Given Names
Chapter 4
Garrett helped Owen up, one arm sliding around his waist like they’d been lovers for years. The guy’s grip was surprisingly strong for his skinny frame and when he pulled Owen into a tight hug, his face buried against Owen’s shoulder, Owen felt the guy’s breath against his neck.
“I love you so much, babe” Garrett murmured, voice soft and shaky with sudden emotion. “I’m so sorry these girls got rough with you. I’ll never let anyone do that to you again, I promise.”
Owen froze in the embrace, skin crawling. The same voice that had sneered “dumb bitch” at Paige on the video call was now whispering sweet nothings like they were a couple. He forced himself to pat Garrett’s back once, awkward, mechanical then gently pushed him back far enough to breathe.
“Yeah… it’s okay,” Owen said, voice flat. “Just… surprised me.”
Garrett beamed up at him, eyes shining behind the smudged glasses. Owen bent down, peeled the tape strip from Garrett’s calf. The words “MY GIRLFRIEND” were gone from the tape, clear plastic now, ink transferred perfectly to the pale skin beneath. A faint black outline remained where the letters had been.
Garrett tilted his head, watching Owen examine the mark. “You checking out my legs?” he asked shyly, a small giggle escaping. “You like what you see?”
Owen didn’t answer. His gaze shifted to Paige on the bed. She hadn’t moved a muscle since he’d carried her there.
Garrett followed his stare. His smile faltered for half a second, something like jealousy flickering across his face before the affection smoothed it away again.
Owen tore another strip from the roll, grabbed the marker that had skittered under the dresser. He uncapped it, ready to write something, anything to fix Paige. But the manual’s words flashed in his head: permanent until overwritten. No reversal. No memory restoration. And even if he slapped “MY GIRLFRIEND” on her now, he wasn’t sure it would work
He needed time. Real time. Hours, maybe days, to figure out what could be salvaged, what couldn’t. And he couldn’t do it with Garrett hovering or the house full of programmed women who still answered to their “master.”
He had to play it smart. Safe.
Owen looked at Garrett. “Hey… babe,” he said, forcing the word out. “Can you do something for me?”
Garrett lit up. “Anything.”
“Gather every woman in the house. Bring them to the living room. All of them, maids, statues, cleaners, everyone.”
Garrett nodded eagerly. “Okay. Why?”
“I just want to meet them properly. As your boyfriend.”
The guy practically bounced. “I’ll do it right now.”
He darted out, calling down the halls. Within minutes the women started filing in, silent, obedient, every one of them moving with that eerie, synchronized grace. The living room filled: maids in lace, statues shifting into new poses on command, the wallet woman carried in and set on the coffee table, the twins crawling from their closet, the milk dispenser standing beside the couch, the door opener unchained for the first time in who knew how long. All the women Owen had interacted with and more filled the hall.
Garrett stood at the front, clapping his hands for attention like a proud host.
“Everyone,” he announced, voice ringing with excitement. “This is Owen. My boyfriend.”
All the women looked at Owen, the ones who Garrett had left with some cognitive capacity left whispered amongst each other. Owen who now stood next to Garrett whispered into his ear.
Garrett nodded and began speaking again, “My boyfriend wants me to tell you that he’s in charge now. You obey him the same way you obey me. Whatever he says goes. Got it?”
A chorus of soft, monotone affirmatives filled the room. “Yes, Master.” “Yes, sir.” “Understood.”
Garrett looked back at Owen, eyes wide and hopeful. “Is that okay, babe?”
Owen nodded. “Perfect.”
He waved a hand. “You can all go back to what you were doing. I’ll call if I need you.”
The women dispersed immediately, silent, efficient, no questions. Garrett lingered, waiting for more praise, but Owen just gave him a tight smile.
“Go make sure the doors are locked,” Owen said. “I want to be alone with Paige for a bit.”
Garrett’s face fell for a second, jealousy again, but he nodded. “Okay. I love you.”
He left.
Owen stood in the suddenly quiet living room, staring at the empty space where the women had been. Some of the ones who had been carried in from other rooms were still left in place, he realised that it was because he hadn’t specified that they needed to be returned too. Clearly there was a lot he needed to learn.
But now, he had the house.
He had the tape.
He had Paige.
And he had a lot of work to do.
Three weeks later:
Owen woke to the slow, wet heat of lips sliding down his cock. Warm tongue flat against the underside of his hard cock, cheeks hollowed, a soft suction that pulled him out of sleep inch by inch. He groaned low in his throat, hips shifting up instinctively before his eyes even opened.
He lifted the sheets, knowing what to expect below them.
The hijabi woman from that first day, the towel stand, was between his legs. Naked except for the black silk hijab wrapped neatly around her head this time. Her hair had started growing back, short dark stubble now, underneath the hijab. She’d been letting it grow because he’d told her to. Messed up as Garrett had been, they shared that taste: the contrast of covered hair and bare body, modesty twisted into submission.
She looked up at him without breaking rhythm, eyes meeting his over the curve of his shaft. Tried to smile around the thick length filling her mouth, lips stretched, corners crinkling, a muffled hum of contentment vibrating down to his balls.
This was her routine now. Part of her duty. Every morning she crawled into bed before he stirred, took him in her mouth and sucked until he woke. Gentle, reverent, no rush. Just warm, wet service to start the day.
Owen let her work another minute, throat relaxing, tongue swirling then tapped her shoulder.
“Enough.”
She pulled off with a soft pop, tongue flicking the head once more before she sat back on her heels. Reverently slid off the bed, knelt beside it, bowed her head low enough that the hijab’s edge brushed the floor.
“Good morning, Master Owen,” she said quietly. “Your wife is waiting for you downstairs.”
He nodded once. “Go make the bed. Clean up anything from last night.”
“Yes, Master.”
She rose smoothly, gathered the scattered pillows he’d kicked off in the night and started straightening them without another word.
Owen swung his legs over the side, grabbed the black robe hanging on the door hook, shrugged it on. Left her to her work and walked barefoot down the hallway, down the wide staircase.
The kitchen smelled like coffee and fresh blueberries. When he stepped in, Paige was there, his wife now, both by the role he’d taped onto her and by the quiet courthouse ceremony last week. Red hair done up in a loose, elegant twist, soft curls escaping around her face. White dress with tiny black polka dots, cinched at the waist, skirt flaring just enough to show off her legs. She stood at the island, pointing at a mixing bowl while Maid #8 and another woman in lace waited for instructions.
“More sugar in the filling,” she was saying. “Owen likes it sweet. And don’t skimp on the butter in the crust...”
Her face lit up the second she saw him. A bright, genuine smile, though he knew now it was programmed, reinforced every time he looked at her. She skipped across the tiles, bare feet silent and jumped into his arms. Legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck. Kissed him deep, tasting faintly of the coffee she’d already sipped.
“Good morning, husband,” she murmured against his lips. “I hope you enjoyed me last night.”
He smiled back, hands settling on her ass through the dress, soft, familiar, still the same curves he’d loved before everything went to hell. “I did. You’re getting really good at the cuddling part.”
She laughed softly, nuzzled his neck. “I practice. Ofcourse. For you.”
“Not with other men I hope…” he laughed, knowing that was impossible now.
Maid #8 approached then, neon-green Mohawk still sharp, piercings glinting, same submissive posture he’d always seen her in. “Breakfast will be served shortly, Master Owen, Mistress Paige. Please take your seats.”
Owen set Paige down gently, took her hand and guided her to the long kitchen table. They sat side by side. Paige leaned into him immediately, head on his shoulder, fingers laced with his.
He’d made changes in the past few days. No more statues. No more living paintings shifting in endless loops. He’d gone through the house room by room, pulling women aside one at a time. Researched each one wherever possible, old social media, news articles, missing persons reports Garrett had never bothered hiding. Wherever he could find a name, a job, a life, he’d torn fresh tape, written it out carefully: her real name, her old profession or skills only to add “Owned by Owen Maddox” as a safety measure.
The girls were never back to who they were but if they somewhat resembled who they had been, Owen hoped it would be less suspicious. Wherever possible, he would make the newly reidentified women research who they were supposed to be and he would let them leave only if they felt authentic.
He also added strict commands to avoid anyone from their past, to return to the mansion if they ever felt in danger and to send every dollar they earned back to him.
For the ones he couldn’t trace, nameless faces with no digital footprint, he’d written “whore” or “stripper.” Sent them out to clubs he now owned, apartments he controlled. They worked nights, danced, fucked for cash, wired it all to his s. No exceptions.
Everyone paid tribute. Everyone obeyed.
Paige squeezed his hand under the table. “Blueberry pie for dessert tonight. Just how you like it.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Can’t wait, wife.”
Maid #13 set the plates in front of them, eggs, bacon, toast and coffee steaming. Paige picked up her fork, smiling like the sun had just come out.
Owen watched her eat, watched the way she chatted happily about nothing important, watched the maids move around them in perfect sync.
Halfway through his eggs, he felt it again, hot, wet lips sliding down his cock under the table. Slow, practiced suction. No hands, just mouth. He bent low, lifted the edge of the tablecloth just enough to see.
The strawberry-blonde cock warmer knelt between his spread legs, yellow dress hiked up around her waist, knees on the hard tile. She’d crawled under without a sound, same as every morning since he’d decided to keep her. Pretty face buried in his lap, throat working him deep. Eyes closed in serene concentration, like this was the only thing that mattered.
He deserved a reward, didn’t he? After everything. After the search, the fear, the loss. He let the cloth drop back down, leaned back in his chair, and spread his thighs a little wider. Let her earn her keep.
Paige noticed, of course she did. She glanced down, saw the rhythmic bob of blonde hair under the table, then looked up at Owen with that bright, uncomplicated smile. No jealousy. No questions. Just soft understanding.
“You deserve all the pleasure you want, husband,” she said quietly, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “I know what’s best for my hubby, like any good wife should.”
She went back to her toast, humming a little tune, as if the wet sounds of sucking below the table were background music.
Owen exhaled through his nose, hips rocking once into the warm mouth. He didn’t cum, not yet. Just enjoyed the slow build while Paige talked about the pie crust and how the maids had finally gotten the blueberries just right.
Later, when breakfast was cleared and Paige had skipped off to the living room to check on the pie, Owen grabbed the blonde woman by the head and pulled her out. She just smiled in reply, it meant she’d done her job well and her owner was going to fuck her wet cunt as a reward.
Owen bent her over the cleared table and gave her ass a playful smack as he buried his cock into her pussy. He thought back to the day he had first seen her and how tempted he had been to just drop everything and fuck her sweet pussy then and there. But now he was glad he had pulled out. None of this would have been possible otherwise.
He had tried many things on Paige, none of them had worked. He had tried to write “My girlfriend” on her but that just turned into a loving girlfriend, but it wasn’t Paige. He then tried, “My loving girlfriend: Paige”. But that just resulted in a girl who knew her name was Paige and she was his loving girlfriend, nothing more.
Eventually, he’d tried writing “Paige Norwood” on her head, hoping using her full name would help her who she was but that had proved disastrous too. She woke up and started screaming, having no recollection of Owen or how she got there, she was just ‘Paige Norwood’ and she wanted to get out of there. Owen had to use the bodyguards to tackle her and write “Blank” on her to stop her from thrashing around. It had broken his heart.
After a couple of days of trial and error and a very unhelpful call to Jester’s imaginarium. He had ended up ordering more tape and deciding on a plan of action. He had gotten all of Paige’s diaries and made a detailed chart of her life. He turned Paige into his devoted girlfriend who will do whatever it takes to become his wife and he had then made the blank slate he had created memorize all the information he could give her on who Paige used to be. He was more or less happy with the results he had been able to achieve, turns out fixing a broken mind was a lot more difficult than breaking it. He believed he had done a good job.
He began fucking the blonde’s ass faster and faster, he had intended to give her a new name and new purpose beyond just being a toy for his whims, but he found himself getting distracted fairly often.
Even right now he was so distracted that he barely noticed Paige slipping in and kneeling in right next to his crotch as his cock slammed into the blonde’s pussy.
Owen stopped with a sheepish smile and winked at Paige.
“Want me to finish on your face again, do you dear wife?”
“You know me best babe!” Paige said with a sweet smile.
Owen quickened his face and as he got close he pulled his cock out and splurted his cum all over his wife’s perfect smile.
He wiped his cock on her cheek and asked Paige to go set up a good movie. “I’ll be with you in a minute, babe.”
Paige stayed there, still smiling with his cum streaked across her face and lips. She tilted her head playfully. “Should I go clean up first… or leave your load all over my face like a good wife?”
Owen gave the blonde’s ass a firm smack. “You heard her. Get to work.”
The blonde’s eyes lit up with desperate hunger. She crawled forward on her knees without hesitation and started licking Owen’s cum off Paige’s face, long, eager strokes of her tongue across cheeks, lips and chin. Paige giggled softly, tilting her head to give her better access.
“Greedy little thing,” Paige teased, voice light and affectionate. “You like the taste of my husband’s cum that much?”
The blonde just hummed happily and kept licking, not answering with words. Paige laughed again, clearly enjoying the attention.
Owen watched for a second, then turned and walked away. The old Paige would never have been into this. She wasn’t bi, and she definitely wasn’t the type to share. But Owen had made sure the new version was. He’d written it into her: no jealousy, eager to please, happy to play with the other girls whenever he wanted. It made life in a house full of sex slaves a lot smoother.
He made his way down to the basement, past the storage rooms and into the small bathroom that almost no one used anymore except when instructed to.
Garrett was there.
Posed awkwardly in the corner, wearing nothing but a tight white straight jacket that pinned his arms across his chest. His head and eyebrows had been shaved completely smooth. Crude black marker dicks were drawn all over his face, on his cheeks, forehead, even one across his lips like a mustache. His cock stood painfully hard, swollen and leaking.
Owen smirked.
This was exactly the fate the little shit deserved. The man who had ruined so many lives, who had tried to take Paige from him, now reduced to a pathetic, denied toy in his own basement.
The women had strict instructions: feed him twice a day, and every time they did, they were to take out their frustrations on him. Slaps, spanks, edging, spitting, whatever they felt like. Garrett probably hadn’t cum once since that first day he had taken over the house.
Owen stepped closer.
He reached out and flicked Garrett’s swollen cock once, hard. It bobbed pathetically, a long string of pre-cum stretching down toward the floor. No flinch. No sound. Just that same dumb, mindless smile plastered across his marked-up face.
Owen smiled back, satisfied.
“Looks like the master of the house has a new name now” he said quietly.
Garrett didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.