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Trapping His Cat
Xavier paced the length of his dim-lit study, each step a silent drumbeat echoing the tumult in his mind. Two full months had passed since that night with Cathleen-his wife, his supposed perfect sub-and now there was nothing but silence. Ridiculous. His fingers ached for his phone again, to try her number just once more, but he knew it was futile. She wasn’t picking up; she was gone.
“Fuck!” The word erupted from him as he spun on his heel, whiskey sloshing against the sides of its glass prison. He slammed the drink down onto the rich mahogany on the table and fixed his gaze on the framed photo. Their wedding day. A mockery.
He sneered at the image, at the smiling faces that seemed to mock him from across the chasm of these past weeks. “Why the fuck did I fall for her after just one night of fucking? One fucking night, and I was a fucking goner!” Xavier’s voice was a growl, self-loathing threading through the question like poison.
His hand closed around the glass again, the liquid fire within doing little to quell the storm inside him. She was just another woman, wasn’t she? Flesh and curves and softness-a dime a dozen. Yet here he was, pacing like some caged animal over her absence.
“Her pussy is no different,” he muttered, the whiskey burning down his throat as if affirming his words. “Why must she disturb my fucking peace now?”
He hissed, the sound sharp and sibilant, mirroring the venom in his thoughts. Cathleen stirred something in him that he never thought any woman could. Why did it have to be her? They vowed not to fall, and now he was falling hard like an idiot. Cathleen is different; she is strong, calculative, and somehow infuriatingly absent.
Xavier’s grip tightened on the glass, its edges biting into his palm. He wanted answers. He wanted her back in his dungeon, where he could command her and unravel her mystery piece by piece. But Cathleen was a ghost now and vanished without a trace, leaving behind only the smoke of memories that choked him with every breath. Fuck!
“Where the fuck are you, Cathleen?” The question lingered in the air, unanswered, as heavy as the silence that followed.ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .
His fingers drummed against the mahogany desk, a staccato rhythm that echoed his racing thoughts. He needed to see her to ensure she was still breathing the same air and walking on the same earth. Yet Cathleen remained as elusive as a shadow at noon, slipping through every attempt he made to rein her back into his world.
“Dammit,” he growled, frustration clawing at his insides. His heart demanded he find her, while his pride snarled at the thought of chasing after a woman who had dared to leave his bed-and him-behind.
A wicked glint sparked in his eyes-an idea unfurling like the devil’s own grin. Xavier reached for his phone, its cold metallic surface a stark contrast to the heat simmering within him. With a predatory smoothness, he dialed the number that would bring his plan to fruition.
“Yes,” came the familiar voice from the other end, laden with years of wisdom and authority.
“Dad, it’s like you don’t like coming to my place again. You haven’t called Cathleen to organize dinner or even breakfast with us.” The words felt foreign on his tongue, a ruse meant to draw in his unsuspecting prey.
“Is Cathleen mad that I’m no longer coming?” Old Mr. Knight’s voice cut through the line, concern lacing each syllable.
“No, she is not mad; just call her to make arrangements with her; we miss having you around; besides, both of you get along very well.” Xavier lied smoothly, his voice a controlled blend of nonchalance and feigned warmth.
“Alright, I will call her to organize dinner or lunch this Sunday,” his father acquiesced, unwittingly becoming the pawn in Xavier’s game.
With a sharp click, Xavier ended the call, the corners of his mouth tilting up into a smile that never reached his cold, stormy eyes.
Xavier’s fingers drummed against the leather of his chair, a staccato beat that echoed the racing pulse beneath his skin. The study, usually a sanctuary of solitude and silence, now resonates with the undercurrent of his brewing plans.
“Let’s see how you come out of this, wife,” he muttered, the words slicing through the quiet like a knife. The smile that twisted his lips was devoid of warmth-a sinister curl that promised retribution.
He rose, the movement brusque like a predator poised to reclaim what he deemed his. Each step he took towards the vast window was charged with purpose; his reflection stared back at him-a man unrecognizable, driven by obsession and the dark thrill of the chase.
The thought of Cathleen, with her sharp tongue and defiant eyes, returning to his domain sparked a fire in his belly. He’d teach her that no amount of calculated cunning could match his mastery and that she belonged to him, body and soul.
“Running won’t save you,” he growled at the image of her face that haunted his mind. “I’ll have you unraveling beneath my touch, your control shattered. I will fuck you until you know I am your husband, my little Cat.”
His hand found the cool glass of whiskey; the liquid burned a shadow of the fervor that consumed him. Swallowing it down, he relished the harsh descent, each drop of a covenant of the things he vowed to inflict.
“Sunday,” he whispered into the gathering dusk. “The day I reclaim my possession.”
Xavier’s anticipation was a visceral thing, clawing up from his gut as he contemplated the myriad ways he would remind her of her place. His desires were clear-cut, edged with the raw intensity of dominance that had always been his nature.
“Prepare yourself, Cat,” he declared to the silent room, his voice a lashing whip. “This game you’ve started, I’m ending it on my terms.”
The night fell around him like a shroud, but within Xavier Knight, a tempest raged, impatient for the dawn of their inevitable confrontation.