Page 5 of Caged By the Stranger (Bad Decisions #1)

Gingerly, I inch back from the wall, imagining the worst. Being chained to the other side is one possibility. How the fuck do I know what this guy did to me?

The blue lighting reveals my flesh, however, showing me that some type of band is indeed cinched around my balls. What follows next makes my breath catch. Metal bands, braced by another thin one that connects them all the way down to my tip. It is a fucking cock cage.

“Fuck. Are you fucking kidding me?”

Tugging at the end of it pulls the flesh around my sac and navel, causing discomfort. Shit. I’ll need to unfasten it, but I can’t see the fine details of the contraption in this crap lighting. I don’t see any kind of release mechanism on the band that’s cinching me, holding me hostage to the cage.

Hostage . My cock is not a hostage.

Fucking hell. Why would he do this? I don’t understand.

If he wasn’t enjoying this, he could have just declined last time. Does fucking someone over turn him on?

I can’t believe he hasn’t come back. This has to just be a messed-up joke.

The only other person here that I’ve talked to is the dickhead doorman. Great. Fucking great.

Is that the joke? Slap one of these on a guy, so he has to go out there and beg for help from that jerk? No fucking way.

There has to be a way to get these things off by yourself. Otherwise, people wouldn’t wear them, right?

One thing is clear—standing in here isn’t the answer to my problem. Tucking myself away, I wince, trying to angle my captured nuts back into my jeans. This is so not funny. You can see a fucking indent on my fly from the cage. It looks like I’m sporting a damn semi.

Stepping out into the hallway, I glance toward the door to the vestibule. The coast is clear; not that anyone might notice the secret in my pants in this shadowed corridor.

With each step, my junk shifts, something it’s always done, but it never felt like this.

It is incredibly obvious to my conscience that I’m wearing a…

device. I’ve never been more hyper-aware of my body.

It’s so…strange. If I wasn’t freaking the fuck out, it might feel sexual in a pleasant way like it did for a moment back in that room.

Right now, though, it’s a fucking time bomb.

This freaking doorman better have good news for me.

“Hey,” I call as I push through the door to the vestibule, hooking my thumb into the waist of my jeans so my hand can cover part of my fly. “Is…number three still here? He just up and left.”

After five annoyingly long seconds, he finally looks at me and hikes his brows. “Maybe he didn’t like what he saw.”

Fuck him. This fucking fuck.

“Hilarious. Pretty sure he was the same guy as last week, so I doubt it, but…”

“But what?”

What do I say? I’m sure as shit not showing this asshole the state of my dick right now, let alone admitting to him my predicament.

“I…I need to talk to him.”

“No talking to the visitors. It’s in the rules,” he drawls, tapping the sign behind him with his pen before looking back at some video of funny dog antics on his phone.

“I know that. I do, but is he still here? Did you see him leave? I just…need to know if he’s coming back to the room. We weren’t…finished.”

“Left you high and dry, did he?” He smirks, glancing down at my fly. I don’t know whether he can tell what I’m concealing or if he just looked because he’s a fucking pain in the ass who enjoys messing with me. “That’ll happen sometimes. Visitors’ choice. That’s one rule we don’t make.”

“No. He just…” Fuck. This is going to be either humiliating or a waste of my time. I already know it. “He…did something to me.”

Frowning, he looks up from his stupid video. “Did he break the rules?”

“What? No. No, he just…”

“If there were no club violations, there’s nothing I can do.”

I’m going to get nowhere with this guy. This is bullshit. How could that guy do this to me after…after we did… things ?

“Look, I know you’ll probably say this is some club violation, but do me a favor. If you see him again, give him my card,” I tell him, yanking one out of my wallet and handing it to him.

He blinks at it without moving like the worthless, stubborn pile of meat he is. “Please,” I urge, thrusting it closer to him. “I’m not a stalker. I can’t call him unless he calls me this way, right?”

Narrowing his eyes at me, he asks, “What’s it worth to you?”

Un-fucking-real. So, the rules can be broken as long as you pay up. I see how it is.

I flip through my money and pull out three one-hundred-dollar bills. That should let him know I mean business.

His expression doesn’t even change, but he takes the money along with my card. I watch with bated breath as he tucks both into the pocket of his leather vest. And then…he fucking picks up his phone and starts watching his stupid dog videos again.

“Does that mean you’ll give it to him?”

A beat. And then a shrug. “Maybe.”

I have to bite my tongue to hold back all the expletives I want to call him. Stowing my wallet, I shove out the door into the parking lot before I lose my shit.

“Fuck!” I yell into the night.

A couple nearly slams into me, looking taken aback by my outburst. Shit.

I didn’t even see them. Both blond, with no facial hair—the first thing that comes to mind is that neither of them is him .

All I know is that he has dark stubble. There’s no way I could identify him, even if he walked right past me.

Fuck him. I don’t need him to get this thing off me.

“Sorry. Excuse me,” I mumble and head to my car, walking like a cowboy that’s been in the saddle for too long.

How do people even wear these? It certainly can’t be for very long, and definitely won’t be so in my case. As soon as I get home, I’m getting myself free.

A fucking sex club. What in the ever-loving hell was I thinking?