Page 21 of His Holy Chaos

"Don't," I say.

"Don't what?" His innocence is performative and we both know it. He is a brat, after all.

"Don't make a thing of this. I'm just…"

Dave's smirk softens. He tilts his head, studying me.

"Looking for someone specific?" he asks.

My jaw tightens. The music pounds around us and I have to lean closer to speak.

"Jude," I say, and I realize I'm trembling slightly. "Have you seen him?"

Dave's expression shifts. The amusement is replaced by something more complicated, sympathy mixed with resignation.

"Jude isn't a regular anymore," he says.

"I know," I tell him. I hate how sad I sound. "But I thought maybe I could find him here."

"Well," Dave continues. "I'll talk to Glynn. They'll know what to do. They always do." He glances across the room toward the bar's far end, where a figure with ginger hair is managing something on a tablet. "Glynn keeps track of everyone, and they are best friends."

I nod. The word thank you is somewhere in my throat, but it stays there. I'm standing in a kink club at twelve-thirty in the morning, in my good shoes, asking after a man I have told repeatedly, told him, told myself, told the empty air of my study, that I have no interest in pursuing. And the lie is transparent now, paper-thin.

Chapter 13. Jude

The cage smells like my own sweat. My knees are raw against the grated floor. It's industrial steel, the kind they use in commercial kitchens, and it hurts against bare skin, on purpose. The violet light strobes across me. The bass from the main room penetrates the walls of the private playroom. The tight leather collar buckled around my throat sits just firm enough to remind me with every swallow that I belong to someone. I love it. I love it all.

I'm wearing the collar and leather briefs and nothing else. The air conditioning hits my bare shoulders in waves, raising goosebumps every time. Annoying, but just another level to the torture. The cage is built for this, four feet by four feet, matte-black bars, a padded floor that I'm not on because Emmett removes the pad as part of the punishment. Something I did earlier. Mouthed off, called him my little sub, or something like that. It was funny at the time. Not so funny now that I have to keep the tears from flowing for how much my knees hurt, or from cumming for how turned on I am. It hurts. What matters is that I earn this, and we both know it.

Emmett sits two feet away in a leather armchair, his favorite. His legs are crossed. His dark hair falls past his shoulders. He's wearing a green button-down and his hands rest on the armrests. The glass of whiskey on the side table beside him remains untouched. He never drinks during scenes. He's too meticulous for that, too aware that alcohol dulls the instrument he's playing, and the instrument is me.

My bladder is a fist. It's so full it has gone past discomfort, past urgent, into something that I can't even describe. We've been at this for I don't know how long. Time dissolves in scenes like these. It could be forty minutes or two hours. The three glasses of water he makes me drink before locking the cage are doing exactly what they're designed to do, which is make me desperate, which is make me beg, even though he knows I can't.

He takes my voice tonight. That is the rule: puppies don't talk. Puppies bark, puppies whine, puppies whimper, but they don't form sentences, don't negotiate, don't use their sharp, bratty mouths to talk their way out of consequences. It's the worst punishment he could choose, and he knows it. I love to talk all the time.

I whimper again and again. I press one hand flat against the cage door, fingers curling around the bar. My other hand goes to my thigh, pressing hard, trying to create a counter-pressure that does absolutely nothing except give me the illusion of control.

Emmett looks at me. His black eyes study me. Then, he tilts his head.

"What was that, puppy?" His voice is gentle, mocking. "I can't understand. Such a silly little thing."

I bark and scrape my nails against the grated floor for emphasis, shifting on my knees, and the pressure in my bladder sends a spike of urgency through my body. Somewhere behind Emmett, I hear someone laugh. He keeps the playroom's door open, so anybody can peek. It's part of it, the humiliation, and I love it, but I also hate it, because at this moment, I'm desperate. And so hard as well.

I paw at the door again. Both hands now, frantic, my hips shifting in a way that I can't control anymore, involuntary, desperate, the kind of squirming that strips away every layer of bratty performance and leaves only the raw animal fact of need. My eyes are wet. Not from crying, or maybe from crying, the line is so thin here, in this place between agony and ecstasy where I live my best and worst life simultaneously. I whine, high-pitched, pressing my forehead against the bars until the cold metal bites into my skin.

"Hmm?" Emmett uncrosses his ankles. Recrosses them the other way. Takes a slow sip of water. The sight of him drinking anything right now is so cruel. He swallows, and I watch his throat move, and I want to scream, and I can't, because puppies don't scream, puppies just…

I fake-cry. Full commitment. Shoulders shaking, little hitching yips escaping my throat, my hands pressed against the cage door like a shelter dog performing for potential adopters. Someone watching sighs, that specific exhale of someone deeply enjoying another person's suffering. The sound travels through me, lighting up the parts of my brain that process shame and arousal as the same signal. I know that if I just let go and pee there, I'd pay for it.

Emmett watches my performance with calm and delight. His lips curve in a smile. He's loving every second of my suffering.

"You had such a smart mouth before, didn't you, puppy? That's what landed you there, isn't it? Hmm? Why don't you answer me now?" he asks, having all the fun in the world, and I whimper again. All I can say is "woof, woof" and it sucks, but I love it. I love it, I'm so turned on, so humiliated, so submissive, so powerless. I start feeling tears again.

"In fact, I should leave you there for a lot more for ignoring me, hmm? You are supposed to answer me when I speak to you, aren't you?"

I whimper more, pawing the cage's door again. He sees how desperate I am, how I'd do anything for him to let me pee. I can't even pee there without permission.

"Go on, answer me," he says. I bark again, whimpering and sobbing. "What do you want, you stupid mutt? Can't even tell me what you want. Pathetic."