Chapter 1: The First Lock

Chapter 1: The First Lock

The fluorescent lights of the Department of Records hummed with a monotonous, soul-crushing drone. They painted everything in a pale, sickly green, including the scuffed linoleum floors and the face of the man behind the counter. Petunia kept her eyes fixed on a water stain on the ceiling tile directly above his head, a brown bloom of decay that felt intimately familiar.

“Last name?” the man grunted, not looking up from his computer screen. His name tag, pinned crookedly to his tight-fitting polo shirt, read ‘DALE’.

“Evans,” Brooke answered for her, her voice as smooth and cool as polished marble. She stood beside Petunia, a silent pillar of authority in her sharp, tailored suit. Her hand rested on the small of Petunia’s back, a gesture that could have been mistaken for supportive but felt like the grip of a warden.

Dale’s thick fingers hammered at the keyboard. “First name?”

Petunia’s throat went dry. Her own voice felt like a foreign object lodged in her windpipe. “P-Petunia,” she whispered. The name still felt clumsy on her tongue, a costume she hadn't yet grown into. The floral print of her A-line dress suddenly felt garish, the light layer of foundation on her face a clown’s mask.

Dale stopped typing. He looked up for the first time, his gaze sweeping over her with the slow, deliberate appraisal of a butcher eyeing a side of beef. He took in her shoulder-length hair, carefully curled at the ends, the delicate silver necklace Brooke had clasped around her neck that morning, and the demure cut of her dress. A smirk twisted his lips.

“Petunia?” he repeated, drawing the name out, his voice loud enough to make the woman in the next row of chairs look over. “That what your birth certificate says?”

“It’s a legal name change,” Brooke stated, her tone dropping a degree. It was the voice she used for underperforming subordinates, a sound that promised consequences. “The paperwork should be in order.”

Dale ignored her, his eyes still locked on Petunia. “Sure. Okay. ‘Petunia’.” He snorted, a wet, piggish sound. He leaned forward, resting his beefy forearms on the counter. “You got the balls to wear that in public, I’ll give you that, pal.”

The word hit her like a physical blow. Balls.

A dizzying wave of vertigo washed over her. The fluorescent hum intensified, warping into a high-pitched whine. Dale’s smirking face dissolved, the green-tinged office melting away like wax. The sterile scent of antiseptic and stale coffee was replaced by the familiar aroma of rain-soaked earth from their garden and the subtle, expensive perfume Brooke always wore.

The world resolved itself. She was standing not on scuffed linoleum, but on the plush cream carpet of their living room. Months ago. Back when she was still Peter.

It had been a Tuesday. He remembered because it was his day to work from home, a privilege he’d cherished. He was on his laptop, headphones on, lost in a world of pixelated flesh and feigned moans. A stupid, grubby habit he’d kept hidden from Brooke, a small, secret rebellion in their otherwise perfectly curated life. He was so engrossed, so deep in the fantasy, he didn't hear her come home early.

The first sign was the sudden absence of sound. He pulled off his headphones. The silence in the house was absolute, heavy, and profound. Then he saw her, standing in the doorway, her car keys still dangling from one elegant finger. She wasn't angry. Not in the way other people were angry. There was no shouting, no red-faced fury. There was only a chilling, arctic calm that froze the blood in his veins.

Her eyes flicked from his face to the laptop screen, where a particularly graphic scene was still playing on mute. She didn't flinch. She simply absorbed the information, her expression as unreadable as a placid lake.

“Peter,” she said, her voice quiet. He flinched as if she’d screamed. “Close the laptop.”

He obeyed instantly, his hands trembling as he snapped the lid shut. The click echoed in the silent room.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered, the words tasting like ash. “Brooke, I’m so sorry. It’s stupid, it doesn’t mean anything, I just…”

“Stop,” she commanded, and he fell silent. She walked into the room, her heels sinking into the carpet, each step a measured, deliberate footfall. She circled the sofa and stood before him, looking down. He felt like a child caught stealing. “It isn’t stupid, Peter. It’s a symptom. A sickness.”

“A sickness? It’s just porn, Brooke, it’s…”

“It’s a betrayal of what we’re building,” she cut in, her voice dangerously soft. “It’s base. It’s masculine in the most pathetic, unfulfilling way. You crave friction, release, sensation without connection. It’s an itch you can’t help but scratch, and it’s unbecoming. It’s holding you back from being the partner I need. The person you’re meant to be.”

He wanted to argue, to defend himself, to rage against the cold, clinical way she was dissecting his failure. But the shame was a physical weight, pressing him down into the cushions. He had failed her. He had brought this ugliness into their beautiful home. More than anything, he was terrified of the icy distance in her eyes. He would do anything to make it go away.

“What… what do you want me to do?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I’ll do anything. I’ll stop, I swear.”

A small, sad smile touched her lips. “I know you’ll try, my love. But your willpower is weak. Your urges betray your intentions. We can’t leave it up to you anymore.”

She walked over to the ornate mahogany sideboard, a piece of furniture they’d bought on their honeymoon in Italy. From a locked drawer, she retrieved a small, velvet-lined box. She placed it on the coffee table in front of him.

“This,” she said, her voice now imbued with an almost reverent quality, “is the solution. This is how we’re going to fix you.”

He stared at the box, his heart hammering against his ribs. With a slow, deliberate movement, she lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled on the black velvet, was a device that seemed to suck all the air from the room. It was small, crafted from a bubblegum-pink polycarbonate, its surface smooth and almost toy-like. An integrated brass lock gleamed under the lamplight. It was a chastity cage.

A hysterical laugh almost bubbled up from his chest. This was insane. A joke. A nightmare. He looked at her face, searching for any sign that this was some sort of bizarre test. He found none. She was perfectly, terrifyingly serious.

“No,” he breathed. “Brooke, no. You can’t.”

“I can,” she said, her voice hardening just enough to let him know the debate was over. “And I will. You’ve proven you can’t be trusted with your own body, Peter. So I will take responsibility for it. From now on, your pleasure, your release, your very sexuality, belongs to me. It will be a gift, given when I see fit. Not a dirty little secret you indulge in when you think I’m not looking.”

She picked up the cage. “Stand up. Take off your pants.”

A war raged inside him. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to fight, to reclaim some shred of his dignity. But the thought of her walking out that door, of being left alone with the crushing weight of his shame and her glacial disapproval, was infinitely more terrifying. He believed, in that fractured moment, that this was the only path back to her. This horrifying, humiliating act was his penance.

Slowly, as if moving through deep water, he stood up and did as he was told. He felt dissociated from his own body as she knelt before him, her touch clinical and efficient. The plastic was cool against his skin, a foreign, invasive presence. He was soft, shrunken with fear and humiliation, making it easy for her to fit the device around him.

Then came the lock. She produced a tiny, delicate key from her pocket.

She looked up at him, her eyes searching his. “This is the first day of your new life, my love,” she murmured. “A better life. You’ll see.”

He saw nothing but the end of the world.

She inserted the key. With a turn of her wrist, there was a small, sharp, metallic click.

The sound was tiny, yet it echoed with the deafening finality of a prison door slamming shut.

CLICK.

The sound of Dale’s rubber stamp slamming down on a form echoed the lock in Petunia’s memory. She flinched, her eyes snapping back into focus. She was back in the sterile green office, under the buzzing lights. Dale was sliding a piece of paper towards Brooke, his smirk wider than ever.

“All set, ‘Petunia’,” he said, his eyes raking over her one last time before dismissing her completely.

Brooke’s hand tightened on her back, guiding her away from the counter. Petunia walked on unsteady legs, the phantom weight of the cage a constant, cold reminder beneath her floral dress. The man who had just humiliated her, who had triggered the memory of her ultimate surrender, had no idea. He was just a random brute in a government office.

But as Brooke led her toward the exit, a terrifying thought began to form, a sliver of ice in her gut. With Brooke, nothing was ever random.