “We all know how hard you’re working.”

  I grip my cuff to try to make my hands stay still. “I need a break; I need—”

  Onyx pushes his chair out from the table with a loud screech and takes my hand. “I know what you need.”

  I go with him, without question. I don’t need to know where we’re going or why, because he does. I am happy for him to take the lead, because I can’t right now. I follow with trust—without knowing or caring where we’re going—and soon I find myself in a room with no windows, a desk, and a standard-issue pullout couch. A thin, expensive-looking tablet rests on the desk. A flannel shirt hangs over the arm of the unfolded sofa.

  “Take off your leggings, then put your hands on the desk and look at the wall.” Onyx releases me, then locks the do
or.

  Several days ago, I’d have been afraid, but I’m not, now. I remove my leggings, leaving my shirt and underwear on, then place my palms flat on the desk and train my eyes on the gray wall. Beside me, I hear a drawer open and shut. Hear the creak of Onyx’s feet as he paces back and forth. A soft shuffling of cloth.

  “If I’m going too fast or too far for you, I want you to say the word ‘yellow.’”

  “Okay.”

  “And if you want me to stop, ‘red.’ Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “Yes, I understand,” I say louder. Always answer aloud when people address you.

  “Good. I’m going to touch you, but I’m not going to fuck you, do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I repeat, the monotony comforting. “I understand.”

  “Good. Spread your legs wider.” Onyx toes my feet until they’re where he wants them.

  I feel the reassuring tension of rope wrapping around my left ankle and the cinch of movement and tightening. A quiet moan slips from between my parted lips, as my eyes flutter closed. When Onyx does the same to the right, slivers of pleasure embed themselves in my legs like splinters.

  “Are you going to be loud?” Onyx’s hand slides to rest on the right side of my ass. The thick, flexible fabric of my new boxer briefs the only thing separating his palm from my skin. He pushes it down.

  “I…”

  His hand disappears, leaving a cold echo in its place. Then, a hard slap and shock of pain that resonates through my body. I shudder and curl my fingers against the wooden surface of the desk. Arch my back. Whimper.

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” Onyx says. “You’re so pent up.” His palm collides with my ass again; fingers dig into the flesh. “Let it out.”

  I suck air through my teeth, hissing. Holding my breath until his next slap knocks it free from my lungs. I welcome his switch to the other side and pull at the ropes around my ankles when he returns to the right, hitting the throbbing spot over and over until my limbs tingle and I can’t hold myself up anymore.

  My elbows thud against the desk, as I fall onto my forearms. I rest my sweaty forehead on the backs of my hands and catch my breath.

  Onyx slides his hand over the swell of my ass, up my back, and rests it on my left shoulder as he bends over, beside me. “How are you feeling?”

  “Good,” I whisper.

  “Do you want more, or do you want to stop?”

  “I want to stop.”

  “Too much pain?”

  I shake my head. “Can’t stand up.”

  “Okay, let me untie you. Don’t move yet.” Onyx’s weight disappears, but I feel his fingers at my ankles, the warm friction of rope sliding against my skin, and cold heat of blood rushing back into my feet. I don’t move until he returns and says, “Easy, now.”

  Slowly, I bring my feet closer together. My knees wobble, but Onyx puts an arm around my waist, carrying some of my weight. “Would you like some water?”

  “In a minute.”

  “Do you want to lie down?”

  I nod. Onyx helps me to the pullout couch, where I sprawl on my stomach. “Thank you,” I say.

  “Any time you need something like this, let me know,” he says. “Will you be okay while I get you some water?”

  I nod, my energy gone, my body tenderized. If Onyx returns, I don’t know. I’m asleep before he can.

  52

  ALEX

  When Dutch comes to visit me at Ellicott Hart, I’m allowed a pair of red shorts without a belt, a blue-and-white-striped long-sleeved shirt, and casual loafers without laces. A mockery of sailing wear. After trying to leave, twice, I’ve been labeled a danger to myself and others. My suite has been downgraded to a dormitory-sized room with furniture that’s fixed to the walls and floor. My restricted internet, disabled. I’m surprised they let me have visitors at all.

  “You’ve looked better,” Dutch says, as we stroll through a gated courtyard.

  We’ve been given the space to ourselves, but I can still see the orderlies watching us from a distance. I glance at the locked wrought-iron gate, wondering how quickly I could scale it.

  “I hate it here,” I say, smiling as we pass a security camera poking out of a hanging flowerpot.

  “I heard you trashed your first room,” Dutch says calmly, but tight-lipped. Unimpressed.

  I hate that I feel the need to prove myself. He should be on my side. “They filled it with comforting clothes and photographs and books. It smelled and felt like home—home before Elisha. They wanted me to forget.”

  “So, you destroyed it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if you want to get out of here, you need to chill out,” he scolds me.

  “But—”

  “No. Stop.” Dutch glares at me. “I’m sure it feels good to rebel, but you aren’t helping yourself, which means you’re not helping Elisha. You do still care about him, right?”

  I lower my voice. I don’t think anyone can hear me, but the confession feels illicit, here. I’m supposed to be conforming to my father’s standards. “Of course I do.”

  “Then calm down. Play along with”—he waves his hand in the air—“whatever they want from you. I’m serious. If you want to get through this trial without sending Elisha and his family to debtors’ prison—” I open my mouth to object, but Dutch cuts me off. “Yes, that could happen, so you need to play along.”

  “With their lies?” Frustration creases my forehead. I am barely keeping myself from trashing this garden, too. Its marble busts of old rich Marylanders. There’s even one of my grandmother.

  “Yes,” Dutch snips.

  I want to hit something—have wanted to hit something since Dad kidnapped me and dropped me in this fucking place. “I’m tired of playing along. That’s all I’ve done my whole life.”

  “Then you should be good at it. Stop acting like someone who needs to be controlled, or they’ll do what they need to do to control you. A locked room, restraints. Dociline. I heard you went full Mr. Hyde when your expert interviewed you. You’re making their case for them. They’re arguing that Elisha changed you.”

  “He did.”

  Dutch draws a breath, then huffs it out, as if he was about to say something. Presses his closed fist against his lips, then points at me. “Not like you changed him, though. You brainwashed him. Your attorneys are claiming Elisha seduced you, as if they’re the same thing.”

  “He didn’t seduce me. He shouldn’t even love me.”

  Dutch rolls his eyes. “No shit.”

  Even though I just said so, it hurts when Dutch agrees. Just because I know I don’t deserve Elisha’s love doesn’t mean I don’t want it. I want him so badly—more than anything. I’d give it all up, I think, to have him back. Bishop Laboratories. The penthouse. The money.

  I rethink that last one. Giving up my money means up giving up freedom. It means helplessness. Means this. I don’t know, when it comes down to it, if I’m brave enough to do that, even as much as I love Elisha.

  “How’s he doing?” I’m afraid of the answer. That he’s either better without me—flourishing away from my influence, like I wanted—or worse. Depressed, suicidal. I should want the former, but I miss him.

  “He’s—Onyx is—” Dutch clears his throat. “We’re helping him.”

  Nothing in that sentence sounds right. “Who’s ‘we’? You and Onyx? Your Docile is helping with Elisha?”

  Dutch clasps his hands and sits on a nearby bench. Taps his heel on the ground. Bites his lip. Fidgets. CFOs don’t fidget.

  “What’s going on?” I sit close to him. “Tell me. I can handle it.”

  “Can you?” he says, as if to himself.

  “Things literally can’t get any worse. So, yeah, I want the details on Elisha.”

  “Okay.” Dutch smiles—another fake for the cameras. “I’ll tell you, but you can’t react badly.”

  “Fine.” I m
aintain my facade for anyone who might be watching. “I promise.”

  “Elisha’s at Empower Maryland.”

  I feel the heat rise in my chest, and it’s an effort to keep my promise, not let it show on my face. “I’m sorry, what?”

  Dutch sighs. “I knew you’d be upset.”

  “How’d they get him?”

  “I drove him there. Alex…” Dutch looks me dead in the eyes, the echo of a smile still on his face. “I work with Empower Maryland.”

  I know I heard him say he works with Empower Maryland, but those words clash with my image of Dutch Townsend: Bishop Labs’ CFO, Patron of two Dociles and partaker of everyone else’s. One of my closest and oldest friends—how—even if it was true—

  I don’t know how to respond, especially not in public. So, I keep smiling until the muscles in my cheeks grow sore. “Is this a joke? Did Dad tell you to say this for some reason?”

  “Why would he do that? He doesn’t know. No one does.” Dutch glances nervously around the garden. Fiddles with cuff links no Empower Marylander would deign to wear, straightens a tie they’d roll their eyes at. “For once, I’m being honest with you.”

  I still can’t believe it, much less form a coherent thought. Say anything that isn’t What the fuck? “You work with the people who protested at our senior prom. Who regularly print trash in the City Paper about me?”

  Dutch nods.

  “For how long?”

  He shrugs. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes!”

  “Shh!”

  “Yes,” I whisper. “You’re one of my best friends. I’ve confided everything in you and you’ve been lying to me. For, what, months?”

  I wait.

  “Years?”

  Dutch stares at me, jaw clenched. “Sometimes I forget how privileged and sheltered you are.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” We work in the same place, live the same lifestyle, hang out with the same damn people. How can he say that to me as if I’m a different monster than he is?

  “It means we’re not the same person, Alex. At no point during our friendship did you ever stop and think that I might have a different view of the world after growing up in the fucking Silo? I mean, I guess we were friends as kids, but I don’t remember. I went on Dociline when I was seven and didn’t get off until I was twelve. Do you realize how much therapy it took for me to feel semi-normal again? I’m still dealing with it, for fuck’s sake. Your parents owned me, Alex. It feels weird calling what we had ‘friendship.’”