Sally and David

The microwave's hum was an insult, grinding into my skull while I stood there like a trained dog reheating her supper. My fingers found the collar—always the goddamn collar—digging into my neck like it wanted to crush my windpipe. Metal contacts bit into my skin, the lock a permanent brand that needed her fucking phone to open.

We used to talk. This leather noose stopped that. One sound—one fucking word—and I'd learned what it could do. The memory made my jaw clench: me trying to ask a simple question, her eyes flashing with contempt, and then the world turned to white-hot agony as I convulsed on the floor like a dying fish.

The microwave beeped. I yanked the plate out, steam scalding my hand. Upstairs, the shower ran—her shower, while I stood here collared and caged. Earlier, I'd forgotten to kneel. Just fucking forgot. She'd tested the new shock cage like she was testing a toy, and my body had remembered what my brain tried to forget.

She looked at me like I was furniture. A chair. A table. Something to wipe her hands on. The collar made sure I couldn't ask what the fuck had changed, couldn't demand answers, couldn't do anything but obey and wait for the next jolt of pain.

My reflection in the window showed a collared animal, eyes dead. I opened my mouth, just to feel air move, to remember what freedom tasted like. The collar seemed to tighten in warning, a vise around my throat.

The silence at dinner was a fucking knife, the cutlery clinking like tiny hammers on my skull. She scrolled through her laptop, not even bothering to look at me. I was supposed to be grateful she let me eat at the table instead of from a bowl on the floor like a goddamn animal. She finished, pushed her plate away, and said, "That was nice." Not a thank you—just a statement, like she'd just evaluated a fucking appliance.

"Clean this up, then, Lounge."

I bit down the rage, got off the stool, and knelt to kiss her feet. The ritual made me want to vomit. I scrubbed the already-clean kitchen, wiping counters that didn't need wiping, putting away dishes that were spotless. It wasn't about cleanliness—it was about erasing me, one pointless task at a time.

In the lounge, I dropped to my knees on the carpet, hands behind my back, head down. The position was automatic now, muscle memory carved from months of this bullshit. My knees pressed into the exact spot where Mike had fucked her from behind. I could practically smell the memory.

Five minutes. Ten. She turned pages on her tablet, each one a little slap in the quiet.

"Look at me."

I looked up.

"I've been thinking," she said, conversational, like we were discussing the fucking weather. "About the party. It's crucial to my career, so we need to do this right." She took a drag from her cigarette, blew smoke in my face—smoke she knew I hated. "You haven't spoken in weeks. I'm thrilled about that, honestly. But people will expect you to talk."

She grabbed my chin, her nails digging in. "So here's what's happening. Starting tomorrow night, after you're locked in your room, I'll release the silent mode on your collar for twenty-five minutes. So you can practice using your voice like a real person."

She leaned closer, her breath hot with tobacco and malice. "But hear me, you little shit: I will be watching. One wrong word, one hint of attitude, and I'll shock you so hard you'll piss yourself in front of everyone. And then I'll post every piece of footage I've collected—every degrading, pathetic moment—and tag your whole fucking family."

She shoved my face away. "Kiss my feet. Then get out."

I leaned forward, pressed my lips to her bare feet, the carpet burning my forehead. "Good boy," she purred, the words poison.

I stumbled to my room, my legs numb with rage. I lay on the bed, the collar a noose around my neck, the cage a vise on my cock. 

The party. Could it be my chance? My only chance? The light under the door went dark.

I rolled onto my side, closed my eyes, and fantasized about ending all this. 

Monday. The week of the fucking party. Coffee in bed, her hand on my head, and the instant agony in my crotch as my cock tried to get hard against the cage. Business as usual in this hell.

I did my chores. Did extra ones, like a good little dog hoping for a treat. The treat? Twenty-five fucking minutes where I could speak without getting electrocuted. Twenty-five minutes out of 1,440. Generous.

Eight PM. "Bed. You get your twenty-five minutes when the door closes. Don't fuck it up."

I brushed my teeth. Pissed. Shut the door at 8:15. The collar beeped. I didn't trust it. Whispered "Hello" like a scared kid. Nothing. Said it louder. Nothing.

Stood in the middle of my cell and spoke to the goddamn walls. "My name is David. I'm a human being. I have thoughts. I have a voice." It came out rough, like I'd swallowed gravel. I'd gone days without speaking. Felt like years.

I tried to shout. Just to see. The collar vibrated—not a shock, but a promise. Conversational level only, bitch.

So I talked. Told the walls about the coffee that morning, how it tasted. Told them about my knees, how they ached from kneeling so often. Told them about the party, the terror of being found out. Told them I missed her—missed the woman who used to laugh at my jokes instead of laughing at me.

8:40. Footsteps. The collar beeped, and the muzzle slammed back on before she even touched the door.

"Time's up," she said, leaning in the doorway. "Enjoy your little chat with nobody?"

I nodded. Couldn't trust my voice not to crack with rage.

"Good." She stared at the floor like I wasn't worth eye contact. I kissed her feet, the ritual humiliation.

She turned, then stopped. "David? Shout again, and it's level three. Straight to your vocal cords. You won't make a sound for a week. Not even a scream.” She closed the door .

I lay on that shitty bed, hand on the collar that owned me, and felt the fury boil in my gut. Twenty-five minutes. Spent talking to four walls while she listened to every word.

I wanted to rip the cage off. I tried to wrap the collar around her throat.

But I just lay there, breathing through the rage, waiting for morning.

Tuesday. Same nightmare. Coffee in bed, my cock trying to get hard in its cage. The ritual kiss to her feet while she scrolled through her phone, not even looking at me.

Chores. More chores. Pointless chores. Welcoming her home on my knees by the door, pressing my lips to her shoes like a pathetic supplicant while she checked her messages. We ate in silence—her scrolling, me staring at the wall like a good little nothing.

She finished, shoved her plate aside. "Lounge. After you clean up."

I scrubbed her dishes, rage making my hands shake. In the lounge, she was on the sofa holding a black leather blindfold. She threw it at my feet.

"Put it on. Then kneel."

The blindfold crushed my skull, cutting out all light. I heard her shift, the rustle of her skirt. "Closer."

I shuffled forward on my knees until the sofa pressed against my chest.

"Kiss me."

Blind and helpless, I leaned forward. She'd opened her legs, shoved her skirt up. My mouth found her automatically, working like a machine. The blindfold stripped away everything—no warning, no sight, just the command and my instant compliance. I wasn't a person. I was a mouth. A tongue. A tool.

She moaned and yanked my shaven head, grinding against my face. When she came, she pushed me back like she was shoving away a used toy.

"Up."

I stood, blindfold still on.

"Bed. Twenty-five minutes."

I ripped the blindfold off, got ready, and lay on the bed. At 8:15, the collar beeped off. I opened my mouth.

"Hello."

My voice sounded broken. Rusty from disuse. I practiced, keeping it low, conversational, the way she'd allow. I told the walls about the blindfold, about being reduced to a mouth without eyes, about the party in five days. Five days until I had to play the happy pet in public.

At 8:40, footsteps. The collar beeped on. The door opened.

"How was that?" she asked, leaning against the frame like she owned the world.

I knelt, fury choking me, unable to answer. Because she owned my fucking voice. She closed the door. lay on my bed. The cage between my legs hummed softly, a test pulse—a reminder. I flinched, and the hum stopped.

Four days until the party. Four days until I had to be presentable, locked, and somehow normal.

Wednesday. Same ritual, same cage. Coffee, failed hard-on, kiss her feet like a bitch. Chores. Supper. Silence that could cut glass.

After we ate, she stood and snapped, "Upstairs. Bedroom."

I followed. She pointed at the cage. "Hood on. Bend over it."

I yanked the rubber hood over my head, sealing myself in blackness. Bent over the cage, stomach pressed to cold metal. She tied my wrists to the far side, yanked my ankles apart, and lashed them to the legs. Immobilized. Exposed. A piece of meat.

She shoved something against my lips. "Suck."

A rubber cock, thick and tasteless. I opened my mouth. She strapped it tight, the buckle digging into my jaw. I was a mouth to fuck, nothing more.

I heard the drawer slam. Gloves snapping like gunshots. Lube squirting. Then her finger—cold, slick, brutal—pushed into my ass without warning. I groaned around the rubber cock.

She worked it in and out, scissoring hard, stretching me open with vicious efficiency. Then something bigger. The blunt head of her strap-on pressed against me.

"Remember when you fucked my ass?" she hissed, slamming into me in one thrust. "Now it's your turn, cunt."

I remembered—early in our marriage, when we were equals, when she moaned with pleasure instead of contempt. Now she fucked me with the strap-on, slow at first, then pounding hard, her thighs slapping against my ass like she was beating me.

The cage dug into my stomach. The rubber cock filled my mouth. I was pinned between them, used from both ends, a fucking object.

She came with a shudder, grinding deep, holding me impaled while she spasmed. Then she pulled out, leaving me empty and trembling.

Gloves snapped off. She went to the bathroom, washed her hands like she'd touched something filthy. Came back, untied me with rough jerks, yanked the cock from my mouth, ripped the hood off.

"Bed. Twenty-five minutes."

I crawled to my room, her still inside me, the taste of rubber and humiliation in my mouth.

Three days until the party. And she was breaking me down, piece by fucking piece.

Thursday. My ass still throbbed from that fucking strap-on, every step a reminder of how she'd used me. Coffee, failed hard-on, kiss her feet, chores, supper, silence. The routine was its own goddamn cage.

After we ate, she snapped, "Lounge."

I followed, dropped to my knees automatically. She was already there, the strap-on jutting from her hips like a weapon, strapped on over her hiked-up skirt, her panties shoved aside. The black silicone glistened.

"Lick it."

I stared at it, the taste from last night still coating my mouth. I couldn't. Not again. Not now. I stayed frozen, my refusal hanging in the air.

She didn't hesitate. The remote was in her hand. She hit both buttons.

The cage erupted first—an internal shock that felt like a lightning bolt up my urethra. I doubled over, screaming silently. Then the collar fired, a jolt to my throat that seized my vocal cords and stole my breath. I convulsed on the floor, gasping like a fish.

"Lick it," she repeated, voice flat as a blade.

Fury and pain blurred my vision. Tears of rage streamed down my face. I crawled forward, opened my mouth, and took the silicone cock between my lips. I licked and sucked while she held my head, forcing it deeper, choking me with it.

"Good boy," she said, empty as a hollow shell.

When she was done, she stepped back. The crop appeared in her hand—magic, like she'd pulled it from hell itself. She brought it down across my ass, five sharp cracks, each one precise as a surgeon's cut. I howled around the strap-on, the sound muffled and pathetic.

"Bed," she ordered, yanking the silicone from my mouth. "Twenty-five minutes."

I limped to my room, my ass on fire, my throat raw, the cage and collar humming with residual threat.

At 8:15 PM, the collar pinged off. I lay on the bed and whispered to the walls, "I'm fucking terrified."

At 8:40 PM, it pinged back on. I was alone with the taste of silicone and the countdown echoing in my skull.

Two days until the party.

Friday. The air felt like a fucking electric fence, humming with something worse than usual. Coffee, failed hard-on, knees on the floor, chores, supper, silence so thick I could choke on it.

When she came home, she didn't even wait for the bullshit ritual. "Upstairs. Bedroom. Hood."

I followed, pulled the rubber hood over my face, and sealed myself in darkness. She directed me with her voice to the bed. She was already there, skirt shoved up, no panties. She grabbed the back of my hood, yanked my face between her legs.

"Lick."

The taste hit me like a punch—musky, thick, fresh. Someone else's cum, stronger than before, more recent. She'd done it today. Probably bent over her desk on her lunch break while I was scrubbing her fucking floors. The cum was thick, still warm in my mouth. I licked, the humiliation burning like acid.

"Good boy," she breathed. "Now you know what Friday lunch looks like."

She pushed me back, stood, guided me to the cage. "On top. Face up."

I climbed on, lay back. She shoved a cushion under my ass, lifting my hips up like a fucking offering. Then the ropes—legs bent and tied to the cage sides, arms pinned underneath. I was immobilized, arched upward, completely exposed. A thing. An object.

She removed the cage from my cock. Then she was between my legs, the strap-on pressing against me. She pushed in slowly. I grunted, the burn immediate.

"Take it," she whispered. "Take it like you took his cum."

She fucked me with the strap-on, slow and deep, while her hand worked my cock. The dual sensation—invaded and stroked—was a fucking betrayal of my own body. I was hard despite the shame, despite the cage, despite everything. Because my body wasn't mine anymore. It was hers to manipulate.

She leaned forward as she pushed. Whispered in my ear. "Come for me. Come while I fuck you with his taste still in your mouth."

Her hand moved faster. The strap-on hit that spot inside me. I came hard, spurting across my stomach, the orgasm ripped from me by her hand and her cock and her fucking words. She didn't stop. She kept fucking me through it, prolonging the humiliation, making me feel every second of my own violation.

Then she pulled out, leaving me empty and shaking. The cage went back on. The ropes stayed on.

"Stay there," she said, wiping her hand on my chest like I was a dirty towel. "Think about what you are."

I lay tied to the cage, her taste in my mouth, my own cum cooling on my stomach, the strap-on's phantom pressure still inside me. It was a long time before she came back. My cum had turned to cold slime, drying in sticky trails down my sides.

She yanked off the hood, untied me with rough jerks. "Go clean yourself, you're disgusting. Then clean the kitchen. Have a sandwich. Then bed."

She paused. "Your twenty-five minutes start when your bedroom door closes."

One day until the party. And I was nothing but what she made me. Nothing but a hole, a mouth, a fucking joke.