Some Kinda Lavender Bullshit

Zach Rannis knew some shit was up the second he opened the apartment door.

It wasn't just that the place was clean, which was already rare enough to make him suspicious--it was the smell.

Vanilla. Sandalwood. Some kinda lavender bullshit.

And candles. So many fuckin' candles. Flickering on every flat surface, glowing like he'd just walked into a bougie séance. He could practically hear the soft shhh of a lighter flicking in the distance, like someone was lighting the last torch before a human sacrifice.

Oh no.

It was pegging mode.

His throat went dry. His hands twitched. His fight-or-flight instincts kicked in, but all his escape routes were cut off.

"Yo," he called out, voice already rough. "Uh. Carrie?"

From the bedroom, a slow, sultry voice coiled down the hall like smoke.

"Zach-a-reeeee."

His stomach clenched. His knees almost buckled.

She only called him that when she was about to ruin him.

Stepping inside felt like walking onto the Linc field before a losing game--full of bad omens and impending suffering. The floor was too clean, the couch had throw pillows arranged like a goddamn Pinterest post, and the air smelled like someone had detonated a Bath & Body Works.

And when he turned the corner into the bedroom--

Oh. Fuck.

Carrie.

Lounging on the bed like she owned the world and everything in it.

Dark hair spilling over her shoulders, silk robe clinging to her in ways that defied physics, her cleavage looking like a fuckin' engineering marvel. One leg lazily crossed over the other, stretching long and smooth like she had all the time in the world. Her lips? Painted just enough to ruin a man.

And beside her--

Laid out with the reverence of a sacred relic--

The Strap.

Zach physically flinched. His body was caught in some hellish purgatory between admiration and raw, existential fear.

"Babe. C'mon. We talked about this."

Carrie stretched, rolling her shoulders like a smug, satisfied cat. "We did."

He narrowed his eyes. "And what did we decide?"

She arched a perfect brow.

He sighed. "That I would... be open to new experiences."

Her smirk coulda shattered glass. "And do you know what today is?"

He squinted. "...Tuesday?"

She leaned in.

"It's Pegging Night, Zachary."

His fingers twitched like he was reaching for a cigarette he didn't have.

"That's not a thing."

"It is a thing. It's our thing. And look--" she gestured at the nightmare around them, her robe slipping just enough to distract. "I made it special for you."

Zach looked around like a man being asked to admire his own coffin.

"Carrie. There are rose petals on the nightstand."

She beamed. "Romantic, right?"

He ran a hand down his face. "Jesus Christ."

She patted the bed beside her. "Come here, baby. Let me take care of you."

His entire body locked up, but, god help him, he obeyed.

Because this was Carrie. And deep down--deep, deep down--he knew she was gonna make him love every second of it.

Even if he was about to whimper like a little bitch, 'cause then she fuckin' destroyed him.

His breath came sharp and uneven, fingers gripping the sheets as Carrie worked him over like she was carving a masterpiece.

She was relentless.

Measured.

Cruel in that way that wasn't really cruel--just teasing, stretching, dragging it out, making him feel every second until his entire body was on fire.

"Relax," she purred, voice dripping with amusement.

"Gee, I wonder why," he ground out, barely holding onto the last shreds of his dignity.

Carrie leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. "Because you love it."

He made a noise. A bad noise.

She laughed--low, throaty, fuckin' victorious.

His whole body burned. Every nerve lit up, every muscle tight, his brain fried by the sheer overload of it all. And Carrie? She was thriving.

"Look at you," she murmured, dragging her nails lightly over his back. "You're doing so good for me."

His face was on fire. "I hate you."

"No, you don't."

Her hand settled at the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, grounding him.

"You love me."

His breathing hitched.

"And you love this."

And fuck.

Fuck.

Maybe he did.

When it was over, when his body finally stopped thrumming like a live wire, he collapsed onto the mattress.

Carrie, of course, was barely winded. She stretched luxuriously, looking obscenely satisfied, like a woman who had just claimed her rightful throne.

Zach could barely lift his head, but he still managed to glare at her through his fucked-up hair.

"You planned this."

She grinned. "Obviously."

"You manipulated me."

"I seduced you, babe. There's a difference."

He groaned, burying his face in the pillow.

"I'm not getting up for at least an hour."

Carrie flopped onto her side, running a slow, possessive hand down his wrecked, exhausted back.

"Mmm. Take your time, sweetheart. I wore you out, didn't I?"

He made a noise of pure suffering.

"You're a menace."

"And yet," she purred, kissing his shoulder, "here you are. My brave, exhausted little man."

He flipped her off without lifting his head.

She laughed, stretching like a fucking queen. "Alright, baby. You rest up. I'll go grab us some drinks."

Zach exhaled slowly, sinking deeper into the mattress.

"...Coke. Get me a Coke."

Carrie paused in the doorway, glancing back with that smug, smug expression.

"What's the magic word?"

Zach groaned.

"Please, Mistress Carrie, ruler of my life and destroyer of my dignity, grant me a fuckin' Coke."

She winked. "See? That wasn't so hard."