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I park my car in her driveway. All of my possessions too large to move in a car are in storage or sold, and everything I consider needful or of personal value are packed in boxes in the trunk and back seat. There is no turning back now.
I knock at the door, and she answers. Without a word shared between us, I begin moving those boxes into her living room and stacking them neatly. She points to where she wants them placed for the moment, and does not even do the favor of watching and instead returns to her daily tasks and entertainment. Working alone the process is slow, and by the end I am dirty and slightly sweaty.
Still without words, she snaps and gestures me to follow. She leads me into the bathroom, and gestures to the bathtub. I strip, bathe, and remove the hair from my body; still silent she watches, is she simply ensuring I do not touch myself disobediently, is she trying rush me along, or is she taking pleasure in the show? I cannot tell, and the stern and inscrutable look on her face betrays nothing, but her gaze makes me feel small and vulnerable which drives me deep into submission and arousal.
I dry my body and my hair, brush my teeth, and apply my toiletries. I go to brush my hair, but she stops me. Wordlessly, she brushes and does my hair the way she wants. I stand nude and erect as she braids my long hair into a single, thin pony tail. It is not particularly fashionable, but the statement is clear: “you are mine, and I choose how you look”.
She roughly grabs my erect penis and tugs. I gasp in equal parts pain and discomfort, and she leads me by it into the bedroom. She gestures for me to kneel, and I do before her.
She takes a new, steel collar from the bed and slips it around my exposed neck. She chilled the collar in preparation for this moment, and the cold steel is uncomfortable but not harmful. This, and the cold air of the bedroom, makes me shiver and my erection fades as she locks the collar with one of two keys on a chain around her neck.
She grabs the loop on my collar and pulls me to my feet. She takes the steel chastity cage from the bed – also chilled – and slips the ring around my cock and balls, the cage around my cock, attaches the two parts, and locks them with the other key around her neck. I stand, naked and exposed, collared and caged, before her.
I know what comes neck, and wait, eyes to the ground. Then does she speak for the first time since I arrived. She speaks slowly, deliberately, patronizingly even; I already know what she will say, it is nothing we have not discussed and agreed upon in the past, nor any change to the arrangements and terms already in place. But it is important to hear all the same, for what was once play and temporary, is now life.
This is now home. And when I am at home, I am not my own. I am to be seen and to serve, not to be heard or to choose; to speak only when spoken to, and always to keep my gaze lowered. I obey, immediately and without question. My desires come second, and by no means am I equal; when in these walls, I am no longer a person but property.
When she is finished speaking, I know my role by rote. The words come out of my mouth as if from another person; more an extension of her will than my conscious choice. I keep my gaze to the floor and do not hesitate, “yes Mistress”.
Formalities complete, she leashes me and leads me around the home to show accommodations made for me. I am not allowed on the bed, couches, chairs, or other furniture unless told otherwise, and at the foot of her bed and scattered through the house are cushions on the floor just for me, never far from a ring or hook attached to a wall or piece of furniture so I may be bound.
I have working and living space set aside in a spare room, but the spare room is padlocked so I may only access those amenities with permission. My primary sleeping space is a small mattress in her walk-in closet, which now locks from the outside and has a mail slot so I may watch and hear her with lovers.
She tells me she entertained the idea of putting in a glory hole instead, but decided if I’m to pleasure her lovers she would prefer to watch. She tells me she has installed nanny cams in the house so I may be monitored throughout the day, but she will not tell me where nor how to access them, and she informs me she will be monitoring my internet traffic as well.
She leads me to the living room, where I sit on a cushion and she on the couch next to my things. She opens the boxes labeled clothing, and sorts them into two piles. Underwear, house, casual, and formal wear goes into one pile, work clothing into another. The former will be sorted, donated, or thrown away as I am no longer to wear clothing unless legally, professionally, or socially necessary, and then I am only to wear what she provides or approves of. When she is done, scarcely enough to fill a single dresser drawer remains, and any capability to self-identify through clothing is a fading memory.
She turns to my boxes labeled entertainment. Books, movies, shows, and games of which she does not approve, or those she already owns, get added to the pile of items to be donated, sold, or thrown away. Those of which she approves, get added to her own personal collection. Likewise she turns to my collection of accessories and personal knick-knacks, and the pile of things that defined me as a person before committing to a life of service, but which I do not need, grow.
Heirlooms and items of sentimental and personal value I am allowed to keep, but by the end, the pile of items to be left behind vastly outsizes the items I am to keep, I feel numb, hollow, hurt, and on the verge of weeping, but I know deep down this is what I truly want and need, and this is for what I asked, and this is to what I committed.
The hurt inverts into a new sense of purpose, the hollowness is filled with knowledge no baggage exists to impede my life of servitude, and any lingering doubt I am loved as a person and valued in my servitude fades. I shed tears, but not of regret and loss, but of rebirth and long-needed self-actualization.
It is not a feeling upon which I am left to dwell, however. She tells me plans to celebrate moving day by inviting her strongest, most virile, and best lover for an evening of intense lovemaking, and it is already getting late. She unceremoniously leads me to the closet, locks me inside, and calls her lover to tell him it is time.
…and in a dreamlike haze of lost time and fog, It’s over.
The moaning, shuffling, grinding, thrusting, crying out in passion, grasping of sheets and pillows, bed creaking, and thumping rise to a sweaty, noisy peak, and subside. I have completely lost track of time; the combination of arousal, submission, humiliation, vicarious pleasure, and voyeuristic indulgence have long since overflowed and emptied, leaving me a broken, hollow, exhausted, numb and compliant husk. I sit in front of the door looking at nothing in particular in front of the mail slot, blankly awaiting my next command not unlike a simple automaton.
I struggle to collect my thoughts. She locked me in the closet and made her call, telling her lover it was time to come over; I overheard one side of an incredibly explicit and arousing conversation. I watched and listened through the mail slot as she told me how pent-up and aroused she was, and all about her lover and what she enjoyed most about him, as she stripped nude and put on a short robe to greet him with. Then, the doorbell.
She left the bedroom and was in the living room with him for some time. I heard little but the occasional bit of laughter and an infrequent gasp or moan. I thought I heard some piece of furniture thumping against a wall, but it may well have been the racing of my mind wondering what was happening outside the bedroom.
All I know for sure, is that by the time they came to the bedroom they were both nude and quite aroused; he with an erection that made my cock ache in jealousy for being free, and she flushed and covered in a glistening sheen of sweat.
They wasted no time. On the floor, on the bed, multiple positions and multiple orgasms. The moment that broke me fully, was the moment she maneuvered herself to be doggy-style facing the closet door; she looked directly to the mail slot, locked eyes with me, and smiled as she gasped and grunted through her lover’s hard and unrelenting thrusts.
I am brought back to the present by the sound of the closet door unlocking and opening. I hear her say something, but I am too deeply in my headspace; she snaps her fingers and gives me a small slap to the face, and I respond weakly through a moaned vocalization and a look upwards. Satisfied that I have not been driven to complete catatonia, she grasps the loop on my collar and tugs; I crawl into the bedroom behind her, my motions not completely my own.
She pulls me up to my knees, lays at the foot of the bed, and spreads her legs before me. Smeared across her thighs, pubic mound, and swollen and flushed pussy is a voluminous load of her lover’s semen, mixed with her own lubrication and their sweat. The action and what it represents does not register in my overstimulated, broken mind; at this moment I am only an extension of her will, my own autonomy washed away in a tidal wave of emasculation and servitude.
I do something I never thought I would do, nor would choose normally: I lean forward and lick. Not for the purpose of giving pleasure, as pleasure has already been amply given and not by me, but to clean and serve, a reminder in deed of my place. Her thighs clench at first, but soon spread wide open in relaxation and exhaustion, and the low-level of sexual stimulation my tongue provides as it caresses along her most private parts.
She pushes my head away and takes me by the shoulders. She pulls me onto the bed and lays me down upon it. She rolls over and lays against me, one leg between my own positioned that her thigh rests against my caged, numb cock. She pulls my arms around her torso. Her breasts weigh on my torso and sides, and she nestles her head onto my shoulder and neck with a series of light kisses. Using me as a body pillow, she closes her eyes and rests.
As she rests my mind slowly begins to return, and speed through the day’s events. The realization again hits like a truck; this is no longer play, or a fun distraction. This is the new normal, this is life now. This is what I, deeply down, wanted. I brush away lingering philosophical questions about what this means for me as no longer necessary, and embrace the moment.
My pierced nipples are being suckled, a tongue darting around them and toying with the piercing. My caged cock waggles. A finger slides inside the slit of the cage and brushes against my sensitive, restrained cockhead. My balls are caressed. The sensations bring me back to the now; I am unsure if I was again so deep in my headspace as to lose awareness, or drifted to sleep. I return to full awareness, the shock and overstimulation having passed, and stir.
What comes next is familiar and welcome: the headspace check, discussion of what happened and my thoughts, and the light chit-chat of an aftercare conversation. I comply fully, and answer every question without hesitation or reservation; provide my own feedback when prompted; and as the subject shifts from play to everyday topics, I leave my play-oriented headspace and enter my new normal of lifetime subservience.
She stretches, rolls over, and orders me to massage her shoulders, back, legs, and feet. Once satisfied, she leads me to the bathroom where I draw her a bath, kneel besides the tub, and bathe her body. I dry her, and she does the same for me. She leads me to the kitchen, where I prepare her a before-bed snack and kneel by her feet as she eats.
A final trip to the bathroom so I may relieve myself before bed, and back to the closet. The lock clicks into place and the lights go off; like in other toy in her dresser drawer, I have been used, cleaned, maintained, and put away to await its next use.
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