Page 43 of His Pet

“All right, we’re done here,” I say. No one shoots me, but the temperature in the room seems to drop a few additional degrees. “Keep it covered, no soaking or sunbathing, you know the drill. Once it heals, we’ll see if it needs additional touches.”

“I’ll find someone to do that if it comes to that,” Rossi replies coldly.

Ouch. Also, what the fuck? I put on my professional smile, honed by years of dealing with arrogant assholes. “Is there an issue with the work?”

“Not with the work.” Rossi nods to his guards, who step closer. “You should leave now, Mr. Matthews. For your own good.”

“Of course.” I hide the turmoil inside of me behind a polite smile, because no matter what the hell is going on here, I need to stay professional. The guards look at me with thinly veiled disgust that honestly baffles me.

I’m used to the more traditional folk hating me for being gay or for being Black—sometimes both—but one of these guys is blacker than me and I’ve seen him fuck both men and women at Indulgence, so this isn’t good old homophobia.

It’s pointless to demand answers, though, so I get in my car and head home, stewing silently. A text from another client canceling our planned session, doesn’t lift my spirits either. Under different circumstances, I’d write it off as a coincidence, but what if it’s not?

I’m in such a bad mood that I don’t even go straight to Justin. I head to my home gym instead, intent to blow off some steam first.

Where can I get some answers? I text Sin, but she’s busy with the club at this hour. I doubt I’ll hear from her until tomorrow, and that’s only if she’s heard something. Like me, Sin knows a lot of secrets, but she has to choose carefully which ones to share. The club’s reputation and, more importantly, neutrality, hinges on it.

I’m still reeling even after I’ve worked out, but I stop by the basement to let Justin use the bathroom and quickly fuck him against the wall. I might be a little rougher than usual, but I do make sure he comes as well before locking him up again. It’s a good thing he doesn’t try talking me into letting him out again. As irritated as I am, I would have probably yelled at him, and no one wants that. It takes another hour on the treadmill for me to finally exhaust myself enough to fall into a fitful sleep.

The next day finds me with a message, not from Sin but from Detective Small. “There’s still time to do the right thing,” it says. I’m tempted to toss the phone across the room, but it would solve nothing, so instead I torture my sore muscles on the gym machines until it’s time to head to another client. This one is Russian, Bratva born and bred, sent here straight from Moscow after Mikhail took out the Morozovs. He doesn’t treat me any differently from before, nor do I attract any odd or disgusted looks in his compound, so I let myself believe the thing with Rossi was a fluke.

Until I receive two more cancellations, both from Italians or people connected to them. Both stating, in varying levels of profanity, that they won’t work with “someone like me.”

What the actual fuck?

I call Sin, but she doesn't pick up, so I head home angry again. This time, I go straight to my pet, because I need to calm down somehow and exercising until I drop dead clearly isn't working. Maybe fucking until I drop dead will work better.

Chapter 29

Justin

The two days I spent with Cameron spoiled me for his company, and now loneliness weighs on me even heavier than before. The silence of the basement is deafening, and I wish with all my heart that the walls weren’t soundproof. Not because I could call for help, but because I’d be able to hear something other than my breathing and the low hum of the refrigerator and the air conditioning. A clock would be even better. I’m sure the ticking would start driving me crazy eventually, but at least I’d have some way to measure time, because it seems to stretch endlessly down here.

I count my Mississippis, but stop when I get to two thousand and nothing changes. What’s the point, anyway? I could count to a million and still be alone.

I miss the sun. I wonder if it still exists. If the world is still out there, moving forward like nothing happened. There could be an apocalypse happening outside, and I wouldn’t even know. Maybe I’d only find out when the electricity would go out. Then the fridge and AC would grow silent too.

I don’t even want to imagine what the room would feel like without those white noises. Like a tomb, probably. My tomb, if Cameron never returns.

It’s silly to think about that. I have enough food and water to last me for days, and Cameron has never been gone for that long. He came by yesterday too, angry about something he refused to talk about. Not even sex helped calm him down, and when I was about to suggest we cuddle to help him unwind, he shoved me back into the cage and stormed off.

I wish he’d let me in on whatever is bothering him. I’m not in any position to help, but I could have listened. I could have tried to ease his stress with a massage, a blowjob, or even just a simple kiss, but he wouldn’t let me. He used me like a sex toy, then tossed me away once he’d scratched his itch.

It shouldn’t surprise me, he never saw me as a person after all, but it still rankles. I could be more for him than just a ready set of holes to stick his cock in.

I want to be more for him, and it scares the hell out of me.

The thought of escape still lingers in the back of my mind, but it’s becoming more abstract every day. There’s no way out. Even distracted, Cameron is careful to lock the cage, and even if he didn’t, there’s still the code for the door, which I still don’t know even after watching Cameron go through that door every day for two weeks.

Truth be told, I haven’t really been watching him that closely. The code doesn’t matter. Nothing matters other than Cameron coming back.

It’s late, I think. I have nothing but my internal clock to go by down here, but I think it’s way past the usual dinner time when Cameron strides through the door. He’s angry again, and I tense in anticipation of violence. Other than the rough sex, he didn’t take his anger out on me yesterday, but he seems worse today. Since I’m always at hand and hardly in a position to complain or fight back, I make a convenient punching bag. I’ve been dreading the day Cameron realizes that.

He yanks the cage door open. “Out.”

I scramble to obey but must not be fast enough for Cameron’s liking, because he grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. Without a word, he shoves me at the cage, the cold metal painfully digging into my stomach as he bends me over it. The only lube I’m afforded is a glob of spit he spreads around my hole as he roughly pushes two fingers inside. The sudden stretch burns, but I force myself to relax. I’ve learned by now that clenching will just make the burn worse.

He only preps me for a few seconds, then spits into his palm, spreads the saliva over his cock, and pushes against me. I grit my teeth, my fingers gripping the bars of the cage so tightly my knuckles are turning white. A cry escapes me when the head pops in and the pain flares into white-hot agony before settling back into insistent burn.