Page 13 of His Property

Now he shows a hint of a smile. “Obviously.”

I wait for him to say something, anything, for a long time, but he doesn’t move. My back aches from arching, and I listen for TJ out in the living room. He could’ve easily run by now with how distracted Victor has been.

“What do you say?” I finally ask when I can’t take the tension any longer.

I close my eyes with a wince as he leans in to nuzzle my hair with his nose, inhaling deeply. His hand slips into my pajama bottoms, and a gasp pulls from my lungs when he shoves two fingers inside me. I clutch his shoulders and squeeze.

“You’re soaking wet,” he whispers, pulling out and shoving into me again. He finger fucks me roughly enough that it hurts, as I’m sure he intends for it to. I’m sure this is a preview of what’s to come.

A moan slips past my lips, and Victor violently wraps his hand around my neck and squeezes. He pulls back to look me in the eyes while I claw at his hands, my body going into a panic. My lungs burn, and my eyes brim with tears, and I think for sure he’s just been messing with me. He watches me struggle and stares into my eyes with an intensity I’ve never seen anyone have. Just when I feel myself slipping, he lets go.

Victor takes a step back, and I crumple to the floor, coughing and gasping for air just as TJ had. He stares down at me for a long moment, his head tilted as he watches.

Then he turns and walks away. I watch him leave my bedroom, and I panic that he’s going for TJ, but my front door opens and closes after a few moments.

TJ runs into my bedroom and falls to his knees in front of me.

“Are you okay?” He puts a hand on my shoulder and frantically looks me over.

“Yeah,” I croak, my throat protesting.

I force myself to sit up and throw my arms around him. We hug for a long time, neither of us saying anything. TJ doesn’t ask what went down, and I’m terrified it’s because he heard all of it. He also doesn’t ask if we’re both going to be okay. I’m glad.

Because I have no fucking idea.

4

VICTOR

After carefully laying a mint on the satin pillowcase, I take several steps back to admire my handy work.

It’s taken me multiple days, and I’ve lost a hell of a lot of sleep working on it, but my basement finally resembles what I’m wanting. I’d love a dungeon. I’d design a house around that particular space, but this is as good as it’s going to get.

I step back far enough that I bump into my washing machine, which, along with the dryer and an old stereo, is the only thing left in here from my personal life. It took four trips to the dump to get rid of all the shit my parents accumulated during my childhood, and if I had the patience to hang out at a laundromat, I’d let these junky hunks of metal rust next to the other garbage. They’re bugging the shit out of me.

Ignoring the washer and dryer, I try to look on the bright side. The fucking bed is magnificent, and I stare at all the black iron with adoration and an abundance of anticipation for what’s to come of it. It’s a canopy bed with so many possibilities for restraints. Prison cell-like bars line the top of it, and at the foot of the bed is a pillory with three holes to restrain arms and a head. There are, of course, plenty of bars at the head of the bed with two sets of handcuffs already secured around a post and waiting. But my favorite thing about this bed is the cage built into the bottom of it.

I feel like I’ve thought of everything, and still the possibilities keep swirling. I fucking love this beauty.

The rest of the room is filled with what you could guess someone trying to put together a makeshift dungeon would want. There are restraints, cords, a metal bar hanging from beams running across the ceiling, and all kinds of goodies hanging on the walls. Whips, canes, floggers, an extension cord, a riding crop, several paddles, and an anal hook I’m dying to use.

I bought a workbench with a large toolbox beneath it that has all my blades in it, as well as butt plugs, dildos, a violet wand etc. On top of the bench is a box containing a sleep sack, bondage hood, collar, rope, and lingerie.

There’s a high quality Sybian on a rolling table by the work bench, a metal table I bought to closely resemble the one I use at work, and I even have a spare torch off to the side I’ve told myself I wouldn’t use, but I’m one percent masochistic and still tempt myself.

The basement is bathed in a red glow from the bulbs I installed, and there’s a regular bulb in case the red gives me a headache.

And then, of course, there’s the mint on the pillow and the expensive satin sheets just because I like to be a smartass.

It isn’t perfect, but it’s ready, and it’s mine.

Mine.

My cock stirs, and I breathe in the musty air while a chill runs down my spine.

I’ve never considered doing something like this before. All my loyalty lies with the familia, and I consider myself lucky to be an enforcer for the Gruco Crime Family. It allows me to feed my demons, without consequence, on a regular basis. Ilovewhat I do. I appreciate the leeway I’m given. But I hate, fuckinghate, the restrictions that come with my position. It’s like when I joined at eighteen, I was freed from a cage to play in a roomier, more satisfying enclosure… that’s still a fucking cage.

Hurry up.

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