Shockingly, it didn’t take me long at all to fall asleep. I thought I’d be tossing and turning. But I likely had been overstimulated and overwrought by the time the lights finally went off. I didn’t remember any insomnia at all.

I was woken up by the chattering sound of the bars over my head. Startling and sitting up, legs in half-askew mules kicking the bottom of the cage, headband bonking on the top.

“Settle down,” she laughed. “I let you sleep in because you looked so comfy in your kennel. Don’t get worked up now.”

“I’m not worked up,” I whispered. I had just sort of forgotten where I was.

She was already dressed. In whatever “weekend casual” was for her. Which turned out to be a starched blue cotton blouse, tucked in neatly to navy blue slacks, blue-on-blue trouser socks, and a pair of low blue kitten heels. Hair pinned and swept as usual.

“I’m going to let you out, now,” she said. “You’ll put on the white dress, white pumps, white petticoat. No underwear, stockings, garter belt, bra.”

“Yes, ma’am… How–?” I asked, lifting the mitts.

“I’ll let you out of those too,” she sighed, rolling her eyes at me. “That doesn’t mean you can jerk off though.”

I nodded. Feeling like my shorts were absolutely sealed to my skin with now-dry wetness.

“You may shower. And then you’ll do your makeup. Join me in the kitchen afterward. It’s not necessary for you to crawl when you do.”

“Yes ma’am,” I agreed again.

She undid the padlock and I crawled out of the cage. Taking my time to shake out the ache in my hips and back. Then kneeling down and holding out my mitted hands to her to unlock those. Then she strode out. 

On shaking legs, I went to the bathroom. Stripping out of the pajamas, finding a shower cap sitting on the counter for me and then stepping into her two-headed shower.

For a minute I just stood there, head down. I’d never showered with a cap on and it was surprisingly nice. The water thunderous on the plastic. Finally I got moving, soaping a little. Especially the insides of my thighs. Being careful to not make contact with my clit for long though. 

Then I stepped out, toweling briskly and wrapping it around myself. Looking surreptitiously around to make sure she wasn’t in the room to see me naked. Going over to the vanity, finding my makeup already laid out for me. Doing it with shaking hands, needing to take frequent pauses to get myself under control. Mimicking what the girl at the salon had done– easy enough.

Then going to “my” part of the closet. Getting the lingerie from the box, the dress from the hanger. Already practicing staying on my toes, just in case she came in. Though she appeared to be giving me my space– at least this morning.

I’d never used a garter belt before, and figuring out all the little hooks and keeping things flat and detangled almost made me cry again. A very small part of it was frustration, the far larger part was just the continuing sense of being in an overwhelming dream.

Finally, I got myself dressed. Peeked into her mirrored closet door. It was and it wasn’t me looking back. Not how I usually saw myself. Not with hair uncovered, not nearly white, for that matter. I never wore such stark and sexy red nails or lip. I looked more than merely curvy, I looked like a bombshell. I saw, for the first time, really, her vision. Doing a spin, the swing skirt flaring out wildly, especially with the help of petticoats. My waist looked miniscule, tits and hips ridiculous. 

Finally, I got moving out to the kitchen. She was sitting at the counter, a black mug in front of her, a glass of water with a lemon slice perched on the edge.

I stood hesitating halfway across the room from her.

“Good morning,” she said. “Now come here, you can have coffee if I think you look good.”

I stepped to her, making sure to work my hips so the skirt would swing. She reached out, popping the back collar of my dress so it cupped the back of my neck. Hands skimming down my arms to my waist. Turning me in her hands.

“Exactly what I was planning,” she said. “Lovely. There’s your seat.” She pointed down toward the floor beside her, on the opposite side. I thought she intended for me to sit on the poured concrete floor. But when I made my way around her, I saw instead a small black stool. Though the base was cut out. I flushed instantly, realizing that sitting on it would leave my genitals and ass exposed from underneath… should she want to put it to use. Flushing further when I saw that painted on the seat itself, around that rim it said “Bitch Seat.”

I sat without a word though, dropping the voluminous skirts around the seat, crossing my ankles. It was short, only about a foot off the floor. The crown of my head was only just at level with her lap, sitting up on the stool. She reached down with another mug for me. 

I took it, gratefully cradling it in my hands that had gone cold with shock.

“That’s your only seat in this house,” she said. Then she noticed I hadn’t taken a sip yet. “You can drink, bitch.” 

I took a sip immediately. Good, dark coffee. Sugared and creamed the way I took it even. Overwhelmed, again. This time with tenderness, a crazy sense of being touched that she knew how I took my coffee. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said quietly.

“Mm,” she said, absent-mindedly, going back to whatever she’d been doing. 

For twenty minutes, she worked or read on a laptop, sipping her coffee and water.

“Can I make you breakfast, ma’am?” I asked.

She took a breath, and then looked down at me. As if she’d forgotten I was there.

“Toast, marmalade, more coffee, black,” she said.

I leapt from the stool. 

Her kitchen was painfully neat, and nearly everyone organizes the same. She had a bread box, about a third of a loaf of bread inside. Toaster beside it. I slid her empty mug away from her as the bread toasted. Of course I knew she took it black– I’d gotten her coffee two or nearly three times a day in the office. Spread marmalade, put the plate and mug before her and went back to the bitch seat. 

She took two, three, four silent sips of coffee. Reaching down after that and patting the top of my head, like a dog who’d finally settled and stopped annoying you. I couldn’t stop myself and nuzzled into it. She looked down and smiled at me and I could have died. 

After another hour of this I felt almost fussy. When did I last just sit in silence, without any kind of stimulation, for that long? She didn’t seem to play music in the house, I hadn’t seen a television. She clearly liked to read, and there were books in the kitchen, but I hadn’t been given leave to read. 

“Dishes,” she snapped at me, maybe feeling me shift, maybe hearing my heels scrape on the floor. I leapt up again, gathering everything together. Turning on the water, finding her tucked-away bottle of dish soap.

“Gloves!” she said, as if I’d caught on fire.

Underneath the sink were classic to-the-elbow pink rubber gloves. Putting those on. She knocked on the countertop to get my attention. I turned around, still tugging on the gloves.

“My woman does not have dish-pan hands,” she scolded. “You will not have ratty nails after I spent my money to make them lovely. Do you understand?” 

“Yes ma’am,” I said, dropping my face, lip quivering. Turning back around to do the dishes.

Finishing, I hung the gloves back up where I found them. 

“Good girl,” she said, softly enough that whatever disappointment I’d been feeling melted away. “Now I’m going to give you a choice. Do you want me to lock you back up in your cage to rest a little more, or do some work with me in my office?”

“With you!” I said. “Please, ma’am, with you, in your office.”

“All right, grab your seat,” she said.

I scooped up the stool, holding it stiffly at my waist and followed her into her office. She pointed toward the side of her leather chair, in front of her screen. I placed it down, approximately the same distance I’d been from her while sitting in the kitchen. I sat, keeping my head down, eyes on the floor. She sat in her chair, I heard her turning on her computer and starting to work away. Listening to the scrolling mechanism in her mouse.

Another fifteen, or twenty minutes of her silence and working.

“Water,” she snapped at me.

I leapt up, going to the kitchen, filling her glass, rimming the edge in another lemon slice from the fridge and leaving it perched on the lip. Bringing it back for her and sitting back in the bitch seat.

Another ten minutes.

She reached down toward me and I lifted my chin, already smiling, expecting another head-pat. But instead she slid her slim fingers into the collar of the dress she’d picked for me. Sliding down my decolletage, finding the edge of the bra she’d purchased me and caressing my bare breast. 

I gasped, and wiggled.

“Settle down,” she sighed impatiently.

I did. Nipple drawn painfully taut under her massaging fingers. Her movement purposeless and disinterested. Sliding across to my other breast, teasing that nipple upward. The other aching and itching against the inside of my bra. 

I couldn’t help it, shifting again, aware of how it felt like my very swollen genitals were hanging like overripe fruit in the cut-out of the bitch seat. She pinched me hard in answer, and I whimpered.

“What?” she said, again sounding pushed to the edge of patience.

“Nothing, ma’am,” I said, very quietly.

She turned in her seat. Facing my side now. I very carefully avoided her eyes.

“Back to me,” she said. I turned on the seat, so my back was to her now. She reached over my shoulders, both hands inside my dress now. Doing a tortuous, milking tease of my nipples. I bit my lip, trying hard to stay quiet. I couldn’t slow my breathing though. “Oh, settle down,” she huffed again. “I just wanted to get my hands on these. You’ve been bouncing around my office for months, don’t pretend you weren’t showing off, you big-titted slut.”

I thought about agreeing– I had been showing off, I had wanted her attention and hadn’t been quite sure how to get it. I certainly never saw her look at me lecherously, or even look at me overlong. But it seemed highly likely that if I spoke up, even just to concur with her, she’d be irritated. So I didn’t. Just accepting the tease, without moving or fighting or melting back into it. Stock still though I wanted to have more.

She let me go, so suddenly I gasped and fell forward over my own knees, as if I’d been dropped. She was already turning back toward her screen. 

“Ma’am–” I said.

“What?” she said, not turning to look at me, or even taking her eyes from the screen. The brightness reflected back in her dark eyes, giving her halos. “Are you horny?”

“Well…” I hadn’t actually been sure what I was going to say. Possibly ‘thank you’ possibly to offer to get her more water. And now I was caught, torn in two directions. Be honest? Say, yes of course I’m horny? How could I not be, after spending all morning, without underwear, sitting on the bitch seat, smelling her and seeing her? And then being quite literally milked, in such a way that my nipples felt inches longer than usual, and all of me felt empty with the built up desire that was being given no release? Or just say something to convey I wasn’t complaining? Because hadn’t I said I wanted to be used, however she wanted to use me?

She turned to me again, just slightly, three quarters of the way to me. One eye sliding from the screen. Moving rattlesnake fast, forcing her thumb, fore and middle fingers into my mouth. I gasped, which gave her greater space for movement and she pinched my tongue between her fingers, drawing it just slightly past my lips.

“Why would you bother playing coy with me?” She asked it so silkily that I felt in imminent danger. “You’re here… You’re mine. You slept in my cage, you ate my cum, you’re wearing my clothes and I’m guessing you’re gushing girl honey all over the floor of my office. So why not just tell me, when I ask you ‘are you horny?’”

“Aaahm,” I said uselessly, tongue still pinched in her fingers. It seemed that it must be blood-red under the pressure she was exerting. 

“Oh, right,” she sighed, letting my tongue go, running her nail underneath my lower lip. “You need this to talk, don’t you.”

“Ma’am,” I said. “I am yours. I am horny. But please don’t mistake this for complaints or demands. I am very happy here in the bitch seat and will do just exactly as you say.” 

“Well of course you will!” she said in a ‘oh-you-silly-thing’ tone. Turning more fully toward me, sliding her left foot forward, under my stool. Lifting her foot until the top of her foot made contact with my labia. I clenched, instantly. I wasn’t wrong. I was swollen to bursting, I could tell for sure now with the pressure of leather against me. I leaned forward a little, trying to lift myself off her.

“Ma’am, please I–”

“‘Oh please I’m so horny?’” she said in scornful imitation.

“No, ma’am I… I don’t–” I coughed, humiliated in a blank-minded way and unsure of how to proceed. “No… It’s not that ma’am… Well, it is but I… Ma’am, please, I don’t want to make a mess on your shoe.” 

She laughed, but with no cruelty, no mocking this time. Just genuine amusement. 

“So I was right about your dripping,” she said, cupping my chin in her hand, lifting my face so I had to stare at her. Blushing harder by the second. “And don’t worry honey… I knew what I was getting into.”

‘Honey’ made me clench, and I felt myself gush on her again. 

“Ma’am?” I asked, tongue still numbish, making me sound stupid. “May I get off the bitch seat and clean you up?”

“Oh, good girl!” she cooed, rubbing her thumb across my cheek, like I was a dog who’d just done a trick it had taken a while to learn.

I slid off the stool, down to my knees, bending forward into a prayer position in front of her. Cupping the back of her heel in one hand, lifting it to my mouth. Licking wherever I saw slickness. Feeling the faux-alligator texture they’d pressed into the leather. Smelling the heat of her, and the skin oil she’d used either last night or this morning before I awoke. Even the laundry soap from her slacks, or socks. Intoxicated, and fully aware of all of my senses in a way I’d never been before. I imagined, in a naive, sober way, this was what psychedelics felt like. Completely sunk in my body, quite at one with the activity I was engaged in. I’d moved past any sense of disgust or humiliation. It was just her and I, engaged, and for myself at least, engorged.

I suddenly felt her hands caressing my hair. Curls fluffing back off my face, her fingers tangling in blowsy platinum whirls. And I suddenly clocked back in, like coming up through water and hearing conversation from land. Her just murmuring “good girl” over and over. 

“Good girl,” she said, louder now. Tugging my hair just a little bit– close to the scalp, hardly painful– in order to lift me up from my prone position, lapping away at the top of her shoe. 

I sat up, not entirely upright, shaking hands resting on my knees as I knelt. She handed me her water glass. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said, immediately drinking thirstily right afterward. Cool water drained down my throat, helping to soothe the heat in me. 

“Go make me lunch, honey,” she said then. I jumped up from the floor. Scampering awkwardly, surprised to still find myself wearing heels. But of course I was.

I stood for a second in front of her counter. Resting my hands on the cool top, waiting until I stopped shaking. Getting myself back together. Then inspecting her kitchen.

She was well-stocked but I saw that she had a lot of pre-made things, or just grab-and-go kinds of food. My heart melted– she needed someone to take care of her, in a real way. I could do that. I wondered if, perhaps, she’d over-bought since she had been planning for me to cook for her. The refrigerator was full, what looked like new bottles of spices in her cabinets. 

Deciding to make a gouda, sun dried tomato and zucchini quiche for her. Glad to find baby spinach and arugula, making a lightly dressed salad to go with.

I liked cooking, but I especially liked cooking in her kitchen. Not just because it was hers and I was cooking for her, but because hers was a lot nicer than mine. It seemed a shame that her oven didn’t seem to be put to much use. She had such nice appliances and countertops. I could be happy making all her meals for her here.

Finding myself humming and relaxed for perhaps the first time since being asleep. I wished I had some of my supplies from my home though– the pastry cutter to make pie crust. My measuring cups. But hardly terrible. 

I went back to her office, after I’d pulled the quiche from the oven, knocking lightly on the doorframe.

“Ma’am?” I said.

She looked up and smiled at me.

“Smells good, honey,” she said. I flounced off back to the kitchen, pleased with myself. Slicing and plating up. She sat at the counter again, watching me serve up, grabbing her peppermill from beside the breadbox.

“There’s sparkling water or cranberry juice for you on the door of the refrigerator,” she said, catching my attention. “What is this, darling? Cheese tart… calls for a white… I’m not sure what would be best.”

Touched again– that she’d noticed, that she’d ever taken note of what I’d eaten, what my preferences were. Pouring a glass of juice for myself, realizing that, for me now, this wasn’t just a crush any more. I was falling for her, because beneath whatever the brisk boss was of her, she was paying attention to me, making me comfortable. 

“Quiche,” I said quietly. “Gouda, ma’am… so I think something acidic.”

She smiled at me again.

“Chablis, chilling on the top of the wine cooler,” she said.

I retrieved that for her, handing her the opener. I was about to sit on the floor again, when she stopped me.

“You can sit at the table,” she said. 

My legs went weak. I nodded, lip quivering and moved my plate so it was opposite hers, so I could sit facing her. 

We ate quietly together, quite comfortably. All things almost normal. The quiet wasn’t heavy. It was nearly exactly like eating lunch together at the office. Occasionally, a floating thought would invade. Mostly that I wasn’t wearing underwear, or feeling my hair drift across my cheeks, or worried that I’d smudged my carefully lined lips. But it wasn’t bad– just piquant. 

“We’ll relax after this,” she said. 

I nodded. “I’ll clean up and come to you wherever you are.”

She smiled again.

“After you clean up, retrieve your seat, and come join me in the living room,” she said, gesturing behind herself to the intimate but still coolly stylish knot of armchairs and loveseats.

“Yes ma’am.”

We finished. She got herself water, and went to an armchair. There was a small table beside it, a standing lamp, a rocking ottoman. Her book already sitting there.  

I did the dishes, making sure to put on my gloves. Cutting her up some fruit, drizzling it with honey. Grabbing a napkin for her. If I ran her kitchen, I’d get her some good linen ones, I thought, somewhat idly.

I set the fruit at her elbow, returning to the office to get the bitch seat. Setting it down by her knee. 

“Good girl,” she said absently, eating a slice of apple and then holding out her honey covered hand to me. Just like that work dinner. I licked her, nipping a bit to remove the honey. I was about to sit, when she waved over toward a black buffet table. “There’s some books for you over there.”

There was a stack of about four books. Two new– I saw paper receipts sticking out like bookmarks– and two older ones, covers worn. Clearly from her personal collection. The two new were authors I’d mentioned to her. Things I thought were just passing conversation with her, but she’d remembered. The other two were in a similar vein. I knew she liked nonfiction, generally. Especially biography. But these were more like what I enjoyed– novels– contemporary character studies. I picked one of hers. Flipping it open and seeing she’d notated it. Or anyway, had outlined passages. Even more glad to read one of the old rather than the new. Wanting very much to see what she’d noticed. 

Going back to the bitch seat, both of us reading quietly. Every once in a while she’d reach out. Wrapping an arm around my shoulder, presenting her hand to me again to clean up honey or fruit juice. I’d turn my head slightly to do so.

I’d never before experienced this extreme mix– of both overwhelming arousal and simultaneous total relaxation. It seemed too contradictory to be possible, but there it was. 

“This is nice,” she sighed. “Much nicer than how I usually spend my weekend.”

“Me too,” I agreed stupidly, looking up at her from the bitch seat. 

We read for a while longer. I suddenly realized that while my eyes were moving down the page, and I was flipping them over, I hadn’t actually digested anything I’d read for approximately ten minutes. I was back in my body. Once more feeling my labia slick and heavy in the stool. Heavily aware of her beside me. Hearing her take brief sips of her water, shifting and flipping pages herself. 

I slid quietly off the bitch seat, going to hands and knees. She didn’t pay me any mind, for which I was thankful. I pushed aside the ottoman she wasn’t currently using. Slinking like a pet underneath her heels, until I could be a footrest for her. I didn’t need her attention, exactly, but I did need contact from her. I needed to be used again.

She laughed a little, and I was gratified to hear that it was a bit breathless– closer to a giggle than her usual smokey laugh. I’d managed to surprise her, and not only that, but I got the distinct sensation that I’d turned her on, too.

I felt her kick off her shoes, falling to the floor beside me, then crossing her ankles on the center of my back. 

“Good girl,” she said. 

I settled, going dumb and numb again. Enjoying the weight of her feet and lower legs on my back. Thankful, in a humorous way, that I hadn’t got the urge to be her furniture where she didn’t have this plush carpeting.

I listened to pages flipping, feeling itchy petticoats shifting around my legs, as always, headily aware of her.

“All right,” she said suddenly, slamming her book shut so hard I was startled, almost hopping off my knees and palms. “You win.”

“Win, ma’am?” I squeaked. 

“Yes, you’ve caught my attention, and frustrated me,” she said. “You win.”

Her feet thumped to the floor on my other side, but I kept position. Hearing her stand up, but I still maintained my position.

“Well, get to work,” she said, impatiently. 

I turned my head to see her standing, and she gestured to her waist. Slowly, in order to not let myself lose control, I got up on my knees. Scooting forward, straightening my spine. Resting my palms on the tops of her feet, and leaning toward her. Realizing, again, how tall she was. Having to lift myself off my knees, almost into an ungraceful crouch. Finally getting my teeth over the flap of her waistband. Tugging open the dress hooks of her pants. She patted my cheek. 

“Very cute,” she said. I looked up at her, hooking my fingers into her belt loops and sliding her pants down. Not stopping me, I noticed, with a small sense of triumph. When I slid her pants down to the knees she stepped around me, sitting on the ottoman I’d set aside. Now I was much more able to comfortably reach her. I crawled between her open knees, and then looked up at her. Waiting to be chastised. Glad when she didn’t. 

I leaned even closer, nuzzling my nose into her lap. Taking a huge breath, all the tension that had been in my spine, between my shoulder blades melting away now that I was finally getting more of her. She tangled one hand in my hair, using her other to slide her underwear to one side. I was hoping she’d get entirely bare but this was good. 

I started licking her slowly, taking cues from her hand in my hair. Tipping the bottom half of my face closer into her. Holding me in place eventually. With both hands, I grabbed the legs of the ottoman, using it to rock her back and forth on my tongue. She liked that, grabbing my hair painfully, tugging it away from the side of my face. Not only had her breath sped up, but she was letting out these little whimpers, very definitely and enthusiastically riding my tongue. I was further turned on, I hadn’t imagined that was what she would sound like. A little hurt, sounding far more ‘babygirl’ than I would have imagined from her. More vocal, and more mobile than she had been when she was masturbating, certainly.

I shifted, thrusting my face into her and letting my tongue go inside her. She moaned like she was in pain, lifting her hips into me, getting further penetrated. Both hands viciously working in my hair, feeling a few strands break in her fingers. Not hurtful, the only thing I was feeling over that particular sensation was triumph. I’d made her come, and come hard.

She let me go, almost mewing. I rocked her back into me, hearing her crying tearlessly, but I wasn’t going to let her go until I’d finished cleaning her up. She reached under my chin with both hands and lifted me with a harsh jerk out of her lap. My neck cracked, forehead almost pointing toward the ceiling. I listened to her catching her breath.

I lay my hands over hers, pushing them down until her palms were on the side of my throat. She chuckled a little, catching the hint, and wrapping her hands around my neck. Giving me a brief squeeze. I swallowed against the pressure of her hands, liking the choke I was feeling.

“All right, all right,” she laughed, hoarsely. “I’ll give you more of this later, I saw you liked it.” 

She stood up, slithering back into her pants. Giving a little hop and wiggle to situate them back on her hips in a way that made me shiver. Now terribly aware of how horny I was. I’d been feeling nothing but interest in her desire. Now I was aching. She gave me a gesture, hand out, palm down to let me know to stay, so I did.

When she came back, she had the doggy-mattress from the cage between her hip and arm. Tossing it to the floor.

“Rest,” she said to me, falling back into her seat.

I crawled into the bed, curling up, head on my arms. I was surprised, but I dozed off.