9. Chapter 9
Cameron
When the security feed from the basement shows that my pet is finally asleep, I slip back inside. I need to watch Justin with my own eyes and not just through a camera lens.
He’s curled up in a tight ball in the middle of his cage, looking small and vulnerable.
I long to cuddle him in my bed, skin to skin, hold him as he rests, and feel him breathing next to me, but he isn’t ready for that yet.
In fact, I doubt he would have fallen asleep had I stayed in the room, which is why I left in the first place.
Now that he’s out, I make myself comfortable in front of the cage and watch Justin’s chest rise and fall with deep breaths.
He twitches in his sleep, one foot slipping out of the warm cocoon of his blanket. His face wrinkles, but he doesn’t pull the foot back in, so I reach between the bars and do it for him, gently tucking it beneath his feet so they won’t slip out again.
Justin murmurs something, then tightens the part of the blanket wrapped around his shoulders until it must be pressing down on him uncomfortably. Or maybe he draws comfort from the tight embrace?
It’s not every day I’m envious of a stupid piece of fabric, but dammit, I want to be the one hugging him. He’s not ready to accept comfort from me, though, and I don’t want to disturb his rest, so I settle for watching him sleep.
My eyes memorize every inch of him I can see, which at the moment is only the mop of his unruly brown hair and the left half of his face.
The sensuous curve of his ear invites me to kiss and nibble on it.
The memory of Justin’s breath catching when I kissed the shell of his ear earlier has heat blooming deep in my gut and my cock stirring again.
Justin’s surprisingly expressive in his sleep.
He doesn’t move much, but his expressions change a lot.
His mouth stretches in a smile, then, a moment later, his brows draw together in a deep frown.
He sighs, murmurs, and whispers, though never anything I can decipher.
I feel like he says my name a few times, but that’s probably just wishful thinking on my part.
I pull out a sketchbook to try to capture Justin’s smiles, but they’re so fleeting it’s difficult.
His curled-up form is easy to draw, but his face never comes out right, and the bars blocking my view irritate me.
Pets need their space and need to be kept in a cage for their own safety, but I wish there wasn’t anything separating us right now.
Justin should be on my lap, sleeping with his head resting against my shoulder, not pitifully curled up on the floor, cold and alone.
I give up on drawing Justin and work on some new ideas instead.
I’ve had the oldest son of a prominent Portland mafia family inquire about a full back piece, something that would showcase his dedication to la famiglia.
I was going to turn him down because I didn’t have any ideas, but Justin makes me feel inspired again.
I get lost in drawing, the image slowly taking shape under my pencil.
The Ventresca family crest has white roses on it, even if they’re anything but innocent. I draw thorny vines spreading from the roses, encircling the scene of Saint Michael defeating the Devil. It’s an evergreen for traditional Catholic mafia families.
In my personal opinion, a sadistic fucker like Giovanni Ventresca would be the Devil in this imagery, not the angel he sees himself as, but the customer is always right, so I’ll give ol’ Michael Giovanni’s features.
The narcissist in him will love it. Besides, who am I to judge Giovanni for his less-than-Samaritan interests?
I literally have a person locked in a cage in my basement.
Most people would probably consider that evil too, even if Justin is better for it. He just doesn’t see it yet.
Incredibly, I get so engrossed in my art that I miss Justin waking up.
In my defense, he neither moves nor makes a sound.
One moment, I simply look up to find his deep brown eyes watching me from the cocoon of his blanket.
Caught in his gaze, I set the sketchbook aside to give him my full attention.
Still wrapped in the blanket, Justin sits up. The last traces of his sleepy smiles are gone, his brows now permanently drawn in a frown. It is to be expected, but it still makes my chest tight.
At least Justin doesn’t immediately start crying or shouting. He watches me, eyes occasionally flicking to my sketchbook. When he does speak, he doesn’t ask what’s going to happen to him or beg to be released. He asks about the sketchbook.
“Have you… been drawing me?” Then he hastily adds, “Sir?”
I curse myself for not having any treats on hand.
He deserves a reward for being a good boy.
Most new pets either don’t remember the proper honorific or ignore it out of some misguided rebellion.
I praise Justin at least. “Good job remembering the rule. And no, I haven’t been drawing you.
I tried, but I couldn’t quite get it right, so I’ve been working on this. ”
My pets rarely care about me or what I do. It’s quite rude, especially since I make it my mission to learn everything about them so that I can take the best care of them. Sometimes they ask questions, acting all friendly, but that’s all that is—an act.
Justin’s interest as he studies the sketch looks genuine, but I don’t let it fool me. He’s pretending like all the others before him. Still, even pretended interest warms my heart, showing me that I really have been pathetically lonely.
Justin’s brows shoot up as he recognizes the image. “Saint Michael defeating the Devil?”
I chuckle at the disbelief in his voice.
He’s probably wondering how keeping human pets in sex dungeons goes together with drawing scenes from the Bible.
“It’s for a customer,” I explain. “Most of the old families are quite religious, or at least pretend to be. The newer crime organizations are more original. Look.”
I flip a few pages back to find a sleeve piece I did for a member of the Triton Syndicate, a group that was founded a few years ago by the disgruntled members of the traditional families who wanted to do things their own way.
They’ve been steadily gaining power and would no doubt steal a great piece of the trafficking pie left behind by the Morozov family, who Mikhail so brutally dispatched.
The drawing itself is so graphic it would make a sex worker blush, and Justin’s cheeks flush red.
“That’s, um…”
I shrug, oddly self-conscious. “What the client pays for, the client gets. “
“No, it’s good! Really well done, like art, except…”
“Except it’s fucking, which is an art form on its own,” I say, thinking back to some of the performances I’ve seen at Indulgence. “Sex can be beautiful and inspirational.”
My smirk makes Justin blush even harder. He pulls the blanket up so that it covers the lower half of his face, and that just won’t do. I spring to my feet, and within moments, the cage is unlocked and open, with a startled Justin retreating to the farthest wall from the opening.
“Out,” I order, my tone not leaving space for discussion.
Justin draws a sharp breath and whimpers, but doesn’t protest, his lips drawn into a tight line as he hesitantly crawls out.
At the last moment, he remembers to leave the blanket inside.
Then he’s standing in front of me gloriously bare, his hands clasped over his cock like I haven’t already seen and tasted every part of him.
Well, not every part of him, I amend as I watch the enticing curve of his ass, but that’s a treat for another day.
“Hands behind your back. You won’t hide yourself from me or I’ll restrain you, understand?”
Another soft whimper escapes him as he does as instructed.
“Next time, I want a verbal answer.”
“Yes, Sir. I’m sorry.”
Damn, why is he so sweet? And smart. It’s a good thing for his training, but I’ll also have to be careful not to let him think he can outsmart me. I’m the one in charge here and that’s how it’s going to stay.
“You’re doing great, pet. Just relax. I won’t hurt you.” Much. A mild spanking is definitely in Justin’s near future. A lot of edging, too. I bet he’ll respond wonderfully to that particular brand of torture.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I know it’s a lot to take in at once. You’re doing great. Come on.”
Justin looks at my outstretched hand as if it’s a live snake. His knees wobble like he’s considering running away, then he looks around the room and realizes there’s nowhere to run to. His throat works and I swear I can already feel it tightening around my cockhead.
Justin’s eyes fall on the door in the back of the room and, as expected, he asks, “Could I please use the bathroom, Sir?”
Whether he genuinely has to go or he’s trying to delay matters doesn’t really matter.
I’ve been pissed on by a frightened pet before, and it’s not really a kink I’m into.
“Fine. But if you’re not standing in front of me in five minutes, I’ll come for you, and it’s not going to be pretty. Understand?”
This time, my smart pet knows his line. “Yes, Sir.”