As Alex walked back toward the employees' exit, he began to recount how his life had transformed. How did an assertive, confident and successful man transform into the simpering, cock-locked humiliation toy his girlfriend and her bull had created? The answer, as it was with nearly everything in his life, narrowed down to his own choices and desires.
Erin had given him a chance. Or, more accurately, Brock had. She had been talking about Brock every other day since he took the job as the Director of Customer Satisfaction at Mile High Airlines. It was immediately clear that he was to be hands-on with his flight attendants, and the changes he made to their protocol were demeaning and thrilling at the same time in Erin's eyes. Their uniforms changed overnight from semi-professional business suits to short, slutty outfits only worthy of a common office tramp. The tight blouses were constantly undone down to show their cleavage, tucked into navy miniskirts that left very little to the imagination. Erin even regaled Alex with a tale of one of her friends who'd dared to leave an extra button on her blouse done up. She told her then-unlocked boyfriend with bated breath that Brock had simply taken a pair of scissors and cut away the useless top buttons from her blouse and those of the other stewardesses on the flight.
"Including mine," she said, as she offered the lapel of her blouse to her boyfriend for visual confirmation.
Stewardess. This particular term was another of Brock's sweeping changes. No more were they flight attendants, they were stewardesses, and announced themselves as such. An old-school, borderline-misogynist term that was made the default identifier for an entire group of women under his watchful eyes. If he ever caught any of his charges using the term 'flight attendant', there were severe repercussions.
As he approached the BMW, he sighed at the thought that he'd become everything he dreaded and desired in such a short amount of time. Careful what you wish for.
Alex had been given a chance, once the new relationship dynamic became clear. But the deep truth is that Brock's power over his girlfriend had been just as terrifyingly thrilling to him as it had been to her. A deep, hidden part of him craved that type of control in his life. Someone to subjugate him without regard for his pride or his pleasure, to use him simply for their own devices.
On that fateful night, Erin was dressed as a perfect representation of this cross-section in their lives. She wore one of Alex's old plaid button-up shirts, her sleeves rolled back halfway up her forearm. That was tucked into a leather skirt that Brock had bought her, which led down to three-inch knee-high leather boots. On top, she was Alex's, down below, she belonged to Brock. And it was put into Alex's hands to whom she, and he, would fully belong.Brock watched as Erin fitted the plastic prison over Alex's shaved cock and slid the lock through the clasp, then spoke.
"Alex, this is your chance. You may step away, remove that cage, and go back to your home and your life. Erin will either choose to stay with me or go back to you, but I warn you - this is the only chance you'll get like this from me. If you stay, if that lock closes, you become property of Erin, who is property of me. We will endeavor to push your limits as far as they'll go, humiliate and deny you at every turn, and only reward you when you've deeply amused us. If you are staying, you may ask your girlfriend to close to lock. If not, you'll take it off yourself."
The way his cock bobbed in the little cage at the thought of Erin administering this degradation to him was indication enough, but he did take a moment to consider the ramifications of his decision. When would he be permitted to fuck his girlfriend again, or receive any sort of release? Was this only exciting now at the onset and would he come to regret submitting to it? That was the question that drove his real decision. He projected himself in the future, rationally hating the treatment he was receiving, stuck inescapably in it under the amused thumb of his girlfriend and the unyielding eyes of her bull, and the concept of him thrilled him like nothing else ever had.
"Please, Miss, will you close the lock on my chastity cage?"
Present-day Alex was every bit the remorseful, regretful whelp he had dreamed he'd be through rose-colored glasses back then. As he had accurately predicted, the car had been lightly coated in a thin layer of dust from being parked in the gravelly employees' lot. He sighed, knowing that this was unacceptable and resolving to get it washed before picking up Brock.
His trip to the gas station was uneventful, though he felt a bit like a chauffeur dressed in his crisp shirt and bowtie filling his girlfriend's car with premium gas and taking it through the car wash. He opted for the full package, including a wax coat at the end. It had been four weeks, and if he was especially well-behaved, his owners may allow him a humiliating orgasm at the end of the evening. He was meticulous to every detail, even pulling into a parking spot after proceeding through the car wash to thoroughly inspect the black, shiny luxury car for imperfections.
Everything made him think of his denied state.
An errant glob of wax made him consider how similar his ejaculate would look, sticking to the pristine exterior of Miss Erin's car. Wiped away with the shammy cloth kept neatly stowed in the trunk, obliterated as was the control he had over his own pleasure six months ago. A drop of water left from the car wash made him think of kneeling at the foot of what used to be his bed as Brock and Erin fucked, a bead of sweat forming on his forehead from anticipation and unfulfilled need. Again, eradicated, as were any concerns of his desires from the minds of his Keepers. And when the car was perfect, an obfuscated reflection stared back at him through the shiny black exterior of the car. A thoroughly conquered whelp of a man, off to take his girlfriend and her fuck-buddy to a romantic dinner that he would serve happily.
Brock's house wasn't far, just a few minutes away. He pulled up to the well-appointed rambler, parking on the street just in front and taking a deep breath before approaching the front door. The routine for picking up Brock was well-established and chiseled into his mind. He rang the doorbell and stood, his hands behind his back, and waited. And waited. Brock and Erin did so love to make him wait. About 30 seconds after he rang the doorbell, Brock appeared and opened it. Alex recited the requisite greeting.
"Good evening, Mister Samson. Your ride is here for your date with my girlfriend."
Brock wore a black sportcoat over a dark green button-up shirt, unbuttoned to just show a tuft of his generously-distributed chest hair. His charcoal wool pants and shined black leather shoes completed his outfit, starkly contrasted in style with the little waiter boy in front of him. He humphed in approval and strode right past, leaving Alex to scramble to catch up with him. He scurried ahead and opened the back door for Brock to climb in. Woe betide the chaste slave whose lethargy would have necessitated his Keeper opening his own door. That simply would not have done.
Brock spoke to Alex only a few times on the way to his and Erin's home, and every time he did, it was a question wrapped in a humiliation. The latter, Alex assumed, was the point of the conversation anyway, but he had to answer with enthusiasm and respect all the same.
