Backstage at Club Hydrangea, O’Shea towered in heels and attitude, her silhouette sharp as her tongue. The other girls were getting ready for the midnight show, but she wasn’t watching the mirrors—she was watching him.

He was just some boy—twinkish, trembling, lost in the wrong hallway. Or maybe the right one.

“Bathroom’s that way,” she said, eyes glittering. “Unless you’re looking for something else.”

He blushed so fast it looked like a sunburn. “I… I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, sweetheart,” O’Shea cut in, lips parting into a grin, “you *did.*”

She took him by the chin. Turned his face side to side like a toy on inspection. “You don’t know what you’re here for yet. But I do.”

She led him downstairs—below the stage, below the noise, below any place he could hide. The basement was red-lit and half-abandoned. The only furniture was a velvet chaise, a cracked mirror, and a vanity with drawers full of secrets.

O’Shea sat. Crossed her legs. Patted the floor.

“Knees.”

He obeyed.

She didn’t rush. She let the silence stretch, let him sweat. Then she leaned in close, her breath warm against his ear. “You’re going to be a good boy. You’re going to call me Mommy. And when I slap you, you’ll say thank you.”

He whimpered.

She laughed.

The first slap was gentle. The second wasn’t. She watched his pupils dilate, his shame bloom like a bruise. “That’s it,” she purred. “Cry for me, baby.”

He did. Gasping, shaking, a beautiful mess on the basement floor.

“You thought ‘ma’am’ was polite,” she whispered, dragging a sharp nail down his chest. “Now you know better.”

And when she was done—when he was raw and remade and ruined—she kissed his forehead, fixed her lipstick, and went upstairs to take the stage.

The crowd screamed.

And beneath them, in the basement, her pet stayed kneeling. Just like she told him to.

Good boy. Always.

Love and Chains – O’Shea

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