Page 132 of Her Sloth

“Come inside,” I tell her as I walk to the metal door. She follows me hesitantly.

I turn on the lights, revealing the fully set-up garage. Tools, car lift, body workshop, motor lift, everything.

“What’s this place?” she asks.

“It’s mine,” I say as I lean against a wall. “I gave my house in Topanga to Luke and Tommy; they lived there anyway. Sold the plane and everything else.”

“You’re insane,” she says in total bewilderment.

I chuckle.

“No—well yes, maybe, but in this case, no,” I say as I reach for her and pull her into me. “My home is where you are.”

“You shouldn’t—not for me—you belong to California.“

“I’m not doing this for you,” I say. “I’m doing this for me. I’m following my heart. And my heart always knew it beat for cars. And you.”

“And what happens with your family there?”

“Distance doesn’t matter if it’s real family,” I say. “Especially when my family is here.” With that, I spin her around and push her into the wall, kissing her with my arm above her head.

I kiss over her cheek, down her neck, and she bares me her throat. She loves it when I kiss or bite her neck.

I lick up back up to her ear.

“Undress and go kneel by the motor lift,” I tell her. “Eyes on the floor.”

With that, I push myself off.

I turn off the bright lights and leave only one single uplighter on before I walk over to one of the cabinets and get chains from it. I also press the button for the speaker and put on our favorite playlist. The one we created while I was in the hospital, where I thought I’d die of boredom.

I take my time getting what I need, turn, and then watch her do what I told her to.

She kneels so well.

I walk slowly over to her, stand wide-legged directly in front of her, grasp her by the hair, and push her head back.

“I told you you’ll love it, pet,” I say. “Tell me how much.”

“I love being put in my place.”

A grin appears on my face, and I press her face between my legs.

“Yes, you do,” I say as the anticipation of what will happen surges through me. “Your place is right here, pet, right by my feet.”

With that, I let go of her.

“Hands,” I say. And she lifts them up immediately.

I wrap the chains I got around her wrists, click the carabiner in, pull them up, and slide it over the motor lift’s hook.

Then, I walk around the lift and pump it up so high she is pulled slightly off her knees with the chains digging into the skin of her wrists.

“Do the chains press too hard anywhere?” I ask, checking the fixing, because it can, when done wrong, cause semi-permanent damage.

“No,” she says, longing in her voice.

“Good,” I say and glide my hand over her body. Her skin is so soft, and the moment I touch her, goosebumps spread on her arms and legs.