Sunday:

I woke up first. The fire had gone out, of course. It was still dark in the room, though that meant nothing. She had heavy black-out curtains that puddled on the floor of her bedroom. She hadn’t opened them once. Or in any other room of her house, for that matter. 

I sat up. Getting the askew mules back firmly on my soles. Tugging the peignoir around me– a little too cold now that the fire was out. Patting my head to make sure I hadn’t lost any curlers– the netting had done its job. Taking stock of my surroundings and internal controls. Listening to her near-snoring. 

Leaning against the bars, head bent a little. Wondering what time it was, after all. Precisely what would happen today. I shifted again, hips and legs a little stiff now. Being able to stretch out, soon, would be nice. 

I heard the tempo of her breathing change and I moved around again, trying to get a look at her. She sat up, clutching her blanket around herself. She’d gone to bed nude, and was likely colder even than me. Catching sight of me, she laughed.

Realizing, of course, that I was sitting on the floor of the cage, both hands wrapped around the bars like a pathetic jailbird.

“Oh, honey, do you need out?” she asked, still laughing. 

“Only if you should desire to release me,” I said.

She laughed again, stepping out of bed, wrapping her queen sized blanket around her chest like an oversized towel.

“Yes, I want coffee in bed, slut,” she said, retrieving the key to the cage from her nightstand and coming over.

“Yes ma’am, breakfast?” I asked.

“Something warm, but light,” she said, making me immediately start pondering what that would be. “And turn up the heat. And don’t leave the bedroom in rollers. Do a liberal spray over with the hairspray in the bathroom– don’t leave a mess. You can stay in the nightgown, because I like to see you in black, but I don’t like messy bed-head.”

“Yes ma’am,” I said, crawling out of the cage and heading toward the bathroom on hands and knees. 

Once in the bathroom I stared at the “heavy hold” hairspray. I’d never been a hairspray girl. Wondering how to do it without getting it all over me. Deciding on a perfume-type of application. Carefully unrolling the sponges after that, putting them back into the little rubber sack from whence they came. 

I looked in the mirror. Not quite right– too tight, too neat. More “little orphan Annie” than Jean Harlow. Brushing it out with my fingers, trying to recreate that more soft and tousled look they’d managed at the salon.

Squinting and sighing I walked out of the bathroom. She was comfortably back in bed– lying on her side, I thought from the high curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, and the rise of her shoulder. The blanket tossed back over her head.

I lifted my heels a little higher after I left the bedroom so I wouldn’t clakclak over the concrete. First turning up the thermostat as directed, then going to the kitchen.

Getting the coffee going. Deciding on popovers, and there was still leftover stewed fruit, plus cream-butter. Tearing the cabinets apart, hoping for a tray for the bed. No luck on that, but at least a small, round lunch-tray style thing, if not one with legs to place over her lap.

“Ma’am?” I said, coming back into the room, tray propped on my hip. 

She was sitting up now, against the headboard. Comforter down around her waist, showing off her bare chest which made me flush and duck my head. Scrolling through her phone, not looking up at me.

I set the tray on her nightstand, split open a popover, filled it with fruit and cream, leaving it on the plate I’d brought in. She picked up the mug of coffee, sipping it absent-mindedly.

I sat on the floor by the side of the bed.

“Coffee for you?” she asked, after maybe two minutes.

“I forgot.” Feeling unbearably stupid.

“Coffee for you, too,” she said, waving toward the door, taking a hearty bite of popover.

I went out, got coffee for myself and returned. Slumping back to the floor, sipping my coffee too quickly and burning my tongue.

“Pink today, darling,” she said. 

“Yes ma’am,” I said, leaping from the floor.

“Finish your coffee,” she sighed. I sat back down on the floor, sipping obediently. “Much the same as yesterday,” she directed with a sigh once my mouth was full with another sip. “We’ll do some work in my office… I suppose I should say I’ll do some work in my office, you will sit quietly and not bother me.” I nodded, puppet-headed and enthusiastic. “A very light lunch and reading. I want a more formal dinner tonight. Which is to say, more than one course, a set table–”

“Do you have linen napkins?” I interrupted, and then clapped both hands over my mouth, eyes wide with fright. For having cut her off, and asked such a stupid, impertinent question.

She threw her head back and laughed, but I still wasn’t sure if I was in the clear.

“I do entertain, occasionally, dumb slut,” she said, sounding more affectionate than anything else. “What is it that you’d like for dinner?”

“It’s not about what I’d like,” I said, very quietly. 

She reached down the side of the bed, and snapped her fingers by my ear, loudly, almost painfully so. 

“It’s not about what I’d like!” I cried out. “It’s about the way in which you should be served, ma’am. I want to make you the very best. I want to set your table. I want to serve you the right wine. I want to have candles on the table and I–”

I almost said it. How I wanted to bow and scrape to her. Carry her food, cut it for her, make exactly the right thing and worship at her feet as she ate. 

She laughed again, patting my head with the hand she’d just snapped at me with. “I’ll see what I can do, darling,” she said. “I suppose I haven’t had much of a ‘woman’s touch’ around here.” 

I blushed and bit my tongue, hard. Thinking, but keeping myself from saying, I could give you a woman’s touch.

“Now go get dressed,” she said, back to impatience.

I got up, taking her cup from her.

“More, ma’am?” I asked her.

That made her smile again, which was good.

I refilled her coffee, ridding her of her empty plate. Then I got dressed. Sitting beside her vanity, but not at it, to do my makeup as prescribed. 

“You know,” she said thoughtfully into the quietude of her room. Making me stop, with lip liner brush perched over my lower lip. “A nasty thing about myself that I don’t like one bit is that I rather enjoy when you look up at me with those big eyes, downright… terrified about having misstepped. I don’t know how to feel about that.” She didn’t sound upset so much as introspective. 

I carefully set the brush down on top of the lid of the lipstick the girl at the salon had directed me to get. Not wanting to let it touch anything. Crawling back to her until I was by the side of her bed. Nuzzling my head up under her hand that was still draped toward the floor, fingers a few inches above the carpet. 

“But I like it too,” I said. “So perhaps we just don’t worry about it too much.”

She laughed again, caressed the top of my head and then tucked a curl back off my face. I crawled back to the vanity to finish my makeup. Gathering my clothes from the closet and going into the bathroom to get dressed. Much more handily doing up my garter belt today. Practice, after all.

I knelt on the floor at the end of the bed to watch her get dressed. Straight-legged khaki pants, button-up, blazer. Socks, dark flats. If I owned her, the way she owned me, I’d have her wear heels too, I thought. But then, I’d be distracted all day if she wore anything else but her usual practical shoes, I shrugged internally. 

“Go get your seat and join me,” she said, sweeping out of the room.

I got her water first, leaving it by her hand on her desk. Then going to get the bitch seat. Then sitting at her knee again. 

Elbows on my knees, chin on my palms, I sort of sat, mind wandering without landing on any thought for too long.

I realized I’d been musing over her “woman’s touch” comment. Not in any specific or real way, but in a daydreaming, what-if kind of way. What if this– this right now, bitch seat and prescribed costuming and sleeping in her cage every night was life? I hadn’t considered a little problem until just this moment.

When I returned to “real life” would I go back to my old, far more modest, clothes? Would I dye my hair back? Would I at the very least start wearing scarves again in public? And if I didn’t, how did I explain it to coworkers and acquaintances? I wouldn’t mind telling my friends the truth, but I could hardly tell people in the building that Ms. Byrd and I both worked in what had happened. On Tuesday, would I go into work with my bimbo blonde hair and tell them… Tell them what? Or change it back? Was this all over on Tuesday, anyway? Did we want it to be over?

I already knew I didn’t, and I knew I didn’t because here I was thinking about “a woman’s touch” in her home. I wanted, as dark and as awful as it sounded to say it– to be owned by her. Never change my nail color again, never grow them long again. Never wear underwear again. Make meals for two, everyday, instead of just myself. That my feet would never be flat on any floor, ever again. Get on my knees and clean her floors, clean her shoes, rub her feet… Whatever she needed. Whatever she wanted.

I realized, suddenly and uncomfortably, I was viciously horny. No other way to put it but that low-down, vulgar way. Not desiring or anything lighter than that. But messy and agape with it. Realizing I was rocking slightly in the bitch seat. Which was a bad idea. It just made me swell up, and wish that I were rubbing on something. Her shoe again. Although, now that I’d had her shoe I realized I was dreaming about sitting in her lap… 

“What are you doing, slut?” she asked suddenly. Gentle but definitely amused. Which meant I was likely in trouble. I turned my head a little and realized she had half-turned in her seat, elbow on the desktop, hand resting on top of her fist, watching me. 

“Ulp,” I said, stupidly and went frozen.

She laughed, turning more toward me.

“Oh, is sweetheart wet?” she teased, definitely getting mean now. “Are you hungry? Are you getting all worked up and squeezing your thighs? Nasty little girl.”

“Ma’am–” I said, but I wasn’t sure what to say. What thing would either get me what I want, or even, I was willing to accept, just no more attention. 

She cocked an eyebrow at me, waiting. I sighed heavily, and shrugged, palms toward the ceiling.

“Good lord, too horny to talk!” she said, still taunting. “She’s lost her words and her mind. Oooh, that’s rough, little darling, that’s rough indeed. Whatever could we do about it? How do I get my bright little girl back if she’s been so stupified by her gaping, throbbing pussy?” 

I gulped, staring at her big-eyed. Because of all of it– I loved her penduluming gentleness and her contempt. Also shocked by her crass language. It always set me back– especially coming from her elegant mouth. 

She snapped her fingers at me, clearly looking for an answer to what I thought had been a rhetorical question.

“I… I don’t know, ma’am,” I finally stuttered out. 

She rolled her eyes.

“Do you want to come? Will that get you back to rights?” she asked.

I shifted uncomfortably. The stool rolled back slightly with me. Starting to tear up a little bit when I realized I was sliding because I’d soaked the floor underneath myself. God, this was adolescence on overdrive. It was as though I’d been masturbating in one spot for hours, and never allowed to come, just endlessly dripping.

“What’s wrong, darling?” And I could tell she was asking it honestly, not to be mean. She must have seen me gone pale, or maybe my eyes had visibly silvered and she was offering me an out, a stop to the play.

I didn’t want to stop.

“Ma’am… I’ve made a mess,” I said, tears spilling over then because of the sheer degradation of saying it. Nodding my chin down to the floor.

She laughed again, the way you would over a little pet who’s done something silly, or dumb and hurt themselves. 

“Oh, poor baby,” she said, still laughing. “If I give you a little tool to get off, can you do it?”

“Um,” I said again, mind racing. What did she mean, ‘a tool’? A vibrator? The top of her shoe again? My hands were free, did she mean to give me leave to masturbate?

Rummaging through her desk, she pulled out one of her pens. I recognized it. She liked one particular brand, blue, extra fine. I’d gone out for her on a number of occasions to buy new ones, or replacement ink barrels. 

She turned back to her screen, but reached out with the pen, the end of it just held between her fingers, starting to mouse back through whatever she’d been doing before I interrupted her.

“Well, go ahead and stand up, you little idiot,” she said to me. I did, pushing the bitch seat gently away so I wouldn’t trip. “Now go ahead, come forward and mount up on the pen. You can lift your skirts a little.”

I realized then, the way she was holding out the pen was about at crotch height. She intended for me to ride the pen, like a penitent on a rail!

I lifted my skirt a little, miserable again, feeling the itchiness of the petticoats on my palms. She helped slide the pen between my legs, and then between my wet and very swollen labia. As soon as it slid against my clit, I started rocking on it. She remained unmoving. At least, her left hand, holding the pen did. Her right she kept using to work on her computer. Utterly ignoring me. 

I moved back and forth, pen barrel sliding from one side to the other of me. Like the world’s smallest, and unfortunately most useless, sex toy. It teased, it touched, it drove me wild, but was hardly effective. Watching the tide-like wash of my skirts covering and then revealing her pale hand was no better. 

“Ma’am!” I said.

She sighed heavily, still not looking at me. “Go ahead, you can finish. Hopefully you’ll be a little more useful to me afterward.” 

Useful how? I wondered. I knew she’d called me dumb with arousal. But did she need me to make her something? Did she need more coffee or water or– did she herself need to come?

“Ma’am,” I gasped again. “I could give you my mouth or–”

She cut me off with a laugh, looking at me for an instant, watching me ride her pen for just a second.

“No, but thank you, dumb little whore,” she said, still chuckling. “I’m not uselessly horny like you. I don’t need it everyday.”

She angled the pen further up as she said it, changing my own trajectory so I was sliding down into her knuckles when I came forward. It was, unfortunately, what I needed. Still not good, but at least enough contact now. Previously, it had been too soft, just skimming over my flesh. I couldn’t stand only seeing her in profile any longer though.

“Please, ma’am, will you at least look at me?” I asked.

She turned in her seat to look at me fully. Sort of gently interested, or calmly engaged. Hardly mean, or sexually involved. Just the way you would look at someone mildly talented putting on a performance.

After less than a minute, I came miserably, legs shaking. 

“You can sit back down,” she said, withdrawing her pen.

I flopped ungracefully into the bitch seat, shivering. She thrust the pen toward my face and, exhausted, I cleaned it with my mouth. Sucking this time instead of merely licking– expedient and easier. Once she decided it was clean enough, she tossed it onto the desk, turning back to what she was doing. 

Hesitantly, I reached out, resting just the tips of my fingers on the outside of her thigh. She looked down at me, and then patted her lap, like you would to a cat or small dog. 

I rolled the bitch seat closer to her, until I could fold my arms on her lap, and drop my head on top of that. I nuzzled into her lap, sighing happily. I could have started crying again when she absent-mindedly started petting my head, brushing loose curls over the curve of my skull over and over. Just happily laying and kind of dozing off. 

She got my attention by pulling my hair. I loved how she’d do it– running her palm up my skull, burying her fingers in my hair and pulling close to my scalp. It was warm, making me tingle and respond. It wasn’t a sharp pain, more of a deep-tissue “pay attention”, sparkling sensation.

Reaching down, she handed me her glass of water. I took a greedy sip and handed it back. She finished it, throat bobbing while I continued to lounge in her lap. 

“I won’t have anyone saying I allowed my woman to get dehydrated,” she said, sort of laughing, tucking a lock behind my ear.

Oh yes, I thought. Own me like that.

Just as before the day went like that. A light lunch. Reading. I lay at her feet on the dog bed, on my back, a novel over my face. Sometimes rolling my head so that it would touch the side of her foot. Just an affectionate little thing. 

Her door buzzer went off when I was standing up to make her tea, and I dove behind the counter. She laughed again, standing up gracefully to go to her door. 

“Stay,” she commanded lightly, leaving the apartment. 

I stood back up slowly in the kitchen, shaking. It was odd for us to have our play, our little bubble of unreality so rudely popped by something as prosaic as the front-door alarm. The door had locked behind her as she left and I imagined it more like a prison door slamming than an ordinary front door. Obviously, I wasn’t locked in, but it was what I immediately imagined… and frankly, desired. I loved the idea of being her strange little wife-prisoner.

I heard the jingle of her keys outside the door in less than two minutes. I paused in brewing tea, still standing in her kitchen. When she swung the door open, I saw her bobbling bags. I rushed around the corner of the counter, arms out to help.

“Eh!” she said sharply, stopping me. “The threshold, darling, no further.”

I stopped a good foot from the front door, still swaying forward to help. She finished getting through the doorway, shutting the door and slapping over the lock. Then came forward to hand me a paper bag. 

It made me wonder if she liked the idea of imprisonment too… Maybe the next holiday we could…

I got distracted, hauling the bags into the kitchen and setting them on the countertop to await instructions. She started laying things out. Groceries, for the most part. One of those little cardboard crates of dividers with wine. Which surprised me a little. I wasn’t a drinker, and she was, but her little knee-height cooler seemed full to me. Tons of fresh vegetables, the makings for a charcuterie board, neufchâtel cheese. 

From one bag she pulled out a ribbon wrapped package, in the same eggplant color of much of her decor and waved it at me triumphantly.

“Napkins, my dear?” she said.

“Oh… Thank you, ma’am,” I said numbly, taking them from her, sort of clutching them to my chest. I didn’t know how to react. Chuckling a little, she kept setting things out, along with some lovely taper candles.

“For dinner tonight,” she said, indicating both the napkins and candles.

“Thank you,” I said again.

“I want a cheesecake, I’m sure you can oblige?” she said.

“Yes ma’am.”

“My favorite meal is risotto,” she said. “I got you the makings for that.”

“Yes ma’am!” I said, more enthusiastic and clicking into the conversation. Glad for that useful piece of information.

I started to work nearly immediately, as she sat back down to read. Deciding to do a cheesecake, classic, with a cookie crumb crust but topping it with lemon curd. Something tart but still rich to cut after the risotto. She had lovely wild mushrooms in the refrigerator that I could add to that. Deciding to start the meal with mint and pea soup and a tomato tart.

Realizing, after about an hour of cooking happily and peacefully in her kitchen I was humming again.

While I was waiting for something I went out to the space that would be her dining room. Her black table and chairs, clearly little-used. It would seem she most often ate in her kitchen, at the countertop. 

I cleared off the few things on her dining room table– a fashion magazine, a receipt, a lighter. Wiping that down, still humming. Setting the table precisely the way I wanted it. Crouching down at her wine cooler, looking things over.

“Ma’am?” I called from the floor. “You should have something tannic, a full-bodied red tonight, what do you want?”

“Nebbiolo, sweetheart,” she called back. I found it eventually, bringing it to the table. Pouring myself water and unsweetened cranberry juice.

“Ready?” she said to me as I lit candles. 

“Yes’m,” I said.

She sat at her seat. Smiling at me across the table, lovely and black and white by candlelight. Easily the most intimate and romantic dinner I’d ever had. I’d set out everything, and she looked around the table.

“You do this beautifully,” she said. “Go ahead, sit in your seat.”

I took my seat opposite her, shaking out the newly-purchased napkins.

“Darling,” she said, trying to catch my attention again as I started serving her the starters. I looked up. She reached across the table and took my hand. “You really do this beautifully. I appreciate you.”

I sniffled, feeling my hand go stiff and cold in hers. I didn’t know how to receive the compliment. Not from anyone, especially not from her. How did I say it to her? There was no need to appreciate it, or to tell me so. I was her handmaiden, her temple priestess and whatever I did was just natural worship.

She rubbed her thumb across my knuckles.

“Darling?” she said again, waiting for me to look up. I finally met her eyes, tossing my head a little to try to get rid of incipient tears. “You can say ‘you’re welcome.’”

“You’re welcome, ma’am,” I said, finally.

And then we were back to ease. Moreso, even, back to conversation. Books, work, wine, food. She praised everything I made, I still didn’t accept it well, but at least it didn’t make me cry. Talking about the shop she’d purchased the linen from, saying perhaps she’d have me look over tablecloths and the like, if I thought it was necessary. Which made my heart leap irrepressibly but I hoped I behaved normally. 

After dinner, I cleaned. Making her a hot toddy after that. We played a few hands of cards in front of the fireplace in her room, both of us lounging on the floor. 

She sat at her vanity eventually, taking off her makeup, setting her hair for the evening. I sat on the floor, watching her.

“Come here,” she said, patting her lap.

I crawled over to her, sitting near her knee as usual. She patted her lap impatiently again. 

“Up,” she directed, as to a small dog.

I stood up, and then hesitantly perched on her nearest knee, ready to leap back upright again. Her hands on my waist, she pulled me back deeper into her, until my back was to her torso. Feeling her breath, her breasts rising against my shoulder blades. She leaned forward, until she could press the side of her face to mine.

“I like how your new hair color looks against mine,” she said.

I wriggled happily, wordlessly agreeing. I liked it too. Far more striking than my natural dishwater color hair would be against her silken black.

Her hands slid from my waist across my thighs, suddenly grabbing my knees through my skirt, roughly pushing my legs open. I struggled to keep them closed, and she pushed to bruising. Until my legs were open, the insides of my knees kept wide apart by the outside of hers. Seeing the froth of my pink petticoats in the mirror in front of us, and my rapidly reddening face. 

Flipping my skirt upward with some frustration she exposed me in the mirror. Petticoats fluffing around both of us. I worked again to close my legs and she sharply pinched the inside of my thigh, forcing a squeal from me.

“Be still,” she hissed.

I couldn’t help but cry out again when she started touching me between my legs. Long, soft strokes. Nothing purposeful, or enough. When I wiggled too much, and she felt my legs straining against hers she suddenly slapped me hard, right between the legs. An echoing pop sound in the bedroom as her hand landed directly on my exposed clit.

I settled down though, unsure if I could handle another direct spank like that. She went back to gentle touching. Eventually, I lost myself in it. But I had to close my eyes, unable to watch in the mirror. Her eyes intense but calm, interested in a near-clinical fashion. Couldn’t stand to see my stupid, wet, agape mouth, or my steadily dripping genitals, or the girlish pink of my costume in the mirror.

I let my head drop onto her shoulder, just taking the touch. Breath shortening, hips eventually working in tandem with her hand. I was speeding up, rolling down to a conclusive orgasm when she lifted her hand away. It caused an actual wrench in my lower stomach. Like a car too-quickly braked, or a punch to my diaphragm. I grunted, feeling like a huge coiling ring of desire was floating away from me, taking away my relaxation and arousal and leaving only a stomach ache sense of pain, an emptiness I could feel in my gut.

I’d never had an orgasm halted like that before. 

I groaned, almost an “ooouu” of pain that embarrassed me. 

She chuckled, sounding only like cruelty. Reaching upward to grab my chin and give my face a sharp shake. Forcing my eyes to fly open and see the both of us in the mirror again. I was glad, at least, that she was flushed too. 

Then she started touching me again. It took longer to get me to the edge, because I was embarrassed, sore and sure of being denied.

But once again my head rolled back and I couldn’t help but give in to her. Because it felt good and because she was so sure in her movements and I was surrounded by her warmth and body.

But again, she lifted her hand away, perhaps hearing some specific pitch in my moaning, or some shift in my hips that alerted her to the sureness of my orgasm.

Again, I groaned, she laughed.

When she brought me to the top and dropped me for the third time, I started crying a little. More of an animal squeaking, tearless and definitely pathetic. She forced my legs open even wider. After letting me quake and whimper for a few minutes she reached forward, around my waist. Taking up her dark paddle brush. I started crying for real then, unsure of whether she was going to use the brush on either herself or me. But I wouldn’t be able to handle either. If she ignored me, spread open and brilliantly lit in the mirror, detangling her hair, I’d die. If she used tenderness to brush out my curls, that would equally end me. 

Instead, she shocked and disrupted me by hitting me with the brush. Directly between the legs again, plastic backside of the brush slapping accurately, and wetly on my clit. Giving me a flurry of spanks, half a dozen at least, before I could even react. I hadn’t even been making much noise, only a sharp, exhaled “hah, hah, hah” with each blow. Too stunned to cry out or protest. 

Rolling my clit between thumb and forefinger like a jewel being valued she sighed.

“Are you numb, yet?” she asked.

“No,” I cried, writhing under the milking movement of her fingers.

She started slapping me again, and now I was making noise. Enough to bother her, apparently, because she thrust the fingers of her free hand into my open, shrieking mouth. All five fingers, up to her knuckles, stifled me, making me gag and cry in a muffled fashion around her. 

When she touched my clit again, feeling triple what it ought, I stayed quiet and still. Moaning just a little when she started touching me gently again. It was impossible to place exactly what the sensation was– I was at once insensitive because of the intense, prolonged and specific beating on the one part of my anatomy that assuredly caused orgasm. But was also incredibly sensually aware of it because of the beating which had caused blood to flow into the punished flesh. 

I realized, suddenly, I was sobbing her name– her first name. I’d never said it aloud. Not at work, not outside of work. Of course, it was on her office door, it was on her business cards. But I’d never called her by her name. I thought of her by her name, but even daydreaming, by myself, in my own house, I hadn’t said it aloud.

“You’re doing so good,” she murmured right in my ear. Accurately guessing I wouldn’t be able to handle continued contact, she moved her hand away from me as she spoke. “You’re taking this so well. Do you want to come, darling?”

It took me at least forty seconds to answer. “Yes, ma’am, I would.”

“Well, too bad for you,” she said, hands on my knees, gently closing my legs. “You’ve already had your one today.”

“Ma’am?” I squeaked.

“Earlier,” she said, patiently. “Remember? My office, you ruined a pen?”

“Yes but–” I said, terribly uncomfortable. Filthy, still with that aching emptiness inside from being denied. I didn’t know it would hurt like this to be left unfinished.

“But what?” she asked, setting my skirts back around my knees in a gentlemanly display of maintaining my modesty.

“Well… I didn’t know that I had a choice… Or that is to say, that I was being limited at all and I–”

“But you did. And you are,” she said, shrugging prettily in the mirror.

If I had known that I wouldn’t have finished in her office. Coming on the barrel of a pen was hardly satisfying, after all. I would far have rather finished on her hands. Especially after this far longer tease. 

“Thank you,” I said.

A sense of bitter triumph followed hearing her groan a little. She was clearly surprised that I’d submitted, acquiesced and hadn’t whined about the unfair situation. 

“We’ll shower and go to bed,” she said, moving to stand up so I leapt off her lap.

I followed her in a puppyish, stupid manner to her bathroom. Taking off makeup together. She handed me a shower cap. 

“Get undressed,” she said, as she was doing so herself. I kept my eyes on the floor and did so. I took off my shoes last. It was easier to remember to stay on my toes, of course, if I was forced to by pumps.

“Spread your legs,” she directed to me. “I don’t want you getting yourself off by squeezing your thighs.”

I spread my legs wide, already feeling the strain to stay on my toes and keep my legs wide simultaneously.

She turned on the water, whistling a little, hand under the spray to judge temperature. I watched her about to step in, legs long and strong, nothing like my girlishly curvy ones. Something athletic and useful about her body I couldn’t possibly compare to.

“Mm!” she hummed suddenly, finger toward the ceiling again. “Stay.”

I did as directed, standing, legs shaking on the tile floor, waiting for her. She returned in less than a minute, brandishing something black and folded at me.

“No touching yourself,” she said, snapping her fingers at me, pointing at my hands. Confused, I reached out. She strapped what felt like padded neoprene cuffs to my wrists. “Fist your hands,” she added. I did so. Then she used a D-ring to secure my hands behind my back, pushing me toward the shower. 

I stepped in, and then shied away from the water. Once again getting a sensory overload the likes of which I hadn’t previously experienced.

“You’re all right,” she said, facing me to soap me up. I simply accepted it, too dumb to fight or react. Feeling grateful the way a rescued wild animal would feel, I thought. She just barely touched me between the legs, keeping it very brief and clinical. The same to my backside and breasts. Feeling ugly and stupid and silly, nude, on my tiptoes in a shower cap.

“Sit,” she directed. Helping me down to the floor of the shower while she bathed herself. I watched, still stupid, just feeling the slight strain and pull of having my hands behind my back. 

She turned off the water, back to whistling. She did these pretty, lilting glissandos. Never songs or melodies, really. More like an endless string of bird calls, one picking up where another left off. It was something boyish and thoughtless she did, that I both enjoyed and envied– I couldn’t whistle, really, at all. Or at least, not the strong, sustained notes she could. And I’d never been able to watch it up close.

Helping me up and out, wrapping a towel around herself before drying me off briskly, with no sexual connotation. She held out a “stay” hand at me, returning with my pajamas for the evening. A nearly voluminous layered white nightgown. Flutter sleeves but high necked, and to the ankle. My mules in her other hand. She dropped both on the damp floor before undoing my cuffs and exiting the bathroom.

I fluffed out my hair and got dressed in my pajamas. The inner skirt, something thinner than the outer layer, instantly clung to my legs, nearly a tripping hazard. 

She was laying on her bed, arm draped over her eyes. Long and pale and pretty on her dark bedspread. 

“Go sit,” she directed, with a dismissive, waved hand. The bitch seat had been placed at the end of the bed. I sat. She slid down the mattress until her feet hung off the end, in my reach.

“Do it again,” she said, wiggling her lovely toes at me. “I liked it.”

So I did, also trying to be entirely nonsexual about it. Which was surprisingly easy. Better to focus on relaxation– for both of us. And it was easy enough. The nonsexual contact felt good, warming and intimate and quiet. When I finished I bent forward, kissing the balls of each of her feet. 

She got up, I went to the floor, to hands and knees. Crawling toward the cage. She followed after me after picking up the boxing-type mitts from her night stand. I held my hands out, kneeling by the entrance of the cage. 

“No touching, right?” she asked.

“No ma’am, of course not,” I said.

“Oh, of course not,” she mocked, locking on the mitts. I crawled into the cage, she locked it up, leaving the room. Returning with my refilled water bottle, her glass of wine.

I lay down, closing my eyes, relaxing back in what was really my space. Able to fully relax, and turn everything off in the small privacy of the cage. It was precisely the right kind of lighting for me to relax in as well. I didn’t love her very dark room. I never slept in total darkness myself. I was often startled by it. Her little reading lamp mounted in her headboard was like a small fiery glow above her head. Enough light to dispel darkness but not so much as to keep me awake. 

I had found it hard to physically settle, however. Finally tucking my pillow between my knees, and laying on my arms, facing the end of her bed again.

“What are you doing?” she asked, voice ringing out in the quietude of her room.

“Ma’am?” I asked, feeling half-asleep. 

She stood up, still naked, blanket puddling to the floor. She picked up her wine glass and stood over the cage. I looked up at her through the bars. 

“Are you hump-hump-humping your pillow?” she asked, back to taunting. 

“No…” I said slowly, feeling dumber and more disgusting by the second. I really hadn’t been… I didn’t think. Though I could feel the corner of the cotton pillow case between my legs. If I did start rolling my hips it likely would feel very good indeed. I kicked it down to my ankles. She sighed heavily.

She was so immensely gorgeous, especially compared to me. There wasn’t a thing I didn’t like to look at. Light skinned, dark haired, her lips, the thin skin around her eyes and her nipples all plummy-pretty dark. I couldn’t get used to it, like she was some impossible creature who happened to be near me.

She crouched, opening up the cage again. Drawing my feet through the bars. She had to take off the mules briefly, I had to twist somewhat awkwardly, though my ankles were comfortably thin enough. She used the same cuffs to cuff my ankles to the cage, legs kept wide. 

“It’s especially important tonight to wake me up if you get uncomfortable or need to move or get up,” she said. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes’m,” I said, shifting slightly to relieve some pressure in my hips. I was comfortable enough, but now far more horny than I had been.

“I like restraining you,” she said. “Do you like that? You marked yourself as ‘unsure’ and I’m curious how you’re feeling now.”

I had marked myself as “unsure” concerning restraints and ‘rope play.’ The idea was certainly intriguing, but I’d never experienced or experimented, so I wasn’t sure how I would respond. 

“Good, ma’am,” I said.

“Physically?”

I almost said ‘spiritually’, and laughed nervously which made her cock her head at me.

“I’m enjoying it a good deal,” I said. “Though, frankly, this just feels like a further tease, if I’m allowed to be honest.”

“You’re always ‘allowed’ to be honest,” she said. “In fact, I demand it from you. I suppose if you feel it is a tease, then it is. Though my only intention is to stop you from either purposefully or accidentally finishing yourself.” 

“I wouldn’t!” I insisted again, realizing even as I said it how useless my protestations were.

“So you’ll wake me up if you feel any pain, or numbness, or tingling. Or even if you just need to shift, or your feet get cold,” she scolded instead of responding to me.

“Yes, ma’am,” I agreed.

She climbed back into bed, reopening her book as I fell asleep, mitted and cuffed.