Bolo

And she does the following because she knows once she leaves you'll crawl a thousand miles after her direction with your back bent its lowest towards the ground since the day you met her: first, she'll tease you with her affection,(a hug and a cuddle thrown together is called a huggle); then, her fingers thread through her own silk, brazen locks of hair so nicely... this is the moment you notice her skin, the parts of her dress that are uncovered, and it'll feel like hours before you realize that you've lowered your eyes and are staring at the floor with her heel on your back. At last, when you regain consciousness, the next thing you'll remember: is her throat, licking your bone.

"Ma'am... please come back." You try to shout down the corridor after her, but her back is turned so when she replies, "What for?" you also beg her to face you... She was your beautiful muse, and you found the most divine inspiration in the curvature of her face, the peak of her nose, the ridge line over a pair of diamonds. When her back is turned, you're lost. So you mumble at last, "I'll... kiss your boots?"

"What good does that do me?" She begs for an answer. Of course she knows that your fealty is already won, and any additional showing of such is greatly appreciated, and that the will to submit being unbroken means she can always fling dirt from under her foot to any great distance for you to catch, but she wouldn't let you anywhere near the privilege of being her underling while her step is already headed out the door. This is it for now.

Your apartment starts to stink of your own fear. You back away silently, and let her depart alone. You think about the sound of her jingling purse trailing off as it happens. Her crushing steps down the staircase, confidently bouncing in volume and then ending before the SLAM of an angry door on the way out. She didn't want to have to break up with you, after all.

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Please know, I didn't want to have to write down any of this.

So, she came back into your life three months later. Figures. You could never stay out of her life, nor her yours. She calls you, and goes, ecstatically, "Guess what I just found?"

A million things race through your brain. The book you lost at her place? No, she returned that. A poem she wrote about you? A... "What did you find?"

"I just found your balls in my purse, hahah." Her voice crackled. "Do you want them back?"

"No... you can keep them." You said as your nipples began to pierce. For some reason, it felt good to feel the ghost of her hand petting the top of your neck. She didn't have to kiss your forehead to show adoration when her eyes, and that flat smile, would just point at what she wanted and it was hers. When her voice rang through the line again, your face was staring at your own lap.

"Are you alone?" She asked.

"Yes."

"Do you miss me?" She asked.

"I want to nudge you with my head again." Oh, your little pet games were so fun.

"You want to be my pet?"

"Pah..." A line in your heart cuts. If you weren't frozen with anticipation for every word of hers coming over to breed your dopamine, you'd be like slime on the floor.

"Say please..."

"Please..."

"Like you mean it..."

"Please!"

"Hmmmmmmmmm, talk again soon!"

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At this point, you were considering getting a lobotomy. You couldn't touch yourself without thinking about her. The image of your balls rolling around in her purse petrified you, but the imagined sound of her giggling and picturing her holding scissors, straddled over you - that had you wet, and wet is what you wanted to feel. It reminded you of her. And then it reminded you of yourself, and it always did, but something just wouldn't be cleared up about that until you conquered some kind of fortress in your mind...

"What do you want?" She finally picked up your calls after months of your staggered attempts to reach her cell.

"I... just wanted to see how you were doing..."

"I'm at my boyfriend's right now."

Then, all of the sudden: new snapchat notification, a buzz, it's her. She's in red lingerie. Her foot is up in the air behind her. You just want to beg at her, scream at her, "What are you doing?!" Before you can start to wither, and bask in it, the photo disappears and her voice from the phone goes,

"... hello?"

"Huh-um-"

"What do you want?" Her voice is solid, thoughtful. But serious.

"I..."

"I'm about to hang up." A pause. "What do you want?"

"...I want you to be my queen!"

"Goodbye." Cut line.

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One week later she started sending you pictures of keys, and you didn't respond. And two weeks later she sent you pictures of keys on chains, and you responded once, asking "What?" And then three weeks later she sent you pictures of keys, on necklaces, around her neck and fallen between her breasts.

Eventually, you broke down. After two pictures, you asked her, "Why are you doing this to me?" She chuckled, "I can't tell you that. But I'll tell you I'm naming the key Turbo. Because I'm going to do this really fast to you."

You sent a photo of your shoulders shrugged in and your head bowed. It became a law in your two person kingdom that you were no longer allowed to post photos with your face showing, and so all of that changed on your social media. Your selfies all had to be deleted. She had no way of getting your password really, but the look in her eyes-... when she said, "... Or I'll do it for you," You just had to obey. It's okay. You know, I feel sorry for you too. That's why I'm writing this down.

Her old boots also arrived in your mail soon after that. Your job was to take a picture of it with your dick laid across its toes in exchange for what you now wanted: a picture of her boyfriend's cock laid across her cheek. And your favorite caption: "Do you miss my dimples?"

She calls you up on Tuesday nights to say, "Hey, I'm just checking in!"

"Oh, hey..." You say.

"How small are you right now?"

An invisible shame crawls over your shoulders, before you reply as prompted, "I'm very small."

"I can tell. Go to sleep."

"Do you mean- literally? Or,... figuratively?" You ask coyly.

"What are you talking about, you fucking idiot? I'm telling you to go to sleep."

Funnily enough, you woke up to her call two hours later on your phone on sound.

"Hey, I have a friend who wants a copy of this key. Do you want her to bug you too?"

"Wh-what does that mean?" You answer groggily.

"Sigh, basically, numbnuts, I'm going to give my girlfriend the same key I have around my neck and she's going to bother you maybe, like, the same amount that I do. Does that sound good? Great."

"..." You manage a choking sound and then the line cuts.

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It starts out as hell. Sweet, blissful, blessed hell when from both sides it starts coming, and it feels like heaven when you finally send them that picture of you... on your knees! So broken down. So, broken down you start a tower in your pants, a size that they've never seen on a girl as cute as you. And that's when you notice they've slipped a rope around your neck. Not obliquely uncomfortable, but not really comfortable either. There's some slack given, but you haven't been allowed to check if it connects to a beam running across the ceiling either. "Isn't that nice?" One of them asks you. It's the friend. (A friend of a queen is a... uhmm... Duchess, in this regard?)

You finally learn how to use your meek voice when you ask, "Ma'am, what would you like me to address you by?"

"Oh, haha! How about..." But she never told you. It became rule de societe to never address her. Shame was one way to let your presence be known at her feet. Or admiration. Or respect. She listened to any stupid song you could think up and bleat, because they all made her laugh and pity you. Especially the chicken dance.

"Is this getting too medieval?" Your Queen finally asked you one day. And that's when, after you couldn't respond out of shame probably, they flew you out for 'petcare'. Using your card, of course.

-----------------------

You're back. They've started dating. And it makes you destroy a whole- really whatever you can find nearest to you, when they bring it up. They clink the keys together in front of you. They snap their heels together in front of your face. Worst of all, is when they both take one of your tits in hand from either side and whisper in your ear about how they're playing you like a videogame.

"How dumb are you?" One asks.

Your standard response is to raise your hands like paws and go cross eyed.

'Asking for it' is when you go on with one of your rants, which neither of them truly mind listening to. But the amount of times you get whipped is equal to your stories' lengths. And you thank them each strike. Or yelp. Either's fair.

'The Girlfriend' has finally told you she may be addressed as Princess. Her new favorite hobby is showing you how submissive she can act in front of The Queen. All they have to do to remind you of your place, or where your hands belong, or return you to the pet's perch, is dangle their key from their fingertips.

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When they got back from vacation at the beach, the Princess let you rest your balls on her foot but were forbidden to hump her leg. Then the Queen slapped you for not cleaning the house how she specified. You took their bags upstairs, and after that returned downstairs naked with a swiffer. It got a few good laughs. They let you kiss the keys.

"Hey, do you want your balls back?"

Now's your chance! "N-n-n-o-o-o, n-n-o, no!" And you started bawling.

------------------------

All that laughing and giggling really got to your head one week and you spun out stupid enough to ask, "Are you kidding me?" while glancing upon their first shopping wish list.

So their next step was to offer you a multiple choice problem! They broke it down real good easy and simple for you by sitting you at their wooden desk with the seat raised up real close to the lap's roof. And they leaned over steadily, on either side of you craning towards your face, saying,

The Queen: "You can start wearing a leash and forget how to walk like a human. Forever. We'll also teach you a new language that only the three of us speak, and then... pretend like we don't understand you..."

The Princess, with a brutal smile: "Or you can give us all your money right now and go die in a hole!"

"I'll... I want the leash." You bowed your head and waited there for it to wrap around your neck. They got you yapping in three weeks. And then your cries lost their human touch in four. In the fifth, there were still tears, and over the sixth just whimpers. On the seventh is when you sat, oh, so beautifully, with your back arched at just the right angle, and they let you kiss both their keys in a somewhat ceremonious fashion.

But that turned out to be only temporary. It stopped amusing them after a while and actually started being an inconvenience. You still beg to dog for them, which they won't allow anymore.

----------------------

You asked your queen at one point, "But will I ever feel satisfaction again?"

"You have to avoid having any concern about that in your life right now..." She said while filing her taxes.

"..."

But she did promote you to ass-cleaner, the spot where you get to look at her pussy while you do your job, but never get to interact with it. She instructed you further how you need to respect it as an entity staring you dead in the face with no forecast for mercy. Or end in sight. The sweetness lies within there. She said afterwards, the first day on the job officially, "But, you can call me your girlfriend now."

"I... don't have any friends I'd even be able to tell that to..."

While cupping the tip of your penis in her palm, she goes, "Would you like to do something about that?"

-------------------

Her new favorite positions for you are at the edge of her pool chair, with the toes of her foot nestled atop your collar, and pressing your neck forward, or your head sitting on her crossed knees and looking in at her lap. The key is going to be out of sight more, she promised. She said she might even take the collar off soon, because it's starting to bore her.

"Do you want your balls back? I mean, you haven't had sex in, forever..."

"I..." For you it cures some sexual body dysphoria.

She starts telling you about her search for a new boyfriend, and then pats you on the head, going, "That doesn't mean I'm replacing you, that doesn't mean I'm replacing you." Her very obvious affront to your self-perception as a girl is followed up with an apology about how, "I've been feeling nasty lately 'cuz we lost Flora. I'm sorry."

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To the rhythm of her bouncing on her new boyfriend's cock, with her eyes closed, she goes, "You--Can't---Satisfy me!"

You echo her screams when she comes. There are drinks in the fridge you need to go get.

"NOW!" She commands.

But you're still on ass-cleaning duties. "Isn't it nice?" She asked. Her words were like honey. You'd answer and describe it as sweet torture. "I like knowing where you are at all times." And you basically always know where she is. "So, do you want to kiss every inch of the rest of my body?"

You stutter trying to make an answer.

"You have to say my name after every kiss you make." She stipulates.

"Yes, please." You finally manage out.

Piously you begin. Halfway through she starts pausing you after a select few kisses. Her belly button. Her left ribs. Both her nipples. Her collarbones. She asks you things like, "Who owns your balls?" And you now respond to that with her name, before being allowed to kiss her body again. "Who's word do you hang on?" And you respond the same way. She told you during breakfast one morning that you were going to forget your name soon and simply become a thrall under hers. "Who's finger are you wrapped around?"

When she felt that your job for the night was done, she went, "I'm going to take so much pleasure on the day that someone asks your name and you accidentally stutter out mine."

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"You're going to make me edge again?" You had just taken a shower.

"Awh." She moaned down on you with a hot breath of air . That was your favorite part. And then her sprinkling some of her Cîroc on your forehead. "Look, I'll clean you up after you tuck it back away. Now go. Go to the edge."

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For some reason you thought she was going to take pity on you when you said, "So, I've been, y'know, taking showers daily but... I can't stop smelling cum..." Even after cleaning up the apartment for your queen to trash for fun.

"Ah-hah! That's hilarious. Is it up your nose? Oh my gosh, that's perfect. You have cum in your nose hairs." And she didn't stop there. She demanded you deliver another load on your face that instant. This was your moment off the key, she told you. For once in a blue moon. So you might as well make it worth it for the both of you.

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She started training another pet. How does that make you feel?

You have to beg to join in on the torture now. Most of the time you end up just tied across an X. It's sad.

That afternoon you made dinner for everybody. You were the only one naked. Because nobody told you to put on your clothes.

The new girlfriend got a copy key. She likes to wear black. Her hair is purple. And her tattoos are all shades of red. You took very fondly to her petting and slapping, the latter of which she did the most of.

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Your queen is finally letting you be her dog again! And she gave you a new bone to kiss on from the side while she teased out its cum, smiling, no- grinning directly at you while she did it! Oh my god, her face made me delirious. I swear to god.

See, I'm a little bit funky right now- eh, you know what I mean... And I'm just chilling, so I'm going to talk it to you straight: You gotta ask for your balls back, man. Hahahahaa. I s- I'm swear, - I'm serious... You need to... pf, stand up to this girl. Please. I'm sick of writing this. Really.

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She asks you one day, glancing over her side at you on the couch you're sharing, while you're hanging out loose, "You have a small penis. Is that what you want?'

"Yes."

"My clit feels so fucking good right now."

"Okay." You bow your head.

"I might let you give it a little kiss honestly."

You perk up in all sorts of ways, but for some reason your spike in excitement feels extended a lifetime-fold. So when you try to form any words, your tongue just hangs out loose, and your dribble comes sliving out the corners of your mouth, and then there are also tears.

"I said I might... Wow."

"Are you serious? That's all I've ever wanted."

"Haha, there we go. Now you're remembering things correctly." She lends a fingertip against the upside of your chin. "See? When I feel good, you get to feel good."

"I understand."

"What's your name?"

And you respond with your name.

"What's your name?"

You respond the right way.

She still doesn't let you anywhere near her pussy, nor in sight of it. But she let you wear your own key for the day. It's actually around your neck a lot these days. Instead of getting to finally taste her engorged clitoris, or even just her lips, she had you kissing her boots while squirming on the floor like the aforementioned invertebrate she viewed you as.

It was a splendid sight indeed. She left some new ash marks on your back, too.

"What's your favorite part of licking my boots?"

You had to wrack your mind: was it... the dirt underneath? You know, there's a story to be told about where a woman has walked, heh... Is it... the edges around the rim, its squishy grooves? Or her steel toe? Or the heel, perhaps? Or the edge of the boot's height where it reveals, after wherever it ends, an ankle, a calf, her thigh? Well?

"I like looking up at you."

"Oh, you're too smart for your own good, girl." And she pats you on the head.

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Ok, so you're jealous, you're loyal to a fault, and you aim to please, even on the subject of your own pleasure. There's no way you're an idiot; she took your balls, not your brains. Well, she does have a certain kind of real estate on your cerebellum.

Tell me about the curvature. What does it feel like when she makes you bend against your own will?

"Like heaven." You continue on about submitting your brilliance to the sole purpose of breaking in your knees with the floor before her (sheesh!), and how having your balls removed was the single greatest thing to happen to you. You said that she told you... "The gift is leaving your dick there for me to play with, and for you to remember a lot by, one day."

One rainy afternoon you crawled into her periphery, with a fur tail-buttplug sticking out of your ass, and asked, "How did you do it?"

She invited you over to put your chin on her finger, and she said to you, "Why would I ever let you know exactly how I did this?" And that was that for a day.

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The next time she spoke to you was a command: "Dog", and you followed her out to the backyard, and then you became "Footrest". See how easy it is? And the more she does this, the more you crave her more lengthy instructions, and her more verbal humiliations, but she's made a deal with herself that she won't bite you off any more sweetness until you're squealing her name when she asks what you're called.