Caged And Successfully Bred
In the dark BDSM romance Caged by Felicity Brandon, our hapless and helpless heroine has taken the best of several bad options to get herself out of the literal breeding cages:
I tilted my head, watching as he placed a washing-up bowl on the floor by the wall.
“It’s time.”
Trepidation twisted in my tummy as he turned and headed in my direction. Tugging at the knots he’d secured at my wrists, he freed me from the bed, jerking me to the floor with the rope still attached to the leather at my neck. I landed on my knees, scrambling toward the bowl as he led me.
“Squat over it.” He pointed to the bowl. “I need urine to run the test.”
My breathing accelerated as I realized what he meant. Not only had he taken and used me, but now he intended to denigrate me further by making me relieve myself here, in front of him. I might have begged for clemency had the dreaded gag not prevented my plea. My head fell as I clambered into place.
Dylan relaxed in his comfortable chair, gripping the end of the rope as I got into position. Surely, this was the most miserable moment of my life. Being on the run had been desperate, but it had given me meaning, but this — what was this? I was only property, bound and expended, made to perform until my sole purpose had been achieved. I shivered, trying to relax as he glanced back at me.
“Come on.” He sounded irritated. “I don’t have all day.”
I eyed him wildly, humiliated as my lips stretched around the ball, and I tried to relax. It wasn’t easy to give him what he wanted when I was this exposed, my muscles contracting rather than relaxing.
“What?” he demanded impatiently, leaning toward me as though I was being impertinent by not urinating on command.
Heaving in a breath, I closed my eyes, blocking out his glare as I tried to calm myself. Slowly, I ceded, the noise of the liquid filling the bowl mortifying.
“Finally,” he growled, pulling me back onto all fours. Securing the rope to the bedpost, he bound me before turning away. He collected the bowl and placed it on the table, fiddling with one of the new fancy pregnancy tests that would determine my fate. My breath hitched as he pulled one from the packaging, lifting it into the air. Its result would decide what became of me, whether I was fed and made to bear a child, who would become another pawn of the system, or sent back to the metal bars to be used by one of the others. It wasn’t much of a choice. Tension tore at my insides as he dipped the strip into my urine.
“It only takes a minute. This little piece of plastic is so sensitive, it can detect even the faintest quantity of hCG.”
I wasn’t sure what the commentary was for. I’d heard all the propaganda before I ran — all about how wonderful the state’s investment in the pharmaceutical company creating the tests was, about how it had revolutionized conception and was building a better world. My stomach churned at the memory of the old radio ads as I watched the side of Dylan’s face. He didn’t make eye contact with me, all his attention on the strip between his fingers while I huddled against the side of the bed. The blow-by-blow account was doing nothing to quell my nerves.
For a fleeting moment, I considered untying the knot he’d made and freeing myself, my heart racing at the idea of liberation before the thought was pulverized by a large dose of reality. Where was I going to go with my newfound freedom? Would I make it to the door before he noticed, and what would become of me when he did? That fear alone was enough to keep me in my place.
“Well, well…”
I couldn’t decide if his tone was pleased or disappointed, the suspense scratching at my stomach until I couldn’t pull in another breath.
“It looks like we did it.” Dylan flashed me a grin, waving the strip of plastic in the air. “The line is weak, but it’s there.”
My belly tightened, panic pinballing as he placed it down and wandered toward me.
“Congratulations, Mum.”
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