Thread: The Perfect Submissive (Jennilyn x Devilla-Roche)

The road seems to stretch out endlessly before me, I've been on it for hours. I'm not even sure where I'm going anymore, I'm not sure what roads I've taken. With no idea the direction I'm heading in, the only part that's important is that it's away from where I originally was. Because that's what I do, I guess. I run. It's possibly one of the only things I'm good at, actually. I suppose eventually I have to end up back home, but I don't think I can return to my job, I don't think there's anything left there for me. Not anymore, anyway. The car is hot, and the mechanism to roll the windows down broken. The AC is on but that barely works too. My car is crap, and because of that I'm trapped inside, sweating up a storm. My brilliantly pink tank top hugs my breasts, A C cup at most. Nothing too impressive, but it could be worse. I don't make a habit of wearing tank tops while in public, but since I'm alone and driving I figure there's no harm, no one will see me anyway. It's so hot the idea of taking even that off crosses my mind, but I'd never have the courage. Only shorts cover the southern portion of my body and the fiery orange locks atop my hair, the color a decision I'd come to regret, tied in a ponytail to stay out of my face. I take my hand off of the steering wheel for just a moment to wipe sweat from my brow and sigh. Then of course everything goes to hell. The car shakes violently, and I clutch the steering wheel tightly. It quickly becomes apparent by the smoke clouding my windshield that there was nothing I would be able to do. I pull over to the side and sit there, with the sun beating down on me. It's early evening already, it's going to be dark soon and a quick glance at my phone tells me there's no service so I sit. I sit, unblinking for several minutes before I give in to my frustration, something I hate doing and bash my hands against the steering wheel, and when I tire of that I lean my head against it and hold back the angry tears that threaten to come. That's something that's not entirely easy for me to do, since I'm a crybaby by nature. Even if I had been able to get a signal who would I have called... You can't talk most of the time, dummy... I sit there for at least an hour before I get out, wiping my forehead again. In this whole time I haven't seen a single car and it strikes me as bizarre but what can I do? I start to walk, in the same direction I was driving before since I can't remember anything close by behind. The whole time I'm worried this stupid country road will be the death of me. The only things with me are my purse, my phone and a pad of paper with a small pen attached to it. The walk is torturous and it's nighttime before I notice anything that stands out to me. It's still far but up on a hill in the distance I can see a house. No, it's bigger than a house. It must be some sort of mansion. I could risk continuing down the road, but... I don't see anything ahead, and the house looks like it's only about a quarter of a mile away. That seems like the safest option, even if it means seeing another human being. I sigh, and resign myself to my fate, heading up the long drive with swollen, aching feet. The mailbox reads only '1888' which strikes me as odd. Ooookay, then... . The final stretch is where I begin to grow worried. Only the shadow of the sun remains and it's honestly beginning to get quite chilly. I hug myself and as I approach the drive seems to narrow, and I know it's just my mind screwing with me, the way it always, does but my breathing speeds up. I'm practically at the door but I stop, the door the most intimidating thing I've ever seen. At least that's what my mind is telling me. I'm not going to run. I tell myself. No, I just need to prepare... I tell myself. I pull out the pad of paper and scribble on it quickly, messily. 'Excuse me, my car broke down do you possibly have a phone I could use to call for help, thank you. With that done there's nothing left to do but go and knock... No, that's weird. 'Please excuse the paper. I have a hard time talking.' I quickly scribble below the original writing there. Okay, now I'm ready. Nope. I'm not. I'm not ready at all. I back away slowly, and beginning heading back. Stupid anxiety... Stupid Selective mutism... I stop once more, and just look down at the ground. Stupid me... I've got to make a stand sometime, and if I go back I could be out here all night. With my luck I'll probably end up in a ditch somewhere... There's no choice. I sigh and spin on my heels and practically stomp up to the door. With a shaky hand I reach out and knock on the door lightly, then the final knock a bit louder figuring I might not be heard otherwise. One second... Two second... Three seconds. Oh God. Three seconds. Whoever's inside hasn't answered yet. They must hate me, and my breathing stops. Oh no... Oh God... I forget to keep counting, then I hear the sounds of the door unlocking. I drop my pad to the ground while trying to prepare it and squeak, bending down to pick it up. When the door opens I'm still on my knees. I panic and grab the pad, holding it up with the part I scribbled on facing whoever answers. I'm not sure who it is because I'm too busy staring directly at the ground.