His Basement, His Office - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
You are reading His Basement, His Office, Chapter 1: Chapter 1. Read more chapters of His Basement, His Office.
In my dream, I was chained and collared like some kind of pet. A tall man loomed over me, his eyes burning with something wild—almost manic—as he buried his face in my neck and inhaled deeply.
"My puppy…" he whispered, his voice low and possessive.
"Don't try to escape me."
I jolted awake, my heart pounding.
Earlier that day, a coworker had mentioned that the new general manager was mixed-race and ridiculously good-looking. We were supposed to meet him that afternoon.
But when I saw his face—the same face from my dream—my blood turned to ice. I froze in place, unable to move, unable to breathe.
Then he smiled at me—just a flicker of recognition—before turning to greet the rest of the team.
"Hello everyone, I'm Maxwell."
I stayed rigid, not daring to so much as twitch.
I blinked awake to pitch-black darkness. The air was damp, thick with the scent of mildew, and it made my skin crawl.
When I lifted my hand, the sharp clink of chains echoed in the silence. Cold metal bit into my wrists and ankles, locking me in place. A collar hugged my throat, tight enough to remind me I wasn't going anywhere.
Then—footsteps.
The steady click of leather shoes against concrete sent a chill down my spine. Closer. Then stopping.
I held my breath.
A pair of polished dress shoes appeared in my line of sight.
I forced myself to look up.
The man standing over me had sharp features, thin lips, and a tailored black suit that hugged his broad frame like it was made for him.
Before I could speak, his fingers clamped around my chin.
"Mmph—!"
His eyes darkened. "Who… are you? Why are you here?"
I wanted to say I had no idea, but his grip was iron-tight, cutting off my words. Just as spots danced in my vision, he finally let go. I gasped, my chest heaving as I stared up at him.
Handsome? Absolutely.
Human? Debatable.
While I tried to catch my breath, his gaze raked over me, assessing.
"I don't know how I got here," I managed. "Do you… know where this is?"
"This is my home," he said, voice deep, edged with warning.
Like I was an intruder.
"…"
I opened my mouth to argue—
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP—
My alarm blared, yanking me back to reality.
I sat up, sweat clinging to my skin. That dream… it had felt real.
At first, I brushed it off as a nightmare.
But then it happened again the next night.
This time, the moment I saw him, my body locked up. No words, no movement—just pure, instinctive fear.
The man didn't speak either. Instead, he leaned down, his lips grazing my earlobe before sucking lightly.
I hated people touching my ears—they were too sensitive. But now, with his mouth on me, heat flooded my face.
A soft chuckle vibrated against my skin.
"D-Don't—" My protest came out weak, shaky.
He ignored me.
Then two fingers pressed into my mouth, teasing, toying.
"Mmph—!" Tears pricked my eyes.
"Be good," he murmured. "Don't resist."
I woke up panting, the sheets tangled around me. The room was still dark, but the memory of the dream burned behind my eyelids.
And then I felt it—the sticky wetness between my thighs.
Oh, god.
I scrambled to the bathroom, ears burning, to scrub my underwear clean.
Meanwhile, somewhere else, Maxwell threw off the covers with a scowl and stalked into the shower.
Hot water pounded over his shoulders as he replayed the dream in his head. It was like watching himself from the outside—taking that man, claiming him.
Was he really this desperate?
He grabbed his phone, typing furiously:
[What does it mean to dream about the same person two nights in a row?]
The answers were useless. He tossed the phone aside and sank back onto the bed, jaw clenched.
I spent the rest of the day trying to distract myself—takeout, mindless scrolling, anything to shake off the lingering unease.
Then a video popped up: "10 Best Formal Looks for Men."
And suddenly, all I could see was him—that suit, those hands, the way he'd—
My phone hit the carpet with a dull thud.
"Caleb," I groaned, dragging my hands down my face. "You're hopeless."
That night, I dreamed again. Same chains. Same collar. Same suffocating darkness.
This time, when the man entered, he didn't touch me. Just watched.
The silence was worse.
Then he dropped to his knees in front of me, his gaze fever-bright as he buried his face against my neck, breathing me in.
I didn't dare move.
His voice was rough, raw with something I couldn't name.
"My puppy…"
A pause. Then, quieter—
"Are you going to leave me too?"
I turned my head, meeting his eyes—and froze.
Was that… hurt?
Pain flared.
I looked down.
A knife glinted in the dim light, buried in my stomach.
The last thing I heard before everything went black was his growl—
"Don't try to escape me."
"My puppy…" he whispered, his voice low and possessive.
"Don't try to escape me."
I jolted awake, my heart pounding.
Earlier that day, a coworker had mentioned that the new general manager was mixed-race and ridiculously good-looking. We were supposed to meet him that afternoon.
But when I saw his face—the same face from my dream—my blood turned to ice. I froze in place, unable to move, unable to breathe.
Then he smiled at me—just a flicker of recognition—before turning to greet the rest of the team.
"Hello everyone, I'm Maxwell."
I stayed rigid, not daring to so much as twitch.
I blinked awake to pitch-black darkness. The air was damp, thick with the scent of mildew, and it made my skin crawl.
When I lifted my hand, the sharp clink of chains echoed in the silence. Cold metal bit into my wrists and ankles, locking me in place. A collar hugged my throat, tight enough to remind me I wasn't going anywhere.
Then—footsteps.
The steady click of leather shoes against concrete sent a chill down my spine. Closer. Then stopping.
I held my breath.
A pair of polished dress shoes appeared in my line of sight.
I forced myself to look up.
The man standing over me had sharp features, thin lips, and a tailored black suit that hugged his broad frame like it was made for him.
Before I could speak, his fingers clamped around my chin.
"Mmph—!"
His eyes darkened. "Who… are you? Why are you here?"
I wanted to say I had no idea, but his grip was iron-tight, cutting off my words. Just as spots danced in my vision, he finally let go. I gasped, my chest heaving as I stared up at him.
Handsome? Absolutely.
Human? Debatable.
While I tried to catch my breath, his gaze raked over me, assessing.
"I don't know how I got here," I managed. "Do you… know where this is?"
"This is my home," he said, voice deep, edged with warning.
Like I was an intruder.
"…"
I opened my mouth to argue—
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP—
My alarm blared, yanking me back to reality.
I sat up, sweat clinging to my skin. That dream… it had felt real.
At first, I brushed it off as a nightmare.
But then it happened again the next night.
This time, the moment I saw him, my body locked up. No words, no movement—just pure, instinctive fear.
The man didn't speak either. Instead, he leaned down, his lips grazing my earlobe before sucking lightly.
I hated people touching my ears—they were too sensitive. But now, with his mouth on me, heat flooded my face.
A soft chuckle vibrated against my skin.
"D-Don't—" My protest came out weak, shaky.
He ignored me.
Then two fingers pressed into my mouth, teasing, toying.
"Mmph—!" Tears pricked my eyes.
"Be good," he murmured. "Don't resist."
I woke up panting, the sheets tangled around me. The room was still dark, but the memory of the dream burned behind my eyelids.
And then I felt it—the sticky wetness between my thighs.
Oh, god.
I scrambled to the bathroom, ears burning, to scrub my underwear clean.
Meanwhile, somewhere else, Maxwell threw off the covers with a scowl and stalked into the shower.
Hot water pounded over his shoulders as he replayed the dream in his head. It was like watching himself from the outside—taking that man, claiming him.
Was he really this desperate?
He grabbed his phone, typing furiously:
[What does it mean to dream about the same person two nights in a row?]
The answers were useless. He tossed the phone aside and sank back onto the bed, jaw clenched.
I spent the rest of the day trying to distract myself—takeout, mindless scrolling, anything to shake off the lingering unease.
Then a video popped up: "10 Best Formal Looks for Men."
And suddenly, all I could see was him—that suit, those hands, the way he'd—
My phone hit the carpet with a dull thud.
"Caleb," I groaned, dragging my hands down my face. "You're hopeless."
That night, I dreamed again. Same chains. Same collar. Same suffocating darkness.
This time, when the man entered, he didn't touch me. Just watched.
The silence was worse.
Then he dropped to his knees in front of me, his gaze fever-bright as he buried his face against my neck, breathing me in.
I didn't dare move.
His voice was rough, raw with something I couldn't name.
"My puppy…"
A pause. Then, quieter—
"Are you going to leave me too?"
I turned my head, meeting his eyes—and froze.
Was that… hurt?
Pain flared.
I looked down.
A knife glinted in the dim light, buried in my stomach.
The last thing I heard before everything went black was his growl—
"Don't try to escape me."
End of His Basement, His Office Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to His Basement, His Office book page.