Prologue

She keeps him in the basement because that's where pets belong. The house in Rochester—the one he bought with his salary, his "master of the domain" money—is hers now, every room, every brick, every inch of the roost he used to rule. He doesn't rule anything. He doesn't even choose when to piss.

The collar is her design: thick iron, heavy enough to remind him with every bowed movement that his neck exists for her locks. The padlock clicks shut with a sound that makes him flinch, still, even after all this time. The cage, her favorite piece, keeps his cock exactly where she wants it: desperate, denied, and utterly useless for anything but her amusement. She has the key. She has all the keys. She has everything.

The chain from collar to wall is her final, elegant touch. Six feet of unbreakable steel that says, ‘You go nowhere, I don't allow. ’ The brick wall is her witness, the basement her throne room. The cot, his cage. He used to be the breadwinner. Now she decides when—or if—he gets a crumb.

She doesn't need to be there for him to feel her. The collar is her hand on his throat. The cage is her grip on his manhood. The chain is her will, made of metal and absolute. He crouches naked in the dark, and he knows: the roost has a new ruler.

Six months ago, he’d sat at their kitchen table, retirement papers signed, talking about the cruises they’d take, the lazy mornings, the adventures they’d have now that he was finally free from the grind. She’d smiled, poured him another glass of wine, and said yes to everything. She’d meant it. It was his actions that led to his downfall.