Pet: A Dark Menage Romance

She was giggling.

I was fucking furious.

“That was crazy,” she said, and my jaw tightened. “Absolutely fucking crazy.”

I wanted to slap her. I wanted to slap my-fucking-self.

My Pet. Mine. Fucking mine.

She had to be punished. It was as simple as that. I didn’t say a word as I dragged her to my apartment building. She gasped when we got there, the surprise of the magnificent architecture taking her breath away.

“You live here?” she asked, but I couldn’t answer, I was too fucking upset. Like a damn jealous teenager.

I dragged her inside the building, nodding a polite hello to the doorman and ushering her into the elevator. I pressed the button for my floor, the top one, and she leaned against the mirror with a smile playing on her lips.

I resisted the urge to slap it off her pretty face.

She didn’t say a word, and neither did I. The ride up was short, and I led her out of the elevator and into my apartment.

I was prepared for her amazement, and she didn’t disappoint. To be fair, my apartment was nothing short of stunning.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, modern, expensive furniture, and expensive artwork on the walls. I liked my home. I hoped she would like it, too. After all, she’d be spending a lot of time here.

I watched her chatter as I made myself a drink, grabbing a pop from the fridge for her. Fucking too young to drink. What was I getting myself into? She was trouble with a capital fucking T.

I brought the can of soda to her and she asked me if I had a straw.

I got her the fucking straw.

I told her to sit on the couch and wait while I made a call.

I was brisk with it, barking instructions at the person on the other end of the line, vague ones so she wouldn’t suspect a thing. Once I was done, I pocketed my cell and turned to face Pet. Her eyes were wide and wanting more, her lips sucking on the cherry-red straw.

She looked so young. I felt like a dirty old man next to her.

The straw fell from her lips and she parted them as she spoke.

“Are you going to fuck me now?”

I didn’t answer her, finishing my drink and setting the empty glass down on the coffee table. I undid my tie and the top two buttons of my shirt. It felt good, liberating after a full day in the suit.

“We’re gonna play a game,” I told her, and her eyes sparkled. “Get up, take the blazer off. Not the heels. Come with me.”

I turned my back on her without waiting for a reply, and walked towards my favorite room in the house.

To call it a dungeon would be an insult. The women I played with came willingly, in more ways than one. It wasn’t a room out of a lame BDSM movie. The equipment was hidden in plain sight, and the room could look as innocent to an observer as it did dirty to someone who knew their shit.

I heard the clacking of her heels behind me, and I guided her into the room. She stood in the middle of it, fidgeting nervously. I could tell she had no idea what she’d gotten herself into.

I pulled up a chair, a Philippe Starck Ghost Chair that would show off every inch of her beautiful body.

“Sit,” I told her, and she did.

I went to work on her ankles first, tying her feet down to the legs of the chair. She didn’t protest, in fact, she didn’t make a fucking sound. She was staring at me, though, her eyes burning the back of my head as I tied her legs to the chair with silk rope.

I worked on her hands next, tying them behind her back.

Once I was done, I stepped back to admire my handiwork.

Her legs were spread wide. Her pussy was slightly open, her damp thighs shivering under my gaze. Her hair was spilling down her front, covering up those pretty rosy nipples.

“Do you think I’m beautiful?” she asked me, and I moved my eyes from her tight slit to those eyes burning with the need to know my answer.

“You are,” I told her, hoping my voice didn’t betray my true feelings. I stroked her cheek and she leaned into my hand. “A beautiful little slut.”

She seemed pleased with my answer and I wondered just how nervous she was, being here. She was either very brave or very fucking foolish. Probably a bit of both.

“Are you going to fuck me like this?” she wanted to know, but I merely grinned at her.

I walked to my David Collins chest of drawers, a piece I was particularly proud of, and pulled a drawer open, trying to pick the perfect weapon. The tension in the room, the way her breaths were hitching behind my back, made me harder.