tagBDSMSausages for the Slave

Sausages for the Slave


We are all in favour of technology. Has to be a good thing. Can't be a technology denier these days, especially as we've got lots of technology in our house now. We have a little camera in every room, and I mean every room. Some rooms have more than one camera. The cameras can all be accessed remotely from my wife's mobile phone. I don't have a mobile. She says I have no use for one. It's just me and her in the house. And the cameras. She can swivel and zoom those little cameras to check the smallest detail. The cameras are not always on. They are activated by movement in the room, or remotely from her phone. When I come into a room I see that the little LED light under the camera starts flashing green. Then I know I am on camera, ha, ha. But I don't know if I am being watched. It doesn't matter though because each camera wirelessly connects to the wife's computer and whatever it sees is recorded automatically and stored for later viewing. I don't have a computer either.

I cannot access her computer; password protected. But my wife lets me stand behind her and look at the recordings now and then. This usually happens when she wants to point out some oversight or incorrect action on my part. In other words, when I was not doing exactly as instructed. There are other consequences of these occasional infractions of course, but my wife is a fair-minded woman. She wants to give me the opportunity to learn from my mistakes, so they won't be repeated. She also wants me to know the reason why in advance of administering any 'corrections.' She's fair like that.

There is one piece of technology I can interact with. My wife got a tablet mounted into the wall just inside the door of my room. It is hard wired so it is always charged and always on. The on/off switch has been covered over. When I get up in the morning I tap the screen and my instructions for the day come up as a list. I think she has most of these already programmed in so they come up automatically on a cycle; first of the month, wash the windows. Stuff like that. Which means my life is being run by a computer, really. There is a tick-box beside each item on the list and I tap it when I have completed the task, so the time of completion is automatically recorded. The first item recorded is when I tap the screen in the morning to log myself in for the day. Before 6.30 am or I'll regret it. Then the tablet lists what I am to wear that day. I have the tablet take a picture of myself dressed as instructed. Again, that seems to be mostly routine, programmed outfits, picked by the computer based on the tasks I will be doing. But she has lists of special outfits too. I know because she told me this. Today, I am in one of them. It is what I can only imagine is intended to be a humiliation; a pair of her old pink knickers with a big pink pom-pom sewn on at the back, a pair of big pink floppy rabbit ears on my head and the fluffy rabbit slippers on my feet. Nothing else. After I shower etc. I get the outfit from the 'special's wardrobe and put it on. I look like a poor imitation of an aging male playboy bunny impersonator shuffling around in fluffy slippers. Clearly today is to be a big humiliation day. What can that be all about? I Know I'll find out soon enough.

Sometimes after work she phones me and tells me to stand in front of the tablet. She instructs me to twirl around in front of the camera to show off whatever outfit she had me put on. When she does this, I suspect she is showing me off to some of her colleagues at work. Yes, I look like a total dork, feel like a dork, and I suspect I am being laughed at by god knows who. They are probably queuing up to think of stupid things to make me do for the camera. All of which makes me feel very small and very trapped. No doubt that is the whole idea. No fear of me heading outside or even answering the front door looking like that.

You'd be amazed how often the door bell rings during the day. A UPS delivery, some charity collector type, a 'would you like to switch your energy provider, sir' type, the neighbour who had to take in the UPS package for us, the postman with a registered letter, even a pizza delivery that has come to the wrong house. The pizza delivery types are particularly persistent, they keep ringing and ringing. That has consequences too. Sometimes they press their nose to the side window and peer in.

The thing with the doorbell is this. Another technology innovation. Once upon a time the doorbell buzzer was connected to the chimes by a wire. Not anymore. It's all wireless these days. The chime device can be placed anywhere in the house. And you can have more than one. During the day I have one of them in my ass in the form of an especially modified butt plug. That's the other thing I have to do first thing in the morning, after my shower and toilet; place this butt plug that contains a buzzer and electric shocker up into my ass. It's fairly small but with a sufficient amount of profile to keep it in place, a bit like a pointy mushroom. Most of the time I can forget about it. It is not meant as a punishment. She has a set of different plugs for that purpose. But when anybody presses the doorbell during the day, I know all about my butt plug. Buzz, zap, buzz, zap, and I jump a mile high. There is no warning, no delay while the ordinary chime sounds. The signal goes straight to my butt plug at the same time. I just about hear the chime kicking in but have no time to react before the zap hits. Plates have gotten broken on account of this, and I have suffered the consequences. No excuses accepted. Apparently, I should always be prepared for this to happen and should never be caught with a plate half way between the dishwasher and the worktop.

She doesn't do chastity cages anymore; no need. The fight has been knocked out of me on that front. I don't try for any surreptitious pleasure any more, either. The temptation to do that has been largely knocked out of me too. You see, she can zap my butt plug from her phone too, anytime she likes and a lot stronger than the doorbell zap which is just a tickle really.

I think she has installed listening devices as well, but I'm not sure. Maybe the cameras have microphones attached. Any feed she has let me look at on the computer has always been silent. If I do get an erection my orders are to go to my instructions tablet and enter the time it starts, and the time it fades away. I suspect the butt plug has some sort of sensor that sends her a signal when I have an erection; a blood pressure or blood flow sensor or something, because within a few minutes of me getting an erection she usually calls me on the tablet. Amazing coincidence or what? A little double zap of the butt plug tells me the phone is ringing, though I can usually hear it anyway. I've told her that, but it makes no difference. Still get the double zap in the ass.

I have to drop what I'm doing and rush to my room at the back of the house to take the call on the tablet. She has me stand back far enough from the tablet so she can see all she needs to see. It's always a video call, but I don't get to see her. She has taped over the camera on her phone - for security, she says. She has other phones, but that is the one she uses for communicating with the tablet. There is a white line on the floor about four feet back from the wall that the tablet is mounted on. I have to stand on that line so she can see all of me. She is on speaker, I talk to the tablet from my position four feet away. Sometimes her calls are to check on what I'm doing, or to have me do some job that has cropped up since she put up the list of my jobs for the day. Other times she is just having fun, or she wants to let me know that she can tell that I have an erection.

A daytime erection always earns a punishment. She says that if I was totally focussed on doing my jobs I wouldn't have an erection. The fact that I have got one means my mind has wandered into erotic territory. I'm being punished for thinking naughty thoughts without permission, not for having an erection. Her logic is impeccable. I stand there, behind the white line, and she has me pull down the pink knickers and turn sideways, hands behind my back, so that all is revealed in stark outline.

She goes into her mindfuck babytalk routine, and I have to play along. It's the only way.

"What's that I see sticking out in front of my fluffy pink baby? Have you been a naughty boy?"

"It's an erection, madam. Yes, I've been a naughty boy."

"Fluffy pink baby has a little stiffie, has he? Tell everybody what you have got, Fluffy."

"Fluffy has a little stiffie, Madam."

"That's better."

To make things worse a drop of pre-cum oozes out and hangs precariously from the tip of my engorged manhood.

"Uh ho, what's that Mummy sees? Who's still being a very, very, very naughty little boy?"

The number of verys is usually a measure of the level of suffering this is going to cause me. I hear some tittering coming over the phone. She probably has her PA or half the sales department looking over her shoulder and laughing at the sorry sight of me, a grown man in the middle of the day, naked save for a pair of fluffy ears and slippers, with knickers down around his knees and his dick twitching and dripping in front of him.

"Yes, I'm still being a very, very, very naughty boy, Madam"

"Any what happens to a fluffy pink bunny that is very, very, very naughty?"

More laughter from the background and, to make things worse, the drop of precum stretches away and drops to the floor.

"The fluffy pink bunny gets punished, Madam"

"That right the fluffy pink bunny gets punished. And why does the fluffy pink bunny get punished?"

"So that he won't be naughty again, Madam."

I can hear the clink of a cup and her taking a sip. She's having her morning coffee, the bitch, while laughing at me, her and the whole department, maybe. And I have to stand there and take it, worse than naked. The thought excites me intensely and my erection throbs and twitches. I feel another drop of precum ease up to the tip. I hear a male voice in the background of my wife's phone saying 'I bet twenty he doesn't last a minute.' My wife replies, muffled, but I can still hear it, 'you're on.'

Now it's clear what the bunny outfit is about. Her department is having a sweepstake on how long it will take me to come. I suppose if I didn't conveniently get the erection she'd have called me up and put me through the baby talk/punishment talk routine till I got hard. The sweepstake is timed from the moment she turns on the vibrate programme on my butt plug. The vibrations gradually increase in intensity and are overlain with a set of pulses every fifteen seconds. It brings me off sooner or later.

Because some guy has just made a side bet with my wife, I have a big incentive to hold out longer than a minute. Otherwise my wife loses the side bet and she will not be happy. She'll say I did it deliberately. There will be consequences. Another drop of precum and another drip. I hear a cheer go up over at the other end of my wife's phone. She knows I can't last long and says 'starting the clock now.' I feel a low steady vibration start in my butt and a tremor goes through my prostate. I'll be lucky to last 30 seconds. She should have known better than to take that bet.

If I had been busier I wouldn't have got the erection in the first place. But my wife is not a slave driver. She does lay out a steady rota of household chores to be done, spread over the week. There are daily jobs; cleaning, tidying and cooking, weekly jobs like laundry and more occasional bigger, spring cleaning type jobs. Then there is the outside maintenance; the garden, cleaning her car and so on. Finally, there is the shopping; once a week. The programme leaves me enough spare time every day. Time for a coffee. Time to have naughty thoughts.

I had just finished the vacuuming this morning and had logged it on the tablet. I was passing through the hall to the kitchen to have a coffee when I caught a glimpse of myself in the long hall mirror. I had forgotten what a pathetic wimp I was. The sight of me in the pink fluffy ears and the big pink fluffy bobtail on my behind was a huge turn on. It set me off wondering where this was leading. The humiliation outfit requires that I be utterly humiliated. Sometimes I am instructed to go to the door to accept a delivery or allow a neighbour in who will see me like this or, as now, perform a show for the department or whoever my wife has organised to see me. She probably has a subscription channel and people all around the globe are placing bets on when I come. Maybe she has made millions out of showing me off. Maybe her high-powered techie job is only a hobby for her now. Of course, not filling up my day with work leaves time for these little side earners. I know one neighbour pays her money to 'make use' of me as the euphemism has it.

Shopping, you wonder? It may surprise you, but yes, I do get out now and again. Strict conditions apply of course. It's usually at weekends to do the weekly food shop. It is supervised and there are checks and constraints. The shopping list has been pre-prepared and strict timetables are set. She has her little jokes with the list to keep me amused. It might say 'sausages for the slave.' She doesn't eat sausages, only real meat. I don't get to eat real meat anymore. She says a slave doesn't get to eat red meat, might give him notions of manliness. I eat lots of salads. Rabbit food she calls it. Aside from the week-end big shop I sometimes get out during the day for a quick trip. Usually it's because she has some of the 'girls,' or business associates, coming over that evening at short notice and she needs me to buy extra stuff for them to eat.

Anyway, it was as simple a thing as the glimpse of myself in the mirror in my ridiculous trampy bunny outfit that gave me the hard-on. And now I stand, sideways on to the camera, hands behind my back, my erection throbbing and dripping, my knickers at my knees. The timer on my wife's phone is on high volume giving a loud tick, tick, tick just to add to the tension. The vibration in the butt plug keeps building. The first burst of three pulses happens at 15 seconds in. My cock twitches violently and I just avoid coming by squeezing my thighs together hard. I hear another cheer, some laughter and a burst of animated chatter from the department staff as they excitedly anticipate an early result. I know I won't last the next set of pulses.

At thirty seconds precisely, with the vibrations coming strong and deep now, the next pulse hits. I come. As my cock twitches and spurts, twitches and spurts for the camera, a month's build-up of cum is spilled to the floor. More an overflowing than a satisfying hard ejaculation. I, with my hands behind my back, pathetically thrusting my pelvis in time with the twitching of my cock as it spills my sperm, frustratedly trying to get that release that comes with a proper ejaculation. And that's it. I've come but I've had no sexual release. Drained would be a better word for it. Just the way she wants it. A mix of cheers and groans can be heard over the phone; winners and losers I suppose. My wife has lost her side bet. She is a sore loser. It is safe to say that as well as receiving extra punishment I will have to earn back that twenty from the neighbours.

I hear her say, 'OK folks, shows over, back to work.' I stand waiting. My cock subsiding, a dribble of cum hanging in a line down my balls. The knickers have slid to my ankles. I face the camera.

"That was pathetic."

"Sorry, Madam."

"Yes, indeed, you will be sorry. But that will be later. For now, you can wait and worry. Move to the back wall snap yourself in."

On the back wall facing the tablet she has a tee-bar fixed into the wall at waist height with a wrist manacle fixed on each end of the tee. All you have to do is push your wrists against the back of the manacle and they snap shut. They can simply be pulled apart to open them again. But you can't do that when your own wrists are locked into them. Somebody has to come and release you. Ingenious.

I shuffled backwards and felt the cold tee bar at my back. I lifted my left wrist and placed it in the manacle and pushed against the tee. It closed with a loud snap. Same for the right one; snap. I was locked in. The position forces me to bend forward a bit at the waist with my elbows bent up and out because the tee-bar holds my wrists at waist height behind my back. The position is only mildly uncomfortable to start with.

"Till later then. Be good."

"Yes Madam. Thank you, Madam."

She ends the call. Silence. I could see the little puddle of cum on the floor in front of the camera. That will have to be cleaned up later. I'll be licking it up, I suppose. I look at the pink knickers with the pompom at my ankles, stretched over the fluffy pink slippers. I could kick them off. It would allow me move my legs and feet around a bit and ease the position now and again. Better not to. It would count as disobeying her order of dress for the day. She had told me to put them on. She had ordered me to pull them down for the show. She had never said take them off. If I did it would count as me trying to ease my punishment. You learn to embrace the pain. That's one of her favourite sayings.

Six hours to go, maybe seven.

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