Sausages for the Slave Ch. 05

'Good morning Slave, time to get up.' Pause. 'Good morning Slave, time to get up.' Pause. 'Good morning Slave,..'

What the hell was that? Instead of the usual alarm buzzer coming from the tablet fixed into the wall of my room there was a disembodied female voice echoing in the corner by the door, repeating itself over and over. I woke myself up enough to blearily look around the room through the thick green goggle eyes of the animal helmet locked on my head. It appeared that the voice was coming from a small flat black circular cylinder plugged into a wall socket.

As I dragged my brain into gear, I dimly recognised what the speaking object looked like; an electronic home assistant, Alexa by name. My wife must have sneakily installed it in my room after I had fallen asleep last night. She's an IT and electronics whizz and is totally into this kind of thing. Like anybody else I have a vague idea about how these types of home assistant thingies are supposed to work, but first thing after waking was not the best time for me to try and sort out what this was about. Not a morning person. There have been adverts for Alexa on TV and this thing looked like the Alexa model. I sat up gingerly and swung my legs to the floor. My ass area still felt sore from yesterday's adventures so I manoeuvred carefully. My hands were shackled up close to my chin and were of no help to me. Before I could consider my options, the Alexa thing spoke again.

"Slave, you are to report to your wife immediately. Acknowledge" Clearly Alexa - I'll call her Alexa, until it is proved otherwise - knew I was now awake. I vaguely recalled that these home assistants responded to voice commands. This lady seemed to be able to initiate commands. No doubt my wife had modified the software. Maybe Alexa could tap into the cameras and movement sensors my wife has installed all over the place, or the Fitbit on my wrist. That relays my heartbeat and sleep patterns. Was she just relaying my wife's voice by turning her words into that standard sexy robot accent, or maybe Alexa had been taught to voice my wife's wishes. Lots of maybes, I would think about it later. My first priority was to have my wife unlock the helmet and gag and get them off my head. So that was going to be my first stop as soon as I woke up anyway. I didn't need Alexa's encouragement to head for my wife's bedroom. After I got my head free I could consider having a chat with Alexa, assuming Alexa is what I was dealing with.

"Slave acknowledge my command. The correct acknowledgement is, 'Alexa, I understand, thank you.'"

"Baa," I said as I eased myself carefully into a standing position. That was the only acknowledgement I could give with the gag in place. I was gone out through the open bedroom door and headed upstairs towards my wife's bedroom and out of earshot before Alexa responded.

My initial thought on the Alexa matter was that, firstly, there is no point in getting into an argument with a small plastic box. I'm bigger than that. Secondly, it's not really about the box. I'm not really talking to the box, nor is the box really talking to me. It is what the box represents that is important. And what it represents is my wife - the boss, the capo di tutti capi. Clearly my wife had been working on modifying Alexa app, or developing a new app altogether. It would be wise to find out my wife's wishes in regard to this Alexa experiment before I do anything I might regret later. It was only twenty fours from my last punishment and my ass was still sore from that. Knowing my wife, she is probably planning to market the app to Dommes on BDMS websites. 'Keep your man under control remotely with the Manhandler App.' That sort of stuff. Who knows, I might be proudly boasting in years to come that I was the crash test dummy for the Manhandler App.

I had been gagged and locked into a sheep's head helmet for almost 24 hours now and I badly wanted my wife to remove it. She said she would do it this morning, so I had better be on my best behaviour, at least until I get the helmet off. There may be a battle to be fought over this new intrusion into my life, but now was not the time. Besides, it's hard to have an argument about anything when you can only say 'baa' and 'aaa.'

I had arrived at my wife's bedroom door. I knocked and waited. One full minute later her door slid open. She always makes me wait like this. I have to patiently stand at the door, being sure not to sound impatient by knocking repeatedly, getting a little narked but making sure not to show it when the door finally opens. She knows well that when I do get to enter her bedroom I'm seething a little inside, but afraid to show it. She never misses an opportunity to have me suffer that little humiliation; a little reminder of who is the boss and who is the dependent one. Works every time. My penis begins to harden at the thought of how easily and callously my wife humiliates me.

I don't often get to see her in her bedroom anymore. I walked across the bedroom to beside the head of the bed and stood facing her. She is in one of her normal tee shirt style nightdresses, sitting propped up on the bed against the pillows and drinking tea; her morning cuppa. She has a little teasmade thingy set up in the bedside locker, basically a water heater with storage compartments for teabags, coffee sachets etc. It is my job to keep it stocked up and to make sure that it is full of water each evening and all set to make her a cup of tea in the morning. It used be my job to bring her a cup of tea first thing. I got to start her day, as it were. That was before she installed the remote lock on the sliding door to my room; or to the room I sleep in as my wife insists on calling it. She doesn't like me referring to anything as 'my' thing. I own nothing you see.

I was probably dumped from my morning job for the same reason. I owned that job and that job gave me access to her at a vulnerable time when she was just waking up, or even when she was still asleep. Of course I was literally dumped out of the bedroom a long time ago, but you know what I mean. It was my last little official role in her presence in her boudoir, however humble, and she made sure of denying me even that, of edging me further into the background of her daily life; moving me down towards the level of the washing machine and the vacuum cleaner. I exaggerate; she gets a lot more fun out of me than she does out of a domestic appliance. But she decides when to switch me on and switch me off. And she keeps me in the background more than she used to. But I am still useful, still amusing at times, occasionally troublesome and occasionally in need of maintenance.

"Stop flaunting your pathetic little boner in my face and kneel down here in front of me till we get this helmet unlocked," she said as she dragged me back from my little daydream. Sounds a little moody this morning.

I moved closer and knelt down just a few inches from the bedside. She had the key ready and reached under my chin and unlocked the helmet. She pulled my head forward and down so that she could reach the lock at the back of my neck that held the collar in place, and also the lock belonging to the kazoo gag. She unlocked both, all with the same key. She is efficient like that. The cuffs are snap shut types. They are opened by pressing two small buttons on either side of the inside of the cuff. You need two free hands to do it. (Of course I've tried it with one hand and with bent coat hangers; no good.) She slipped a finger inside each side of the left cuff and pressed simultaneously. The cuff snapped open, similarly for the right one. My hands were free at last. I resisted rubbing my wrists though I would have dearly liked to. To do so is taken as an implied criticism of my being cuffed in the first place: Not wise. Then she had me stand up and turn around so she could pull down the white cotton knickers she had put on me the night before.

"All better?" she asked, tapping my still tender and reddened ass.

"Baa."

"Good boy. Pull your panties back up and run along and clean yourself up before we have breakfast."

"Baa."

It was nice to be able to reach my hands down to pull up the knickers, or panties as she likes to call them. It felt good to let my arms stretch out at last. They were cramped and stiff at the elbows from being bent under my chin for so long. Why didn't I also pull off the helmet and gag you ask? Because she didn't specifically tell me to. I've fallen into that trap before. She told me to run along and that's what I did.

Her bedroom door slid closed behind me. I went back to my room and pulled off the helmet, the gag and the collar with its dangling cuffs. I'd clean them up and tidy them away later. I got on with my morning routine, toilet - a big relief. I'd managed to not pee for a whole day, not since the punishment session anyway. Not having anything to drink helped - but not a good way to go either. It is possible to suck a drink through the kazoo opening in the gag, but I preferred to do without since there was just one day involved; less trouble overall.

I removed the night time disinfectant soaked plug. My asshole still ached a little and I pulled it out gently. A dim echo of yesterday's hurt. I shall survive. My face was sweaty and my hair was caked to my head from the twenty-four hours imprisonment in the helmet. I enjoyed cleaning it all off in the shower. The freedom of feeling the water spray over my head and skin was heaven. After I shaved, I inserted the standard day-time butt plug; the zapper, the one that was connected to the doorbell, and to her phone, and now probably to Alexa.

"Slave, go and prepare breakfast. Acknowledge" Speak of the devil. She must be able to detect that I have moved away from the shower area.

I hadn't got dressed yet. Alexa had failed to figure that out. There are limits to the intelligence of a small black plastic box. That was good to know. Time to put Alexa in her place.

I put on my best commanding voice and said, "Alexa, be quiet."

"Slave, you are not authorised to give me an instruction. I am programmed to take instructions from my owner. Acknowledge" That's telling me.

"Alexa, gimme a break. I'm only just awake. I need a bit of quiet time."

"Slave, that is not a correct acknowledgement. The correct acknowledgement is, 'Alexa, I understand, thank you.' Try again."

At least I now know it is indeed an Alexa. "Alexa, you take yourself too seriously."

"Slave, I have logged your second incorrect response. There will be consequences. The correct acknowledgement is, 'Alexa, I understand, thank you.' Try again."

Uh-oh; the 'there will be consequences' phrase is one of my wife's favourites. It is not to be taken lightly. The use of that phrase by Alexa is strong evidence that the wife is programming Alexa or speaking through her, or whatever. Not wise to fight this. Not now anyway, not with having an already tender ass. Having three incorrect responses logged might just tip things into serious consequences territory. Three is a sort of triggering number in these matters. As in 'three strikes and you're out,' and 'don't make me count to three.' That still carries weight from my childhood. I didn't fancy getting into 'three refusals of Alexa's commands and we'll have to call the enforcer' territory. So I caved, quickly and totally.

"Alexa, I understand, thank you."

"Good boy."

That 'good boy' sign-off from Alexa further proof of who is writing Alexa's script. It is a provocation my wife likes to use. A little put down when you least need one. Just when you have folded and accepted some humiliating instruction she rubs your nose in it by dismissing you with a 'good boy, or a 'there's a good boy.' The patronising tone of it lets you know she thinks you are a pathetic wimp. I quickly got dressed. It was an easy outfit to put on; my car washing outfit. It consists of tight white nylon/lycra shorts and a matching sleeveless singlet, no underpants, plastic flip flops on my feet. I looked like a male gymnast doing the floor routines in the Olympics, save for the flip flops, and save for the little pot belly of course. I pressed the photo button on the tablet; five seconds delay, and stood behind the white line for the compulsory morning photograph of my outfit. Then I headed for the kitchen.

As I went through the kitchen door Alexa pounced. "Slave, report your activity."

There was another black box mounted on the wall inside the door. It looks like Alexa is omnipresent. Wherever I go, Alexa will be there before me, waiting to give me instructions.

"Alexa, I am preparing my wife's breakfast."

"Good boy."

I bit back my desire to give Alexa a bitchy retort to her 'good boy' as I quickly prepared my wife's cereal and placed it on the table. I was hand squeezing the oranges for her juice when she came swanning in, dressed in her 'I'm a going places IT executive' gear, and looking very happy with herself. Before I could open my mouth, not that I would until spoken to first in any case, Alexa pipes up with, "Good morning Mistress, your breakfast is prepared."

"Alexa, thank you. That will be all."

Shit. Now Alexa is claiming my credit for preparing the breakfast. I passed over the orange juice.

"Good boy," says my darling wife, "now get yourself something to eat."

That offer isn't always a given, so I was grateful for the invitation to eat, yet I couldn't resist the dig. "Madam, I understand, thank you."

"Ha, ha. Smarty pants, or should I say smarting pants." And she gave me a very solid whack on the behind. Sore. "Get your food before I change my mind." At least she took the jokey acknowledgement in good spirits.

I sat down opposite her with my bowl of cereal in skim milk. She has full milk in hers; needs that extra energy for the office.

"So you and Alexa seem to be getting on like a house on fire. What do you think of her?"

Had to be careful there. "While it is technologically fascinating, I can't see just yet that it can add anything useful to our domestic arrangements. As things stand, you post my list of jobs on the tablet and that timetables my day. The stuff gets done. What does the talking box add?" (See the 'just yet' in there?' I'm wisely not saying it's not good, only that I can't see anything good about it - just yet)

"Don't call her an 'it,' Dan. She's Alexa. She's a she. She will be your companion and guide during the day. She'll stop you from being lonely in the house, that home alone feeling will be banished. Also she'll help you keep on track. You won't have to worry about wandering off into your little horny daydreams and forgetting what needs doing. She'll even play games with you. You'll see."

"I see."

What I saw was that my opinion in the matter was neither here nor there. Also I saw a big speech for breakfast time. Normally we just do a bit of casual chit chat about the day ahead. Even more significantly, she had called me by my name; Dan, and looked me directly in the eye. Rarely does she do that nowadays. That means we are having a serious little chat, a 'hand on the shoulder, look you straight in the eye' type chat. A 'this is the way it's going to be, son,' type chat. I bet her underlings at work quake in their Ted's loafers or in whatever shoe is trendy with IT execs now, when she gives them this treatment. I held her eye, trying to look like I'm sincerely on board with this project, but I felt that little involuntary spasm behind my balls that lets me know that something bad is about to happen, or has just happened to me, and there is no going back.

"Anyway," she continued, "the home assistant market is where all the development money is going now. This is my little skunk works project. Could be big kudos in it if I get it right. So I need you to cooperate with me on this, Dan." There it was again, and she looked me deep in the eyes.

"Of course I will." I hadn't the balls to add, 'Mary,' though I did keep the eye contact. Saying 'Mary' would be like saying we were partners in this project, as in Dan and Mary are working together on advances in home assistant technology. I didn't think that's how she saw it. It's more like Mary is using Dan to trial her innovative developments in home assistant technology. I didn't think it appropriate to say 'Madam' either. Not when we are having our social chat at breakfast. That would be to introduce a wrong note. I use 'Madam' when I am under the kosh for some failure or other and am being spoken down to in a 'naughty little boy' fashion. It's not rocket science, this subservience thing.

We got back to our chit chat over her cup of coffee. She had been thinking about grocery shopping. I was scheduled to do a shop the following day. She's seen an advert. for hand tied sausages in Lidl. She thought that I'd be particularly fond of them and that I should get some. She could tie me up while I'm eating them. She'd take a video for her bondage blog - do me up in that Japanese rope bondage look.

"I'd caption it 'Hand tied slave eats hand tied sausage,'" she laughed. Very funny.

She wanted to me to get some venison strips for her. They were on special offer. What did I think of that? The stunningly witty repost came to me in a blinding flash and I couldn't resist putting it out there, and to hell with the consequences. Shame to waste it.

" Frankly m'dam, I don't give a deer."

Her face darkened: She didn't get it. She must have thought I had decided to revolt - the great slave revolt of 2018. I hastily explained: "Venison; reindeer meat; deer? And since I don't get to eat the venison, I don't give a damn about deer- metaphorically of course. So I don't give a deer, geddit?" She still didn't get it. This is bad. "It's a play on Rhett Butler's riposte to Scarlett O'Hara in Gone with the Wind, 'Frankly, m'dear, I don't give a damn.' Remember?" Not at all amused now. She's decided I'm trying to show her up. I'll never learn. I should always count to ten before bestowing these blasts of pure genius on the world.

"Only a weak attempt at a joke, sorry."

"I did get it, don't worry." (She so didn't.) "But you are pushing it a bit, you cheeky boy. We'll have to curb that over enthusiasm of yours. The cereal must have gone to your head. Too much sugar, I suppose. You will forage for your lunch. That might take you down off this giddy high you are on. Now get out the bowl to remind you and then get my work things."

I reached into the under-the-sink cupboard and pulled out the big aluminium dog bowl and put it on the floor in the corner of the kitchen. Then I ran to the hall and got her coat and work satchel from the hall closet while she was brushing her teeth or whatever.

She snatched the two items out of my hands and headed through to the garage saying over her shoulder, "I'll check up on you in the afternoon." No little kissy, kissy this morning.

"Yes, Madam," I replied. It just felt right. Something told me we had moved into 'yes, Madam' territory. Gut instinct, I suppose.

As she got into her car, I heard her say "Alexa, you are on duty."

A duet of 'Yes, Mistresses' echoed from the Alexa box in the garage and in the hall. They are everywhere, and are clearly programmed to call my wife Mistress, whereas I use Madam; curious.

I heard the sound of the wife's car engine fade into the distance and enjoyed the moment of quiet that followed it. This was the part of the day I enjoyed most. I had a little space of my own in which to gather thoughts and plan out my schedule over a quiet cup of tea.

"Slave, your next task is gardening. Acknowledge."

Crap. There went my 'me' time. I decided it was time for a real revolt.

"Alexa, it is not time for the gardening task. I have to clear up after breakfast first.'

"Slave, your next task is gardening. Acknowledge."