Chapter Eleven

Kennedy writhed against the unyielding grip of his restraints inside the 6-foot-tall doll box in Vincent Russo’s private dungeon. His body was encased in a black latex catsuit that hugged every inch of his feminized body like a second skin. The tight material accentuated his enhanced, voluptuous form, leaving little to the imagination. A hooded black mask adorned with a vibrant red ponytail wig obscured his face totally, its eyeholes revealing only his desperate, pleading blue eyes.

A cock-shaped panel gag filled his pretty mouth, muffling his cries into pitiful, incoherent whimpers while a strict armbinder pinned his arms behind his back. Ballet boots arched his feet painfully, forcing him to balance on his tiptoes within the confines of the glass box. Vibrating plugs, buried deep inside his pussy and ass, buzzed relentlessly, sending waves of unwanted arousal through his core.

Heavy footsteps echoed outside the dungeon door, each thud spiking Kennedy’s pulse. He had hoped Alyssa had returned to reverse her betrayal, but the thumps were too heavy to be the redhead’s feet encased in the stolen stilettos. The feminized man’s heart pounded as the door creaked open, revealing the imposing silhouette of Duke Alfonso.

The redheaded man swayed, his leather jacket open to expose a tight black shirt clinging to his muscular frame. His dazed stupor and clumsy steps told Kennedy that the man had been drinking. Duke’s eyes narrowed with a fury Kennedy had never seen. The man’s gaze locked onto the display box, his lips curling into a sneer as he staggered closer.

“Well, look at the big man’s little plaything,” Duke slurred, his voice dripping with venom as he pressed a calloused hand against the glass. His fingers splayed over the surface, tracing the outline of Kennedy’s bound form. “That bastard thinks he can toss me aside and throw Suzie to an asshole like his son, call her a piece of ass like she’s worthless, and then just expect me to swallow it?”

Kennedy’s blue eyes widened behind the mask. “Mmphhh!” He tried to cry out to the drunken man, but the gag kept him barely audible. The bound undercover journalist shook his head frantically, desperate to pierce Duke’s drunken haze, but the tall man stared at him with a hatred the pink-haired bimbo had never seen before. Duke leaned closer against the glass, his breath creating a haze on the surface.

“You’re Vincent’s favorite little you, aren’t you?” Duke asked with bitter satisfaction as he fumbled with the latch on the glass display box. “I heard he loves breaking his dolls. Let’s see how he reacts when his prized asset goes missing.”

Kennedy’s heart thundered, his muffled pleas intensifying as the latch clicked open. He tried to squeal out his real identity, make Duke see sense, and help him escape this nightmare. However, Duke simply grinned at the protests and swung the door open. He seized the bound figure, his fingers sinking into the latex-clad curves of Kennedy’s hips. The feminized man’s body trembled, the vibrating plugs shifting as he was moved, intensifying their forced pleasure. Duke’s grip was rough as he yanked Kennedy from the box, the ballet boots almost prompting the trapped bimbo to fall forward.

Duke’s fingers dug deeper into Kennedy’s hips, steadying the trembling figure as he sneered. “Don’t go collapsing on me now, doll.” His voice carried an air of mockery and spite. He stepped back, his eyes raking over the bound doll’s form. “Vincent’s gonna lose his mind when he finds you gone,” he laughed.

Kennedy attempted to cry so loudly against the cock-shaped mouth invader that he almost gagged as the phallus pressed against his throat. “Mmphhh!” He shook his head again, his vibrant red ponytail wig swaying, desperate to convey his true identity. The armbinder crushed his arms behind his back, and the ballet heels were the cruelest apparatus his feet had ever been trapped in.

Duke’s sneer widened as he ignored the protests and fixed his eyes on the sexy, doll-like figure before him. He turned to a nearby wall, where an array of BDSM restraints and equipment hung like trophies, and snatched a sleek black leather collar adorned with a silver D-ring. A matching black leash dangled from his hand as he staggered back up to the restrained doll.

“Let’s make sure you don’t wander off, doll,” he said as he fastened the collar around Kennedy’s slender neck. The stale smell of alcohol pierced the undercover journalist’s nostrils. After attaching the leash to the D-ring, the imposing man gave it a rough tug, pulling Kennedy forward and forcing the bound figure to stumble in the ballet boots.

Kennedy’s legs wobbled, the arched boots making every movement a torturous symbol of his helplessness. His feminized body swayed as she tried to stay upright. The feminized man struggled to keep pace with Duke’s impatient strides, which prompted the redhead to glance back furiously. “Move it, you useless slut,” he snapped.

Kennedy’s heart sank, and his blue eyes continued to plead silently, but Duke’s drunken fury kept him blind to the answer, staring him right in the face. The tall man tugged harder, practically dragging Kennedy towards the dungeon’s exit and into the bright third-floor hallway.

The bound bimbo’s legs buckled under Duke’s relentless pull, and with a muffled yelp, he tripped, his latex-clad doll body pitching forward out of control. He collided against Duke’s broad chest, the impact jarring the pulsing plugs deeper inside his lower orifices, sending a shameful wave of pleasure and eliciting an unwanted, lustful moan from his gagged mouth.

Duke caught the feminized figure with a controlling grip. “Clumsy little doll, aren’t you?” He hissed with irritation. His hands slid to Kennedy’s waist, and he stabilized the bimbo doll whilst running his fingers along the smooth exterior.

With a grunt of impatience, Duke hoisted Kennedy over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, using one of his hands to give his vibrating ass a firm smack. The red ponytail swung as the man’s arm clamped across Kennedy’s thighs. The undercover journalist’s muffled protests were held firm by the gag. Duke ignored the pleas, his heavy steps echoing through the hallway as he made his way down the stairs.

Duke found himself in the grand hallway, avoided the distant laughter in the living room, slipped out of a side door away from the front entrance cameras, and headed towards his car. The man roughly tossed Kennedy into the back seat where his tinted windows would obscure the bimbo’s current predicament, and strapped a seatbelt to him.

“You’re mine now, doll,” he grinned before slamming the door and shuffling into the driver’s seat. The redheaded man started the engine and slowly escaped the manor, leaving Kennedy’s fate hanging in the balance.

❖

Dominic sat at the mahogany table in the Russo manor’s dining room with his fork poised over a play of untouched eggs. Wearing a flowing satin robe, Maria sipped a mug of coffee, absently chatting to her son about Abby’s recent schoolwork.

The morning’s calm was shattered when Vincent Russo furiously stormed through the doorway. His heavy steps reverberated around the room, and he slammed a fist on the table, rattling the crockery. “Where the fuck is she?” he commanded.

Dominic and Maria exchanged confused looks at each other, but before Dominic could speak, Vincent continued. “Where is your pink-haired slut?” he demanded, referring to Kennedy. “Aly… I mean, my doll has disappeared. She was safely secured in her box when I left last night!” He was so angry that Dominic could see the veins on the side of his neck.

“What makes you think it was Suzie?” the Russo heir asked, trying to calm the tension. “She’s just a vapid nanny.”

Vincent’s eyebrows narrowed. “I’ve never trusted that bitch,” he snarled. “Stefano says he left her here last night, and she hasn’t been seen since. That little bitch stole my property!”

Maria set her coffee mug down, her delicate fingers clasping her hands together. “Vincent, darling, please,” she said, her voice soft but laced with unease. “The manor’s security is flawless. How could Suzie pull something like that off?” Her eyes darted to Dominic, seeking reassurance, but her son’s tense expression offered none.

Vincent’s sneer deepened as he began to pace the room. “Flawless?” he bellowed. “Kayla played us for fools, and now this bimbo tramp is doing the same thing. We’re becoming a laughing stock!” He jabbed a finger at Dominic. “You brought her into our home, Dominic. This is on you!”

The younger Russo’s jaw tightened as he pushed his cutlery to the side. “Father, I vetted Suzie myself,” he said. “She’s too scatterbrained to orchestrate something like this. She’s never given me a reason to doubt her loyalty.” His mind churned, picturing Suzie’s vacant expression and oblivious demeanor, but now a seed of doubt began to take root. What if he was wrong?

Stefano sauntered into the dining room without a care in the world, his linen shirt wide open, showing off his toned six-pack. He grabbed a pastry from the table and leaned into a chair with a lazy grin. “What’s all the noise about?” he asked casually. “Sounds like someones pissed you off, pops.”

Vincent wheeled on Stefano, his face contorted with rage. “Your little bimbo’s gone, Stefano!” he growled. “She’s vanished, and my doll’s gone with her. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to put two and two together.”

Stefano took a leisurely bite of his pastry. “Yeah, she is missing.” His grin never wavered, which angered Vincent even further. “I was looking for Suzie this morning for my morning blowjob, but couldn’t find her anywhere. I figured she was at the gym or something.”

Vincent clenched his fists together. “You think this is a game?” He snapped at his younger son. “That bimbo has made a fool out of both of you, and you’re here joking about blowjobs?” He swept a hand across the table, sending a plate crashing to the floor, which Maria immediately began cleaning up.

Stefano’s grin faltered. “Alright, Pops, relax,” he said cautiously. “Suzie’s too dumb to pull anything like this off. She can barely tie her own shoes without forgetting what she’s up to halfway through.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “She’ll turn up.”

Dominic was less dismissive. He stood up and picked up his own plate. “I’ll find them, father,” he declared. “I’ll have every contact in AC hunting them down before lunch. If Suzie has your doll, she won’t get far.”

The patriarch’s eyes burned with unrelenting fury as he stopped pacing and sized his son up. “You’d better, boy,” he snarled. “This family’s reputation is on the line. That doll knows too much. Find her now!” He barked before storming out of the room. Dominic adjusted his collar; he had never seen his father so angry before.

Stefano chuckled as his dad bolted out of the room before tearing off another piece of pastry. “Looks like you’re in deep shit now, big brother,” he teased amusedly. The younger Russo lounged back in his chair, savoring his breakfast with a deliberate slowness.

“You better find that bimbo quick, son,” Maria turned to Dominic. “I’ve never seen your father so angry. That doll means something to him.”

Dominic groaned. He was sure Suzie had nothing to do with this, but the timing had to be more than a coincidence. He nodded in agreement with his mother before silently leaving the room in search of his nanny while his brother reveled in the chaos around him.

❖

Kennedy tottered alone in Duke’s new rented apartment on the outskirts of Atlantic City, his black rubber catsuit clinging to every curve of his enhanced body. The hooded mask, with its red ponytail, still obscured his face, the cock panel gag muffling his shallow breaths and giving his cock something to contend with constantly.

The feminized man still wore the ballet heels that continued to force his toes into a painful arch. However, some new additions to his humiliating and controlling outfit were made. His armbinder had gone, and was replaced by upper arm and elbow cuffs connected to a long pole that forced his body in a straightened position and restrained his arms while giving his hands some measure of freedom. His neck was decorated with a thick black leather posture collar, giving his head barely any freedom of movement. He also wore a frilly black and white maid apron across the front of his plugged body and a matching cap on his head.

Duke had left hours ago as he said something about urgently meeting some contacts, leaving Kennedy to his assigned tasks. His former ‘boyfriend’ still hadn’t figured out the real identity of the figure behind the outfit, and he didn’t appear to have any interest in doing so.

Kennedy gripped a feather duster awkwardly with his restricted hands, sweeping it over the large kitchen island. Each movement was torture; the extreme boots were unlike anything he had ever worn and kept him constantly off balance. The plugs shifted inside him with each step, eliciting a forced pleasure that was driving the undercover journalist crazy.

Kennedy’s mind churned with desperation; the last twenty-four hours had been hell, and he needed to find an escape. He absently dusted the table as he scanned the house for a plan. With Duke out of the house, this was his best and perhaps only opportunity.

Kennedy’s gaze darted to the front door. He hadn’t heard Duke lock it properly on his way out, and despite the handle being a little high, Kennedy believed he could open it.

The transformed man shuffled forward on his tiptoes with wobbly steps, his posture rigid from the pole connecting his arm cuffs. He made it to the door and reached up but was unable to lift his restrained arms so high. The journalist turned around and bent forward, allowing his pole-restricted arms to lift up even higher. With a struggle, he managed to reach the elusive handle, clicking it open: success!

“Mmphh!” Kennedy muffled with glee. His heart raced as he nudged the door open, cringing at the faint creak of the old red door. She carefully teetered forward as the ballet heels stepped into the outdoor New Jersey sun. With freedom within reach, the bimbo’s glee was cut short as a sudden, powerful jolt emanated from his thick leather posture collar, buzzing electrodes into his neck and throughout every cell in his body.

The collar was no ordinary posture collar; it was a shock collar programmed to detonate when it passed the preset threshold. As pain coursed through Kennedy’s body, his high-heeled legs gave way, and he collapsed to the floor with an incoherent scream. Still past the threshold, the collar continued to shock him relentlessly on the front step. Kennedy’s hands reached for the collar, but their bound position kept them out of reach.

Heavy boots thudded closer, and Duke loomed over the writhing Kennedy, his shadowed form blocking the sun. “You really are a dumb doll,” he taunted his bound prisoner. The tall man took hold of the bar connecting Kennedy’s arm restraints. He dragged him back inside with a careless yank, the maid’s apron coming loose and falling off in the process.

Duke slammed the door shut and lifted Kennedy back to his feet. The collar had ceased its shocks, but the feminized journalist still felt the ramifications of his attempt. Duke looked into his defeated blue eyes with a grin. “Did you really think I’d let you just prance out of here back to your Master?” He growled. “You’re never going back, doll. You’re mine now.”

Kennedy shuddered. He didn’t want to be returned to that sadistic, fat patriarch, but he didn’t want to be trapped here either. He tried to plead with muffled moans once again, the large phallus in his mouth making him gag as he tried to reason with his captor.

Duke gripped the pole restraining the pink-haired bimbo’s arms and led him to the sofa, shoving the latex-clad doll over his knee before picking up a thick wooden paddle from the coffee table. “You need to learn your place, doll,” he snarled menacingly. After placing the palm of his hand over Kennedy’s ass, grinning at the vibrations of the relentless plug, he smacked the doll’s ass with the wooden item.

Kennedy’s eyes widened, and he cried out. Another smack followed, harder this time, and another. A series of punishing smacks cracked against Kennedy’s latex rear, leaving the captured doll to writhe in pain and desperation. Duke struck his sore ass twenty times before he eventually relented and steadied the poor undercover man to his feet.

“You’ll learn your lesson soon enough, little doll,” Duke warned his prisoner. “Now fix me some lunch, and don’t fuck it up.” He commanded, grinning as he watched the stupid doll totter towards the kitchen with awkward unease. Duke’s imagination flashed to Vincent’s reaction when he discovered his doll missing. That would teach the old fart, he thought to himself.

❖

Kayla knelt before her new husband in their lavish new penthouse apartment, her sheer black babydoll dress clinging to her enhanced curves and the cups lowered to expose her big, fake tits. Silver nipple clamps connected with a short chain pinched her plastic assets, and a ring gag stretched her plump lips, forcing her pretty mouth open. The ridiculous fake blonde pigtails framed her face, making her the very picture of submission kneeling before her husband.

Alex gripped his wife’s pigtails, his fingers twisting the plastic, obviously fake curls of her wig as he thrust his stiff cock through the ring gag, filling her mouth with a forceful push. This was Kayla’s life since her real identity had been discovered. Every day, she was forced into ridiculous outfits, restrained by bondage, fucked relentlessly by Alex and his friends, and forced to comply through her hypnotic conditioning.

Kayla’s muffled whimpers vibrated against Alex’s cock as he drove deeper, his hips rocking with deliberate cruelty; he loved playing with his new toy. Kayla’s tongue grazed his member unwillingly, her conditioning sending a forced lustful moan that only spurred his actions. The Russo brother tugged her nipple chains painfully to demonstrate his total control over her.

Kayla’s hands were bound behind her in leather cuffs, attached to her matching ankle cuffs, keeping her pinned in a kneeling hogtie. The discovered FBI agent’s eyes blazed with defiance, showing she hadn’t entirely given in to his cruel control. Still, her body betrayed her, arching into his thrusts as the hypnotic triggers flooded her with unwanted positive reinforcement.

Alex’s low groan echoed around the sparsely furnished room, his grip tightening on her wig, pulling her head back to meet each aggressive plunge. He grinned as he witnessed the saliva dripping from her stretched lips.

A sharp knock at the door jolted Alex from his rhythm, and he cursed under his breath, yanking his cock from Kayla’s open mouth with a wet pop. “Stay put, you little slut,” he snarled, keeping his wife bound on her knees in front of the living room couch.

Kayla gasped, relieved at the brief respite, although humiliated at the thought of someone else seeing her in her current state. Alex zipped his pants and strode to the door with obvious irritation.

Alex’s big brother, Dominic, stepped inside with purpose. He glanced around the room and nodded with approval. “Nice place you got here, little brother.” His eyes briefly rested on Kayla, trapped on her knees in the living room.

“Thanks, man,” Alex replied. “We were just celebrating until you rudely interrupted us.” He joked.

Dominic laughed briefly before his expression turned serious. “Sorry, but this can’t wait. We got a problem, a big one,” he said cautiously. The older brother reached into his jacket, pulled out a folded photo, and thrusted it into Alex’s hands. “Suzie isn’t who she says she is.”

Alex curiously unfolded the grainy CCTV screenshot, his jaw tightening as he studied Suzie’s pink-haired figure leaning toward a man in a New Jersey cafe. “Who the hell is that guy?” he asked suspiciously.

Dominic pulled out a second photo from his pocket, a dossier image of Jeremy, his stern features unmistakable. “He’s an FBI handler,” he said with a cold and resolute tone. “One of my informants caught this. Suzie’s been cozying up to him, and now she’s vanished along with Father’s doll.” Dominic’s eyes rested on Kayla’s bound form again. “Looks like your little slut here isn’t the only one talking to the feds.” His expression was cold.

Alex’s eyes narrowed as he crumpled the edge of the photo with his fingers. He glanced at Kayla, her gagged lips quivering under Dominic’s scrutiny. “Another fucking rat,” he muttered with contempt. Alex stepped towards his transformed wife with the photo and yanked the wide ring gag from her mouth, allowing it to hang around her neck. “You know anything about this, bitch?” he demanded, thrusting the gravely CCTV image in her face.

Kayla’s jaw ached, but she forced a response. “That’s Jeremy. I’ve never spoken to him myself, but he works with deep undercover operatives,” she winced as she spilled the beans. One of Alex’s previous commands was to never lie to him when he asked her a serious question, and the conditioning took hold. “I have no idea why Suzie is talking to him, though,” she continued. Despite Alex’s command, Kayla was conditioned by Dr Foster to reveal the identity of anyone who was undercover, including Kennedy.

Alex stared into her eyes for a moment, eliciting a whimper from his wife, before slipping the wide ring gag back between her lips, forcing her teeth to press against the cruel instrument, regagging her. “She’s telling the truth. Kayla can’t lie to me.” Alex reaffirmed.

Dominic’s gaze hardened. “We’re mobilizing every asset we have to find Suzie and Father’s doll,” he said resolutely. “Every informant, every thug that owes us their livelihood, will be hunting them down. We can’t let another traitor slip through the net.” He stepped closer to Alex and his volume dropped to a whisper, out of Kayla’s earshot. “You need to focus on Jeremy. I need to know everything he knows.”

Alex nodded, his smirk returning as his eyes glanced back over his bound wife. “Don’t worry, Dom,” he reassured his brother confidently. “I’ll take care of Jeremy, and Kayla here is going to help me.” He bent over and tugged the bound blonde’s nipple chain, eliciting a terrified yelp from his recent bride.

Dominic gave a curt nod. “Do what you can. I’m trusting you, Alex,” he said before turning on his heel and leaving the apartment.

Alex loomed over his wife, his fingers tracing the gag straps. “Are you ready for a little adventure, little slut?” He asked menacingly, before heading off to his bedroom, leaving Kayla on her knees to think about the consequences of what just occurred.

❖

That evening, Jeremy sat at the polished bar of an upmarket Irish pub, a haven he frequented after grueling days at the bureau. His casual, plain white T-shirt drooped loosely over his frame, and ripped jeans added a rugged edge to his nondescript look.

The man sipped whiskey straight, the amber liquid warming his throat. Jeremy’s eyes constantly scanned the room for threats despite being off the clock. The nature of his work meant the dark-haired man was never out of danger.

A woman slid onto the stool beside Jeremy, her sudden presence jarring his senses. Her oversized black hoodie and baggy jeans shrouded her form, prompting the FBI handler to reach for the gun holstered beneath his T-shirt. His pulse quickened as he assessed the potential threat.

The woman’s face turned, her eyes tensely locking onto his, and a flicker of recognition stilled the man’s hand. He stared into the heavily made-up face of the FBI agent he had heard so much about. The plump lips and big doe eyes were a far cry from the feminist agent he read about at the agency. “Kayla?” He asked tentatively.

Kayla looked at the man, desperate. Her breath was panting as though she had been running from somewhere. “Jeremy, I don’t have much time,” she said, her conditioned Jersey accent thick with panic. I’m trapped in hell, and you’re the only one I know who can get me out. Please, help me.” Her voice was rugged and tinged with desperation. She stared at him, the heavy makeup accentuating her pleading expression.

Jeremy’s fingers hovered near his holster as his caution warred with the softening tug of Kayla’s desperate gaze. “You’ve been compromised,” he said with a low and measured growl. His eyes darted around the room. “We can’t talk here.” He stared at her, the baggy clothes contrasted with her bright pink makeup, the hood covering the woman’s plastic wig.

Kayla’s big lips quivered. “Alex controls me, Jeremy,” she said, her tone heavy with shame. “He is a pervert, and he’s relentless. He figured out my conditioning and has me humiliating myself every day. You have to help me; you’re my last chance.”

Jeremy closed his eyes momentarily. He couldn’t help but feel like something was off, but he couldn’t ignore an agent in distress. “Alright,” he said with resignation. “I’ll help you.” Kayla’s face lit up with a smile, although sadness lingered in her eyes.

“So, what do you know?” The man asked the undercover agent. “You gotta give me something solid if I’m going to get you out of this mess.” He relaxed his arm, confident the fake Jersey girl was telling the truth.

Kayla lowered her head, her eyes dropping to the sticky floor. “They know you met with Suzie,” she whispered. “The Russos have photos. Suzie escaped the manor, and they’re hunting her down as we speak.”

Jeremy’s eyes narrowed at the revelation. Kennedy was his responsibility, and they were hunting him. “What else, Kayla?” He urged. “This is important. I need to know everything you know.” He leaned forward to highlight the urgency.

Kayla’s shoulders slumped, her voice barely visible as she whispered. “I’m sorry, Jeremy,” she said with resignation. “You should’ve never trusted me.”

Before the FBI handler could react, a shadow loomed behind him. Jeremy swiftly attempted to reach for his gun, but it was too late. Alex, armed with a crowbar, smacked Jeremy across the back of the head, knocking the man off his stool. The Russo man stood over the unconscious FBI man and grinned at his wife.

The bar’s patrons glanced away, fixing their eyes on their drinks, pretending that nothing had happened. No one wanted to get involved in Russo drama around here.

Alex stepped over Jeremy’s limp body, his grin widening as he reached for Kayla’s hood, pulling it back to reveal her platinum plastic pigtails. He cupped his wife’s face possessively before crashing his lips against her own heavily made-up mouth in a lustful kiss, prompting an unintended moan from the control FBI agent. “Good job, baby girl,” he purred, his voice thick with condescension and approval, his fingers absently brushing the woman’s cheek.

Kayla’s defeated gaze dropped to Jeremy’s unconscious form as guilt twisted her stomach like a knife. She was desperate to escape this hell, and she may have just orchestrated the murder of the one man who could help her.

Alex signaled to two nearby goons, who placed a brown sack over the unconscious man’s head and began dragging him out the back door. He grabbed his woman by the arm, and the two followed closely behind the men.

❖

Twenty-four hours later, Vincent Russo sat alone in his private study, a sanctuary of expensive wood and leather where he was contemplating the latest developments. His family had always been keen-eyed on vetting people before inviting them into his inner circle. What had gone wrong recently? Kayla had played the role of brash-talking Jersey girl so well, and Suzie had most of the family fooled with her dumb bimbo act. What technology was the FBI using, and what lengths would they go to to get what they wanted?

Clad in a deep burgundy silk robe, only his boxer shorts beneath, he cradled a glass of spiced rum. The manor was eerily quiet. Dominic was busy scouring Atlantic City for any traces of his former bimbo nanny, Abby was staying at a friend’s for a sleepover, and Maria was dressed to the nines at some charity gala event, leaving Vincent a moment of peace.

Vincent swirled his rum in its glass, his broad shoulders tensing as he brooded over Suzie’s betrayal. Alyssa, his prized rubber doll, had been stolen, and he wanted that pink-haired bitch laid out before him. When they finally caught that slut, the patriarch would handle her punishment personally. Alyssa had been a work of art, a symbol of what happens when you betray the Russo family, but she was nothing compared to what he had in mind for that bimbo.

The mob boss leaned back in his leather chair as he imagined the slow, deliberate dismantling of his son’s former nanny when a faint, unnatural creak pierced his silence. He wasn’t expecting his wife back for some time, and Dominic would have messaged him if he had any news. Vincent’s eyes snapped to the window, the darkness outside revealing nothing but the shadows of the trees on the back lawn.

Vincent heard another creak from outside, and he rose from the plush chair with piqued interest. He edged towards the study window, his bare feet silent on the floor despite his heavy frame. Looking outside, Vicent saw nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that should cause him alarm. Those recent events had heightened his paranoia, he thought to himself.

As Vincent focused on the outside wind, a deafening crash pierced his ears as the study door splintered inward. Before he could reach for a weapon, several heavily armed FBI agents stormed through the room, securing the perimeter and forcing Vincent over his office desk. One agent pinned his arms behind his back before another forced his wrists into secure metal cuffs.

FBI Special Agent in Charge Jason Hawksworth strode into the study with an air of smug authority about him. He smiled at the imposing man being held in place by his men. This wasn’t the first time these two had come face to face. “Vincent Russo, you are under arrest,” he declared. “For murder, extortion, false imprisonment, and torture.”

Agents yanked the mob boss upright with an ironclad grip and brought him to their boss, his robe threatening to spill open. Jason stood up straight as he addressed the large man. “Alyssa sends her regards,” he said with a smug satisfaction.

Vincent seethed. That bitch had run to the FBI, and with everything she knew, the patriarch knew the charges would stick. “You son of a bitch, Hawksworth!” He called out as the men led him away from the study, towards the unmarked police car waiting for him on the front lawn.

Jason clapped his hands together and followed behind the entourage. “Got you, you bastard,” he whispered as they headed out.

❖

Kayla stirred on the large king-size bed in the apartment’s dim bedroom, with the morning sun slowly rising through the gap between the couple’s blackout curtains. Confusion clouded her mind as Alex’s fingers absently stroked her plastic blonde wig.

The blonde’s senses sharpened, and she began to notice the humiliating outfit binding her naked form: a pink pet collar that hugged her throat, its silver tag dangling joyously with the name ‘Kitty’ scrawled across it; a pink kitty ear headband perched on her head, just in front of her ridiculous wig; a pink bone-shaped gag stretched her lips, the straps tightly buckled behind her head, keeping her words unintelligible; and a large metal buttplug filled her ass, allowing the attached pink kitten tail to flow from her backside.

Worst of all was the lack of mobility. Zip ties bent her elbows, pinning her hands near her shoulders, and bent her knees, forcing her feet against her ass, compelling her to move on her elbows and knees like an animal. Memories of Alex’s cruel games flood back to the forefront of her mind, reigniting the shame inside of her as she recalled the kinky and obscene tasks her husband had her act out for his amusement.

As Kayla shifted, every muscle ached, highlighting last night’s lengthy session, and her muffled groans barely escaped the bone gag in her mouth. Alex’s hand lazily lingered on her glued-on wig, his touch both possessive and condescending. “Such a good little kitty,” he murmured with mockery, his fingers grazing the collar’s ‘Kitty’ tag, eliciting a grin from him.

Suddenly, a loud knock on the apartment door shifted Alex from his daydream. He smiled and carefully eased his wife off the bed and onto the floor, sitting her upright with her elbows and knees hitting the carpet. “Come, Kitty,” he commanded condescendingly before exiting the bedroom and heading towards the front door.

Kayla’s bound limbs trembled as she balanced on the carpet. Her buttplug shifted uncomfortably inside of her, and the strength of the zip ties kept the woman helplessly held in the humiliation position. With no other choice, the FBI agent awkwardly crawled after her husband, the kitty tail swaying in rhythm with her tall blonde pigtails.

Alex opened the door, revealing his twin brother Stefano. The wild brother stepped inside wearing a colorful yellow and purple silk button-up shirt and flared trousers that looked more appropriate in the 1980s. The man grinned as he noticed Kayla’s degraded state. “Holy shit, Alex. You’ve outdone yourself with her.” Stefano circled the bound ‘pet’ like a predator. “I like it.”

Alex laughed and shook his head. His brother always said exactly what he thought. “What do you want, Stef?” He asked. “We were kind of in the middle of something.”

Stefano’s grin faded as he turned back to his brother. “Pops got arrested last night,” he said, leaning against the wall. “Feds raided the manor. Word is that Alyssa ratted him out and told the pigs everything. He’s been done for murder, extortion, the whole deal.” His casual tone masked the gravity of the information he was conveying.

Alex stared at his brother with bemusement. “Alyssa? Like, Alyssa Scaletti?” He asked. “I thought she was dead. Pops had two of his goons drive her down south and had her buried in the desert.” He stepped forward, trying to comprehend the news.

Stefano laughed. “It seems she meant too much to Dad. You know the doll he kept around that my bimbo slut stole? Turns out she was Alyssa this entire time.” He shook his head. “Pops really messed up this time.”

The front door opened, and Dominic strode in. He wore a tailored navy suit that accentuated his commanding presence, and his eyes narrowed as he spotted Kayla looking up at the trio helplessly, bound and gagged as a prized pet. “I’m glad this bitch is getting what she deserves, Alex,” he said, his voice cold with disdain before focusing on the brothers. “I guess you’ve heard the news,” he asked Alex.

The man nodded. “Yes, Stef just told me. We need to see Pops at the station and find out what he needs from us.” As Alex began to step past his older brother, Dominic raised his hand and pressed it against Alex’s chest, holding him back.

“Not so fast,” Dominic said. “There is one other thing.” Stefano raised an eyebrow and stood up straight away from the wall. “I just came back from interrogating that FBI pig Alex apprehended.”

Alex grinned at the mention of his name; his plan worked to perfection. Stefano stared impatiently. “And? What of it?” He asked with urgency.

“I got my top men working on him, and the piece of shit has finally started to talk,” Dominic clasped his hands together. “You wouldn’t believe what we got out of him.”

Dominic’s eyes gleamed with grim satisfaction. “Come with me,” he said, gesturing towards the door. “I’ll fill you in on the way.” Stefano’s grin widened, his impatience giving way to eager anticipation as he clapped Alex on the shoulder, urging him to move.

Alex cast a final glance at his trapped wife, her bound form struggling on the carpet, her tail wagging with each attempt. “Stay put, Kitty. Master will be back soon,” he sneered. His tone dripped with amusement and control as he turned and headed out of the apartment, leaving the FBI agent alone. She whimpered out as the door slammed shut, leaving the blonde alone to struggle with the fierce, defiant zip ties as her husband investigated the latest intel.

End of Chapter Eleven