Collar

The sex worker came to my father's funeral dressed all in black, fur and leather, with a pair of oversized sunglasses hiding away his eyes. I watched him when I couldn't look at my father anymore, too quiet and peaceful in his coffin.

He caught my eye and smiled, like the edge of a knife. As he parted his mouth, the glint of a tongue piercing winked at me.

I forced my eyes back to my father's corpse. It was too late for first responders to save him. He'd always had a bad heart. I repeated these thoughts like a prayer, over and over again, but the only one I could not command was myself. There was no salvation for men like my father.

†

All of my father's men came to the reception. They were burly old-types dressed in suits just a little too small and shoes just a little too shiny for their line of work. It was a messy business, my father's syndicate. 

"I don't get it," said Nicks. "He was still so young and handsome."

"That's just how it goes. Here one day, gone the next," said Brandy, pouring out a flute of champagne in my father's honor. Unfortunately, my father had been more of a whiskey guy. I had half a mind to make him lick the mess up. "There’s always going to be some young pup barking and trying to fill up those big boots. Life will go on."

The only person who could take command of my father’s operation was me. Even if it was by force.

No one was stupid enough to look directly at me. 

Some wore earplugs. Others would wear eyepatches. Some strategies were more effective than others.

"I hear they call you the Boss's Dog," said the sex worker, appearing at my shoulder. 

I didn't answer. I drank the champagne my father hated.

"He gave the orders, but you barked and made it happen," he said. "That's your little talent. Why the Boss kept you around. Blood is cheap, after all, but those skills are hard to find these days."

"Should I ask why he kept you then?" I asked, sharper than I intended. I grasped the grip of my cane more tightly, until the edges of its wolf head engraving bit into my palm.

"Sure," he said eagerly enough. "What you’d expect. Though the Boss never fucked me. But he paid good money to watch."

I grimaced and looked away.

"What? Did you expect some other answer?” The sex worker got all up in my face, his eyes wide and sparkling.  “So, tell me. What will they call you now that the Boss is gone?" 

"Go away."

With the command spoken and heard, he could only obey. That was how the geas worked.

Away he went, marching like a toy soldier. I remained, trembling, the image of him splayed out beneath another man lingering in my head. Though now, my father could no longer watch. 

†

"You know what I think your problem is?" asked the sex worker, a week later. He'd ambushed me in my office with a large bouquet of white roses. There were dark kisses creeping up his neck. So, he'd come right here after work. That meant one of my men was mixing pleasure with business again. "You had no control in your life, as daddy's dog. And you used your little trick," he said vaguely of the geas, "to force control over everybody around you. Until you told Boss's heart to stop beating. But that’s not what you really want."

I didn’t take the bait. I let the bouquet  fall into my trash bin with all of the unnecessary sympathy cards. "And why shouldn’t I command your heart to stop beating too."

"But you haven't yet, so I don't think you will." He smiled, his eyes narrowing joyfully. "Admit it. You must be curious. What would it be like to willingly give up control? To be a pampered little puppy, instead of a beaten attack dog?"

I leaned on my cane and stood. I wasn't any taller than he was. He didn't back away. Only smiled and waited. 

Now that my father was gone, I was the one in control. The syndicate’s money, resources, men—all mine to do whatever I wanted with. "Do you really think you'd be able to spoil me?” I asked. 

He reached for me, cupping my cheek. I didn't realize I leaned into this hand until he laughed. 

I trembled, unable to stop.

"Let me be your kind master, if only for a night."

†

My apartment was a cold and sterile thing, containing only the bare minimum. The bed looked like it had never been slept in before. Inviting the sex worker inside made me all the more conscious of how lifeless it all was.

"Make yourself comfortable," he told me, as though this were his home. 

I obeyed, cautiously sitting on the edge of the bed. "Now what?"

The sex worker smiled. "I brought some gifts. Toys for my good little puppy."

I burned with it. Shame or want, I didn't know where one ended and the other began. "Show me."

He shushed me gently. "I'll give the orders tonight, 'kay?" 

He sat beside me and unpacked a gift bag, discarding several sheets of tissue paper to reveal a collar. "May I?"

I lifted my chin and shivered when he clicked the collar closed around my throat.

"A little more, puppy," said the sex worker. He'd brought a gag and a blindfold too. Still, how I wanted it. How I wanted to lose control under his hands.

I didn’t know how much the electric lights bothered me until they were so suddenly gone. The world was stripped away, leaving behind only the stretch of the ballgag.

Without my voice, without my gaze, I could give no commands.

"You're doing so well," said the sex worker, as gentle as he had promised. Then the session began in earnest.

Only time would tell if there was any salvation left for men like me, but for now, all I had to do was obey. Perhaps the cruel, controlled thing I’d been made into could be taught a sweeter kind of obedience.

© 2024 J. Kosakowski

About the Author
J. Kosakowski is a writer of queer speculative fiction. They are based in New York City where they try to pet all the bodega cats. He has previously been published in Small Wonders Magazine and Apparition Literary.