Page 37 of His Pet

Chapter 25

Justin

I hate myself.

No, that’s not strong enough. What’s stronger than hate?

I loathe, despise, abhor myself.

There might be other words, but English wasn’t my major. You know, back in my previous life I’m never returning to because I’m weak, useless, and a coward.

I let Cameron take another part of me. I couldn’t have stopped him, sure, but I could have stopped myself from enjoying it. And even if I couldn’t have stopped myself from coming, I definitely could have chosen not to seek comfort with the very person who just raped me. That’s so wrong I don’t even have words for it, and yet, it just feels right to let Cameron comfort me.

If only he wasn’t such a damn good hugger.

I barely notice the praise he keeps whispering to me as he guides me to the bathroom and gently washes me because I’m too dazed to do so myself. He says he’s proud of me. For what? For giving up? It’s laughable. Cameron’s words should be easy to dismiss as lies, except I know he means them, which makes everything harder.

Somehow, we end up on the couch, me cradled in Cameron’s arms like the baby I am. I’m wrapped in a warm blanket and Cameron’s chest makes for a good pillow, so I let myself drift. Away from this basement, from the person I’ve become. But not away from Cameron, because I need him right now. He’s going to leave soon and then I’ll have hours upon hours to beat myself up for all the bad choices I’ve ever made, but he’s here now, and I need to soak up all the comfort I can from him before I’m alone again.

He kisses the top of my head, then holds up a slice of pizza in front of me. The kind with pineapple on it, because that’s the kind of weirdo he is. I’m not particularly hungry, my stomach still tied in knots from the confusing combination of panic and pleasure I just went through, but Cameron gets worried when I don’t eat, so I obediently open my mouth. I’ve grown so used to the taste of Cameron’s favorite food that I don’t mind the odd combination of fruit and bacon that bursts on my tongue as I chew.

The pizza’s good, even if it’s cold, and I find my misplaced hunger. I’m always hungry after sex, and, well…

I had sex with Cameron. Actual sex. And I liked it. What kind of a person does that make me?

The thought makes me want to cry again, so I snuggle closer to Cameron instead. The scent of his soap mixes with his clean, manly musk. It’s a scent I started to associate with warmth, comfort, and safety without realizing. It’s like my body has conspired with Cameron against my mind, and they’re winning, because what am I even complaining about?

Cameron is a thoughtful lover. Not once during the sex have I felt pain. There was a burn, yes, but that passed quickly, and as usual, Cameron made sure I got off in the best way possible. Now I get dinner and cuddles and maybe a movie, if Cameron’s in the mood for that. If the past few evenings we spent together are any indication, I’ll miss a big chunk of the movie because I’ll be on my knees sucking Cameron’s cock, but even then I’ll feel safe and loved.

Yes, loved, because Cameron loves me. In his own twisted way.

Isn’t that what everyone wants? A partner who loves them unconditionally?

Cameron does put on some action flick with fast cars and lots of shooting, but unlike the previous evenings, he doesn’t push me off his lap. He strokes my back until I’m all relaxed, then slips his hand under the blanket and strokes my cock. It doesn’t take long for me to get hard again, and while Cameron keeps touching me, he’s not pushing me toward an orgasm. It’s more like a gentle caress meant to soothe rather than rough pumping to make me lose my mind.

I end up missing most of the movie anyway. Watching stunt doubles perform tricks that defy the laws of physics isn’t as interesting as snuggling into Cameron’s chest and listening to the steady beating of his heart. Cameron laughs at times, so he’s probably watching, but he never stops stroking me.

I’m so comfortable I never want to get up, but eventually the movie ends. Cameron puts the leftover pizza away and cleans up. Safely tucked in my blanket cocoon, I watch him putter around the room. I’ve given up offering my help because it’s always met with refusal.

A few days after I got here, Cameron brought a bucket of cleaning products and scrubbed the whole place down, including the bathroom. It took him hours, which I spent locked in the cage, and no matter how much I begged him to let me help, he never did. He said I was his pet, not his servant, which made little sense to me at the time. I think I get it now.

Cameron doesn’t see me as his slave, but rather as an actual pet. Someone who can’t make decisions for themselves but is taken care of and cherished all the same. Like a dog, and you don’t make your dog do chores around the house. Of course, most people don’t fuck their dogs either, at least I really hope they don’t, so that’s where the simile ends, but I still think it’s spot on.

A vibration against my leg pulls me out of my thoughts, and I realize I’m sitting on Cameron’s pants, and his phone is vibrating in his pocket.

His phone.

For the longest second of my life, I stay completely frozen. Even my heart stops beating.

I could take the phone. A furtive glance in Cameron’s direction tells me he’s busy in the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboard. He’s not paying any attention to me.

My hand twitches toward the phone, but I stop myself.

Is Cameron really not watching me? Or is this a test, and just thinking about using the phone means I failed it? Cameron would be disappointed, and I hate how much that thought worries me. It’s the thought of letting Cameron down that makes me rethink reaching for the phone over and over until Cameron returns with two glasses of water and the moment is lost.

Guilt slams into me, raw and immediate, both because I didn’t even try to get out of here and because I feel like I cheated Cameron just by considering it. No matter what I choose, it’s always wrong.

Maybe Cameron is right, and I shouldn’t be choosing at all. After all, everything is easier when you don’t have to worry about making the right choices.