Life with Princess

Chapter One - There's Always Next Time

He takes the first stroke of his supervised masturbation.

"STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP!" she shouts. "HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK."

"I'm sorry Princess" he immediately stammers. She cuts him off with a snap of her fingers. He knows to fall silent immediately.

"I did not say "start," did I?"

"No Princess" he says softly.

"And yet you took a stroke."

"I'm so sorry Princess. I don't know how it happened."

"You don't know how it happened?!?! Your grubby little hand came around and gave it a stroke!"

"I just mean I didn't mean to, Princess. It just happened."

"It just happened! I can't think of a more pathetic excuse. Take some accountability for yourself, Pig."

"Yes Princess."

"So how do you think we should proceed? What is the proper course of action after an unauthorized stroke?"

"Uh," he manages.

"Take your time," she says, examining her nails in order to communicate disinterest.

He knows the correct answer. He is cursing inside, loudly and at length, but the truth was the stroke had just sort of happened. It hadn't been a conscious thought, he knew better than to take a stroke before Princess told him to start. So it was just his body betraying his good intentions.

But none of that changes the answer he knows Princess is expecting. He

could

say something else, of course.

"

well I think you could be a little understanding with a guy who's been locked up for more than six months and is only permitted to stroke once a month under strict supervision. I think you could forgive a guy in that situation a little underachievement in his self-control.

"

But mouthing off to Princess last happened...in another lifetime. Somebody else's lifetime. The creature Pig is now isn't going to try that even for a second. The creature Pig is now knows the correct answer.

He pauses, trying to stay measured, calm. "Say it without the attitude" had previously resulted in more than two sessions with Princess and the cane. "Straight back into chastity," he says.

"Bet. I'm very proud of you for having the courage to take accountability. Stand up, hands behind your head."

Princess turns to her side and takes the thick rubber gloves off the bathroom counter. She strides over to the side of the tub and crouches down. She takes a deep breath, obviously steeling herself for something terrible, and moves to put the chastity cage back on.

Her rubber-coated fingers slowly approach his fading erection. At the very first instant of contact his hips twitch and his cock makes a tiny, almost imperceptible thrust toward her.

Once again,

he thinks,

things just happen.

She gives a small scream and backs up. The look on her face is like a particularly ugly rat has just crawled out of her soup.

"I can't deal with it," Princess says. "It's too disgusting. And the fucking gooner vibes radiating off of you in this moment is more than I can tolerate. I am going to stand outside and if you do not walk out, fully secure, key in hand, in fewer than 90 seconds we are going to have more problems."

And with that she steps outside, closes the door behind her. He silently takes a deep sigh and silently lets it out. Then he hustles to get the cage on.

Putting it on is a familiar feeling, though for so long it had been for an afternoon of self-indulgence, that sort of thing.

Despite the familiarity he is a bit out of practice, as the cage has only come off for the seven supervised masturbation sessions, one per month of their time together.

Princess used the time to update the log she was keeping in her notes app.

Session 1: Canceled after 79 seconds due to going WAY too hard and pig being about to hurt himself

Session 2: Canceled after 74 seconds due to excessive thirst in glance toward superior

Session 3: Canceled after 63 seconds due to constantly messing up "Stroke Slut's Poem of Gratitude"

Session 4: Cancelled after 210 seconds due to being boring af

Session 5: Cancelled after 54 seconds due to sarcastic smile that was giving "I don't understand how hard this is for Princess" energy

Session 6: Cancelled after 45 seconds due to announcing impending orgasm in tone that was lowkey threatening

Session 7: CANCELED IMMEDIATELY (less than 0 seconds) bc pig had absolutely ZERO self control, literally couldn't even START before getting shut down (embarrassing)

Same basic form. She screams "STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP," offers a brief explanation of issue, prompts Pig to provide an adequate solution. The first month had featured a modicum of what he thought of as discussion. The second session ended with what he thought of as earnest disappointment, but Princess knew was passive aggressive resentment.

He scared himself after the third session broke down. He had tried to memorize the ten line poem she had written and when it came time almost none of it was there, just stammering and pausing while he went at it.

The scary part was that after she cut him off he thanked her, babbling almost, thanking her for providing strength and discipline when he himself could not, for compensating for his massive faults, for his inability to control himself when granted a tiny bit of personal freedom by his superiors.

"You're welcome, Pig. I'm happy to be helping you," Princess had said. A pause fell between them, and they were both surprised to discover how deeply they meant what they were saying.

On his part, he ached to be controlled. He had begged more than one woman in his life, found them all less into it than he needed them to be. And now there was Princess, new to the game but devilish, creative, and apparently ruthless.

For her part, she was still in awe of what was developing, finding it fascinating. He had asked her to be unfair, he was getting it, and he was eating it up. Princess had always wondered about the people out at the edge of human experience, and now she had found one.

That was four sessions ago. She is still fascinated. He is weeping. He exits the bathroom and hands Princess the key.

"Thank Jesus," she announces as she threads the key back on to her necklace. It falls outside of her shirt. There was a time where she would have tucked it under the hem. That time has passed.

Currently they were headed for a relaxing evening in, the supervised masturbation being Princess' idea for a celebratory kickoff into the weekend. He has promised to control himself this time, to behave appropriately.

"To the kitchen, Pig" says Princess. He heads down the hall, careful not to mope or hesitate.

Princess follows him into the kitchen and motions for him to stop and stand in a particular spot. She goes into one of the cupboards for a handful of rice, which she pours in a thin layer in front of where Pig stands.

"Kneel," Princess says. He complies instantly.

"This is the first of your punishments for ruining the evening," Princess says. "I'm wrecked that what could have been a fun and relaxing evening must now be all about the endless task of correcting your inadequacies and unfortunate impulses."

There was a short pause. He takes his cue.

"I'm sorry for ruining the evening, Princess."

"I know," she says as she gently strokes his hair while he settles in on the rice. "I know."

Several hours later he is in the at-least-its-human-sized dog bed that sits at the foot of what used to be his bed. He is on his stomach, trying to avoid irritating the sharp sting from the lines across his ass. This has the effect of making his chastity cage lie awkwardly, either under him or folded back. This is uncomfortable. He squirms.

"Get it together, Pig" Princess calls as she exits the bathroom and crawls into bed. "I won't have my beauty rest interrupted."

"Yes Princess," he replied, and he turns over to rest on his back.

Chapter Two - Waiting For Spring Rains

They had started as roommates. It was a college town without enough housing, and she had just gotten a job as a quant in the college's investment office. He had bought a house back when he graduated, which was well before the price of everything went completely insane, the most recent round of which left him wondering if a roommate could hurt.

There was her more-or-less innocent stumbling on to his vast and lengthy internet life, postings and threads and, finally, a chunk of stories plainly about himself and a bright young college grad who moved in as a roommate.

That gave her enough of "the ick" to bring it up, and there were a series of long and often awkward conversations, but ones in which she was curious and far from judgemental.

He figured she was, at best, 48 hours from telling him to shove his lease up his ass and departing from his life forever. So he decided to shoot his shot.

Haven't you ever wondered?

She had not. Before, at least. But she had started to?

A little bit?

He tried not to panic, not to overdo it, not look a cliché horse in the mouth. He tried to bring some curiosity to things. He tried to find out what sounded appealing to her, what sounded weird.

She was into the service. "It's a love language, right?" she had asked. That was easy, he figured, and it could grow from there. Every story he wrote had marathons of pussy eating, furious spankings, all the classic material, but he figured one thing at a time. Princess had moved in in August, and the conversations lasted for a while.

One day in late September she reached into the refrigerator for her lunch, silently cursing for not having re-upped her supply of the seltzers she downed all day. Except she found, sitting there, a fresh case of her usual and another case of a new flavor she'd been meaning to track down.

Is this what he had talked about?

Subs,

he had said,

good ones, anyway, anticipate needs. It's not just, like, sitting around waiting for you to draw up a list of chores.

Once she had an inkling of what was possible, it was easy to see this and that around the house that either needed to be brought up to standard or she simply didn't enjoy doing on her own.

By mid-October she had prodded him to improve his basic habits; sweeping and mopping now happened daily, and all dishes were done by him. As he worked, she sat on her laptop and browsed his forum posts and his stories, trying to get a deeper understanding.

So that was how the twice weekly sweeping and mopping went from a standard household chore to the scene of a grown man stooped and scurrying, carrying two pieces of the Let's Play House! 6 Piece Pretend Play Set.

He looked ridiculous, stooped over and pushing a 28 inch broom across the floor. She was once again relaxing and watching this happen.

It was striking to think about, that she had simply dropped this restriction on him and he had said yes. Thanked her, even! And as November's days grew cold and the light began to disappear, her thoughts turned to chastity.

It had featured heavily in his online life and he framed it as essential to the kind of relationship he craved. There was no more immediate and tangible form of control. She was still just a roommate, at that point, and taking an active interest in his cock was too wild to contemplate.

He understood that, and knew that this whole thing was incredibly unlikely to fly, but if it did it would be service, then punishment and humiliation, and then, maybe, sex.

But the sight of this grown man pushing a 6 inch wide broom across his floors was so striking that as she was watching it happen she just got it in her head that it could be improved.

"Are you locked up?" she asked.

"No," he said, sheepishly.

"Go get it," she said, "You'll put it on yourself, and you'll finish the floors naked."

She had looked at pictures of chastity when they first discussed the subject, but this was her first glimpse at his. It was stainless steel, and the chastity made it look really quite small.

Maybe he's a grower,

she thought,

Maybe I can do this without ever learning.

From there things began to snowball. The stores had barely put out their Christmas wares when she special ordered two bone-white mats for inside the doors. ""It's such a clean, festive vibe!"!" she said. They somehow picked up dirt even on the days when no one stepped on them.

The new year saw her turn her attention to the laundry. He was doing all of it, and the fact that he was handling her most delicate and salacious undergarments began to eat at her.

She made a late Christmas gift of a pair of goggles designed to simulate a.13 blood alcohol level. The intricate details of the lace were obliterated, and most of his energy went into not spilling soap everywhere. It was more than effective in taking any sexual thrill out of the task.

Mercifully

most

of the remaining laundry wasn't done by hand, and it wasn't stimulating enough that Princess felt the goggles were necessary. Laundry was laundry, for a time, until February brought a new and colorful agony.

He was hanging a few sweaters up when something caught his eye in the back corner of the Closet. Reaching in for it and what he found behind it, he pulled out an array of classic dominatrix gear. Leather and latex, corsets and catsuits, fine lingerie sets, more classic dominatrix gear.

He hadn't asked her to buy the outfits, and she hadn't mentioned them when she did so. They had simply shown up. She hadn't told him about them, hadn't teased him about hiding them, she hadn't threatened him with punishment if he asked about them, nothing.

They were just there. Mocking him.

The subtlety of this drove him insane. One day, when he knew she was at work and would not be back for a few hours, he took it all out.

He hung the pieces on the bedframe's upper railing and laid them out on the bed in different combinations, staring at each for a moment, trying to picture Princess wearing them.

His hand drifted to his crotch and started stroking a phantom dick He looked down at it but didn't stop, simply marveling at what his current life was driving him to do.

There were several layers to process. A real man wouldn't have begged a woman to lock up his dick. A real man, even an unlocked one, wouldn't be stroking to fancy lingerie and boots laid out on a bed. He wouldn't even be stroking it to a real woman wearing the ensemble. He would be taking her, fucking her.

His hand kept moving and he tried to imagine being that man. He tried to honestly evaluate what he would do if given the choice, the life that was currently developing, or the one he was imagining.

It all started to eat at him and he moved to wipe his fingerprints off the boots and put everything back in the deep reaches of the closet.

He felt a very particular sort of ache, one unfamiliar to many. It was a delicious, deep feeling, the echo of pleasure that so perfectly validated his denial fetish.

He told himself it would be best to confess his laying them out, his delusions about other lives.

He moved on to a task that was tedious but possible to do correctly, but difficult for Princess to verify. Washing the produce in water that had been boiled to sterilize it and then cooled to precisely 68 degrees was annoying, but manageable if he planned correctly and used a big enough pot of water to do it in one batch.

When Princess had made this stipulation she knew full well she would never be home to verify that it was being done, and would have no way of checking.

She knew she could explode one day if she wanted to, claim she could "lit-trally just tell" and he would grovel and apologize. That didn't really appeal to her, although physical punishment had become way more fun than she had expected.

It was simply something she had thought of that would make him feel controlled. This was the meat of it for her, on a daily or moment to moment basis. She had read all his stories by now and she found the bitchy dommes in them trite and uninspired.

If I'm going to do this,

she had told herself,

I'm going to absolutely eat. Show him just how far it can go.

All of this - the passing of time, the growth of control, who he is, who he can and can't be, how lucky he feels - passes through his head as he does the day's chores. He pauses before tidying up the living room in order to quickly snap a few quick pictures.

Last week's tidying had gone...wrong. He and Princess had stood, the first spring breeze of the year coming in the window, and she had told him that it wasn't right, it wasn't tidy.

"Put it back exactly like it was," she said, "then clean it again."

After the 8th time he failed to correctly place the spare change that had been on the coffee table he broke down and begged Princess to just cane him and let him clean the room.

As she let him catch his breath between two substantial strokes she thought about this, the begging.

Why let him waste my time with that many attempts?

she thought.

I should have gone to the cane quicker. That's on me. Lesson learned, I guess.

The lesson he learned was to take a few pictures.

Chapter Three - Friday Night Is Date Night

Princess arrives home and finds Pig's efforts largely unremarkable. She does check the spice rack, which she had told him to organize by country of origin.

"The cinnamon?" she asks him. The jar is unlabeled.

"Sri Lanka?" he asks hopefully.

"Vietnam," she says with some regret. If he had chosen Vietnam she would have said Sri Lanka, of course, and they both know it.

She briefly considers levying some kind of penalty for this error, but the truth is the impossible tasks are a new escalation of the arbitrary ones and she still feels uncomfortable literally hurting him for something he had zero hope of avoiding.

She focuses instead on asking him to prepare a snack of crudite, knowing he will agonize over perfectly uniform vegetables. Following that, she tells him, he should put on his blindfold, lock himself in the queening box and lie on the bathroom floor to await her.

The box is of his own creation, from back when there wasn't any queen to occupy the throne, nevermind a Princess.

Things are different now, though, and his body is stretched out along the bathroom floor, his head cradled in a foam-lined box with an opening at the top. Despite the blindfold his chastity cage twitches in anticipation.

The shower cuts off and Princess steps out. After a bit of toweling off, she comes and sits on top of the box, positioning herself so that her pussy is centered in the opening, directly in what would have been Pig's line of vision. She nudges Pig with her heel.

"Thank you for denying me a glimpse of your perfection, Princess," he says.

"You're welcome, Pig, but I don't want to talk about me right now. Let's talk about you."

He knows what is coming. They have had this conversation before.

"Do you think I'm attractive, Pig?"

"Yes Princess."

"And when I showed up on your doorstep, here to see the room you had for rent, did you think you were the luckiest man on the planet?"

His thoughts go back to that day. He can't remember if he felt lucky. Shortly thereafter he left his laptop out in the living room, and now he can't tell how lucky he is. "Yes Princess," he said. "The luckiest."

"When I left after an hour, did you think about fucking me? Did you think about me getting down on my knees and sucking your dick?"

He pauses. Even though they've had the conversation before, even though he knows where it's going.

"No, Princess."

"That's actually wild," she muses. "I mean, not to be glazing myself but literally every man who has ever had the privilege of seeing me has thought about fucking me."

This isn't a question, so he keeps silent.

"Maybe you thought about being my friend? I wouldn't blame you for thinking you couldn't bag me. Anyway, did you think about that after I left? Fun chats over a glass of wine?"