Page 12 of His Pet

Justin

My fingernails dig into my palms. The pain gives me something to focus on other than my panic as Cameron locks me inside the cage, like I’m a dog. Maybe to him, I am.

I focus on keeping my breathing slow and steady. I wouldn’t want my new Master to start choking me again. Even if it wasn’t actually painful. Terrifying, yes, but giving up control that way also felt oddly freeing. Not that I had any choice. I suppose that will be a theme here going forward, unless I can figure out a way to get out. So far, I’ve got nothing, which almost sends me into another panic attack.

I have no way of verifying Cameron’s words about the place being soundproofed, but I can see the electronic lock even from here. I’m not getting out without a passcode. I’m also inclined to believe that the Russian who took me knows his stuff. He seemed awfully confident pulling a knife in a house full of people to be just a random criminal.

Someone will notice I’m missing.

When Derek comes back, he’ll see that I haven’t been around. My mom will get worried when I miss our weekly call. The student I’m tutoring will wonder why I blew him off.

Someone—and how sad is it that I’m betting on Derek rather than on my own mother?—will report me missing, but what can the police do? There will be no tracks to point the police toward my new owner. The man who kidnapped me might have even made it look like I left willingly, in which case the police won’t look too hard.

The bottom line is, I can’t rely on anyone rescuing me. I have to save myself, which might be a problem because I don’t have the slightest idea how.

I can’t pick the lock on the cage, let alone hack the electronic one.

I can’t fight, especially not against a hulk like Cameron.

I can’t even fucking run. The repeated lung infections I had as a kid left me with reduced lung capacity. That’s a medically confirmed fact, not just an excuse to get out of exercising, as my father always said when I couldn’t meet his strict performance standards. Who the hell cares that I can’t run a mile in eight minutes? I’m not a freaking Olympic contestant like my damned brother.

Anyway, where was I?

Ah, right. Escape.

What the fuck am I going to do?

Okay, Justin. Focus, I tell myself sternly. I can wallow in self-pity once I’m safe. Right now, I need to find out what I’m dealing with here.

The floor of the cage is softer than I expected. Not quite a mattress, but more like a gym exercise mat. It won’t be very comfortable to sleep on, but it will be better than the floor. The only amenity in my new accommodations is a drain in the corner that serves an obvious purpose I’d rather not think about. Even dogs are allowed to do their business outside. No one expects them to shit in a hole next to where they sleep.

Not that I’ll be sleeping here. I slept plenty when I was drugged. Now is the time to stay awake and plan, even if exhaustion is trying to drag me under again.

My stomach feels oddly sticky. I wipe my skin with the corner of the blanket, pointedly thinking about something else. Anything else other than Cameron’s cum on my skin.

As I take stock of myself, I realize there are wide leather cuffs wrapped around my wrists and ankles. I was too busy freaking out to notice them before, although they’re kind of hard to miss. Tiny locks hold them in place, preventing me from taking them off. Maybe I could cut through them if I had something very sharp, but as it stands, they’re staying on. They aren’t uncomfortable, but the attached metal rings fill me with dread.

Dread isn’t the only thing I’m feeling, though. Unexpected and unwanted, arousal curls low in my belly at the thought of being restrained.

The memory of the blowjob Cameron gave me earlier pops into my mind, so vivid that my cock twitches. It has been half hard during my struggle with Cameron, like I was actually getting off on my captor overpowering me.

There’s something seriously wrong with me, but if that wrongness helps me survive this, I shouldn’t fight it so hard.

Cameron clearly wants me to submit to him, to go along with this twisted fantasy of me being his obedient pet. He saw through my pathetic attempt at fake seduction and made it clear that that’s not what he wants, but what does he want? He didn’t mind me fighting or being afraid. Liked it, even, if the erection digging into my ass as we fought was any indication.

Does that mean he wants me to resist so that he can force me to surrender?

On the other hand, I could have sworn that when I touched his chest, he seemed almost blissful, like that was what he truly wanted.

Which is it then? How do I act to stay alive?

Now I regret not taking a psychology class when I had a chance.

Movement near the cage startles me. I scramble to the opposite wall, which is stupid, because all walls are exposed and easily accessible from outside. The safest place is in the middle of the cage, although my captor could still easily reach between the bars, or open the door and drag me out. As a safe space, the cage really sucks.

“Here.” Crouching next to the bars, Cameron sets some items on the floor. A few bottles of water and some protein bars. Dinner? Or breakfast? I have no idea what time it is.

I’m not keen on these overly healthy snacks, but at least the protein bars hopefully mean I won’t be forced to eat out of a dog bowl or something equally humiliating that a pet would be expected to do. Lucky me.