My Life With Little Sparrow

I almost never come home early unless it's for a good reason. I have two reasons today; one of those being to keep you on your toes, of course, the other one is to give you news.

If you followed the rules, as you should always, you might have heard the car pull up, but just in case you were busy doing anything for your own sake and enjoyment and didn't hear it, I close the car door slowly, quietly. I don't lock it; you might hear the alarm being armed.

I press my ear against the door trying to detect any activity from within. There's silence on the other side, unlike that I surprised you.

Of course you remember that day. Right? I heard the living room TV through the door. You thought you had the volume faint enough to hear me come home but you were wrong. Naturally, I was angry that you weren't in your place, and yet I was also enticed because this particular disobedience was a huge no-no, and I could hardly wait to "correct" your attitude.

I wanted to sneak in on you and loudly clear my throat, theatrically, so I could see you whip around and shoe me the shock and horror on your face. But I was too excited and slipped the key into the first door lock too quickly, resulting in the audible click that alerted you. It didn't take me too long to open that lock, and then the doorknob lock, but it was long enough for you to shut off the TV and run for your life upstairs.

I have to hand it to you though. In spite of your fear-fueled rush, you still took the extra moment to cover the last two inches between door edge and door jamb, just slowly enough to avoid an audible door "click". Unfortunately for you, I wasn't too far behind and caught a glimpse of the bedroom door closing.

And we both knew that it wouldn't have made any difference. If I accuse you of breaking the rules, you'd have to accept your punishment whether I personally caught you or not. It also didn't help that while you were indeed in your blank state when I barged into your room, I could hear and see the effort in your breathing resulting from the exertion.

Today, I detected nothing that would indicate to me that you were doing anything other than being an obedient, dutiful, sissy.

In your bedroom, I find you sitting on the front edge of your bed in the kind of fancy dress better suited for a 13-year-old girl circa the 1950s, rather than for a young man of 23 years in age. You're staring blankly ahead, not even acknowledging my existence. I know it's impossible to have absolutely no thoughts in your head, but since that day when I whipped down your panties, laid your over my knee and broke nearly every single subdermal capillary under the skin of your ass, you've learned to excel at the mindless, sissy, fuck toy stare.

Do you remember how much you cried that day? We never discussed it, but I'm pretty sure that before that day, you had never cried like that, for any reason, or anyone. Carmilla Knox herself had told me that while your parents were not exactly great or even responsible parents, they never resorted to corporal punishment.

I think you can still feel the phantom sting on your ass cheeks from that day. That memory should be indelibly etched in your psyche on the instinctive level. One of the things I most remember of that day is the momentary anger I felt when you laid across my lap to receive your punishment. It seemed to me that that you were expecting-- merely a harder spanking than normal. That anger quickly transitioned into a perverse satisfaction with that first spank.

Your body violently jerked, then stiffened, as your mind struggled to process the wholly unexpected pain. In that moment, it seemed to me that the struggle within your mind to intellectually process what had just happened, competed with the intense pain signals that raced from your trembling ass to your brain.

The very air was forced from your lungs with such violent swiftness that you couldn't even consciously think to exert control over the very act of breathing. The moment lasted so long, that the subsequent and equally violent intake of air was proof that you nearly passed out.

And just before you could catch hold of your senses-- WHAP! On the other, creamy white buttock. I could almost feel the heat from your inflamed ass.

Your animal brain triggered the flight response, but the relative difference in our physicalities rendered your struggles comically useless. Except there was nothing funny about your punishment.

I was starting to be able to figure you out by that time. You realized that you should have stifled the instinctive struggle to flee. By not doing so, you extended your punishment. The next few hits were just as hard, but your ass was already numb, and so you didn't feel them as keenly, but they were still painful. I adjusted to cover whatever flesh I hadn't already, directly hit. My large hands made this difficult.

The moment came when I sensed your fear that I might cause permanent damage. This caused me to catch myself. I realized that I risk going too far and fear that I might have jeopardized my standing with the Carmilla Nox Foundation. But your punishment couldn't be over at that point, not for what you did.

Your wracking sobs: music to my ears gave me an idea. I shoved you off me when you couldn't even stand. You fell to your knees and supported yourself against the bed to keep from falling prostrate.

I pulled out my large semi-hard cock.

"Worship." I commanded.

Through the diminishing miasma of pain you awkwardly placed yourself between my knees and clasped your hands in prayer, with my meaty, veiny cock between them.

You could barely speak through your sobbing. "Thank you for what I am about to receive."

Your tears flowed copiously as you placed my still soft, but rather large cockhead in your mouth.

When the first tear dripped on to my cock, it landed like a thunderclap, causing me to spring to rigid hardness more quickly than has ever been the case. The messy mix of tears, along with uncontrolled saliva and cry-snot that resulting from your blubbering was more than I could bear, I added to it the mess by pulling out and plastering your face with thick, gelatinous, clingy stream of cum.

"Go clean yourself up."

I watched you awkwardly work your way to your bathroom.

Incredibly, it took me a very short moment to regret my actions. Our contract with the Foundation mandates that I give you some free time. It's time that you could use however you please-- without leaving the premises. I was concerned that I went too far. This would, of course, had freed you to contact the Foundation and discuss what just happened. I feared that you might exercise this right and ask to be extracted from our arrangement.

You came back in from the bathroom and shot me a glance that I couldn't figure out. There was real fear there, initially, but you must have seen something in my face that lessened that fear, though remnants would persist. The part I couldn't figure out at the time was the faint trace of adoration that I could swear was there.

You broke protocol by speaking first.

"I'm taking six hours of free time." It was firm.

Too firm. But I was still struggling with my loss of control and couldn't bring myself to chastise you.

"Of course." I responded.

Your turned away from me. "I won't be calling the foundation."

I had gone too far. But you magnanimously decided not to enforce that aspect of the contract.

It dawned on me what had just happened.

I broke you in.

It wasn't just the punishment that did it. In that instance where you looked at me after emerging from the bathroom, you saw me gelling into a more responsible Lord.

That was the moment we began to grow toward one another

But here you are today, obediently waiting to be activated, and if I just stand here at your door for an hour, saying nothing, or if I spend that time going through your things or looking for hiding spots where you might hide anything that you intend to enjoy as yours alone, or anything indicating an independent identity, you'll just sit there.

I remember another time when it occurred to me that you might have stashed something under the mattress right where you were sitting. Do you remember that as well? I went to force you out of the way, but you obliged without breaking that blank demeanor. Almost like a Roomba vacuum bot, a slight nudge here and there was enough to manipulate your body.

I was so pleased with how you handled that, that I let you give me a blow job with a bonus: I came directly in your mouth instead of spilling my cum on the floor for you to lap up.

Today I can tell you why that was another special day for both of us. At the time, I explicitly told you that I was pleased with your behavior, but the truth is that I was also so very proud of you.

That was the day my faith in the Carmilla Nox Foundation solidified.

Back in the present, I look at the neatly organized collection of collars and leashes hanging by the door. For just the tiniest fraction of a second, I consider leaving you unleashed, but I reconsider. I walk to the equipment dresser and open one of the top drawers. The one that holds new collars, leashes and harnesses. The baby blue nylon dog collar with matching rope leash seems like a good choice in keeping with my generous mood because all of the hardware is plastic. Since it's never been used before, I also think it might be kind of a treat for you.

I turn my attention to you, snap my fingers and say "Break."

Your body relaxes and god damn it, against my better judgment, my heart melts just a little when I see your eyes flood with life, and you shoot me that quirky little smile of yours. I can't help but smile back; your cool blue eyes become even more luminous in response.

It used to be that I'd fight such an impulse and show the evidence of the struggle on my face, but our counselor at the Carmilla Nox Foundation had advised me that I should always look as if I'm in self-control. It's better to go with an instinctive impulse than to seem conflicted. Failure to show self-control could cause some measure of disobedience on the part of the bonded sissy.

A bonded sissy is specially trained to seek sissy perfection. That training includes learning to detect weaknesses in her Butch Lord. She would be honor bound to test that weakness for the sake of her Butch Lord. A bonded sissy is also honor bound to report any deficiencies in her Butch Lord or Bitch Lady as the case may be, and it's very important that I maintain my Butch Lord status. The quandary for the bonded sissy is that they also face some peril in reporting a deficient Butch or Bitch, if it's found that they failed to make a good faith effort to "train" the Butch on how to be a better dominant.

As you know, I'm currently a five-star Butch Lord which means I can avail myself of the most accomplished bonded sissies and you have certainly proved yourself highly accomplished by this point.

Your initial expression upon being released from "the blank" used to be one of relief. But here we are, six months after the start of our union, sharing a genuine warm moment, and I feel an even deeper appreciation for the Carmilla Nox Foundation's method of sissification and relationship management.

I pick up the crisp new package containing the blue collar and leash. The carboard backing shows a happy little dog with wavy illustrated lines indicating a waging tail. I watch as your eyes light up at the prospect of wearing something new. I can't help myself. I walk over to you, lift your head up by the chin and plant a soft kiss on your cheek. I can see you struggle to keep from gushing and it's OK. Sissies have their own set of rules for dictating their own self-control and unlike masters, the Carmilla Nox Foundation has ten rating levels for alumni. You are undeniably a ten. Nothing less would do for a Butch Lord of my status.

You instinctively crane your neck up higher and hold back your curly blond hair in anticipation of being collared and leashed by your "daddy". The package is a little difficult to break open and it takes some time, but you sit there and wait patiently. When I finally work it out, I apply the collar and leash, but I reward you by putting the leash handle in your own hand.

"Walk yourself."

I head toward the kitchen downstairs with you following no less than three feet behind.

Since I'm home earlier than you expected, there's no dinner waiting for me. This is not something I can punish you for and in truth, I wouldn't punish you even if it was required by the terms of the contract with the Foundation.

My status within the Foundation allows for some leeway and it seems unreasonable to punish a sissy for something that wasn't their fault. Some might argue that a sissy should be prepared for this eventuality, but I call bullshit. Suppose I wanted something cooked fresh and not merely warmed up.

If I have to answer for any lapses in exercising my authority I could simply say that being a Butch Lord already poses too many requirements on the Lord; what's the point of being a Butch Lord if you're as constrained in that role as the sissy is constrained in his? As I see it, that's not just an excuse, it's true.

As usual, I decide to dine in the kitchen rather than the separate dining room. There's only dining chair in the kitchen. I Pull it out and toss the loose cushion on the floor. With no hesitation, you sink to the ground and sit on the cushion.

I make two identical sandwiches, to my tastes. This is not a problem for you because you've been trained to eat any kind of cuisine. Also, having no food allergies is one of the factors that make you a premium bonded sissy. I think, however, that these sandwiches might fall outside the dietary requirements you have to adhere to in order to maintain your specific body. I'll leave it to you to figure it all out and make a notation in our log if that is indeed the case. You'd also need to be sure to have me sign that entry if warranted.

Note to Other Readers

The name "Sparrow" was our own name for her. I don't yet know what her real birth name is (her male birth name). She has real world ID, but I can only access that in case of an emergency or for unavoidable legal requirements. I might never know her true name but her designation at the Carmilla Nox Foundation was Junco, another small bird species. Junco is still her designation as far as the Carmilla Nox Foundation is concerned. The designations assigned to alumni are always the names of small, weak animals. Junco is not a popularly known species of small bird.

On occasion, I have two types of visitors to the house, trusted visitors and clueless visitors. The distinction between the two is that the trusted are aware of my life, and in all cases, are associated with the F1, while the non-trusted have no clue. We changed her home name to Sparrow because I didn't like explaining that "Junco" is another small bird when I had trusted visitors over.

When I have clueless visitors over, I have to keep her existence secret. During those visits Sparrow stays locked in her room without making a peep.

One time, I had to host weekend guests who were clueless. Luckily, the Foundation has a number of strictly bonded contractors sworn to secrecy that provide a number of services. One of these contractors was a moving firm that specialized in "erasure".

Sparrow packed a weekend bag and was picked up by the F1 and spent the weekend there. The moving company came in, photographed the room, cataloged everything, packed it away and replaced it the kind of mundane furnishings that wouldn't raise questions. The room was to remained lock but why take chances.

When the visit was over, the entire process was repeated in reverse. It's a service I have to pay for and it's quite expensive.

As you might have guessed, I'm rich.

To Sparrow:

I sit down with both sandwiches on a big plate. I cut your sandwich into bite size pieces and feed you by hand while you sit at my feet on the cushion on the floor. I pet you occasionally while I read a couple of newspaper articles on my tablet. I love the way your head and neck press against my hand sensuously, like a cat. In truth, I can't concentrate enough to actually read; I'm pretending the entire time.

"Get yourself something to drink."

You dutifully stand and just as I expected, you turn to face me before getting your drink.

"Yes?" I ask.

"Can I please get you something to drink my Butch?"

Your drive to please me, to care for me, is nothing short of genuine. I'm sure of it.

I soften my expression. "No. I'm fine." I almost add "thank you" but that would have been counter-indicated-- I think. I don't always get the guidelines right.

We never could figure out how I could feed you something to drink without making a mess, however.

You grab yourself a bottle of water and wait for me to tell you which water bowl to use. The punitive one, which is just a normal dog bowl, or our standard one; the cute, custom-made ceramic bowl we use just to maintain the dom/sub dynamic without making a mess. The one you prefer because it accommodates a short drinking straw.

"No bowl." I pause to gauge your reaction.

You don't seem worried because you know me well enough to know that I'm not going to make you lap it up off the floor, there's no reason for that.

Before you take your place back at my feet, I surprise you.

"Put the bottle on the table, bring in one of the dining chairs from the dining room and sit in it."

That request really does surprise you .

When you're finally seated, I advise you to "Drink at will."

The confusion on your face is priceless. I can see that it takes you a split second to understand that I'm not trying to trick you into disobedient behavior. You can't be in defiance of me if you're following my orders. You'd be able to report me.

You realize that you might be able to report me anyway just for showing you this courtesy, or you'd have to mitigate this apparent faux pax by doing something to cause your own punishment later on. It's clear to me that you don't want to report me. You wouldn't hurt me like that, but you don't relish any future punishment.

No. That's not it. You no longer want to disobey me at all, and punishment has nothing to do with it. I marvel even more deeply at the genius of the Carmilla Nox Foundation's training.

Trembling, you sit in the chair, afraid to look me in the eye even though I have not forbidden it at this time.

"Some time this week, " I begin, "we're going to get a visitor from the Carmilla Nox Foundation."

There is some immediate relief on your part as you now realize that an abnormal situation is at play. It then dawns on you that this must be the six-month review. And you're right. A new queasiness begins to flood you. This feeling is unwarranted; there were a few bumps in the beginning of our arrangement, but you've been a marvelous, compliant sissy, even flawless these last two months. And you've made me a better, more responsible dom. It's a dynamic the vanillas wouldn't understand; a dynamic that most of them don't even know is a feature of such relationships.

"As you might have guessed, it'll be an auditor. How we proceed after this assessment will depend on the final report."

I don't tell you that I'm also dreading this for a variety of reasons, the most ever present one in my mind being the thought of having you replaced with another sissy. I can't lie to myself and pretend that I don't care about a possible downgrade of my status, I care very much about my status, but the main component of that fear is losing you. There's always the possibility that we're not deemed a good match and I can still retain my five-star status; proceeding forward with another sissy. But I wouldn't want that. I've come to think you as my special little femboi.