It started off as play. Miss was your girlfriend at the time, and Sir was just someone you had been chatting to at the local bar’s dyke nights. You used their names then as well, but now it’s their titles only, spoken to your shivering reflection in their shining leather boots.

You met Miss in your last year of university at a feminist society social. She was in the corner, alone, hiding behind the sort of awkward fringe that was the style at the time. You were exuberant and clocky and no one there really liked you because you were so flagrantly kinky about everything – except she found it funny. You started dating, told her about all your exploits on the scene, your opinions on how piss tops shouldn’t be well hydrated – otherwise, what’s the point? A few months in, back at hers, she tried stepping on you in the one pair of leather boots she owned. It ended in giggles and kisses after she lost balance and landed on the floor beside you. Nothing was unlocked in her, but all you could think about was how much hotter it would have been if those boots had been polished. You went out and bought the kit for it the next day.

You met Sir, years later, at a stand you were running. Her boots needed a clean and condition, but you could tell she cared for them herself. Leather doesn’t shine up the way hers did unless it’s been blacked over and over. The yellow of the stitching popped against her yellow laces, a ladder to heaven up all twenty eyelets – you counted. The sturdiness of the leather and some of the quirks of construction made you guess that these were from the ‘90s – plus there was no zip up the side, unlike all the newer ones. You thought about that at the time, how long it would have taken her to get each of these boots off and on, to loosen the lacing row by row, and then tighten it back up the same way every time she wanted to leave the house. Now you know exactly how long it takes. Sometimes if you’re especially quick, she’ll let you rest your face there, prostrate at her feet.

You introduced Sir to your girlfriend pretty quickly after you two started playing together. She was just as out there as you, but from the other side of things. Miss never learned to domme on her own, but she never minded that an evening in bed together amounted to you treating her to take-out and watching films on your laptop. You were getting your needs met at events, in bars, sometimes in café bathrooms, so this was all supposed to be another fun thing to try as a couple – a third to come in and fuck her like you never could. And she loved it. More than that, she loved Sir. The three of you saw each other more, your girlfriend came out to the dyke nights, Sir came back to yours, and this lifestyle dynamic took shape around you. Once terms were negotiated, you helped Sir move in, taking your spot in bed beside your girlfriend – or rather, Miss.

Everything you had wanted over the years came into place with the three of you living together. Miss had an entry point into the kink scene that worked for her as Sir’s sub. You felt more fulfilled sexually at home, even when you were just listening to them fuck through the wall as you cleaned the kitchen in a maid’s outfit and chastity cage. Sir seemed happier as well than when you first met her, finally out of some awful flat-share she had only ever alluded to during your conversations at the stand. You all worked. You would all snuggle up and watch some TV show together after a particularly heavy scene. You went to sleep on the pull-out couch most nights but sometimes someone would join you, whispering how glad they were to have met you as you lost yourself in the dark. You hold it close to your heart, the one time Sir dropped the pretence and told you she loves you.

It couldn’t hold. Nothing ever does. Miss found her own space in the scene. Sir reconciled with her old friends. You shrunk back from your own life as there were chores to pick up at home, more bills to cover, more errands to run. Still, each of you was integral to the dynamic. None of it would have been possible without Sir commanding your love life, without Miss bringing her humour and joy into the flat, without you footing the bill for it all. The scenes together dwindled as they became a couple – almost normative in their expectations and affections – but your heart still beat, kneeling on the floor as they left for those dyke nights that you no longer had time to attend. They would come back long after you fell asleep on the couch, too tired to even pull it out properly, and sleep together in the bed that you paid for.

You send the email. They don’t even hang around to watch.

Your days don’t get any longer. There is always something to do, some way of doing it better. You ask to be taken out of chastity because the cage is distracting from your chores. Sir shrugs and says she forgot you were still doing that. Miss forgets where the key is. You end up having to snap the lock. It helps though, not to even notice your restrained sexuality. The cleaning you do gets into your skin, all the grease and the grime and splashes of chemical products. You never want to touch anyone anymore, mostly focussed on how to fix that discoloured grouting in the bathroom, or what to do about the water pooling behind the sink. You’ve made everything so nice that all the little stuff like that is all the more clear. Sir and Miss are never satisfied.

The leather work consumes the rest of your time. Every week, it’s hours spent working saddle soap and conditioner into Sir’s gear. It seems to never stop raining here, so there’s always something to care for, especially when she brings home the jackets and boots of her friends. You do repairs, you make adjustments, your fingers ache and everything smells like pine tar now and at most you’re told that it looks okay – no photos of some hot dyke showing off your handiwork. Even the protocol at home has ended, Miss being so busy with her new job and you sleeping in most mornings, exhausted from the exhaustion itself. You black their boots while they’re out, not wanting to waste any of their time. Once, you try licking the conditioner on like you used to, tongue pressing against the grain of the leather you know better than you ever thought you could know anything. It ends in tears, no one around to hold you, neither of them noticing the streaks down your cheeks when they get home.

You notice yourself getting weaker. You cook for all three of you, but you never eat as much as they do. You just don’t have the appetite anymore, sitting alone on the couch, watching half an episode of some anime before getting back to it all. You try to get ahead of chores, make some time in the day for meeting people or going on a walk, but when you’ve spent all that energy on getting things done quickly, you can’t find any more to leave the flat. You get on the apps, try to make friends, but your interests bottom out now. The stories you have are all stories from years ago, and nobody wants to hear about the relative merits of different brands of dish soap. A few people say they’re interested in leather, but by this point that’s the last thing you want to talk about.

There are so many things you try to say to them, but you hardly even talk any more. They put some money into your account every week, just enough to buy groceries. Anything more than that – polish, tools, kitchenware – they’ll buy it for you. It’s their money, after all. And it’s not even sexy, this destitution. Before you quit your job, being subservient to them was hot. Your income was theirs, but now there’s nothing left to give. There’s no transfer of power. The tension has resolved.

When you lie alone at night, you try to touch yourself. Sometimes, you force your way into an erection. The fantasies that come to you are strange in their normalcy. You want to kiss your girlfriend again. You want to go on a date. You want to have a job and go out to the bar after your shifts and argue about feminist kink practices with anyone and everyone. You want the energy to attend an event and for this chronic fatigue to stop creeping into your body. You want to be excited for a future again.

As you orgasm, the thoughts slip from your mind. You didn’t want any of this life, even if you asked for it – begged for it. There was no desire that brought you here, there was no perfect form of a relationship you were striving for – only the drive to feel that rush of something beyond pleasure when you stamped on your own bright spark. And here you are, still acting out this meaningless existence, unneeded by anyone – least of all yourself.