The servant finds himself in the large garage belonging to Vixen. Here she has a huge collection of beautiful prestige cars. He finds himself, naked, beneath one of them. It is a blue sports car, low profile so he is firmly trapped beneath. He was placed here by Vixen’s personal security guards. Powerful women with tremendous fighting skills and of course armed. He has been left here overnight. He can only use this time to contemplate his fate. He was privy to the conversation the previous night between Vixen and her friends. Possibly the alcohol loosened their lips a little but in any case he is a witness and that will not do.
The morning sun filters weakly through the dusty windows of the sprawling garage, casting faint slants of light across rows of gleaming vehicles, each a testament to Vixen’s wealth and taste. Chrome and steel glint coldly in the half-light, sleek reflections flickering across the walls, almost as if the cars themselves are alive, each an extension of her power and prestige. The air is tinged with the scent of motor oil and metal; a sharp, sterile odour that feels brutally indifferent, much like the woman herself.
He lies beneath the low-slung blue sports car, pressed into the unforgiving concrete by the vehicle’s cold, greasy undercarriage. All night, the cruel metal has dug into his chest, the chill seeping into his bones, a stark contrast to the plush warmth of her life beyond these walls. Left here as punishment; or perhaps simply discarded as a thoughtless aftereffect of Vixen’s whims; he has had hours to contemplate his fate, his devotion, his utter insignificance in her eyes. His chest aches with the dull weight of metal, and his mind pulses with disbelief, a desperate kind of confusion. How could she believe he would betray her? He has done nothing but worship her, serve her, submit to her every whim with a devotion he once thought would be valued, perhaps even treasured.
But Vixen is not the type to treasure anything that isn’t herself. While he lay in the frigid grip of the garage, his body trapped beneath her car, she had luxuriated in a scented bath, the warm water lapping over her skin, her mind adrift in thoughts of self-indulgence and future conquests. She had lounged in silken robes, poured herself glasses of fine wine, her lips curved in a serene smile, entirely oblivious; or more likely, entirely indifferent; to the suffering she had orchestrated. The disparity is staggering; while he lies bruised, his body moulding itself to the cold ground beneath her car, she basks in warmth, surrounded by softness, ensconced in a world that caters only to her comfort.
Then, he hears it; the crisp, decisive sound of her heels, echoing through the vast silence of the garage. Sharp, metallic clicks that reverberate with purpose and power, each step reminding him of the absolute control she holds over his life. Those heels, tipped with polished steel, have a bite to them, a dangerous edge that mirrors her own personality. He can’t see her yet, but the sound of those cruel heels foretell an ordeal yet to come.
Vixen pauses by the door of the blue sports car, her gloved fingers tracing a slow, deliberate line over the polished surface, savouring its sleek beauty. She’s dressed immaculately, as always; thigh-high boots that hug her legs like a second skin, riding jodhpurs and a tailored white blouse cinched at the waist and leather gloves so perfectly fitted they might as well be her own flesh. With a smooth motion, she slides into the driver’s seat, adding her weight to the vehicle that already presses so mercilessly upon him. The car sinks down another fraction, the leather seats embracing her as she settles in, while his chest absorbs the increased weight, his ribs straining under the relentless pressure.
She lights a cigarette, a small indulgence to savour before setting her plans into motion. The flick of the lighter is soft but precise, her movements controlled and elegant. She takes a long drag, allowing the taste to fill her mouth, the smoke to settle in her lungs, before exhaling in a slow, satisfied stream. She feels at ease, every inch of her body comfortable, relaxed, cradled by the warmth of the luxury vehicle. The supple leather moulds to her form, insulating her from the world outside, cocooning her in comfort. In this moment, she is the embodiment of effortless power, enjoying the taste of tobacco and control in equal measure.
With a lazy twist of her wrist, she turns the key in the ignition. The engine roars to life, the rumble reverberating through the metal, traveling down through his body as if the car itself were an extension of her will. The sound is deep, powerful, almost animalistic; a fitting contrast to his frail form pinned beneath it, a reminder of just how small and helpless he is in her world. She smirks, taking another drag from her cigarette, her eyes half-lidded with satisfaction.
Without a glance downward, without a single thought to his well-being or survival, she shifts the car into reverse. Her gloved hand wraps around the gearstick with practiced ease, the leather creaking softly against her fingers as she slides it into position. Her booted foot presses lightly on the accelerator, sending the car rolling back, each inch adding unbearable pressure onto his chest. Because he is already trapped tightly beneath the car, the motion backwards causes his body to roll with it, ripping the skin away. His blood mixes with the grease and dirt on the chassis. His shoulders snap and bones in both arms are broken. How easily his body crumples beneath the combined weight of the car and it’s precious driver; yet how little she does to create untold agony. A tiny movement from her delicate feet is all that it takes. So easy that she can simply relax and smoke whilst he suffers beneath her; nothing more than a worthless insect in her world of privilege. She adjusts the steering wheel with precision, angling it so that her driver’s side tire will pass directly over his chest.
The wheel begins its cruel journey, rolling over his ribcage with deliberate slowness. She feels the bump as her car rises over him, a satisfying feeling as his chest begins to cave beneath the weight. To her, it is nothing more than a tactile sensation, a minor detail to be acknowledged and then dismissed. The slight resistance is just enough to amuse her, a reminder of her complete and utter dominance. The pressure increases, and the wheel presses down, unforgiving and merciless, every ounce of the car’s weight; and her indifference; driving into him.
Satisfied, she continues her reverse, pulling away from his body with the same casual ease. She shifts into first gear, inhaling another deep drag of her cigarette, allowing herself a moment to relish the taste of smoke and leather, of power and absolute control. With a firm press on the gas, she accelerates away, the roar of the engine filling the garage as she leaves him broken and gasping, a forgotten casualty of her morning routine.
She’ll spend her day in pampered luxury, her mind entirely free of him, indulging in salon treatments, massages, perhaps even a bit of shopping. Every detail of her day will be perfectly curated for her enjoyment, a seamless continuation of the pleasure and control she holds over every aspect of her life. She won’t spare a single thought for him, lying battered and broken on the cold garage floor.
And when she returns, it will be without ceremony or emotion. She’ll park her car in the exact same spot, aligning the driver’s side wheel precisely over his head this time, just to be certain. She’ll feel the satisfying crunch beneath her, something that will no doubt make her smile. A final, careless punctuation to his existence, the ultimate expression of her dominance. For her, it’s nothing more than a routine; a trivial detail in her day.
For him, it is the last, brutal confirmation of his worthlessness in her eyes, a fate sealed not by hate or malice, but by pure, unfeeling indifference.