Her New(ish) Pet

Forty-five minutes ago he stood on her doorstep, waiting for her to come collect him. Three women walked by, deep in conversation. An elderly man and woman were walking towards them, so they broke rank to let the couple have command of the sidewalk. In doing so, they got close enough that he could smell their perfume. His cock twitched, and he winced at his lack of self control.

"Good evening," the couple said warmly, lumping him into their group. A cacophony of greetings came in response, and everyone laughed. It was a perfect New England evening that drove people out of their homes for one more walk before the cold air whipped and wailed. In the distance, the sun blushed its departure from the sky. The first fallen leaves of the season swirled at their feet. It was cliche, a tourist's dream. But he lived here, born and raised. The perfect son of the state's queen city. Or at least he tried to be. Perfect.

After the couple had moved on, the group of women moved forward down the sidewalk. The third in the group, a pretty blond wearing a flannel with just enough buttons undone to draw attention, made a point to look back at him. "Have a good night," she said, and the couple called back"You too!" Her friends giggled, swatting her arm, and hooking it into theirs. Drawing her close to whisper about him, each throwing one more glance his way. The elderly couple was oblivious of the dynamic they'd just walked by. But it was clear to all the women that the "Good night" was directed at the handsome guy standing on the stoop.

And he was. Handsome. Classic good looks, ripped from an LL Bean catalog. It was sweater weather and he was wearing a cardigan that would've looked trendy on anyone else, but on him looked effortless. He smiled back at the blonde, but said nothing. Those women may have admired him, but they didn't know that he was already owned, and his cock, caged, belonged to someone else.

There she was, opening the door, smiling at him. It was unreal how eager he was to please her. She had an uncanny knack of knowing just how to push all his buttons. To source them and strike them in a specific order that made his head spin and balls ache. To make his need for perfection a source of release and relief, a way to calm and contain the stressful life he led when they weren't together. She didn't acknowledge him with words, just a smile and an open door.

She turned to head back up the stairs. He waited four steps before she gave him permission to follow. (He'd made that mistake once. Entered her home without her invitation. His ass was sore for three days, which made his client meetings that weekparticularly tortuous to sit though.)

He never knew what she'd have planned for him and that was half the fun. Today, though, she kept it tame. Had him strip, bound his hands and wrists to match the restraint on his cock "Such a good boy," she said in a low voice when she saw it, and he believed she was pleased. He loved it when he was the source of her pleasure. When she allowed him the reward of praise and compliments. She didn't provide lip service. He was only here because she allowed it, and he was well aware that at any time she might revoke that privilege.

She sat him down on the couch. "Do I have to remind you not to touch it?" She said, a phrase his brain had memorized, but not his body. His hands had a mind of their own around her. He was always reaching to touch something - her soft skin, the curve of her thigh, the weight of her breast. If, that is, she was close enough for him to try. In her absence, his hands flicked to his cock, a horny teen that didn't even realize he was playing with it.

"I'll be good." he said.

"I don't believe you," she replied, and reached under her skirt to remove her panties, lace, which she shoved into his mouth. Reaching up, she removed a ribbon from her hair, causing her curls to cascade down and around her face. "Please try, though," she told him, tying the ribbon around his mouth, locking the underwear in place.

She moved to the bedroom and came out wearing her black satin robe, with a book in her hand. He groaned and began to twitch. He'd been caged for the better part of the weekend. Had slept in it and even gone to brunch with his parents bearing the humiliation of it. He had to sit to pee, instead of using the urinal at the restaurant. He knew his dad noticed, even asked if his stomach was feeling ok because theirs wasn't the kind of family who shit in public. If only they knew that he regularly wrote his mistress' name in Sharpie on his skin, a reminder to himself, mostly, that he was a kept man whose pleasure hid behind lock and key that belonged to her.

She let her robe hang open so he could see the curve of her tits. So he could see the key to the cage hang low on a chain, six inches above her navel. She sat down on the couch opposite from him, stretched her strong legs over his lap, and began to read.

He had no way of knowing exactly how long they had been like this, and he was growing impatient. He'd been a good boy all week. Had saved her loads - he stopped thinking about his ejaculate as his months ago - and followed all her requests. Anytime her name showed up on his phone's lock screen, his cock throbbed. She had a way of knowing just when to send a message that would prove particularly torturous. One of the partners at the law firm he worked at asked if he was feeling ok because he was particularly flush seeing a photo she sent of her tits in black lace with her hand on her own throat. All of that was lovely, but it was the fact that she was wearing a roll of duct tape as a bracelet on her wrist that really got him going...

Back on the couch, he decided things weren't moving fast enough, so he was going to escalate them. His willfulness still came out, even after all her expertly tailored training. He couldn't exactly take matters into his own hands, bound as they were, but his tongue, the one thing she would consistently - but not frequently - praise, could do the job nicely.

His tongue slipped along the lace and began to push it out of his mouth. The edges of the ribbon digging into the corners of his mouth, pushing the panties back into his throat so his whole head filled with the taste of her pussy.

He waited for her to notice that he was trying to slip his gag, but she was still reading and ignoring him completely. This was one of his favorite activities. Being treated like a throw pillow. Furniture. She'd pin his head against the couch with a firm calf on his throat. Sometimes she would absentmindedly draw it back and forth, the bow on a violin that thrummed a tune when played correctly. And right now, he was vibrating with the want for release.

The lace was almost completely out, and he began to second guess his plan. Outright, he said he loved to be an obedient pet, that he wasn't trying to disobey. But on some level he knew that these acts of disobedience, removing gags without permission, sneaking a look up at her while his jaw began to tire from a pussy worship session, touching his cock even after he'd been told that it was off limits - were part of the game. He loved watching her eyes flash and lip curl slightly, knowing that what would come next was what he waited all week for - the firm hand, the verbal admonishment, the further restrictions. Little by little, she would strip his autonomy, his ability to make his own choices. Right now, he had binds on his ankles and wrists, but she left his arms in the front of his body, and if he moved his fingers correctly, he was fairly certain he could brush them against his erection, which pushed against the plastic cage. Maybe wouldn't notice. He risked it. Touched himself. Felt how wet he was, and wondered if she, too, was slick.

"What are you doing?" She asked, eyes still on the page.

He moaned, caught.

She looked up, and just as fast was standing over him. "What. Are. You. Doing." Each word punctuated with a swipe of the book she was reading on each thigh, his chest, and finally his cock. Hard and heavy. His cock throbbed at the realization that it wouldn't have hurt so much if she was reading a paperback.

He pulled his hands up and away, as if to say, "Nothing! I wasn't touching it." She sank to her knees.

"Not only did you touch it," sneering at the last word, while offering a disgusted look to his crotch that made his heart pound "but you slipped your gag." She reached up and hooked the lace panties with her pinkie and pulled, activating his gag reflex as the underwear were pulled from his mouth. He had no idea how she could swallow her toys so easily, and when she told him about the magnum cocks she played with when he wasn't around - because his cock was nothing that interested her - he marveled at how easily she could take them in her holes. Full hilt. For the pleasure of the real men she fucked, and for her own, too.

"Why is it so hard for you to listen to me?" Her hand slipped up his body, cuffing his neck and resting at the back of his head. She pulled it backwards, sliding her body up from her knees until she was pressed against him. His nakedness against her satin robe gave him goose flesh. She pulled his head back by the hair, exposed his throat and nipped it with her teeth, not a hint of a kiss or her soft lips.

"Tongue." she told him and he presented it, pushed it out his mouth firm and eager. It pushed the ribbon out of the way which sat wet and tight against the corners of his mouth. It hurt. He liked it. And wondered if tomorrow there would be a mark. Wondered if tomorrow it would hurt to eat. Wondered if tomorrow he would even care, or if it would just be a reminder that he had to start all over again to be a good boy. For her.

She lowered her face to his, and he whimpered. Knew what would come next. She sucked the length of it, a teasing gesture. He made it clear early on that his erection would wilt in her mouth - it took him out of subspace - but she loved sucking cock. And like everything else, was exceedingly good at it. So everything of his became a dick - his tongue, his fingers, his earlobes. She would fellate his body in ways no one else had. His body, her toy, and he knew it.

"Were you bored, pet?" she whispered, letting go of his hair and running her hand along his jaw turning it to the right. He shook his head, didn't dare risk words. She slapped his face, in that particular way that was more sound that substance, but still made his skin sting. "Speak." She said, and twisted his face so he locked eyes with her.

And there it was, the gleam that caused his cock to grow painfully hard once more. Her gaze was intense but he dared not break it. He could tell she was already three steps ahead of him, and had something that would delight them both planned. No matter what his response, he ached for his punishment.

"I'm sorry." he said, the only thing he could, since it was obvious the gag had been moved by his own disobedience. Her eyes flashed. "You're always sorry." She grabbed the leather wrist binds by the clasp that connected them. "You're never good." She pulled him to his feet. "It's almost like all my training is going to waste." He hung his head in humiliation. From here, he could see the wet spot he'd left on the carpet at his feet, from where his cock was leaking while she was reading. "Do you want me to release you?"

"NO!" he said, a little louder than he wanted to. Already she was moving to strike him, and he threw out a last ditch "Please!" to stop it, but her palm had already found his firm ass, a push that made him lurch forward to her. He was taller than she was, but she was more solid. Her curves met his body, and he dropped her head into her shoulder. "Are you going to be a good boy?" She cooed, petting his head and wrapping her hand around to his lower back, supporting him. He nodded, eagerly, and pushed his hips into her so she could feel how badly he needed her firm hand and course correction.

She slid her hand to his ass and grabbed it possessively. "Since your tongue was too active for the gag, we should give it something to do, yes?"

And he knew what would come next, if she was kind enough to give it. An opportunity for him to be the source of her orgasm. A reward they both know he had not earned. But she was a kind and generous domme, and maybe, if his suspicions were right, she was thinking about binding him to her

"Bench, pet." She said, unhooking the clasp at his feet. "You know the position I need you in. I'll be in when I'm ready to lock you in place."

And eagerly, he moved into the bedroom, for her pleasure, his punishment, to continue...