Hello. Let me start by saying sorry. I am deeply, sincerely sorry that this fic had been abandoned for so long. There are no excuses or explanations I can give that will make it any better - all I can say is, it's been a tough year. A horrible year, to some degree, and a year that tested me in unexpected ways. I am grateful to have come through it with amazing friends, a stronger support system than I ever could have asked for, and a will to keep going. Right now, I trust myself to write again, and I am hoping to earn your trust back. Here is the first update of two - the second section is going to be posted either tomorrow or Wednesday evening (depending on how free my beta will be).

Since the story hasn't been updated in years (sadly not an exaggeration), here's a quick recap:

The house is comprised of two Doms, two switches, and now, two subs: Lea and Mark, James and Jordan, Laura and Blaine. Mark is struggling to contain his Domination, and during Blaine's recovery was asked to leave the house until he and Blaine are both a little more stable. Several episodes of violence have lead Mark to hermit himself away in a motel, where we find him in the beginning of the update.

Blaine, having escaped his abusive Master, finds himself in the care of absolute strangers. They take him in, at a great risk to themselves (the law prohibits the safe-guarding of runaways), in hopes of helping him heal, but discover that the damage runs much deeper than his bruised and torn skin. Blaine has no safeword. For now, his only layer of protection is his name - the thing that gives him an identity and some sense of self-determination. He chose to reveal only the first letter of his name, his way of fighting back against his Master's title for him - whore.

Lea has reached out to Damien for assistance. In order to permanently protect the boy, she needs to find a way to sever all connections between the sub and his former Master. Ideally, that means registering the boy as a free sub. Damien's connection at a law firm could give her the resources she needs to do so, but in order to access highly classified files, Damien enlists the help of an intern, Kurt. The young Dom discovers a fraction of the battered sub's history, and with that information, he and Damien hope to free the boy and give him a new life.

And now, the update (also, preemptive apologies for everyone who likes Mark - there is a reason and a plan and it will all make sense, I promise).

Monday, Nov. 14th 3:14 PM.

Mark woke with a groan. A pounding headache and a dull pinch greeted him on the way to consciousness. Heavy with sleep, his hands groped for the clock, knocking over several beer bottles that clanged with the others scattered on the floor.

With a wince and a twitch of his lip, Mark burrowed deeper into the flat motel mattress only to find the corner of a pizza box digging into his hip. The ache irritated, but he couldn't muster enough energy to care. Teetering between "still drunk" and "hung-over", Mark had just enough alcohol in his blood to dull his senses into a monotone buzz. Perhaps that's why he didn't register the heavy pounding on the door until someone shouted.

"Open the fucking door, you piece a shit! Get up, motherfucker!"

Mark wondered whether that was for him, nuzzling deeper into the scratchy pillow. The knocking persisted, rattling the paper-thin walls of the motel. Wolf. The thought crashed onto the beach of Mark's consciousness. A big, bad wolf. Who will huff, and will puff, and will blow the house down. Mark tried to smirk at the thought, his lazy muscles pulling of a half-hearted grimace. Again the walls reverberated with another round of heavy knocks, but this time, Mark's nose flared in irritation. Like molasses, his annoyance slowly dripped into his awareness, seeping through his pores into his veins and setting his blood on fire. A fresh wave of cleansing fury swept through him. The domination, which had snoozed in a pool of alcohol until then, sobered and roared. Ignited, Mark's body leaped.

Bright rays of clear November sun pierced Mark's eyes. Stumbling, he leaned into the creaking doorway as his disoriented domination sought its footing. Before he could make out the blurry shape dancing in a sea of light, he heard a growl.

"Get the fuck out." Two beady eyes, set deeply in a soft, fat face, glared up at Mark. Squinting, Mark got the general impression of a sweat-blotched, fiercely red face with two bright patches over sagging cheeks, all doused with a thin sheen of perspiration. It was the motel manager.

Trying to focus, while keeping upright quickly, sapped Mark's energy. He hinged against the doorway and swung out of the manager's way as the meaty man forced his way inside.

"What the fuck?" The intruder made a clumsy twirl, gesturing around the room. "What the fuck is this? You son of a bitch! What've you been doin' to my property?"

In the dim light of the room, it was easier to see, not that there was much to admire. The floor was littered with confetti of torn wrappers. Bottles (short-brown ones, tall-clear ones, fat-bottomed and long-necked and all empty) spouted across the floor – a half-spilled, half-drunk forest. And the carpet – a soiled, splattered mess, sprinkled with thick, sticky liquor - crackled with every step from abandoned potato and tortilla chips. And over it all, upturned furniture and overturned lamps. A mild curiously weld up in Mark – what the fuck happened here?

Saturday Nov. 12th

By 10:35AM, Mark had finished his second beer. In his defense, it was cheap shit that barely measured up to 5% alcohol, but still, it was his second beer and it hadn't even hit brunch hour. This was a fact Mark took guilty pleasure in as he rolled it over in his mind.

After surviving Friday night, he'd earned it. Sleeping pills or not, the domination owned him. It brought him nightmares and twisted the muscles of his calves with cramps and pains that left him breathless. His hours of sleep were punctuated by sudden onslaughts of agony that threw him into breathless consciousness. By the time the first beams of light broke through the tattered curtains, Mark gratefully abandoned sleep for alcohol. Two bottles in, the domination started to let up, too lazy and boozed up to wring Mark dry. The war in his body between his domination and his will seemed to have only one middle ground – tipsy sloth.

Saturday Nov. 12th

By 3:04PM, an empty six-pack, rolled between several delivery boxes and an open bottle of whiskey, stood on the bedside table. But the alcohol stopped working. It no longer drowned out the domination; with every sip, the domination grew more persistent, like an obnoxious, loud drunk in the corner of a sleazy bar. That didn't stop Mark from reaching for the tall, amber bottle of rye, but he did so with annoyed resentment – as if the alcohol had betrayed him somehow.

By 4:34PM, the resentment bloomed. Mark itched with irritation. His thoughts crawled through his mind like an army of angry ants on a march to find enemies in every memory. Quickly, they devoured every positive emotion he'd felt towards his colleagues and classmates before biting into his household.

Laura – so weak. Such a weak, stupid sub. Do you remember how she flinched? How she recoiled from your command? Who the fuck does she think she is? It's a privilege to answer a Dom's order. That little bitch. Weak, stupid little bitch. How would it feel to have her on her knees, where she belongs, to have her panting at your say-so, to watch her mouth gagged and silent as her eyes scream for mercy? And James, oh James. One of those switches who plays to the whistle of the weakest fiddle, Dom for the pathetic and sub to the strong. How any sub could submit to a switch is incredible – why would you ever kneel for a man who spent time on his knees?

But then, there's Lea. Domme Lea. Lea who runs the house and runs the show. Lea with enough secrets to bury her alive, and what Mark wouldn't give to wield that shovel. That woman, the woman who threw him out, who sent him out of his own house, all for a sub. A wretched, useless sub. How he could squeeze her, drown her, sink his fury into her and let her struggle for a single breath. How he could push her to her knees and make her beg for his forgiveness. How he could hurt her, cut her, bruise her, punish her. She's been on her knees before, why not for him? The proud and fierce Domme, begging for his attention, for his clemency. How he would relish the tears in her eyes as she watched him take a hand to that sub of hers, that boy from the streets who'd die from a breeze, much less a true Dom's wrath. He can just imagine that scrawny, sickly body take a few more bruises. Not the bruises from some other Dom, some other hand, but from his hand, his power. Oh, just the thought of it.

Mark's eyes rolled back as he salivated at the image of a broken sub whimpering at his feet.

Sunday Nov. 13th

Mark woke up in a puddle of cum. Some crusted on his thighs, clinging painfully to tightly coiled hairs. Some pooled wetly across his pelvis. Wet and lax, his cock rested against his empty balls. Sweat ran down his body and dripped into his crack, sloshing between his cheeks. The humidity of his groin numbed him to the sensation of his latest orgasm; the sharpness of release melted into the subtropical heat.

A glance to the right proclaimed that it was 7:53AM. It would be a long day.

Sunday Nov. 13th

How the number made its way into his phone, Mark didn't know. He couldn't remember picking up his cell phone. He couldn't remember dialing, or what he'd said. But he did know that in a minute, there'd come a knock on his door. When it did, he didn't feel arousal or anxiety or even anticipation. All he felt was a wave of calm intention – the intention to thoroughly destroy the unsuspecting creature who was about to land in his lap.

The hooker leaned against the doorframe, one leg propped over the right. Her lips were caked in lipstick, probably to hide the nips and bruises left there by previous clients. No lipstick will be able to hide what he would do to her. The domination in his veins surged and purred at the sight of a fresh victim. Mark opened the door a little wider and motioned towards the bed. Her steps, not hesitant exactly but stilted, cleared a path across the floor.

"Long weekend?" She asked as she smirked over her shoulder.

He liked having her here. Somehow, she completed the picture. Mark was in no hurry, choosing to lean back against door and watch as she assessed her space. It was hard to resist the laughter that threatened to bubble out of him and ruin the game – it was so much better to watch her go through all this effort to convince herself she's safe than shatter her hopes right from the start. The only thing more delicious than watching someone buy your lie is watching them fabricate the lie for you.

She shrugged off a gaudy, glittery mess of a jacket, leaving her in a see-through dress, ripped stockings, and bright red, pleather boots with nicks and scratches Mark could see from across the room. The purple mesh of the dress clashed horribly with the boots, although he supposed the point of the getup was the leopard-print, barely-there bra and thong.

Clearly, she noticed his roaming eyes and struck a pose to better direct them to the swell of her ass.

"Enjoying the goods? Maybe you should come over here and enjoy them a little closer."

Mark pushed himself off the wall but didn't come any closer.

"Strip."

The command seized the sub's body and for a moment, she lost her breath. Her hands scrambled to obey as Mark's unrestrained and gleeful domination lashed at her, burning her muscles and searing her veins, burning off her will and replacing it with his. There she stood, nude and bared to him.

"Sit," her knees buckled, "spread those whore legs. Let me see what my money's getting me."

Slow, even steps brought him closer to the hooker, shivering and trembling on the edge of the bed. Her knees knocked together before slowly opening, inching apart before settling a few feet apart. With a light touch to her shoulder, Mark traced a path up her neck, through her hair before gipping the back of her neck. He leaned down and, with a hot exhale, breathed into her ear, "You fucking filthy piece of trash. Let's see that dripping pussy. Let's get a whiff of that sub stench."

His hands, too cold and too rough, slid down her sides to grip her hips, the down past her thighs before settling on her knees. With a jerk, the sub found herself on her back, legs in the air, and his body flush with hers, elbows digging into her quads and twisting her bones out of their joints. She hiccupped on some words of protest, but the domination cruising through her didn't let the sound past her lungs.

Mark buried his face between her legs, one hand finding the cool glass of a long empty bottle.

Right before he pushed the neck right into her dry, dirty hole, he heard a scream, and the word "red."

He savored fucking the safeword right out of her.

Sunday night, the boy had his first nightmare. Lea knew they were coming, anticipated them in the helpless way one waits for Monday or bad weather. The weekend had passed in blissful bustle. Someone was always cooking or telling stories, and making sure that B was warm and fed and had plenty of water and "are you sure you don't need anything else?" The boy was very quiet, a shy nod here and there amid bright smiles and nervous twitches. Lea kept watching for signs that he needed a break, needed a moment to himself, but B seemed content to lose himself in the sound of boiling kettles and clinking pans. His wide eyes took in the sight of smiles and laughter as if he were a child watching his first snow-fall. His nose twitched at every new dish plopped before him, and Lea would watch the rise and fall of his chest at every deep inhale with pride. Every moment that he breathed and lived was an act of defiance against his former life, the life that aimed to tear him apart and leave him broken.

Although he shuffled when he walked, coughed wetly and loudly, and shivered once in a while, B seemed uncannily alright. Granted, he ate gingerly (only a tablespoon at a time – by the end of the weekend, their fridge was stocked with enough meals to get them through the winter) and spoke rarely, but he tolerated touch when James patted him on the shoulder, and he smiled hesitantly whenever Laura garnished a dish with a bouquet of parsley. He never ate without permission, but by Sunday evening, his hands stopped shaking every time he reached for a spoon. Lea felt guilty for her suspicion, as if anticipating his breakdown would somehow hasten its onset, especially when the rest of the house was joyfully enjoying B's recovery. She couldn't help but brace for the moment when B's past caught up with him, when his body grew strong enough to distract itself from fighting off infections and healing bruises only to fall prey to B's memories. As it turned out, that moment occurred on Monday, at 2:24AM.

Blaine burned. The flames danced below his skin, licking playfully and delighting in his torture. His skin bubbled and charred, and Blaine watched it puff and morph, angry and red, until the skin grew too thin to contain the heat. Then the redness of it would give to a flaky blackness and burst. First his fingers, then his arms, elbows, legs, belly - Blaine watched his body burn, slowly turning to charcoal. Something peaceful and comforting settled over him. He liked knowing what would happen next, enjoyed the repetitive reliability of the blister-burst cycle. Finally, when the last hint of red gave way to black and his extinguished body released its last heated breath, Blaine closed his eyes and quenched the fire.

Blaine froze. Blaine froze on a cold November night, huddled under the porch of the only house that glowed in the dark. The air around had pierced him with its icy touch, frost dancing across his wave-blue skin. Some hours ago, when Blaine was merely dying, the snowflakes prodded and teased him with their cold hands, giggling as they melted right into him. But now, when Blaine had no more warmth to give, the snowflakes quietly circled over his head, recognizing him as one of their own – another cold, death thing in the night.

Blaine woke. The room was dark and cold. Darker and colder than his dreams. His fingers twitched, seeking warmth and comfort from the sheets. But they encountered gravel. Blaine froze. His stiff body tightened, curling inwards, skin tingling and mind racing to outrun (faster, faster, if you run, it won't catch you) the inevitable realization that he was home. By force of will, he slowed his breathing and for just one more second held on to hope.

His eyes fluttered open, so slowly, so hesitantly. The room around him was striped by the even spacing of the bars on his cage. Across the room, the water heater rumbled and creaked just as it had for months and years of Blaine's life. Blaine felt heavy, the pain of his jumbled joints pressing him into the floor, and he wondered if he could stay here forever, until the next dream caught him and took him away. But his hand twitched for the lock as if it knew he was meant to open it. Blaine squeezed through the door, his body oddly too big, and straightened up to full height. The room felt tighter, smaller, as if the ceiling and walls decided to huddle together in the night. Blaine climbed the stairs and pushed through the door. The hall was lined with thin slivers of light, marking the entrances first to the study and then the bedroom. Blaine's bare feet carried him into the silent kitchen, where the morning light was the brightest, dancing off millions upon millions particles of dust. Nothing felt odd, except for him. Nothing was out of place, except he did know his own. Had he always been here? In this silent grave?

The tile was cool under his feet as he approached the door to the world beyond. His hands pressed to the gain of wood, trying to hear the heartbeat of the world outside. But he didn't hear it. The wood stayed silent and dead.

Master would be waking soon. And Blaine would have his breakfast ready. And Blaine would scream and bleed and heal and bleed again. And every night, he'd run to the world beyond, run through his dreams, escape and not look back. But every morning, he would wake to bars and chains. Because whore lived in him, and would call him back.

Lea grabbed the boy's hand and held on. She would see him through this nightmare. And all the nightmares still to come. She would not let go.