Chapter 21. Ford
The fluorescent lights of PetSmart are so bright they make my head hurt, but Jude doesn't seem bothered. He's so excited he's almost bouncing.
The store smells like kibble. Jude steers the cart toward the dog beds. The bed aisle has some insane options. Orthopedic foam, bolstered nests, memory-foam mattresses that cost more than some human beds I've slept on.
Jude goes for the large and extra-large, and I watch him evaluate each one. He never concentrates this hard on anything that isn't kink. He sits in one, legs crossed, bouncing experimentally, in the middle of the aisle.
"Come on, puppy," I say, but I'm laughing. He never fails to make me laugh. I swear I laugh so much when I'm with him that my face hurts.
"This one, Daddy!" Jude announces, louder than necessary, but I don't care. Let other people hear and stare. The bed he chooses is fluffy, large, and blue.
"Get out of the display model," I say, but I'm already lifting the boxed version from the shelf below it. I set it in the cart.
The collar section is next.
"This will only be for play. I'll order a stainless steel 24/7 collar for you. It's safer."
"Can it be a chain with a lock?" he asks, already bouncing. "It looks punk rock. People don't ask that much about it, but it still shows ownership."
"Sure, sweetheart, that sounds like an amazing idea," I say and kiss his temple.
I take my time choosing the play collar, running my thumb along buckles, testing the weight of different leathers.
My fingers stop on a collar near the middle of the display: simple, bourbon-colored leather, supple and thick, with a brushed silver buckle and a D-ring.
No studs, no embellishments. I hold it up to Jude's throat. Not touching, just close.
"Do you like it, puppy?" He nods, quick and eager, and I pet his head. "Good boy."
I add it to the cart, along with a matching leather leash. Jude insists on a water bowl with a paw print on it and a rope toy that he claims is for "authenticity." I suspect it's because it caught his eye and he wanted it. I let him have it. I let him have all of it.
At the register, a teenager with a nose ring and a bored expression scans our items without comment until she reaches the collar. She glances at us, glances at the cart.
"My pet sheds a lot," I say, deadpan.
Jude chokes on a laugh. The cashier decides she's not paid enough for this and finishes the transaction in silence. I pay with my card and carry the bags to the car, and Jude is buzzing beside me the entire walk across the parking lot.
We drive back to the penthouse, bags in the trunk.
Inside, I slide the bed into the corner of the study, under the desk.
It fits like it was measured for the space.
I place the water bowl nearby, filled. The rope toy goes in the corner of the bed.
When I turn around, Jude is standing in the doorway.
He's watching me with an expression I haven't seen on him before.
Still. Completely, utterly still. He's nervous.
For all his boasting about experience, he's nervous now.
I pick up the collar.
"Come here, puppy," I say.
He crosses the room without a sound. Stands in front of me. His eyes are huge. I bring the collar to his neck. I thread the buckle slowly, giving him time to feel each second of it. He's soft and pliant.
"Strip. On the bed," I tell him. "On your back."
He complies without a word.
I open the nightstand drawer. Inside are items I purchased earlier this week, before I even knew for certain he'd say yes, because something in me knew anyway. A stainless steel chastity cage. A bottle of lubricant. A set of keys, one for me, one spare for emergencies.
Jude's eyes track the cage as I lift it from the drawer. His expression shifts from desperate to bright and hungry.
But first.
I set the cage on the nightstand, in his line of sight. Let him look at it. Let him think about it.
Then I settle onto the bed beside him and trail my hand down his chest, over the flat plane of his stomach. I take my time. My fingers trace the crease of his hip, the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, everywhere except where he wants me, and I feel his breath change.
"Daddy…"
"Patience."
I wrap my hand around him. He's already hard, and he makes a whiny, needy sound when I touch him.
I stroke him slowly, my grip firm but not nearly enough to finish anything.
My thumb swipes over the head on each upstroke, spreading the slick that's already gathering there, and his hips stutter upward, seeking more.
I give him more. Briefly. My pace increases just enough to make his breathing go ragged, to make his hands fist in the sheets, to make the muscles in his thighs tense and tremble.
Just when the tension in his body reaches that precipice, that shimmering edge where one more stroke would send him over, I stop.
My hand lifts away. He makes a sound like I've physically wounded him.
"Noooo… fuck! Please…"
"Language," I say mildly. "I won't count this one."
"I don't care about the… Daddy, please, come on…!"
I wait. Thirty seconds. A minute. Long enough for the desperate flush to fade slightly, for his breathing to slow, for his cock to twitch against his stomach in frustrated protest.
I wrap my hand around him again.
The noise he makes this time is louder, rawer, and I build him back up with the same patience. His head presses back into the pillow. His mouth falls open. His hand finds my forearm and grips hard.
"Daddy… Daddy, please…"
I stop.
"Nooooooooooo!"
His whole body convulses, his hips bucking into empty air, and he sobs. His cock is flushed, leaking steadily onto his stomach, twitching with each heartbeat. He's shaking. Genuinely shaking, his fingers white-knuckled in the sheets.
I do it again. And again. Four times total, each one building him higher, each one pulling my hand away at the exact moment his body begins to tip, until he's a trembling, incoherent mess against the pillows, his skin slicked with sweat, tears clinging to his lashes, his cock so hard it must be painful.
"Please," he whispers, and his voice is destroyed. "Please, Daddy, let me come. I'll do anything. I'll be so good. Please."
I pick up the cage from the nightstand.
His eyes focus on it. I watch comprehension dawn. His expression shifts from desperate to something closer to outrage, his mouth dropping open, his eyebrows shooting toward his hairline.
"You're… no. No, you can't. You just did all of that and you're going to lock me up? Without letting me finish? That's… that's cruel and unusual punishment, that's a war crime, that's…"
"Hold still," I say.
"At least let me come first! Just once! I'll be quick, I promise, I'm right there, you know I'm right there, just… one more stroke, Daddy, please, I deserve at least that before you put me in that thing…"
I wait for him to finish. I let him get it all out. The protests, the bargaining, the way his voice pitches higher with each increasingly creative argument for why he should be allowed to orgasm. I listen patiently.
When he finally runs out of steam, chest heaving, looking at me with those enormous wounded eyes, I speak.
"Five days," I say. "This isn't a negotiation."
"What?" he breathes.
"Five tallies. You've racked up five tallies for cussing since we discussed the rule. Every tally is a day of orgasm denial. That's five days in the cage."
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
"Five… five days?"
"Five days. Starting now."
"But! I said some of those before you even! That's not! You can't retroactively!"
"I can. I did. The rule was established, and you continued to break it. Enthusiastically, I might add." I let the corner of my mouth twitch. "Would you like to keep arguing? I'm happy to add more."
He snaps his mouth shut. His jaw works, the muscles bunching, and I can see the war playing out behind his eyes: the brat screaming to fight back, the sub recognizing the boundary, calculating that more words will only make this worse. It's magnificent to watch. Like a symphony.
"That's what I thought," I say. "Now hold still. I mean it."
His erection has flagged slightly during the argument.
Adrenaline and indignation are effective coolants, and I use the opening.
I apply a thin layer of lubricant to the ring, warming it between my fingers first, because I am strict, not heartless.
I slide the ring into place, settling it snugly at the base, and he hisses through his teeth at the contact, his hips twitching involuntarily.
"Easy," I murmur. His breathing stutters, then steadies.
The cage slides on next. I guide him into it carefully. His cock is still half-hard, and he whimpers as the cage constrains it, forces it into the confined curve of the metal, denying the space it needs to swell fully.
The lock clicks shut.
I thread the key onto the thin chain I wear under my shirts and tuck it against my chest. His eyes track the movement.
"Five days," I repeat, and I rest my hand on his inner thigh.
"You will wear this. You will not tamper with it.
You will feel it every time you move, every time you sit, every time you even think about being hard.
And you will remember that this is what happens when my puppy doesn't watch his mouth.”
He stares at me. His lower lip trembles into a pout.
I lean forward and press my lips to his forehead. He exhales against my neck, long and shuddering. The acceptance of a consequence he asked for.
"Come here," I say, lying back, and open my arms.
He curls into me immediately, his head finding the hollow of my shoulder, his body fitting against mine. I pull the charcoal duvet over us both, cocooning us, making us safe.
"You're still so, so mean," he complains. I chuckle.
"You love it," I say. He rolls his eyes but doesn't deny it. My beautiful, frustrated little boy.