Dillon Hunt: Before the Fall

Dillon squinted, his eyes adjusting poorly to the sudden brightness as the boot of the car opened up. "Have we arrived already?" He quipped to the leather-clad man he had only previously seen as he was being stuffed away for transport. "And just as I was getting comfortable."

Actually, his shoulder hurt quite a bit, and he was glad when the man with the dark glasses pulled him from his confinement. The air was crisp, the light breeze biting at Dillon's nearly-nude body as he was set upright and the cuffs that connected his ankles were finally released.

"Oh, so I'll be walking, then?"

The man in the glasses said nothing. He just pointed at the large door and gave Dillon a firm swat on the ass.

"Hey now," Dillon plastered on a grin as he remarked back at the man, "all you had to do was ask." Internally, he cringed at the feeling of the leather glove on his rear. He was no stranger to pain, but that didn't mean that he enjoyed it. Still, it was important to keep up appearances.

The gravel of the courtyard was not easy to walk on, but Dillon made a show of how little it bothered him. He focused his attention on other things. Sadly, with class not yet in session there weren't a lot of people about. He was really hoping to see just how true to life Saint Michael's pretense at domination could be.

He did have to admit that, so far, they'd put on a good show of it. Being packed onto an airplane as cargo, shoved into the boot of a car, and made to traipse around in little more than a latex speedo certainly had that air of dehumanization that he enjoyed the thought of. But he also knew that it was all just for show. They wouldn't- no. They couldn't do anything to him that actually hurt him or that he absolutely refused. Their little "code" wouldn't allow for it. Despite all the pageantry and bravado, Dillon knew that he was still in control.

At the top of the steps leading up to the grand entryway, Dillon saw another example of such pageantry. She was gorgeous and very much on display. The only clothes she wore that Dillon didn't were the sleeves on her arms and the boots on her legs and feet.

Dillon mounted the first step, and was immediately glad for the reprieve from the jabbing pressure of the gravel. "Well hello there, lovely," he announced at the girl, "you here for me?"

"Are you Dillon Hunt?" Her voice was terse and disinterested as her eyes cast down and finally regarded him.

"That would be me, sweetheart." Dillon climbed the final step, and was disappointed that he couldn't now look down on her, instead. She was a tall little thing, a full head taller than himself. This was honestly fine. It gave him a much better view of her perfectly taut rack, exposed as it was by her near-nudity. "And you must be..?" His question could have been directed at the girl's pert nipples for as much attention as he paid her face.

"You'll be reporting directly to Madame Ruelle," the girl turned away as the large door opened of its own accord and she led him inside. Dillon didn't mind. It gave him a chance to properly admire her backside, as well.

Getting a closer look, Dillon noticed that her arms were folded forward, her hands firmly pressed against her shoulders and kept there by a black leather harness. The contraption gave the girl an almost avian silhouette, her arms looking similar to a pair of wings. The boots she wore--long, en pointe things with shining metallic tips--only added to that bird-like illusion. Her hair, voluminous and long, fell to her back in waves of burgundy red. She made him think of a pampered exotic pet with her beautiful plumage and almost intimidating grace.

"What's she like, this Ruelle lady?" Dillon's query was followed by him taking a handful of the girl's luscious ass. It was, after all, on display for anyone to take a piece of. No point in letting such a sumptuous offering go to waste.

The girl inhaled sharply at the act, but kept her composure. "Madame Ruelle is the dean of security and discipline here at Saint Michael's. Such an auspicious station is not earned... lightly." There was more hesitation in the girl's voice just from talking about this Ruelle character than from anything that Dillon had done. He didn't like that.

"Oh, come now." He chuckled as his hand gave the pert, round buttock a firm slap. "She can't be all that bad! I mean, it's not like she can actually do anything to you that you didn't give 'informed consent' for, right?" Dillon did nothing to hide his contempt for the term that his mother never shut up about.

"Oh," the girl replied, casting an eye back just to grin at Dillon, "Madame Ruelle is going to like you, I think."

Dillon's hand fell away from the girl's ass. Something in that glance, that grin, shook him.

But not for long. An instant later, his hand was back on her ass with a resounding smack. The sound soothed him, reminded him of his place over this helpless little bird. "And just, what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?"

The girl didn't gasp or cringe at the stroke. She didn't even bother to look back as she replied. "Oh, just rumors and hearsay."

"Rumors like what?" Dillon gave the girls ass a firm pinch, both to cover up the uncertainty in his voice and to remind this girl exactly who was in charge right now.

"Oh, you know, the usual." The girl shrugged her shoulders, her breasts jiggling with the motion. "Some stuff about her being a former interrogator or spy for some government or something. A few years back a really difficult kid just up and disappeared, and then Madame Ruelle suddenly got some new 'assistant' who acts like a brainwashed bimbo half the time." She cast her eye back at him again, that same unsettling grin upon her lips. "You know, silly rumor stuff."

Dillon felt the lump in his throat and swallowed on reflex.

"Anyway," the girl turned and faced her charge as she stood in front of a fine wooden door, "we're here." She motioned with one truncated arm toward the door. "Good luck in there. Hope to see you around!" And with that she was gone, humming lightly as she tip-toed her way down the hall.

The door was more ominous than it needed to be. Black-staned with gold letters reading

Mme. C. Ruelle

Dean: Security and Discipline

The pun of Madame Ruelle's name was not lost on Dillon, but it also did little to assuage his sense of foreboding. Fear was not a familiar sensation for him. He'd been worried before, concerned even, but rarely was he outright afraid of something.

He was afraid right now.

The loud "click" of the door made Dillon jolt. The uncanny smoothness of it gliding open made his skin prick up. The hall was entirely silent, as though a pall fell over the entire place when this door opened. A light music came from within. The sort of thing you'd hear in any waiting room. It was barely audible, even in the still of the hall.

He could still turn back, still decide against this. For the first time today, he was actually considering the possibility. After all, the only thing on the line for him here was his pride.

Inhaling sternly, shaking away his nerves, Dillon stepped through the doorway.

- - - - -

Dillon had taken two steps inside the room when the door slammed shut behind him. The sudden noise sent his heart racing, and he spun on his heel just in time to hear the telltale sound of a large, heavy lock sliding into place.

He pursed his lips, staring angrily at the door. It was obviously a trick. Something meant to put him on edge. This whole thing was a needlessly elaborate production. He wasn't in any actual danger.

At least, that's what he told himself as he jumped forward to check the door and make sure it was actually locked.

It very much was.

But that didn't mean that he couldn't leave. All he had to do was say he "wasn't having any fun" and the whole thing would stop. It was all a game to them. Nothing to worry about. It was like a horror movie or roller coaster. All bark, no bite.

Dillon swallowed the lump in his throat again as he surveyed the room. It wasn't a large space. Just enough room for a reception desk, a few chairs affixed with leather straps, two pairs of shackles bolted into one wall, and a small water cooler.

The juxtaposition was alien to Dillon, but he did his best to not let it get to him. Of course a university focused on BDSM would have non-standard seating arrangements. Submissives loved that kind of stuff.

What Dillon didn't consciously address, but instead simply felt somewhere in the pit of his stomach, was that there wasn't any kind of accommodation for non-submissives. There were only places to secure the sorts of people who might not actually want to be here.

Thankfully, he was not given the opportunity to dwell on that detail, as the door opposite the one he entered through opened up. This door was not automatic, but was instead being held open by what had to be just about the pinkest creature that Dillon had ever laid eyes on.

She wore a uniform not entirely unlike those he'd seen on some of the other students here. It had a slightly longer skirt and the jacket didn't quite extend down far enough to cover her taut, flat tummy, but the largest disparity between this costume and the typical school uniform had to be the color.

It was almost entirely pink, with little hints of white. From the ankle-strapped pumps to the pleated skirt and blazer, even the collar. The whole ensemble was a powdery pink color that sat completely at odds with the stark decor of the office.

It did not, however, sit at odds with its wearer. If anything, it could be said that the outfit was made for her. Or her for it. She was the absolute stereotype of a bubblegum blonde. Soft blue eyes that seemed almost entirely vacant, a grin that suggested a total lack of understanding, and pearlescent skin that could only be achieved by spending more time moisturizing than anything else.

Most guys went crazy over girls like that. Dillon was better than that. A girl without a personality was worthless to him. She had to bring something other than a pretty smile and an empty head to the table if they wanted his attention. Besides, it was a lot more fun to make a smart girl degrade herself for his benefit.

"You must be Dillon." Her voice was barely more than a whisper, breathy and with a slightly nasal quality. She smiled brightly. "Mistress is expecting you!"

Dillon chuckled nervously. That smile, and the empty way in which her eyes regarded him, reminded Dillon of a cult devotee. The sorts of girls that are taken in by some charismatic fraud, then drugged and indoctrinated into becoming someone they're not. The whole thing had to be an act. There's no way that such treatment could be considered "consensual". There's no way this place would allow it.

At least that's how Dillon attempted to reassure himself as he stepped closer to the inner office of the storied Madame Ruelle and the glassy-eyed girl who beckoned him closer.

If the outer office was ominous, the inner one was downright unsettling. It was dead silent, the heels of the pink girl's shoes making almost no sound as she walked ahead. The air was cool, and carried a sharp yet airy scent that Dillon absolutely could not place. The first and only thing that caught his eye was the desk. How could it not? It was a masterwork of craftsmanship, and it absolutely dominated the rest of the room. There may as well have been a spotlight on the thing with the rest of the space cast in shadow.

The top of the furnishing was at eye level, making sure that anyone standing before it would have to look up in order to see whomever sat behind it. But that was hardly the most imposing thing about it. That honor belonged to the statuary carved into its facade. Human figures, naked and chained, kneeled along the front face. They were depicted bearing the weight of the desk, faces either downturned and miserable or upturned and rapturous. The detail in the carving was incredible, so much so that Dillon had to stare for a moment to be entirely sure that the figures were actually made of wood. Nothing else in the room even caught his eye as he gaped at the awesome sight.

The top of the desk was covered in computer displays. Dillon could see the backs of three of them arrayed in a half-circle away from him. Beyond those digital windows, all Dillon could make out of Madame Ruelle was a hint of her black hair. The pink girl stepped beside the woman behind the monitors before lowering her body until she, too, was entirely obscured by the oppressive form of the furniture.

A shiver ran down Dillon's body. He attempted to convince himself that it was due to the cooler air and his lack of clothing. Even he wasn't convinced by that excuse. Casting his eyes to either side, he had hoped to find a place to sit. There was none. His feet didn't hurt or anything, but he had never felt so naked or vulnerable or alone. He tried to remind himself again that this was all for show and he was in no real danger. But whatever rationale his mind could conjure, the rest of his body didn't seem to believe it.

He had to say something. Had to do something.

"'ell of a desk you got there." Dillon's voice broke the tension. Or at least it tried to. Even he could hear the way it quavered with uncertainty. Even more telling was the lapse in his dialect. There had been a second half of the irreverent statement, but his heart wasn't in it any longer.

Not that it seemed to matter. There was no reply. The room remained silent, save for the very faint sound of pen on paper and the brief tapping of fingernails on a keyboard.

It was a trick, of course. The bitch was trying to scare him. Being made to wait was designed to make him feel small. The desk was designed to make him feel small. The dim lighting and cold air and lack of clothes were designed to make him feel small.

He knew all of these tricks.

So why were they working?

"Dillon." The voice behind the desk was syrupy. Slow and deliberate and saccharine. It sounded nice enough, but there was something to it, some indescribable quality. Not malice, but not not malice, either. Somehow, that voice and the way it carried did more to make Dillon feel small than any trick ever could. "So good to finally have you with us. We've very much been looking forward to your arrival, haven't we Tiffany?"

"Oh, yes Mistress. Very much so." The girl's voice didn't carry quite as well as Ms. Ruelle's own, but the derision within it certainly did. What had he ever done to her?

Madame Ruelle continued. "Your mother has told me a great deal about you, Dillon." The bank of screens began to lower into the top of the desk, giving Dillon his first proper glimpse of Madame Ruelle. She had dark, rich chestnut hair with just the lightest hints of graying that caught in the harsh lighting of her office. Her face was immaculately made-up. Dark lipstick made her already severe frown look all the more damning. Heavy application of liner and smoky shadow turned her emerald eyes into something almost uncannily piercing. Her pale complexion bore just the barest hint of color at her cheeks. And the way she looked at him. Dillon may have been practically nude since he emerged from the car, but it wasn't until this moment that he felt naked, as well. "Unfortunately for you, very little of what she had to say was good."

'Yeah? She never mentioned you at all. Says a lot about you.'

'Well, she never was that great a judge of character. I mean, look at her friends.'

'Ooh, so utterly terrifying. Do people actually fall for this bullshit?'

Half a dozen similar rejoinders flew through Dillon's head. Not a one of them dared come out of his mouth. He attributed his silence to a sense of prudence. No point in poking the hornet's nest this early on, right?

He felt confident in that rationalization.

"You know, now that I think of her," Mme Ruelle leaned forward, a light smirk showing just a hint of perfectly white teeth, "has anyone ever told you how much you look like your mother?"

Dillon suppressed a grimace. Of course people had told him. It was all he heard from his family and the friends thereof. There was a time when he was certain that the only thing most people even knew about him was his resemblance to his mother. Her light brown hair, her expressive eyes, her handsome nose and chin, her cheekbones and lips.

"Mr. Hunt!" A loud 'SNAP' drew Dillon from within himself. Mme Ruelle had a rather harsh looking crop in her hand, the front of which was still in motion from its impact against the desktop. "The rules have not been explained to you yet, so you have not incurred a punishment, this time, but when I ask you a question I expect a prompt and honest answer. Is that understood?"

'You keep a script behind that desk of yours? It's a little on the nose, don't you think?'

"Uh, yeah." Dillon kept his smirk to himself. The anger of being compared, once again, to his mother had wiped away enough of the carefully orchestrated tension that had kept him feeling so cowed.

"Is that how you address your betters, young man?" Mme. Ruelle, or Clarissa, as Dillon's easing mind began to think of her, leaned back in her seat, staring down at him.

'What would that have to do with talking to you?' His grin slipped through a little, though he made sure to not meet Clarissa's eyes.

"Mr. Hunt. I asked you another question and you failed to respond yet again. Present your hand to me, palm up." Clarissa stood from her seat, tapping the business end of her crop against her desk.

Dillon glanced at the leather implement, but did not offer his hand. Why would he? It's not like this haughty bitch could force him. He hadn't given her "consent" to do so. He had to admit, she put on a good show. But at the end of the day, she didn't have anything on him. Her rules prevented her from making him do anything he didn't want to.

"Tiffany, darling, present Mr. Hunt's hand to me, please."

"With pleasure, Mistress."

Dillon instinctively tensed as he saw the pink girl, Tiffany, come around the desk. His tension lapsed immediately thereafter, upon considering the little powder puff that was supposed to "present" his hand. She was a little taller than him, sure, but that didn't mean much. She was a girl, after all. If anything, he'd have to be careful to not hurt her in the process of showing that he couldn't be made to do anything.

At least that's what he thought right up until the moment that Tiffany's iron grip was latched around his wrist. Her hand moved like a blur as it wrenched his right hand clockwise to the point of turning his whole arm, then shoulder. With his arm torqued as it was, wrist and elbow both facing skyward, Dillon had already lost all of his leverage before he could even figure out how he would fight back.

So he did the only dignified thing left to him.

He thrashed.

"Hey!" he screamed, his voice a panicked yelp, "you can't do this to me!" He tried to prove that point by bringing his other arm into the conflict, but before he could, he noticed Tiffany's other hand on that wrist as well, already in the process of bringing that arm up between his shoulder blades.

How the fuck was she doing this so easily?

"I think you'll find that we very much can, Mr. Hunt." Madame Ruelle casually grinned as Dillon flailed uselessly before her. "My dear Tiffany is more than capable of handling you."

As if to prove that point, Tiffany tugged Dillon's outstretched arm toward the desk, bringing the rest of his unwilling body with it.

"No!" Dillon yelled again from behind gritted teeth. "I did not consent to this kind of treatment." His eyes met with Madame Ruelle's as he spoke the magic word that would unmake her spell. He had expected a defeated frown or gasp of surprise at his invoking her "golden rule". Hell, anything would have made more sense to him than the mirthful laughter he received.