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The Chattel Girl	By : tooshoes Category: DC Verse Television > SuperGirl Views: 6108 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Supergirl, nor the characters or any story elements from TV show. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 12
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- 14
When I feel down, I want you above me
I search myself, I want you to find me
I forget myself, I want you to remind me
-- Divinyls
I am so tired!
What sleep I got at the DEO had been riddled with interruptions, and the two hours that I was unconscious during the rescue wasn’t like sleep at all, so I crash hard this first chance I have to rest. I’m a notoriously heavy sleeper. I feel hands attempting to joggle me awake. Voices speak gibberish, and I speak gibberish back. I swat someone’s nose, thinking it is a snooze button.
Finally, the sleep-thieves leave me alone, and I get the rest I so desperately need, and I can finally dream.
Cat and Alex are in a showdown, each fighting for the right to own me. Alex is a brilliant martial artist, but somehow she can’t lay a hand on Cat. Alex says that I belong to her according to ancient rites. Cat counters that I choose my fate in this country, on this world.
I’m just a spectator in this dream, and I feel my heart torn between the hero and the villain, so much so that I don’t know which is which.
Alex told me the truth that was in my mind. Cat told me the truth that was in my heart. Or was it the other way around? Is truth a prison, or does truth set me free?
The dream ends abruptly without an answer.
I wake up to the sound of a helicopter flying overhead, and my memories of the dream scatter like dust in the wind, yet the dust remains in the air around me.
I’m curled on my side with my cape draped over my body, keeping me warm, and with a big, fluffy pillow under my face. I sit up and stare at the starry sky. Now, I remember where I am: the balcony behind Cat’s office at CatCo.
This is where I fell asleep, so it makes sense that I would wake up here.
But not much else makes sense when the fog of sleep lifts from my mind.
For one thing, my hair is combed and damp where my head rested on the pillow. Even more confusing is that I’m not wearing the costume I went to sleep wearing!
I stand up and look myself over. Now I’m wearing a long-sleeve blue dress with the chattel-symbol on the chest and the miniskirt goes down well below my crotch. The material is completely opaque and slack. My red boots are so tall they nearly reach my knees. My cape is heavy and long. The only part from my previous costume that is the same is the belt, which hangs loosely around my waist, ensuring that my figure is not lost in the loose-fitting costume.
I laugh, suddenly remembering disturbances in my sleep. I had thought someone was trying to wake me. Instead, someone was washing and dressing me. And that someone was Winn. I know it right away even before I see the hand-written note on the table beside the chaise lounge.
I pick up the note. I can read it easily with no lighting except the stars, so I know my powers are coming back, albeit slowly.
The note reads, “I’m sorry, Kara. I wanted to be here when you woke up. Everything that has happened is my fault. I forced you to wear those very sexy costumes. You are so innocent, you don’t understand the male gaze and how men react when they see you. We made you into something you are not. So I started over. I made this new costume so that people will treat you with respect – as the hero you have always been. Please forgive me. Love, Winn.”
I bite my lip, feeling both touched and angry. I’m touched that Winn feels so protective of me. I’m angry that he assumes that I’ve been fooled by everyone. What does he mean: I don’t understand the male gaze? I understand it so well -- the savage hunger and mindless need to dominate my body and my soul. I’ve felt that hunger directed at me my whole life. What I don’t understand is why I crave that attention. It’s embarrassing, belittling, insulting, yet it excites me.
Maybe I’m this way because of how I was raised. Or maybe it’s a defect in my genes. I don’t want to believe that, but the things I’ve wanted to believe have never been true. I don’t feel the feelings I should feel. The things that I should want, I have no interest in.
No, Winn, I’m not innocent. Not by a long-shot. I don’t blame you for making me look like a slut. On the contrary: I want to thank you for helping to bring that part of me out. I want you to be happy that I bring out the mad love inside of you.
I think I’m beginning to understand Winn better. He has a fascination with making clothes and dressing his dolls. I’ve become his favorite doll to dress. He wants to love me like I’m a real person, but he’s not there, yet. He wants to redeem himself in my eyes. He wants me to believe that I’m better than I am. He wants to treat me with respect. How respectful was washing and dressing me in my sleep? Not at all, but honestly I get a kick out of it. That’s his version of the male gaze, and it turns me on, too. But he is the one who doesn’t understand his own male gaze. I’m sure his cock was hard the entire time he was dressing me. He pretends that he is trying to remake my image, yet he didn’t put any panties under my skirt. That’s a secret for only him and me. He’s jealous that everyone is looking at me with lust in their eyes, and he wants that for himself.
And I’m glad he feels that way. It’s a step closer to him really loving me. I just wish he knew that is why he’s doing it rather than rationalizing his feelings.
Or maybe I’m the one who is rationalizing because it’s hard for me to believe that anyone could really love me.
I fold the letter and put it back on the table, and that’s when I notice a huge Hershey bar that was barely visible in the dark.
My eyes open wide.
I take it all back, Winn! You know me so well! You are my savior!
The candy bar disappears into my mouth at super-speed, as if it was never there. My stress level goes to zero like I’m a character in a video game.
I didn’t realize how anxious I had been feeling until chocolate fixed me.
Now I can think more clearly, and I can finally appreciate how odd the situation is.
Why did Winn leave a note? Why did everyone abandon me up here?
I look around. Although my powers are returning, I still can’t see through walls, so I open the sliding door to the balcony and walk into Cat’s back office.
I see a clock on the wall. 10:30 PM. It’s nice to know day from night, again.
Some televisions and monitors glow inside the office, and I see a few nightlights in the office space beyond. Otherwise, the building is immersed in darkness.
After taking a few steps inside, a voice calls out over a loudspeaker, making me jump. “Hello, Supergirl, this is SWAT Commander Eldridge. Is everything okay up there?”
“Oh, uh, yes, I think so. I just woke up. What is going on? Where did everybody go?”
“We evacuated the building so we could monitor the situation. I thought you were informed,” the voice says.
“No,” I say, but then I remember that people were talking to me while attempting to wake me. They probably thought I was awake enough to understand. Instead, I was only awake enough to convince them to leave me alone, and that’s what they did.
Commander Eldridge explains, “Well, Supergirl, except for you, the building is evacuated, allowing us to more easily monitor the situation. We have credible information that some people, possibly within our government, might attempt to capture you again before you fully recuperate, and our orders from the city are to protect you. Don’t worry, ma’am, nobody is getting in there.”
“Oh my god! Thank you, mister. Everything is quiet up here,” I ask, grateful for his protection. But then I whine, “Do I really need to be alone up here, though?”
The commander doesn’t speak for a moment, and then he says simply, “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you,” I add, but the commander doesn’t speak again.
At first, I feel like the conversation went well, but the more I think about it, the more embarrassed I feel.
The way the commander described the situation we are in, our city might be involved in a civil war because of me, and all I am concerned about is feeling lonely! I’m supposed to be National City’s protector, now, yet I’m the one being protected and pampered by the U.S. government! I feel like I’m an imposter. How could anyone think that I could be a hero?
I walk to the media center within Cat’s office, which glows impressively among the darkness and shadows. The screens and keyboard give Cat access to everything she needs to stay on top of this hectic world.
Cat was here just minutes ago. The lock screen hasn’t kicked in, yet.
I look around, but I see no sign of her.
I sit on Cat’s office chair and assume her position at the desk. I’ve never operated her various media devices before, but they are user-friendly. Cat is even more technically illiterate than I am. I don’t need a Winn around to use Cat’s fool-proof tools.
A live stream of CatCo’s network channel silently dominates the largest monitor, with the other two major TV news networks each relegated to small windows in the corner, waiting to be summoned by a touch on the screen. Sometimes I'm amazed at how different the networks are, like they are covering three different worlds.
A second monitor displays a web browser with 30 bookmarks permanently displayed on the right side.
I’m reading the bookmarks when an image on the television monitor catches my attention. The picture is of me in my Supergirl costume.
I’ve seen Cat operate the television a hundred times before, so I know what to do. I flick my finger up the screen to raise the volume.
Now, I hear the familiar voice of Leslie Willis, a commentator on CatCo’s affiliated news channel, while a touched-up photo of myself fills most of the screen. I see my image smiling back at me from the patio of CatCo, looking much more confident than I had felt. People surround me in the photo, but I’m the only person in focus. Someone performed a rather neat visual trick; the fishnet patterns of the costume are sharp, but the details of my nipples are completely washed out. The image only shows my upper body, so no further photo manipulation was needed.
I’m catching Ms. Willis’s broadcast mid-show, so I struggle to follow her message:
“We shouldn’t hold our breath, waiting for the government to explain why they captured our city’s only superhero, but I’ll tell you what I think,” Leslie Willis says. Then the image of me disappears, and the camera zooms in on Leslie. “When a young woman, or even a super-girl, challenges the rules, she is considered a threat. But a super-man, like the one they have in Metropolis, is treated like someone sacred. He has been breaking the rules for years, disregarding the rights of others, and he gets away with it without so much as a rebuke. He promotes sexist and elitist views, and Metropolis falls in line without a question.
“Well, this new Supergirl is different and refreshing. She’s humble but undaunted by our dysfunctional society. She knows what it’s like to come from nothing, to have no privileges, and be unwanted. She refuses to be shamed into submission. She declines discretion. She is a slut, and she knows it. She dares us to accept her for who she is. Well, that’s what I want from a hero. The honesty is refreshing. That’s someone I can relate to and believe in, and National City must welcome her with open arms.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing, especially from the usually angry Leslie Willis. She is actually proud of me for daring to be a slut!
I need to hear more. I know that Ms. Willis works for Cat Grant, so I shouldn’t take her opinions seriously, but the praise feels almost as good as chocolate or sex, and I can easily get addicted.
Then the station goes to a commercial, and I can’t wait through five minutes of living in my mind, exposed to self-reflection, self-doubt and incredulity. I need to hear more right now, even if what I hear is lies.
I see another image of myself at the bottom right of the monitor, previewing Channel 9 News’s broadcast from Gotham City. I’m amazed that they would cover a story about me because that network rarely covers news from outside of Gotham. I tap on the preview. The tiny window grows and takes over the monitor, and the audio fills the room.
Photos of three women appear side-by-side onscreen:
On the left side, Harley Quinn wears a torn shirt that’s two sizes too small for her and a black, low rise, cheeky bottom. Almost every inch of exposed skin below her face is covered with tattoos.
In the middle, Black Canary wears a delicious black, v-shaped one-piece with a neckline that plunges down past her navel, and her side is bare from her boots up to her rib cage.
The final photo shows me taken within this office five hours ago by James Olsen. Nobody touched-up this photo. Gotham is broadcasting me exactly how I looked, censors be damned.
I hear Vicky Vale’s voice speaking while the static images fill the screen, “Gotham City’s sirens are renowned for testing the limits with their provocative attire, but the new heroine in our sister-city on the other coast is blazing a new trail with her radical new costume and behavior. Cat Grant is bold to promote this ingénue, so colorful and scandalous, evoking memories of yesteryear in National City. Today, the chattel girl’s background seems better suited for Gotham. Our once daring celebrity scene is getting stale with its dark fashion, dour presentation, and acceptance of boundaries. We’re losing our edge. Leave it to a teenager from another planet to set us straight. You belong here, Supergirl. You are welcome to our town anytime.”
I can’t stop laughing. Has the world gone insane? And why do they think I’m a teenager? Oh, I forgot, that’s how Cat described Supergirl before Cat learned who I am. Nobody cares about my true age. What else did Cat tell the world about me when I was trapped at the DEO, and how much of that is pure fiction?
I click on the third news station at the bottom of the screen, WGBS, which is broadcast out of Metropolis.
Lana Lang sits behind a news desk with Clark Kent as a guest and an image of me suspended above their heads. Cat Grant would never permit WGBS to use one of CatCo’s licensed photos, so the network resorted to using a low-quality photo from Lois Lane’s photographer. The low quality does not impact their segment, however, because they are not interested in sensationalist photography. Instead, they push sensationalist journalism.
Ms. Lang starts: “It seems your words were prophetic, Mr. Kent. Last week, the so-called Supergirl made quite a scene in the skies above National City, and many in the mainstream media were willing to give her a pass just because she's from Krypton. Just another teenager being reckless, they said. But you knew better. You warned us of Supergirl’s corruption. How did you know?”
“Her name is Kara Zor-El,” Clark Kent replies calmly. “I refuse to call her Supergirl. As you know, I’ve studied Kryptonian culture extensively since Superman became our national hero, and the history of chattel girls represent a cautionary tale that we on Earth would do well to heed. Thousands of years before Krypton’s destruction, chattel girls were a bane to their society, tempting unsuspecting men. Krypton was so enamored with personal freedom and accountability, they let the chattel loose on their world, believing everyone deserved to make mistakes and learn from them. Their society was very similar to Earth's society before our enlightenment. They couldn’t distinguish a moral mistake from chronic corruption. Then the genetic revolution began. Krypton discovered that original sin was real and could be discovered in the genes. You see, some good girls are bad for a day, but others, like Kara Zor-El, are born that way, permanently corrupted. That symbol she wears so proudly now was meant to be a warning about her kind. Someday, when our science is advanced enough, we’ll probably find the same condition among Earth’s women. That’s why I’m so disturbed by what we are seeing today; so much of our media values sensation over wisdom, and Kara Zor-El is already breaking records as click-bait. Krypton gave us its best with Superman, and now it is giving us its worst with this chattel girl.”
“How very interesting,” Ms. Lang says. “What about the men on Krypton? Were there any chronic male sluts?”
Mr. Kent raises an eyebrow. “Boys will be boys, everywhere, Ms. Lang, but they are far less disruptive.”
Ms. Lang rolls her eyes. “As a red-blooded woman, I beg to disagree.”
Mr. Kent and Ms. Lang laugh together while I fume in my seat.
How dare he talk about me like this? I am tempted to expose his secret identity and let everyone see how conflicted he is.
Ms. Lang turns to face the camera and says, “Next up, National City’s so-called hero crashes multiple porn sites with record-breaking traffic. We’ll be right back.”
My mouth drops. I should be numb to such shocks, but that news catches me off guard.
I franticly turn to the web browser on the other side of the desk and type in “pussycats.com” – a CatCo affiliated porn site with a unique social media component, allowing porn stars to connect with their fans. Cat had claimed the features would empower women, framing it as a feminist achievement. In reality, PussyCats is like most other porn sites, relying on uploads from members and obnoxious advertisements. But today is special; for once, PussyCats has exclusive content, and the site would push it even if it wasn't already trending.
I wait impatiently while the website struggles to load, but then all the pictures and text load instantly. Tonight, the home page is exclusively about me, showing everything the news channels would only hint at. On top of the page are the explicit photos Winn took of me last week, which were shocking enough, but those are old news, now. Halfway down the page are James Olsen’s photos, including a close-up photo my dripping pussy in black & white; is that supposed to make it classy?
The last image shows me splayed out on the balcony with a “play” button blinking in the middle; the button begs to be pressed.
The click count on the video is 20 million. I can’t fathom that number. My finger quivers, hesitating over the button, afraid and excited to see what millions of strangers have already seen. I want to relive that moment. I want to relive that moment as a voyeur just like everyone else on this site. I click the button and add myself to the count.
The video starts, but the girl on the screen is already deep in her fuck fantasy. I cringe at the sound of moans coming from the speaker. She doesn’t sound like me. She doesn’t look like me. I mean, of course she does, but I don’t see myself. I feel like I’m watching a stranger getting herself off. I’m just one of the 20 million visitors to this porn site watching this girl getting herself off. I feel disturbed and excited while watching her. I am her, and I am me. I’m an exhibitionist and a voyeur at the same time. She doesn’t see the camera, but she poses for it nevertheless, because being watched gets her hot. My hand slides under my skirt because watching her gets me hot. Her face looks so red it’s unreal. Her eyes are closed tight. Her mouth is open like she’s gasping for air. Her boobs bounce when her body rocks, and her hips thrust. Her legs are spread wide, not because it feels good but because she thinks it’s sexy. Did she know that thirty million people would be watching? Did I know? We look like we are performing for a camera. We are pure slut!
She is so insanely wet in the video, and now I’m getting wet again under my skirt.
This is so fucked up. I’m reliving that moment on the chaise lounge from a distance, just like much of the world is doing right now. She’s autoerotic, and I’m autosexual. Just add that to the growing list of things that turn me on.
She shows off for five minutes in the video, fucking herself with my fingers and climaxing several times, but her audience wants to look in her eyes, and she won’t let us.
Finally, she looks up, sees the camera, she gives us a small tease. Then she just lays on the cushions like a log while the camera captures still images. She doesn’t care. She is satisfied as an exhibitionist. She is all sex, but I’m all insecurity and second-guessing. I feel frustrated as a voyeur. I’m worried millions of other people feel the same way. She doesn’t give us a happy ending.
After a minute of slow closeups, the video finally stops, and the statistics pop back up on the screen. Over eight thousand comments are reported for this video.
My chest tightens. These other voyeurs cared enough to comment? That’s a lot of comments. What do they think of her?
What do they think of me?
Are they all complaining about the ending? Did I look like a cold bitch to them, refusing to look at the camera? Are they making fun of me? Oh, fuck, I’ve gone from frustration to fear. I need to know. So I click on the link, and the thirty most recent comments fill the screen.
All of the comments are short.

Droolguy: I think I’ve fucked her before lol
Jimmy1021: In your dreams
Bonerxxx: damn she a wet bitch in heat
IronMan101: Supergirl cum save me
DrD0L1ttle: Need a boob job
M1keHunt: My wife is a jealous bitch, but she loves how hard Supergirl makes me!
Bonerxxx: bet this fucking cunt is a lousy lay
IronMan101: The goddess returns!
RoboRanger: super-slut go to hell

Most of the comments hit me like a gut punch. I’m beginning to think Winn was right. Maybe I don’t understand the male gaze after all. I understand the hunger, even when it turns them into sex-crazed zombies. It’s both scary and exhilarating when they see me that way. But there is so much hostility! It’s a darkness I’ve only felt from my family. Strangers never show it to me in public, but now I see it’s there all the time.
I want to close the computer and stop thinking about it.
But maybe I'm overreacting.
Many of the comments are genuinely nice, or at least they treat me like a person. These fresh apples save the pile from the rotten bunch, and I try to tune out the snarky comments.

KingSlayer210: She saved that plane, and she’s hella hot! You don't even know! What do I care what Krypton thought of her? They were fucked up, anyway. She’s awesome!

I’m so relieved by this compliment that I hit the reply button.

Admin1: Thank you KingSlayer! You are really nice!
ShallowHal12: Nice body. She’s a little thin for my taste, but I hear that she can’t gain weight. How the fuck does that work?
Admin1: I don’t know the science of it, but I’m always eating, and I’m always hungry. When I have my powers, everything I eat turns to energy. I don’t even have to poop because I digest everything.
ShallowHal12: What??
KingSlayer210: best super power ever lol!
Wonderfuck: I’m falling for this honeypot. Does all that grool mean she’s super-horny? Seriously, I need to know.
Admin1: Why do you need to know?
KingSlayer210: Who are you, Admin1? Did you post the video?
Admin1: No, my boss posted it, I think, but I’m using her computer. I am Kara Danvers, but you know me as Supergirl.
KingSlayer210: You are Kara? Seriously?
ShallowHal12: You are full of shit --unless you’re telling the truth, then no shit, right? lol
Wonderfuck: Seriously, does anybody think that Supergirl is chatting with us right now?

I frown at the screen. They don’t believe me?
Maybe it’s best that they don’t believe me. I should feel grateful and hide in my shame.
But then I remember what makes this porn site special – social media features.
I say, “Just a second, I’ll prove I’m Supergirl!”
As far as this computer knows, I’m the person who uploaded the video, so I have many options to communicate with those watching and talking about it. I can open up a video chat that everyone in the room can see and comment on. I can also invite up to four participants to join the video feed, so I select KingSlayer, ShallowHal, and Wonderfuck.
KingSlayer joins the room first. I guess she doesn’t have a camera, because all I see is her name where a face should be, but then I hear a husky female voice that probably smoked too many cigarettes in her life, saying, “Hello? Can you hear me?”
I smile, “Yes, KingSlayer, I hear you. Can you see me?”
“Wait a second. My connection is slow. Oh, yeah, there you are, you cute thing! Are you really a teenager?” she asks.
“Well, it’s hard to say. Years were different where I grew up, and then some years disappeared completely, and I age differently, so I don’t know how to answer,” I reply.
ShallowHall enters the room next, and I’m amazed that he’s dressed in a suit and sitting behind a desk. “Hello?” he asks with an exotic Australian accent. “Oh shit, can everyone see me?” Then he covers the camera with a sheet of paper.
I laugh. “Too late!”
Finally, Wonderfuck joins. A boy barely in puberty pops-up on the screen.
My mouth drops. Wonderfuck is Cat's son Carter!
I babysat the twelve-year-old imp five times! Every time I babysat him, he would cajole me incessantly, and I would pretend that he wasn't getting to me. Now he's got me where he wants me.
"I have something for you," he says, knowing that it will make me blush.
“This boy doesn’t even look like a teenager, yet!” KingSlayer says, then she laughs. “Maybe age works differently for him, too.”
Carter acts offended, but he has trouble keeping a straight face. “I already agreed when I signed up that I’m 18 years old or over.”
It’s not convincing to anyone, nor is it intended to be, and the comment section comes alive with jokes.
“Does your mom know you use this site?” I tease him, trying to get the upper hand.
“Duh!” he says. “I watched her post these videos! She’s the best. She says it’s good for me to watch porn and clean my plumbing, as she calls it, so I don’t get clogged up in my head!”
“She ... wants you to watch me?” I ask, amazed. “I didn't know you knew who I was.”
ShallowHall interrupts, “It’s kind of dark in there. You could be anyone.”
So I turn on a light.
Nobody says anything for a few seconds.
Then Carter says mischievously, “I’m still not sure. I can’t recognize you in that lame costume. Please take off your shirt…”
I sneer. He knows who I am, the smart-ass!
“Is that legal?” KingSlayer asks. "He's a kid!"
"Of course it's legal -- she's the one!" ShallowHall replies, reminding Kara of something she heard before.
But Carter replies with, “I'm not a kid, remember? But even if I was, it's not illegal for me to watch her take off her clothes. This is a porn site, and she's not responsible for who watches.”
Really? Is that true? He sounds just like his mother when he talks. He's very convincing. Did Cat put him up to this?
I’m so accustomed to obeying Cat or anyone with confidence that I reach for the bottom of my shirt, ready to undress for this young boy when I remember that I’m not wearing a shirt. “My costume is a one-piece dress,” I explain.
“You don’t need to see her tits to see that she is Supergirl,” ShallowHal comes to my rescue.
“True, true,” Carter replies with a wicked smile. “Boobs tell us nothing. We only need to see the grool. Then I’ll believe.”
I swear, he talks like a dirty old man in a kid’s body and Cat’s voice, except his blush gives him away. Has he thought of me this way every time I babysat him?
Oh my god, why is this making me wet?
I wait a moment, giving ShallowHal and KingSlayer a chance to put this kid in his place, but they say nothing. I look at the comments piling up. Carter is their hero. They are all daring me to do it.
I sigh. Enough fake modesty. I step back from the desk and look at my image on the screen. I step back further until the camera sees my body from my head to my knees.
Everyone is quiet.
Then I separate my legs and lift my skirt a couple of inches.
But I stop too soon.
“I can’t see her pussy,” ShallowHal says.
Carter agrees, “Me, too. Take it all off, Supergirl!”
I want to obey. Obeying is my thing. I get wet just thinking about it.
But I can tell that Carter is jerking off below his camera.
I drop the hem of my skirt and look away from the camera.
Maybe Winn was right.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize for leading them on. “But I’m supposed to be a hero, now.”
“Hero?” Carter laughs. “Oh, Supergirl, please be my hero! I can't cum until I see your pussy!”
I shake my head. “I can’t blame you for not respecting me. I need to be respectable, first.”
Carter throws his head back. “Well, I tried my best.”
KingSlayer adds. “Good for you, Supergirl.”
The comment section is much less kind.
“Stuck up bitch,” is said at least three times.
Nobody else comes to my defense.
But then a stream of “thumbs up” emoji begins like a wave at a baseball game.
I feel touched.
So what the hell; I step back from the monitor, raise the hem of my dress to my chest, and I do a twirl. Respect in the real world is one thing, but this is a porn site, after all. Besides, I love the feeling!
The stream of “thumbs up” changes to clapping-hands emoji.
I see Carter clapping for real on the monitor.
I laugh and bow to my audience.
Then I lick my lips.
To hell with respect. I'll put on a real show!
But before I can break the internet again, the main light in the office suddenly turns on and is almost blinding.
“Hello?” I hear Winn’s voice calling from the elevator. “Kara?”
I suddenly feel giddy like I haven’t felt in too long. I jump up and down trying to get his attention.
“My boyfriend is here,” I explain to the camera. I don’t know why I call him that. Maybe because respectable girls have boyfriends. Or maybe I want him to save me from myself.
I don’t see how my audience responds.
Winn quickly walks across the building and enters Cat’s office.
“Hey, Kara, what’s going on in here?” he asks.
“I’m just talking to these people on PussyCats,” I explain, but I’m not sure how to continue. Does he want to know the facts, or does he want to know how I feel? So I tell a lie that feels like the truth: “I was telling them how much I like this new costume, and how much I loved your note!”
“Really?” Winn asks doubtfully.
“Oh yes!” I push the lie so hard I believe it myself. Then I look at the camera and say, “See guys? This is Winn. He makes all of my costumes, and he’s my best friend.”
“I … I am?” Winn asks.
Oh my god! He doesn’t know? How could he not know that?
Maybe because I never tell him.
“Of course you are, silly!” I say, but I can see that my answer doesn’t make him feel better. I’m just confusing him. So I move closer. Close enough to be intimate. “I’m sorry, I always say the wrong things to you. I don’t know what gets into me. I think it’s because I’m so in love with you!”
“Really?” Winn asks again, now more hopeful.
Why am I saying this? It just came out. I don’t even know if it’s true.
But it feels true. I want it to be true.
I put my arms around him. Our eyes are locked, and our mouths nearly touch. His breath is almost my breath. I’m getting wetter, and I’m not the least bit ashamed of it. I want to be wet for him. I want to be honest like I’ve never been honest before. I want to confess it in front of the world. “I’m in love with you, Winn. I keep losing my way, but you are always there for me, bringing me back.”
Winn wants to kiss me so badly. It’s burning in his eyes.
I want him to kiss me, too. I'll be his doll, I'll be his action figure.
Play with me, Winn. Take me. Make me your home. Clean my pipes. Empty my attic, Destroy my basement.
But Winn’s eyes wander to the camera.
What was I thinking?? The world is watching. I wanted to witnesses to my confession, but they are expecting another show. I reach out and close the browser window with a single tap of my finger.
Now we are alone, and Winn surprises me by pulling me back towards him and then slamming my back against the wall. He kisses me so hard, my knees give and I sink a few inches.
I gasp. I didn’t know he had this in him.
His hands slide up my thighs and grope at my ass before climbing to my hips.
I unbuckle his belt desperately.
Now he’s undressing me in earnest, and I’m trying to lower his pants.
That’s when the phone rings on Cat’s desk.
We ignore the phone while Winn lifts my costume over my head, so now I’m only wearing the boots. But Winn is still clothed from head to toe, so he begins undressing himself, and the phone continues to ring.
So I reach out and activate the speakerphone. I know answering is a mistake even before I say the obligatory, “Hello.”
“I saw that insane show you put on,” Alex says flatly through the speaker, and my blood runs cold. “Don’t forget that you belong to me!”
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The Chattel Girl