Dillon Hunt: Before the Fall Ch. 02

Dillon squeezed the little pink notebook containing his "new rules". Twenty-five were for his "remedial benefit". Most of them were really obvious, idiotic things like "A good slave does as they are told" or "A good slave always smiles to their betters." They were all phrased with that same dull pablum. It was an obvious trick to put him in the mindset of a "good slave" when he was memorizing them. It was a simple, obvious trick, and Dillon had to wonder if Clarissa thought it was actually going to work on him.

But he knew better. It would be about as effective as putting him in the collar he now wore, or attaching the leash thereof to the cuff on Tiffany's wrist. It was all symbolic. Smoke and mirrors meant to create the illusion of actual domination and submission. Nothing more. He wore the thing, of course. No point in inviting yet another "corrective measure". But he never once felt controlled by it as he followed the little tramp Tiffany back to "her room".

Dillon recognized that calling his leash-holder "little" wasn't exactly accurate, since she was at least a full head taller than him, but physical size wasn't so important as overall bearing. Sure, the bubble-headed blonde was holding his leash, but only because he never tried to stop her from doing so. He could tell her to stop whenever he wanted to. But for now he knew he needed to play his part.

The whole thing was an elaborate act. Finally leaving that froggy bitch Ruelle's office broke the admittedly effective spell of verisimilitude that she cast. She knew how to put on a pretty good show, at least. Dillon was keen to improve on her methods once this whole farce was behind him and he was once again in the driver's seat where he belonged.

'But why wait?' Dillon considered the powder puff in front of him as the question sparked in his mind. If he could take control of her, then surely that would be enough to prove to this "Madame Ruelle" what he was capable of.

And how hard could it be? She'd already proved to be submissive at heart. What did it matter if she was taller, fitter, faster, and stronger than him. He obviously had the superior will. And, really, wasn't that all that mattered? All he'd have to do is browbeat her a bit and hammer that demure little clay into a more convenient mold.

"Here we are!" The always-chipper Tiffany announced, bouncing in place as she came to a stop. "I hope you find it comfortable. I've never entertained a guest for so long before."

"I'm sure I will." Dillon put on a bit of a smolder as he drew closer to the too-peppy, glass-eyed girl. "After all, I have such lovely company to share it with." He ran a hand down the line of the girl's exposed lower back, dropping it below her skirt to give her tight ass a firm squeeze.

She sighed and elicited a light moan of what Dillon assumed was approval at being regarded so positively. 'This is going to be too easy'.

The girl placed her thumb against a small black pad next to the door and called out in a powerfully saccharine voice. "It sure is good to be home!"

"Welcome home, Tiffany," a speaker near the door replied with Clarissa's voice. "Have you been a good girl today?"

Still keeping her thumb on the sensor pad, Tiffany dipped into a one-armed curtsey. The movement pushed Dillon's hand away from its comfortable place on her ass as she bowed her head in submission to her own front door. "I have Mistress. Thank you for asking."

The door didn't follow-up, but instead played a little jingle that Dillon couldn't quite place. The chiming song was almost loud enough to cover up the sound of heavy bolts sliding open. The sound was absolutely not lost on Dillon. How securely-locked was this room?

Before he could consider it further, though, Dillon felt himself tugged forward, past the newly-opened door.

"Hey, watch it girly! You wanna st-" Dillon's voice cut out with a short yelp as the hand impacted firmly against his cheek. It hurt, and not just his pride. There was force behind the slap. His eyes clenched shut on instinct, and when he opened them again, Dillon was met with someone very different than the empty-headed bimbo who had led him here.

"Just shut up already, would you?" Tiffany rubbed her thumb against the palm of her hand as she glared down at him. Her eyes were suddenly full of life and intent. And that intent did not seem benevolent. "Are you really this stupid?"

She didn't wait for an answer, and Dillon was too dumbstruck to provide one, anyway. She just rolled her eyes and tugged the leash again, Dillon put up a token resistance this time, but it wasn't enough to prevent himself stumbling at her behest.

"Hey!" He offered as his hands reached up to grab hold of the chain and offer a tug of his own. It was a mostly-futile effort, as it barely hindered Tiffany's intent as she pulled one of the links near the middle of the chain into the waiting open end of a padlock looped into an anchor point on the headboard of a rather large bed.

There was a resounding "click", and then Dillon knew he was stuck fast. He tugged once, leveraging his whole body in the effort, but was only rewarded with a stiff pain in his neck. "Hey!" He called out again, his voice far more plaintive with the repetition. "What the fuck?"

Tiffany just scoffed at him as she casually undid her own cuff, releasing herself from the bed's hold. "Just shut up and relax already." She placed that same hand on his sternum and gave a stern shove. Dillon tried to keep his footing, but immediately found himself half-laying on the bed.

He rolled over into a haphazard sitting position, the tether at his neck making a more dignified position substantially more difficult than it needed to be. "What the fuck is all this?" He yelled, once again trying to pull himself free of the leash.

"It's a bed." Tiffany replied flatly before turning towards a door on the far side of the room. "My bed. Don't mess it up."

Dillon narrowed his eyes as he took one of the enormous fluffy pillows and tossed it on the floor. "Or what?" He announced defiantly, kneeling on the bed as upright as he could, given the influence of the leash.

Tiffany just rolled her eyes and placed her thumb on another little pad fixed into the wall. "Whatever." The door swung away from the girl of its own accord, revealing a very cozy bathroom beyond as she stepped through. "I'm gonna grab a shower."

"Go ahead," Dillon replied to the already-retreating Tiffany, "but it won't do you any good." The door clicked shut, but Dillon wasn't done yet. He raised his voice, confident that it would reach its intended recipient. "Clean the dirt off of a piece of shit still leaves you with a piece of shit!"

There was no reply. Dillon's scowl was accompanied by an ungenerous raising of fingers. "Uppity little bitch tramp," Dillon muttered as he tossed another fluffy pink pillow on the floor and yanked the velvet duvet, also pink, out of its crisply-set position.

That's when he noticed just how much of the room was that same shade of powdery pastel pink. Dillon had never had anything against the color pink, but this room challenged that tolerance. Everything was some soft shade of pink or violet, with just enough pure white embellishments to keep it from being actually overwhelming.

With slightly more scrutiny, it became clear that only the "harder" surfaces, the bedposts, vanity, and other wood furnishings, were white. Even the wall was a much lighter shade of pink than any of the well-cushioned furnishings. All other surfaces, the majority of those within the room, were of the softest and most delicate textures and pink hues.

The only surfaces that didn't seem to conform to that rule were the mirrors. There were two in the room; one on the vanity, and another inset into the canopy of the bed. As the patter of water started up from behind the bathroom door, Dillon finally resigned himself and just lay flat on his back. The bed was at least large enough for him to stretch out a little, unlike the boot of the car he had attempted to sleep in the night before. Looking up, he spotted the mirror. It was tacky as hell, but it also showed him one other thing that was out of place within this effeminate prison. Sadly for Dillon, it was not himself.

The black latex shorts barely obscured his bulging manhood. Both elements seemed at odds with everything else in the room, including their wearer. Maybe it was the way his slender legs crossed so demurely at the ankle, only to flair outward slightly at the hips. Maybe it was the similar narrowness of his torso, and the way his hands knitted together so tenderly on his taut belly. Maybe it was the way the pink collar rested oh so gently against his throat, highlighting the delicate features and pearlescent skin of his face. Or maybe it was the way he stared upward with that dreamy gaze. Those striking hazel-blue eyes. Her hazel-blue eyes.

Dillon's already foul mood found a way to sour further as he turned away from his supine reflection. It was no mystery why everyone immediately compared him to 'her'. He was practically her spitting image. The only part that didn't match up was the bulge in the black latex. The same part that didn't fit in this fucking room.

Dillon clamped his eyes shut. He'd seen enough of his surroundings for one day. Rolling over onto his side, he felt himself curl up against the remaining fuzzy pink pillow.

- - - - -

A soft caress of fingers on his forehead drew Dillon quietly from his bizarre dream. He was glad to be awake. He much preferred the real world-where he was the one leading cute girls on leashes-to the dream's strange reversal of fortunes. The delicate sensation of the fingers as they curled around the back of his ear was delightful, the perfect way to wake from such disturbing imagery. The bed was also intensely cozy. They must have gone back to hers after... His mind traced backward, trying to remember who he had hooked-up with recently, and where. The memory was becoming hazy, while the dream grew somehow more concrete.

A moment later, it all came back. Dream and reality swapped back into their correct mental category, and he felt his entire face tighten just as Tiffany's less-sweet voice chirped softly in his ears.

"Hey, sweet little Dilly-kins. It's time to wake up." There was condescension there, but it was difficult to notice beneath the dense layer of genuine affection.

"Fuck off." Dillon replied flatly. His attempt to pull away from the hovering Tiffany was immediately thwarted by a tugging at his neck, the collar re-asserting itself as part of his reality.

"Sorry Dilly, no can do." Tiffany's voice still dripped with affection, her fingers once again deftly exploring the contours of Dillon's face.

"My name is Dillon." He tried to sound more forceful than indignant.

Tiffany giggled, ruffling her guest's hair playfully.

Dillon waved her off, curling into an even tighter ball. Maybe if he ignored her, she'd go away. Maybe she'd let him get back to the far better world of the dream.

"Oh no you don't! You've napped long enough." There was a gentle tug on his leash, which now also felt oppressively real compared to the freedom that his dream-self had so recently enjoyed. "Watching you cuddle so sweetly with my pillow is a treat, but Mistress has plans for us this evening. Which means it's time to prepare my Dilly dolly for his first outing!"

Dillon's eyes opened into a scowl as he immediately cast away the suddenly-offensive pillow. "Fine," he announced as he rolled into a sitting position on the bed. Wiping the bleariness from his eyes, he got his first good look at Tiffany's new change of clothes.

She somehow looked both entirely different from before, but also exactly the same. Instead of the powder pink school blazer and skirt, she wore a single-piece fitted dress. It still bore that now-familiar shade of pink, though it was at least broken up into a plaid pattern and contrasted with a soft brown. The plaid portion of the dress extended down to about the miniscule swell of her ass, at which point it converted into a white pleated skirt of a very thin fabric that flitted down to almost the middle of her thigh. The top of the dress sported a large white collar which was somewhere between the crisp shirt of a stern secretary and the soft peter-pan style of a very immature teenager's "sunday best". The sleeves followed that same theme. Light and gauzy, they were made of the same thin white material as the skirt, and puffed their way down Tiffany's arms, only to be clasped firmly by rows of pearl buttons on an elongated cuff.

"You like?" Tiffany asked, setting her one hand on her hip and holding the other aloft.

"It's... nice." Dillon chose his words tactfully. It was difficult, as he could already think of three distinct ways to mock the silly costume. But practical concerns prevented those comments from leaving his lips so easily. That concern was the light pink crop that Tiffany brandished in the hand that was not holding the other end of his leash.

"Really, you don't think it's too much?" Tiffany turned toward the vanity and, bending fully at the waist, scrutinized herself in the waist-high mirror. Dillon's eyes immediately darted to the hem of her skirt, the pleats of which being just long enough to obscure anything more juicy than the now-obvious tops of her white stockings and just the barest hint of garter strap. "Mistress doesn't let me pick my own outfits very often," Tiffany prattled from the opposite end of the one that had Dillon's attention "I need to prove that I can handle it."

It was all too much. Her posture, her fussing, the squeaky-cute way she said "mistress". Dillon just could not hold back. "Well, if you were going for 'ditzy tween bimbo's first day at the office'," he grinned, "I'd say you nailed it."

Tiffany turned on him, her expression one of surprise. Dillon's smirk grew. Finally, he'd gotten one over on her.

"Your lack of survival instinct is just staggering." Her smile returned immediately and she dipped a small curtsey. "But I'm glad you like my outfit so much! Now I'm more confident than ever that you're going to just love yours!" She motioned to her right, to an ensemble hanging from the door of an armoire.

It was a thing of nightmares. Tiffany's dress may have been absurdly twee, but this thing was just absurd. It was over-the-top in a way that could cause even the most exuberant of drag performers to cringe on the spot.

"Oh, it's not that bad." Tiffany lied in her saccharine voice as she began to gently pull the leash taut. "Who doesn't love a cheerleader?"

The outfit was indeed based on the stereotypical American cheer bimbo. The pom-poms and two-tone pleated skirt made that clear. But it was more. So much more. It was too much to process all at once, and Dillon was thankful for that mercy. The bits he could discern, the neon pink details of the shoes and skirt, for instance, were more than sufficient to send the message.

Dillon felt himself slide off the edge of the bed and take a step closer to the textile monstrosity. The sheer audacity of this 'outfit' was arresting. "You have got to be shitting me." The flat inquiry did a disservice to the depth of Dillon's incredulity.

SMACK!

"Language!" Tiffany snapped, her voice matching the sharp tone of the crop as it landed across Dillon's now-exposed right ass cheek. "Remember your third rule."

Dillon, careful to avoid Tiffany's scrutiny in doing so, rolled his eyes. 'A good slave does not speak out of turn.' rolled languidly through his thoughts as he focused more on ignoring the pain on his ass. The last thing he needed at this point was to show even more weakness in front of his new handler. His wrists still felt stiff from the last lesson that the pink schoolgirl felt the need to teach him.

'I was just tired,' A newly-rested Dillon assured himself. 'I'll be ready for her this time.'

SMACK!

A second stroke of the crop hit just above the back of the knee. Dillon, once again caught off guard, couldn't prevent himself crying out at the sensation.

"What is your fifth rule, silly-Dilly?" Tiffany's voice absolutely dripped with tender disdain, like a mother gently reminding her child of a forgotten lesson.

Dillon seethed as a stinging heat radiated off of the point of impact. He, of course, made no effort to keep that distaste from his reply. "A good slave never questions a given command."

SMACK!

The next stroke was directly on top of the last, and Dillon felt his knees buckle even before his mind fully registered the spectrum of pain that eventually flashed across his eyes and drew an even more plaintive yelp from behind his lips.

"Close, but wrong. Do you need a reminder on rule number five, Dilly-bear?"

Dillon spun on his heel, the pain forgotten as indignant fury replaced his seething calm. "That was rule number five, you fucking ditz!" He reached out for the crop, but it swiped easily away from his grasp, coming back around just to slap the back of the hand that had thought to control it.

Dillon jolted back at the impact, one hand rising to cradle the new impact on the other. He glared up at Tiffany, a cacophony of resentment and rage filling his thoughts. His eyes darted toward the door of his jailor's room.

"Thinking of leaving already, cutie-pie?" Tiffany's voice mocked as she regarded her quarry with a casual disdain. "And to think that Mistress vouched for you. She thought you'd last at least a week. But here you are, ready to throw in the towel." She closed the distance between herself and the door in slow strides. "Was it the crop?" her voice was laced with an insult. A challenge demanding an answer. "I thought I was taking it pretty easy, but I could try an even lighter touch." She leaned against the door, extending the crop toward the absurd frockery hanging from the armoire. "Or was it the costume? I thought you'd have at least a little more self-confidence than to let a simple set of clothes upend you so easily."

Dillon's eyes flitted from his tormentor to the indicated outfit. It was anything but "simple". The skirt, alone, made him shudder. He knew what was going on here. He'd seen it enough times with the clientele that his mom tried to play off as her "close friends" when he was younger. She was trying to emasculate and humiliate him. 'As if.'

"Ooh!" Tiffany practically squealed. "There's that flicker of defiance again! Did you finally find some of your nerve, my Dilly-dolly? Are you ready to nut up and be man enough to put on the skirt?"

"As if." Dillon repeated the defiant phrase out loud, folding his arms in front of his chest in what he mistook for a show of confidence. He returned Tiffany's stare with one of his own, his resolve solidified enough to match that intensity.

Tiffany replied with a grin. "And you don't want to give up?" Her head canted forward slightly as her pink-tipped fingers played idly with the head of the crop.

"O-of course not!" Dillon felt the slight hitch in his voice, but simply increased the volume of his rebuttal to compensate. "Do your worst, bitch."

It was an invitation that Dillon almost immediately regretted. Tiffany was quick on her high-heeled feet. She crossed the gap between the two of them in three loping steps and had Dillon's right arm locked up behind his back before he could even consider any kind of defense.

The pain was milder than that of the crop, but it ran deeper, down to the bone with a flare of intense discomfort. While his right arm was pinned uselessly against him, his left began to flail for some kind of leverage of its own.