1
Bound into the corset, she could take only shallow breaths, and bending was difficult. Her pussy was soaked and her ass was burning from the way his fingers had probed her as she laid out her underwear for his review. She wanted his fingers back inside her, she wanted to play with herself, but instead she stood quietly as she'd been ordered.
It had been humiliating to lay her intimates out for his perusal, dressed in nothing but this tight corset that left her breasts exposed and emphasized her hips and ass, feeling his fingers penetrate her front and back. Now she waited, watching him look over her plain cotton panties, her boy shorts and hip huggers, and her sexy underwear, deciding what she would be allowed to wear, and what she would have to discard. At least she had already already thrown out the shabby and stained panties that she wore on days when she hadn't had time to do laundry, so it could have been worse, but she felt anxious, watching his eyes and wondering if he liked he saw.
2
A week ago, he'd sat her down to talk about what it would take for her to become his slave. She felt the pull of the word; when he referred to "ownership" or "property" it instantly drew her to him and made her wet, but he had told her she wasn't ready for that.
She wondered why letting him restrain her and use her and kneel her down at will didn't already qualify as ownership, at least partially.
After a lazy breakfast, him in his long robe and she in the short lace-edged dressing gown that even when tied barely covered her, they sat together on the couch, his arm around her, her head on his shoulder.
"You want to be owned," he said.
"Yes," she said eagerly if not impatiently. "Owned by you. You're telling me I don't understand it yet, but I'm telling you it makes me melt."
"That means giving yourself to me," he said. "Quite literally. You surrender control, you surrender yourself. You do it consciously, you do it with intention, and you do it in a measured way, without ever turning back or reclaiming what you've given to me."
She nodded, the thought, and his tone of voice, making her very wet.
"I want to start with you surrendering control over one thing," he said. "I want you to get a feel for what it means to have no control over something."
She nodded eagerly, anticipating what he would say. Almost from the beginning, she'd been asking him permission before she came. She did it on her own their very first time and it soon became clear that it was expected. He also liked to know when she masturbated so she'd begun telling him each time. It was almost always about him lately.
A few weeks ago he'd gone on a business trip and at dinner the night after he returned, asked, "Did you not masturbate all week?" She said that she had, and he looked at her, and she said "I should have told you." And since then, that was a rule that she asked permission for an orgasm when she was with him, and told him about them when she was not.
The next step was obvious. She'd have to get permission from him before she came, whether she was with him or not. The idea of texting him with one hand as she played with herself with the other was making her wet. The main challenge would be holding off while she waited, but she was good at edging herself.
The project manager in her appreciated his formality and clarity, but she also liked people to get to the point. She was most of the way there already.
--
He looked at her, yet again loving the contrast between the edge of impatience in her voice and the nature of what she was impatient about, between the determined look in her eyes and the hardness of her nipples outlined clearly in the revealing clothing she wore for him.
He loved what a quick study she was. Sometimes he could see her visibly stop herself from finishing sentences; he'd mentioned it once and she'd said it was one of the most common feedback items from her employees and colleagues in 360 reviews. It could be amazing to have her apply that mind to being his property, but would she?
He knew she didn't understand what he meant. She certainly enjoyed the sexual aspects of submission, more than he had expected. At first he had wondered if Chloe had misjudged her, or whether she was, like Chloe, only interested in some kinds of submission. Sometimes she resisted his control until she had time to think -- a good sign -- but had so far accepted and seemed to enjoy everything he'd asked.
From the impatience he could sense now, he suspected that she didn't know what kind of control he meant, and he wasn't sure what her reaction would be. But clarity was good for both of them.
--
"I want to start with something simple, something you do every day," he said. "I would like you to surrender control of how you dress."
She sat back, visibly surprised. After a moment, she said, "But you already control that. I dress for you all the time. I wear the things you buy me. I'm wearing this because you told me wear it this morning. I dress like a slut for you."
"Yes, you do," he said. "And I can see how much you enjoy saying that, and doing it. But that is you choosing, at certain times, to wear things you know will please me."
She nodded, still not sure where this was going. Was this not obvious?
She flinched when his hand gripped her by the back of her neck, but she relaxed her muscles, giving him control, letting him turn her to face him. He looked directly into her eyes. "What I am saying is that you will have no choice, at any time, in what you wear."
She responded to his hand on her one way, but to his words, another. Her eyebrows went up.
"Every day, whether I'm going to see you or not, you will dress to my instructions and wear nothing I have not approved," he continued. "I'll always know what you're wearing, and you will not change clothes without permission."
She started to speak and he raised his hand to stop her. "Let me finish. I will choose your clothes, or you will select what you'd like to wear, and ask if I approve. When we are not together, you will message me or send me photos with enough time for me to review and respond. If you need to change during the day, you will again ask permission and describe what you want to wear."
This was extreme, more than she'd imagined. It was making her wet, but also a little apprehensive. "Every day?" she asked.
"Every day," he said. "This will be your first real taste of what 'property' means. Being my property means that you don't dress yourself. I do."
"So you'll pick my clothes out for me, or I'll wear what I choose if you approve it?" she asked.
"What if you can't answer when I ask you?"
"Then you can wear what you requested; I'll still know what it is," he said.
"So you either pick my clothes or you approve them, and I tell you everything I'm wearing."
"Yes," he said. "Or I may give you rules, or prohibitions, or requirements. For instance if I tell you that you are not allowed to wear a bra, you would then have to select clothing that would be appropriate for work. Or I may tell you to remove something during the day. I may tell you that you may not wear anything but skirts or dresses all week. I may have you go without underwear entirely."
"You're going to get creative with that like you do," she said.
"I'm going to do whatever I please, without consulting with you," he said. "I'm going to tell you how to dress, and you're going to obey. Do you understand?"
"I think so," she said. "What if it's cold and..."
His hand gripped the back of her neck again and she stopped, feeling a line of electricity going down her spine to her pussy.
"There are not what-ifs," he said slowly. "You obey, that's it. Do you understand?"
This was the moment, he thought, seeing the surprise in her eyes. Now she's understanding. He waited while her mind worked, wondering if he'd found her limit already.
