Sausages for the Slave

In accordance with established protocol, I was standing ready to greet my wife as she came home from work. I waited in the hall by the garage door and, as she came in, she half turned away to allow me slip her jacket off her shoulders. It was slightly more difficult for me to do today as my hands were shackled by a short chain to a collar round my neck, but I managed it gracefully enough. Maintaining my dignity in that situation was not an issue. Not just because I was also gagged and had my head enclosed in a woolly sheep-like animal mask. Nor because I was dressed only in a very short blue frilly dress over tight white cotton knickers that were fully visible. It was because through the soft material of the knickers my raging erection stretched and strained for the attention I was unable to give it. Pathetic.

"Well, here's a boy who clearly enjoyed his day," she said, sliding her hand up and down my aching member as she placed the handle of her handbag into my other waiting cuffed hand and gave me a gentle but definite squeeze to my sore bum. "We might still be a little touchy down there, mightn't we?"

"Baa," was all I could say as my gag contained a kazoo that only allowed me to say 'baa' or 'aaa.' That was my full vocal range. I also could do loud or soft. A soft 'baa' felt appropriate.

"Run along and put my things away, then bring my dinner to the table," she ordered, while giving me a more directed slap on the behind. That got a louder 'baa' in reply from me, more of an 'ouch, that hurts' baa. In normal times it would count as a playful slap, but not today. I scurried away to hang up her coat and bag in the closet, the fresh stinging of my already sore ass reminding me that she is the person who gets to decide when I have a sore bum and how sore it might get to be. Like many a loving couple, we are fairly far along the 'jump and how high' scale in our relationship. She says 'jump' and I say, when I'm allowed to say anything, 'how high?'

I'm not any great shakes as a cook. She specifies what she wants for dinner either in the morning before she goes to work or she might plan menus for a few days ahead, or even for a week ahead. Though that is a bit pointless as she'll always change her mind or her plans over the course of a week. Not that I complain. Not anymore, anyway. This choosing of meals often takes the form of a pretend conversation between us in the evening. Her sitting on the couch, sipping a drink, me standing across from her, hands behind my back - in the at ease position - but giving her my full attention. "What about number 29?" We chat a bit about the pros and cons of Number 29. Then she decides.

She has this big cook book that is about 30 years old and she swears by it. It is fairly comprehensive and not gimmicky. I should know what No 29 is, and usually will if it is one of her favourites. When she has decided, she gets out the phone and enters the numbers. They transfer to the tablet in my room so that it comes up along with my daily job list. The following morning, when I scan the tablet for my jobs for the day, the evening meal slot would show: No. 29. At the appropriate time I get out the cookbook and slavishly follow the recipe. It was quite a long learning curve, but I'm a competent enough now. The big learning in that department is that it is always wise to follow the recipe exactly.

"I don't suppose you want to sit down?" she asked as I placed a salad starter before her. I shook my head.

"Sit," she said, indicating the seat opposite her at the big oak table that I had earlier been stretched across in more painful circumstances. I gently eased myself onto the seat, a low 'baa' escaping me as my weight transferred to my sore ass. She was letting me know I have no choice in these matters by suckering me into indicating my preference then simply ignoring it. She knew I would have to get up in a minute anyway to bring in the casserole.

I placed the casserole on a cork mat on the table beside her. Thankfully, she decided to spoon her portion onto her plate herself. She jiggled her wine glass. Pouring her wine was a bit difficult. My vision through the sheep helmet was not great and I had to bend low over the table to allow my manacled hands reach down to the wine glass while she ran her hand high up the inside of my leg playfully. As if I was in the mood for play. A spilled drop of red wine on the table was considered a misdemeanour. There would be some small consequence for me. I managed not to let the bottle drip. "Stay bent over," she said and she pulled down my knickers at the back. "Hmmm, we'll have to put some disinfectant on that later, just to be safe. Up straight."

Of course she didn't bother to pull my knickers back up. I stood back up and to one side as she finished her dinner, topping up her wine glass once more. She doesn't do desert; watching the calories. Of course the fact that I wasn't eating and hadn't eaten since breakfast was neither here nor there. And I had only had breakfast the previous day as well. We'd been around the houses on this topic before. I know what she'd say. "A good breakfast is a foundation for the day. And you had your breakfast yesterday and again today. Think of all those Chinese living on a bowl of rice a day, or was it the Viet Cong? They did all right. Anyway an occasional day of fasting never did anybody any harm. Cleans out the system. All those old religious days of fasting and abstinence, forty days in the desert, blah, blah, blah... " She'd go on to argue that she was in fact doing me a favour.

As it happened she had something else on her mind beside my grumbling stomach. "Do you know what I saw in the garden as I was driving in?"

"Baa?"

"A dandelion," she said shaking her head sorrowfully while gazing into the depths of her swirling wine glass as if something tragic was lurking there, like a starving African famine victim. "Tut, tut. It's most unfortunate. I don't have to remind you what it means, do I? I mean surely it's not too much to ask that you keep that tiny patch of grass weed free."

"Baa," I agreed, thinking, 'you know well that I know what that means.' You see she has this thing about the little patch of grass in the front of the house. It must be kept weed free at all times, as in no flowering or visible weeds sticking up through the grass or in the borders around the edge. And because we have to save the planet at the same time, no herbicides or chemicals of any sort are to be used in the garden. It is my responsibility to ensure that any threatening weed is spotted and picked out before it flowers of shoots up above the grass. Easily done most of the time, except that, firstly, I have been physically restrained for the guts of the last two days, and secondly, when I was free earlier today I was busy catching up on internal jobs. Besides, I was dressed in the short blue dress and a ridiculous sheep mask, so going out into the front garden to weed was out of the question. And besides further, I would add - if I was going to protest my innocence - the green thick bottle lenses of my sheep helmet would make it impossible to see the weeds from the grass; everything would just look green and blurry. I rest my case, the case that I would not attempt to make, even if could say anything other than 'baa,' because to protest my innocence, or to seem in any way to query her position, amounts to insubordination. And insubordination leads to her picking up the phone and calling the Enforcer. (See chapter 3 for the full horrors of an enforcement.) Now we don't want that do we?

Dandelions can appear in seconds. They are malicious, conniving, cunning weeds that seem to have an uncanny ability to hide down in the grass till they are on the point of flowering and they know your back is turned. Then; voila, a big bright yellow dandelion appears shining out of the lawn like a lighthouse just as my wife is turning her car into the driveway. No missing it. No point in trying to make excuses either, I should have anticipated it using sixth sense or something. Sometimes the outside cameras pick up the weed and she spots it when she is reviewing the recordings, but that, thankfully, is rare.

There are so many weed types. I know the names of most of them by now, but dandelions are her special hate, along with buttercups. So the deal is this: I suffer four hours in the t-bar for each dandelion that is allowed to flower in the garden and she spots it before I pick it, likewise for buttercups. Only two hours for any other weed that flowers or sticks up above the grass, because some of them don't have a visible flower, just an unsightly bunch of leaves or a stalk. Thistles and nettles are a special category. There are different punishments for them. They usually come up in the border, half under a shrub or up against the fence between us and the neighbours. Briefly, the deal with thistles and nettles is that I have to pick them under her supervision and stuff them into my underpants at the back so that they are in close contact with the crack and cheeks of my ass for the rest of the evening. It usually is the evening as she spots them when she comes in from work. She invites me to sit down lots when I have a thistle stuck to my ass. Or she gives my lots of playful taps on the bum. The nettles do more damage if I am moving about, so she has a programme of exercises for me to do on those evenings. They involve a lot of squatting and standing; legs together then squat, and stand, legs apart; legs back together and squat, and stand, and so on. Usually she has me positioned to one side of the television so she can watch her programme while keeping an eye on me at the same time.

"Are you paying attention?" Somehow she sensed that my thoughts were wandering, I maybe I have missed out on inserting a 'baa' into one of the pauses in her monologue which seemed to have drifted on from on my failings as a weeder to my general failings as a person.

"Baa," I shot out, hoping to mollify her.

"I'll tell you what," she said, 'why don't you put on your spreader bar for your afternoon on the T-bar tomorrow? That might improve your attention span. Four hours on the T-bar is only a walk in the park for you anyway.

"Baa," I replied. That was my version of 'Bitch, with a capital B.' She probably guessed I wasn't exactly singing her praises. The one positive of the gag; I can sound out anything I like and all she hears me say is some mix of 'baa, aaa, etc.' The spreader bar makes the T-bar torment a lot worse and she knows it. No point in dwelling on it now; plenty of time for that tomorrow afternoon.

"Let's map out your day for tomorrow; then it's time for bed - for you. I'll take off your helmet and cuffs in the morning. We don't want you getting too fond of hiding in there. After breakfast you'll do your morning general tidy up. I've no doubt you will want to do some weeding in the garden too. Then, I want you to wash Mrs Galloway's car, she asked me about that yesterday, then lunch, and we know that the afternoon is all sorted. I'll let you out of the T-bar when I come home from work, about six. That'd be about right wouldn't it? That would work out nicely. You can prepare a salad for me at lunchtime and put it in the fridge. And remember to dress in your car washing outfit in the morning. Are we good?" she burbled happily like she was organising a junior P.A. at the office, as she tapped the info into her phone and sent it to the tablet on my bedroom wall.

"Baa."

I tidied up the dinner things and washed the dishes and pots. We have a dishwasher, but it rarely gets used. "Think of the environment, darling," she'd say. "Why would we use a dishwasher when we've got you, and you've got all day?" As I was bent right over into the sink to reach down to wash the dishes, she came up behind me and gave a squeeze to both tender cheeks of my sore bum. "Don't forget to bring the jar of disinfectant ointment when you are finished here."

I waited for her in my room. I couldn't undress because of my hands being manacled up close to my collar. She left me standing there holding the jar of ointment for about ten minutes before she waltzed in and started undoing the blue Bo Peep dress at the back and had me step out of it. She pulled my knickers all the way down and gave me a playful, yet sore, slap on the balls. "Step out of those panties and into the shower." She put on some surgical gloves and took the showerhead off its fitting, set the spray head to the narrow jet setting and turned it on full power, cold. Then she hosed me down with it, hard and sore especially on the ass and shoulders where the enforcer had had her wicked way with me that morning. She avoided wetting the helmet.

I shivered and shook all over while she patted me dry with a towel. But it was a nice, tender moment for all that. We never had kids, nor even a pet. Sometimes, I think, she likes to do these sort of severe maternal things, like I'm her naughty little boy who has to be sorted out with a bit of harsh love. Then it's all hugs and kisses and treating me nicely. Maybe it fills a void. That's what I was thinking as she had me bend over the chair in my room and she rubbed the ointment over my raw ass. It stung, and the throbbing returned. "It's for your own good, dear," she said, like she was making her little kid take his cod liver oil, or dosing him for worms, more likely. She was liberally coating a small dildo with the astringent ointment as she said this. "This might sting a little," she said, as she slid the dildo up into my ass and had me stand up. She pushed her finger up against the base of the dildo so it slid right inside and wouldn't come out overnight. A deep stinging and burning sensation spread inside my ass, matched by a hard throbbing erection in front. My only consolation was that it would fade eventually, and it was a good idea. She had me step into a fresh pair of cotton panties and pulled them up snug against my bum at the back and, having turned me around, tut, tutted as she pulled them up over my raging erection.

"Let's get you to bed, my poor suffering little boy. Mummy will help you get to sleep."

I gingerly laid myself on my side on the bed facing the wall, knees pulled up and the pants tight against my burning ass. At least they were keeping the ointment in place and letting it do its work.

She stepped out of her shoes and slid onto the bed behind me, spooning up against me. I felt snug and secure and cared for. She moved a hand around to my front and slid it inside the panties, grasped my throbbing cock and slowly started to stroke, up and down, up and down. She pushed one of her knees between my legs and rhythmically thumped it up against my asshole in time to her hand strokes, jogging the dildo inside each time. I came quickly into the panties. She held my cock tightly as it spasmed several times, gave a final involuntary twitch and was still. She eased her hand away and whispered in my ear. "Sleep tight my little lamb. We'll soon have you back on track as the good obedient conscientious little helper you want to be. You want to help your Mommy be better in her job, don't you? And you don't ever want to make you Mommy look silly in front of her co-workers again, do you?"

"Baa,"

"Good boy. Now if you are having trouble getting to sleep, just try counting sheep," she laughed as she slid off gently the bed and left me alone.

"Baa, aaa," as in very funny, ha, ha.

I heard the door slide close and lock. The thick green lenses of the helmet gave the room a gloomy bottom of a fish tank feel. All was quiet. The room is fairly sound proofed so I had no idea what she was up to or if she had visitors. Once or twice she had gotten me up late to serve drinks or coffee to late night visitors. A bit embarrassing, but what can you do? A slave is a slave, even if she doesn't call me one, and orders are orders.

As the light slowly faded, I lay still and let my mind wander over my situation and how it had got to where it had got to. She thinks of me as her naughty little boy, or her playful little pet. Needs to be kept in line but can be useful in a limited range of tasks around the house. The reality is that I am her slave. She not only tells me what to do, she controls how I do it and, in fact, controls every aspect of my life. Yet I don't have a slave contract. We never had that big decisive discussion where I agreed for evermore to accept her total dominance, though I've often fantasised about how it might go. You know the one where he has been begging to be dominated for years and she is reluctant. He pushed her into a few fumbled attempts at tying him to the bed but she never got into it. In fact she eventually told him never to bring up the subject again. So he gets on with his life in quiet desperation, wishing and hoping, snatching the odd sordid internet adventure on dodgy websites. Then one evening she comes home from work and says, 'it's time we have a serious talk.' It turns out she's been studying all about D/s relationships, has been tracking his online activity and has secretly ordered a ton of stuff on the web; handcuffs, collars, whips etc. and is now all in favour of making him her total slave.

She doesn't beat around the bush: After a brief run through of how she knows what he has been up to online and how she knows and understands what his wishes and desires seem to be, she asks him straight up. Do you want to be my slave? Before he can answer, she does the legal due diligence thing. Placing her hands over his lips to stem the 'yes' that wants to burst forth from his very innermost core, she warns him that, if he says yes, there will be no going back - ever. He, full of the logic of his massive and now throbbing hard on, pretends to ponder briefly, then says yes, or even, in his excitement, 'Yes, Mistress.' Why wouldn't he? After waiting for ten years, after dreaming for ten years of this moment, and never really believing it could possibly come to this; what else could he say but 'Yes, Yes, Yes.' Scream it from the rooftops. 'I want to be your slave forever, starting right now.' And what do you know? His dreams are all about to come true, plus a few nightmares he wasn't planning on having.

She's all business now: Slaps a detailed slave contract onto the table which she had downloaded from the internet. All the usual stuff, plus detailed rules of conduct set out in an attached annex. He doesn't even bother to pretend to read it in his hurry to sign and date it. She countersigns it and dates it. There is a space for a witness to certify that both parties to the agreement are of sound mind and are entering into the contract of their own free will. 'What will we do about that?' he asks, a frisson of excitement running through him at the thought of having to go into some solicitors office downtown to have his slave contract ratified. Him made to stand to one side while his wife sits across the desk from this power dressed very professional solicitor type lady. Her mousey personal assistant looking him up and down contemptuously as she takes the documents out to be photocopied.

He doesn't get far with that fantasy. His wife says her pal Carley is coming around to witness it later. He says, 'Yes, Mistress,' loving the sound of it. She puts the contract on the side table and bends down behind the couch and picks up the steel cock cage she got over the internet. He can't believe his luck. This is really happening now, after all the years of wondering what it would be like to be put in chastity. He immediately drops his pants. Doesn't wait to be asked, or ordered as will be the case from now on. He holds the ice pack to his cock and balls till the erection fades. He even helps position the cage around his balls and over his cock. Then the extra surprise; she produces the little home soldering kit she previously got him for his birthday. He had wondered about that as he had never expressed an interest in soldering. She's been practicing. The soldering gun was hot and ready to go. Must have had it plugged in behind the TV.