Craving My Sister’s Hot Husband

In Cuffs

Seraphina

The text comes at one-forty-three in the morning.

I’ve been lying awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, listening to the silence of the house. I heard Dominic come home earlier. Heard the shouting—his voice and Elena’s, rising and falling through the walls. Heard him storm out again, tires screeching in the driveway.

That was three hours ago.

Then my phone lights up on the nightstand.

‘Come to the east wing. Basement door behind the wine cellar. Code is 0614. Don’t make me wait.’

My heart slams against my ribs.

I sit up, reading it again. A basement? I’ve been living in this house for months and never knew there was a basement in the east wing.

Another text: ‘Now, Seraphina.’

I’m out of bed before I can think, pulling on a robe over my nightgown, my hands trembling slightly as I slip into the hallway. Elena’s door is closed, no light beneath it. She’s asleep, or lying awake crying. Either way, she won’t hear me.

I move through the dark house, my bare feet silent on the hardwood. The east wing is a part of the house I rarely visit, it’s where Dominic keeps his extensive wine collection, a library I’ve never seen him use, rooms that remain closed and irrelevant to daily life.

The wine cellar door is open, and I slip inside. Temperature-controlled coolness wraps around me, bottles lining the walls in expensive precision. But I’m not looking at the wine. I’m looking for a door.

There, behind a rack on the far wall. A door I’ve never noticed, painted the same dark color as the walls, nearly invisible. And beside it, a small keypad glowing softly in the darkness.

I enter the code. 0614.

The lock clicks. The door swings open to reveal a staircase leading down into shadow.

My pulse quickens as I descend, one hand trailing along the wall for balance. The air changes as I go deeper—cooler, different. There’s a scent I can’t quite place. Leather. Wood. Something else underneath.

At the bottom, another door. No lock this time. Just a handle.

I push it open and step inside.

The room steals my breath.

It’s massive, maybe four hundred square feet, and nothing like anything I expected. Low lighting illuminates the space in strategic pools of gold and shadow, revealing furniture and equipment that makes my stomach flip with equal parts anticipation and shock.

Against one wall stands an X-shaped frame, a St. Andrew’s Cross, I realize, though I’ve only ever seen them in movies or late-night internet searches I’d never admit to. Leather restraints dangle from each point. Nearby, a padded bench sits low to the ground, metal rings embedded along its edges for purposes I can only imagine.

Chains hang from the ceiling. A four-poster bed occupies one corner, black silk sheets pristine, restraint points visible at each post.

And everywhere, hooks on the walls displaying implements I recognize and some I don’t. Floggers with multiple leather tails. Paddles of different sizes and materials. Coils of rope in black and red. Riding crops. Blindfolds. Items that make heat pool between my thighs just looking at them.

A cabinet with glass doors reveals more, toys, devices, things that make my face flush even in the dim light.

This isn’t improvised. This isn’t some hidden kink revealed in desperation.

This is a room designed with intention and money and expertise. Every piece of furniture is expensive, perfectly placed. The lighting is professional. The soundproofing visible in the padded walls and thick door.

Someone built this. Designed it. Planned for it.

The realization hits like a fist to my chest: He made this for Elena.

Jealousy floods through me, hot and vicious. All of this, this elaborate, expensive playground, was meant for my sister. He brought her down here. Used these restraints on her. Made her scream into this soundproofed darkness.

She had this side of him before I did. Had him in ways I’m only now discovering.

How many times? How many nights did they come down here while I was thought they had a normal marriage?

“You’re late.”

The voice comes from my left, and I spin toward it.

Dominic sits on a leather couch I didn’t notice, half-hidden in shadow. He’s still dressed in his work clothes, but his tie is gone, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up his forearms. A whiskey bottle dangles from one hand, not a glass, the entire bottle, and even from here, I can see he’s been drinking from it.

His eyes are dark, dangerous, tracking me as I take in the room.

“Dominic, what is this place?”

“Shut up.”

The command cracks like a whip, and my mouth snaps closed.

He stands, setting the bottle aside with deliberate care, and begins to circle me. Slow. Predatory. I force myself to stay still even though every instinct screams to turn and keep him in my line of sight.

“In this room,” he says, his voice low and absolute, “you don’t speak unless I tell you to. In this room, you take orders. You submit. You exist only for my pleasure.” He stops directly behind me, close enough that I feel his breath against my ear. “Do you understand?”

I nod, not trusting myself to stay quiet if I open my mouth.

“Good girl.” His hand trails down my spine, and I shiver. “But I didn’t tell you to nod, did I? I asked if you understand.”

“Yes,” I whisper.

His hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, Dominic—”

“Wrong.” He releases me, stepping back. “In this room, you call me Sir. Try again.”

My throat is dry. “Yes, Sir.”

“Better.” He circles in front of me, and I see the rage still simmering beneath his controlled exterior. This is what he needs, someone to unleash it on. Someone who can take it. “Strip.”