It All Comes Out In The Wash

The first day was a special kind of hell for Toby. Every movement was a reminder of his imprisonment. The cage rubbed against his thigh, a constant, chafing presence. It itched, a deep, infuriating torment under the skin that he could never hope to scratch. He worked on his scaffolding, high above the streets, his body moving through its familiar motions while his mind was trapped in a loop of humiliation and pain.

Every time he saw a pretty girl—a young woman on her phone, a girl in a café window—his dumb, traitorous cock would stir, attempting its natural function. And every time, the tiny spikes would bite, a sharp, punitive warning that sent jabs of pain through him, extinguishing any spark of desire before it could catch. He was being unmade, cell by cell, erection by erection.

When his day finally ended, he drove home in a daze, the pain a dull thrum. He walked into an empty house. On the polished oak of the kitchen table, a single note sat waiting for him. He recognized Mildred's sharp, spiky handwriting. "Good boy, go shower and wait. Come back down to the kitchen for instructions. No need to get dressed."

Mildred watched him through the lens of the hidden camera in one of her kitchen canisters, the grainy feed on her laptop. She watched as he yelled her name, the sound echoing uselessly in the empty house. She watched as he screwed the note up and threw it onto the floor, his face a mask of defiant fury.

She tapped her keyboard. His punishment was instant. Toby screamed, a sound of pure animal agony, as an electric current slammed through his cock. He fell to his knees, clutching his groin, his body convulsing. Mildred let it subside, watching him whimper on the floor, before giving him another, shorter shock. A prod, to get him moving again. She followed him through the house via the cameras, her lip curled in a faint, triumphant smile. Her grip would be getting tighter.

She watched him shower; he spent a good ten minutes frantically trying to figure out how to remove the cage, his fingers probing, pulling, and twisting. He gave up with a furious thump against the wall, his frustration his only release. Mildred let him have that small moment of defeat. For now.

Earlier that day, she had sent Jane a message on the old flip phone. "Take the chain padlocks and gag from under the cupboard under the stairs. Wrap the end of the chain around the bottom banister post and padlock it. Padlock the other end of the chain to the ring on your collar. Then put the ball of the gag in your mouth and strap it tightly around the back of your head. Do it now."

Mildred's camera access to Jane's house was more limited than to her own, but she had the main areas covered. She was pleased to see that, via the living room camera, Jane was much more compliant than Toby. The poor woman moved like a zombie, her body following the commands while her eyes were dead. She attached the chain, limiting her movement to a frustratingly small radius, and strapped the rubber ball deep into her mouth, her cheeks bulging.

Later that afternoon, Mildred let herself into Jane's house with Jane's own keys. Jane flinched as she entered, her eyes wide with fear. Mildred had brought supplies: not the gourmet food Jane was used to, but cheap, brand-name basics from a cut-price store, the kind of tinned goods and value packs that Jane would never have been seen dead with. She dropped the bags on the floor. "This is your food from now on. Earn anything better, and you'll earn it."

She unlocked Jane's chain from the banister, dragging her upstairs to the bathroom. Without a word, she shoved her into the shower and turned on the water, full blast, cold. Jane's screams were muffled by the gag as the freezing water hit her, her skin tightening, her body shuddering violently. When she was thoroughly chilled and washed down, Mildred hauled her out, cuffed her hands to the low bedpost so she was bent over, her pale, frozen buttocks high in the air.

And then, Mildred gave Jane the first caning of her life. The thin, flexible rod whistled through the air before cracking against her tense skin. It was worse because she was freezing, the pain sharper, more brutal. Jane bucked and screamed into the gag, a chorus of suffering that fed Mildred's sense of absolute control. She delivered a dozen precise strokes, painting a beautiful, stinging ladder of red across the white canvas of Jane's flesh.

When she was done, she uncuffed her from the bed. Jane collapsed to the floor like a discarded puppet. Mildred leaned down, ripped the gag from her mouth, and spat directly in her tear-streaked face as she lay crumpled and broken.

"Learn your place, slut," Mildred whispered, and walked out, leaving Jane to sob in the cold, empty house.