Rhoda's Pet

Shortly after the ceremony, the world rearranged itself with chilling efficiency. Rhoda and I moved out of my flat and into my parents' sprawling home, the house I grew up in, now ours. A carefully crafted story was circulated, a plausible lie for friends and neighbors: my parents, suddenly bitten by the travel bug, had embarked on an impromptu world cruise.

The reality was far darker. They had become the property of the old lady, the matriarch of this twisted dynasty. They were hers to use, to break, to display as she saw fit. This lasted for two long years until she finally passed away. With her death, their ownership passed to Isabella, who, with an air of detached business, found new homes for them. My father, once a proud and powerful man, was purchased by a powerful Chaudhurani, a regional Indian landowner, and shipped off to her private estate to serve as little more than an exotic plaything.

My mother's fate was perhaps even crueler. She was acquired by a super-rich IT whiz kid, a young man with a vast fortune and a very specific, very dark fetish for fucking and torturing mother figures. She became his live-in doll, the centerpiece of his most depraved fantasies.

My sister, Stacy, was claimed by Gwen. Under Gwen's tutelage, she was groomed and trained, her spirit erased and replaced with the persona of a perfect, submissive companion. Now she works as a high-earning escort and prostitute, her obedience and lack of boundaries making her incredibly popular. Every dollar she earns flows back to Gwen, who lives off the profits from my sister’s toned, perfected body, just as she always planned.

Fifteen years since the ceremony, when the cage was locked around my life. Rhoda and I are still married, a model of success to the outside world. My business has grown, or, I should say, Rhoda's business has grown. I own nothing, not the house we live in, not the clothes on my back, not a single share of the company that bears my name. I am the face, the public genius, the business mind everyone admires. To the outside world, I am the iron fist that runs our empire with ruthless efficiency. But in reality, I am just a puppet, my strings pulled by the woman I am forced to call my wife.

Over the years, I've learned to manage the voice in my head, the real me trapped behind the glass. I've pushed it down, burying it under layers of forced obedience and the day-to-day grind of running a company I don't own. Most of the time, it's just a faint hum in the back of my consciousness. But every now and then, when the pressure is on, or I catch a flicker of my old self in the mirror, it comes forward, screaming its silent rage.

All that I've kept, all that is truly mine, is my hate for Rhoda. It burns, pure and undiminished, a constant furnace in my soul. Even now, as I kneel on the marble floor of our master bathroom, waiting to clean her after she has finished with her latest fling, a potential client for a factory we are ready to lease, a man whose deal we just closed over dinner and a few hours in our bed. My cock strains painfully in the chastity device I was fitted with during our second wedding ceremony, a more elaborate affair that solidified my ownership. But my mind is not on my throbbing, trapped erection. My mind imagines my hands around Rhoda's throat, my thumbs pressing into her windpipe until her eyes bulge out of her head and her smug, serene expression is replaced by pure, panicked terror.

On the bright side, she has given up smoking. Just like any other born-again clean-air lover, she won't let anyone smoke in the house. So, there is that.

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