It had been almost two weeks since my last orgasm. I'd been locked in the cage after a particularly lengthy cock teasing and torture session, only allowed out for washing under strict supervision, and the need for release had only intensified. By the time I had finished preparing myself per Sir's instructions, I was thrumming with excitement--physically, obviously, but emotionally as well. I didn't know what to expect, but with him I rarely did.
We'd been together long enough to have earned that level of trust and faith in each other. I wouldn't have allowed him to lock me away like this otherwise, or give him carte blanche for whatever he desired, within my boundaries. It was really only after our wedding.
He was still surprising me, even after several years together. It made me love him even more.
Hair still slightly damp, I walked to where he was sitting and kneeled on the cushion waiting there. The gesture made me smile; while I called him 'Sir' or 'Master' during sex and kink, his broader role was much more nurturing and gentle.
Daddy even in sadism, I thought, and fought to keep my face solemn.
He ignored me for a few minutes, continuing to scroll on his phone. I didn't mind. This was part of the game, part of getting both of us in the right headspace. When the position became uncomfortable, I tried relaxing. It didn't work, but Sir decided he was ready. Casually, he tossed his phone down on the sofa beside him and turned his attention to me.
"You remember your safewords?"
"Yes, Sir." I was ready to get to the fun part, desperately hoping he would remove the cage around my cock. I needed an orgasm. The possibility of impending release--physical and sexual--made my cock twitch as it tried to grow.
He smirked, noticing my reaction.
"Eager slave, aren't you. Are you wanting something?" He leaned down and caressed my encased cock. I moaned slightly, wanting more, unable to feel much of anything through the thick plastic. My balls were sensitive though, and the featherlight brushes of his fingers across them sent tremors through me.
I was hornier than I'd ever been in my life.
"Please, Sir, I can't stand it," I whined. I hated whining. He was the only man who could even induce such sounds from me, but I thought I sounded pathetic.
He laughed, removing his hand and sitting back.
"You can't? Too bad little slave, you're going to have to. I don't intend to unlock you today."
I dropped my head in frustration, fighting back tears. He could be cruel sometimes; prior to this, I'd never gone more than a day without an orgasm. Usually more than one. My libido was high, and his last session of teasing me had started my penile incarceration with high sexual tension. He'd been continuing to tease me, with words and sex, having me watch him masturbate to clips of my favorite porn. Two weeks later, I felt as though my brain were melting.
He stood, bending to grip my hair and pull me to my feet. I squeaked at the sudden sharp pain in my scalp but found my feet quickly. He released me and the pain subsided to a dull tingling. Then he kissed me hard, mashing my lips against my teeth. They'd bruise, I knew, but the kiss pushed my brain into quiet, docile submission.
"Do slaves get a choice in what their Masters decide for them?" His voice was harder now.
"No, Sir," I whispered as I shook my head. I knew he was right. Slaves, even consensual ones, were property in all ways except legally.
I heard the sharp snap of flesh-on-flesh before I felt it. A split second later, before my brain could even register what the sound was, a burning, stinging pain blossomed on my cheek. It wasn't the worst I'd experienced, but it wasn't pleasant either. Immediately I felt his hand encompass my throat as his hot breath tickled my ear.
"'Sir' isn't here anymore, slave."
Feeling chastised, I mumbled a hasty, "yes, Master" and was released.
He strode away, down the hall to our bedroom. I followed, uncertain if I should. He hadn't said for me to, but he hadn't given any other instruction either. His mood had shifted from the daddy-dom husband I usually lived with to the full-scale, strict Master. I had to be cautious to avoid any missteps he could use as fuel against me.
It wasn't often he was like this. I wasn't often comfortable with consensual slavery. We worked well together because we could adapt to each other's needs and had similar kinks, built on a foundation of love and friendship and general dorkiness. If this had been a lighter scene, I'd have been wearing a slave-Leia costume, but he had gone to the darker side of his personality.
Thus I found myself naked save my cage, kneeling in the doorway of our bedroom, thankful for the carpet I had initially hated. There was some cushioning for my knees, at least. With my eyes on the floor I couldn't see what he was doing, but I heard him walking around and opening drawers.
My anticipation was ramping up again. Even though he'd said he wouldn't unlock me, there was a chance he was using that to push my buttons. Perhaps he would. Perhaps he would tie me down and play with my cock. Even more edging torture would have been welcome at this point...anything to get out of this damned compressive, plastic tube.
His slipper-clad feet came into my view as he stopped in front of me. They weren't sexy per se, but his comfort far outweighed whatever preconceptions I had about Domly footwear.
I waited, barely breathing, curious and anxious and already feeling soreness in my spine and legs. Kneeling sucked, even on carpet.
"Stand. I want you over the bench, knees spread wide."
"Yes, Master." I did as he directed. The bench was actually a leather-covered ottoman made for bedrooms. People supposedly used them for adorning and removing shoes, but I secretly suspected they were actually made for sex.
This position was little better for my knees than kneeling, but I knew better to complain. If he had been in a gentler mood, I could have asked for a change, but the only way I would convince him now would be through a safeword. This was uncomfortable, not unbearable, so that wasn't an option.
I felt vulnerable though. Cool wind from the ceiling fan wafted across my body, causing me to shiver, the leather surface of the bench warming to my temperature quickly. The room wasn't cold, but it wasn't warm for someone without clothing on either, and there were parts of me getting the breeze that normally were kept warmer. More than that I was exposed.
His hands were warm against my skin as he adjusted my position, his soft slippers nudging my knees further apart. I blushed, imagining what he must see. I was spread out and wide open like an invitation. A slut. Meat for torment and fucking. With the cage on, I couldn't even pretend to be equal. No, I was a toy. And I felt it, at that moment.
Something cool and wet and hard touched my anus and I flinched, then relaxed. It felt like a slippery plug but it wasn't the largest we had, in either length or girth, and I sighed in relief. If he was using the smaller toys, he didn't plan to be too rough with me. Perhaps his mood was shifting, again, and we'd conclude this scene with laughter and orgasms for both.
Smiling at the thought, I barely registered the spicy warmth spreading through my anus. It continued to grow, drawing my attention, until a fiery burn consumed me. I realized with a start this wasn't a plug after all. At least it wasn't a traditional one. Sir--Master--had decided to use a ginger root instead.
I began to whine. I couldn't help it, the heat was intense. If we hadn't used ginger before I would have been worried about burns and blisters, but I knew that wouldn't happen. Which did little to quell the ¬feeling I was burning and blistering.
"Master--please--it burns--" I panted, my hips shifting restively. I couldn't help it. I was never much of a masochist.
But he didn't remove the plug any more than he unlocked my cage.
"Does it burn, slave? Good. I plan to use this ass later, and I want to remind you who it belongs to. Lift your head." I did, and he placed a small ball gag in my mouth and securing it in place. "Good. Slaves don't need a voice." I nodded weakly. With the loss of speech, my safewords would now be hand gestures. The burning from the root pulsed inside me, waves of heat that ebbed and flowed, and my hips refused to hold still. I knew the movement was making it worse, but I had no control anymore.
