I swallowed hard.
All I wanted was to go home to my girlfriend, to cuddle up to her and pull her into my arms. I wanted the warmth, the closeness, the knowledge that I was free.
I would never be free as long as I was here. The mitts might have been off, but he’d shown me more than once that he still owned me. Even when he was being kind, he was still cruel on the heels of it. It was like he just couldn’t let it go.
I shivered in the tub as he brought the water up to temperature and it welled up around my hands and knees.It turned warm, and I half-expected him to turn it up to boiling just because he could. Even when he didn’t do it immediately, I still thought he might.
He got off on that. I could tell by the way he shifted, by the way his gaze turned heated. He liked this, all of it. The more humiliated and miserable I was, the more aroused he got. It didn’t bode well for me.
He gently rinsed me off, and I instantly felt cleaner. It was better than feeling the traces of my own filth along my ass and thighs, and the water was so warm that it was hard not to get lost in the sensations. Even when he soaped up a cloth and started to bathe me, it was hard to tell my body it was supposed to be hating this.
Because, well, I liked this.
Demeaning as it was, degrading as it was —“I’d have to find it first,”he’d said when I’d told him to leave my cock alone before — my body liked it. By the time he reached between my thighs, I was getting hard.
I hated it.
I hated him.
I squirmed, but all it did was increase the potency of that touch. I held my breath and went still, but this time his touch wasn’t clinical and detached. This time he was taunting me, stroking me, until I was fully erect in his hand. I closed my eyes, fighting back tears as the waves of shame washed over me. How could I handle this?
“Good boy,” he whispered, almost as though he was afraid to speak the words. “Such a good boy for your master.”
I whimpered.
He didn’t let go of my cock, holding it through the washcloth, and his breathing quickened as he leaned in. He softlykissed the top of my head, and I squeezed my eyes closed tighter. I didn’t want to see him.
He drew back after a moment, letting go, and I opened my eyes. Afraid of what I’d see, I didn’t look at him. I stared at the bottom of the tub instead until he told me to move so he could wash my hair. I sat down and tilted my head back, letting him douse my hair with the water. The feeling of his fingers massaging the shampoo into my hair was impossibly good, but the tension didn’t leak out of my body.
How could it when I sported an erection from being touched by another man?
He rinsed out my hair in silence then towel-dried it before grabbing the grooming dryer from nearby. I braced myself for the wave of warm air, but it still took me off guard all over again.
At least my cock was steadily losing interest in being touched, though it ached from the lack of attention. I never went this long without masturbating, but this was the first time I’d even thought about getting off since the time I’d gotten there.
Funny how getting kidnapped by a madman could kill your sex drive.
By the time I was dry, I was sweating a little. The cool air of the basement was welcome upon my skin when he helped me down from the tub. I went back down onto all fours, hating it but not knowing what else to do.
There was something heavy between us, something that had begun when I’d gotten hard and it hadn’t faded. I didn’t know what he was going to get me to do next, which was terrifying. I hated that I was the subject of his undivided attention, that he didn’t seem to have anything to do but torment me.
Then again, I wasn’t sure what he’d do when he didn’t have a use for me either.
I found out the answer after he led me back upstairs. My knees were aching by the time he opened the kennel door, and I balked.
“Please don’t,” I pleaded, edging back. “I’ll be good. Please don’t put me in there.”
He sighed. “C’mon, Toby. Do what I tell you. It’s time to kennel up.”
Kennel up. Like I really was a fucking dog.
I’m not Toby, I wanted to say.I’m not your fucking dog.
Instead, I crawled toward the kennel and went inside, panic surging within me as he closed the door behind me and took one of the damnable padlocks to secure the door. I couldn’t help it. I grabbed the bars, trying to shake them, trying to get the thing open.
He watched me, shaking his head. “You have to stay in there while I work,” he told me, which was the first indication he’d given that he actually did anything but torture the fuck out of me during the days.
I’d known for a while who he was: Griffin Meyers, a formerly famous musician who had pretty much retired after he’d gotten into an accident. I was dealing with someone with a lot of money — enough to get away with this.
