Sally and David

The day of the party. She woke me with coffee like she was doing me a favor. Everything was the same until 2 PM—the rituals, the silence, the waiting. Then: "Upstairs. Bathroom."

I followed. She pointed to the floor. "Kneel."

I knelt. She yanked the blindfold over my head, plunging me into darkness. Handcuffs clicked behind my back, tight enough to bite. "Stand. Legs apart."

I heard the key in the cage lock. She pulled it off. My cock sprang free, desperate for any touch, any freedom. The clippers buzzed to life. She shaved my cock and balls bare, the razor cold and merciless, stripping away the last bit of hair that made me feel human. Then ice pressed against my dick until it shriveled small enough to cram back into the cage. She locked it with a sharp twist.

"Shock system check," she murmured—a brief buzz—level one—shot through the cage. My whole body jerked.

"Good."

The blindfold was ripped off. She held up a straight razor. "Kneel."

She shaved my head and face clean, the blade scraping my scalp, my jaw, my neck. No stubble left. No trace of the man I used to be.

"Look at me."

I looked up. She held a mirror. My head was smooth, my face bare, my eyes wide and fucking empty. I looked like a prisoner. A monk. A thing.

"Perfect," she said. "Go to your room. We leave at six."

She uncuffed me. I stood, legs shaking, and walked to my room. Lay on the bed, hand on my smooth head, feeling the cage, the collar, the shock system ready and waiting.

Four hours until the party. Until I had to be presentable. Until I had to be whatever she wanted me to be.

I lay there and fantasized about grabbing the razor while she slept. About cutting this fucking collar off. About walking out the door and never looking back.

But I just lay there, breathing through the rage, waiting for six o’clock.

At about 5, she barged into my room with a suit and shoes, hanging them on the door like she was dressing a goddamn doll. "Stand." I stood, fury boiling under my skin.

She threw something at me—panties, black silk. Stockings. A garter belt. They landed at my feet like trash. "Put them on."

I stared at the fabric, rage making my hands shake. New humiliation. Specific. Designed to break something else inside me. I picked up the panties and stepped into them. Silk against my shaved skin, tight and high-cut, making me feel like a fucking joke. The garter belt snapped around my waist like another cage. The stockings—sheer, black—rolled up my legs, clipped to the belt, whispering against my skin like a secret shame.

"Turn around." I did, teeth grinding. She inspected me, walking a circle, her fingers snapping the elastic, adjusting straps as if I were a piece of meat.

"Good," she said. "Now the suit."

The suit was tailored, expensive, a costume for her pet. I stepped into the trousers, feeling the silk panties underneath, the friction a constant reminder. The shirt was crisp white. The jacket fit perfectly. The shoes were polished leather. I couldn't put the tie on because of the goddamn collar.

"We'll deal with that later," she said, like it was an inconvenience to her.

She stepped back, looking at me. "Perfect. No one will know. But you'll know. Every step, every shift, you'll feel them. And if you misbehave tonight, I'll make you drop your trousers and show everyone what you really are.”

She checked her watch. "We're leaving in thirty minutes.”

I had a good, long, hard look at myself. Somehow, she had picked a tailored suit that hid the cage and the gate belt. 

She walked out, leaving me in my suit and her lingerie, the cage pressing against silk, the stockings whispering. I waited, feeling the fabric, the shame, the sick arousal that came with being hidden in plain sight, a secret whore under respectable clothes.

The door opened at 6. I scrambled up, silk panties sliding against my shaved skin, cage biting down as my cock tried to get hard from her perfume. Fucking traitor body.

She walked out without a word, expecting me to follow like a dog. I did. Down the stairs, through the front door, into the cool evening air.

Four weeks since I'd been outside. The air hit me like a slap—car exhaust, cut grass, freedom I couldn't have. I took a deep breath, filled my lungs with it, and I wanted to scream.

She stood by the car, back to me, waiting. I walked around and opened her door. She slid in, dress riding up to show the lace tops of her stockings—her real ones, not the prison uniform she'd forced on me. I closed her door and walked to the driver's side. Every step: silk on shaved skin, cage pressing into panties, stockings whispering, collar hidden like a bomb under my shirt.

Inside the car, her perfume was an assault. I adjusted the mirror. My shaved head gleamed. I looked like a stranger. A prisoner in a suit.

"Drive," she said, checking her lipstick. "Leeds Castle. Collar's still active. Don't speak."

I started the car. Hands shaking. We drove through streets I used to know. Stopped at a light. A woman in the next vehicle glanced over, smiled at the sight of us—me in my suit, her in her dress—the perfect couple.

I looked away, feeling the secret weight of what I was wearing underneath. The joke was only I knew.

The thirty-minute drive was a fucking eternity of silk and steel and her perfume. She scrolled through her phone, ignoring me completely, while I felt every bump in the road translate to a fresh pressure against my caged cock. A mile from the castle, she jabbed her finger at a layby.

"Pull in."

Gravel crunched. She reached over, unbuckled the collar. My neck felt wrong without it—exposed, vulnerable in a different way. She handed me the tie.

"Cover the marks."

I knotted it in the mirror, hiding the faint red lines she'd left. She watched, then pulled out her phone.

"Shock test."

A sharp buzz shot through the cage—level one, but concentrated, direct. I gasped, doubling over the steering wheel.

"Good," she said. "It's working. Now, listen. You speak only when spoken to. You smile. You nod. You are the perfect husband. If I touch my earring, you excuse yourself to the bathroom and wait for me. Understood?"

"Yes," I whispered, throat still tight.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, Mistress."

She smiled, dropped the collar in her clutch. "Let's go."

We pulled up to the castle, the stone walls glowing golden. Valets opened doors. I took her arm, feeling the phantom weight of the collar, the very real weight of the cage, the silk panties already soaked with sweat.

Inside, two hundred guests under chandeliers. She introduced me to her colleagues—Mark from accounting, Sarah from HR, the new VP whose name I forgot instantly. I shook hands, smiled, nodded, and made small talk about traffic and weather like a fucking puppet.

"David's been so supportive," she said, nails digging into my arm. "He's really stepped up lately."

They laughed. I smiled. The cage buzzed once—a tiny pulse, her thumb on her phone, hidden in her clutch. A reminder.

I was scanning the room while I played the perfect husband. Looking for exits. Looking for a moment when her attention wavered. Looking for any fucking opportunity.

The castle had old doors, fire exits, and servant passages. I memorized the layout while I nodded at Sarah's story about her kid's soccer game. I counted the valets outside, wondering if I could grab a car key. I watched the bartenders, thought about slipping a note.

But the cage was always there. The collar was in her clutch. The shock system was live. And she never let me out of her sight for more than thirty seconds.

I was a prisoner in a suit, hidden in plain sight, smiling while I planned my escape.

The meal was fine—roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, vegetables I couldn't name, and didn't care about. I drank water like a goddamn child while everyone else toasted with champagne. The speeches droned on, her hand on my thigh under the table, nails digging in like talons every time someone said something that pissed her off.

Then the awards. Her name was called twice. She kissed my cheek before walking to the podium, her heels clicking on marble like a countdown. I clapped. Everyone clapped. She looked radiant up there, holding the plaques, thanking the team, thanking me—"my supportive husband, David, who's been my rock."

I smiled, rage boiling in my gut. The cage buzzed once, a tiny pulse—her idea of a fucking reward for playing my part. I wanted to tear it off and strangle her with it.

Then the young IT exec took the podium. Thirty, sharp suit, sharper jawline, talking about innovation and the future like he invented the concept. My wife leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on him like he was prey. I watched her watch him, the way her tongue touched her lip, the way her fingers traced her necklace—not the signal, just a gesture, but I flinched anyway, conditioned like a beaten dog.

She had that look—that special interest. I could see it in the tilt of her head, the way she laughed at his jokes a beat too late, the way her hand found my thigh again but squeezed harder, possessive—not of me, but of the image of us.

When he finished, she was the first to stand, clapping louder than anyone.

The dinner was over, and mingling began. She kept her hand on my arm, steering me through the crowd like a prop. Then she stopped.

"David, this is Marcus.. We're working on the new security protocols together."

Marcus. The young exec from the podium. He smiled, that crooked smile, and his eyes glinted, as if they shared a secret. His handshake was unnecessarily firm, crushing my fingers, holding on a beat too long.

"David," he said, my name sounding like a code word. "I've heard so much about you."

The way he said it, I knew what he'd heard. The cage buzzed once, a tiny pulse. My wife's thumb on her phone, hidden in her clutch.

"All good things, I hope," I said, the smile automatic.

"Oh, absolutely," Marcus said, his eyes dropping to my collar, then lower, like he could see through the suit. "Your wife speaks very highly of your... dedication."

She laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Marcus, stop. You'll embarrass him."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Marcus said, but his smile said the opposite.

She leaned in, kissed my cheek. "I'm going to talk to the VP. Wait at the bar. Soda only."

She walked away, her hips swaying, Marcus's eyes following her. Then he looked back at me.

"You're a lucky man," he said, and there was something in his voice that wasn't envy. It was knowledge.

I stalked to the bar, jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached. Ordered a fucking soda water like a child while my cock strained against that goddamn cage. The bartender slid it over, and I wanted to smash the glass against the marble counter. Instead, I stood there, suffocating in this suit, those fucking silk panties soaked with sweat, that cage digging into me like a brand. Watching her across the room—my wife—flirting with that prick Marcus while he grinned like he owned her.

I knocked back the soda, barely tasting it. The party was a blur of fake laughs and expensive perfume. I was invisible to them, just the pathetic husband in the corner, but that cage made me hypervisible to myself—every second, every breath, a reminder I was her property.

We moved to the ballroom. She danced with a few ass-kissers from work, her body moving like she was putting on a show. I sat at the bar, soda in hand, a grown man on a fucking leash. After a while, there she was—dancing with Marcus, their bodies too close, laughing at his jokes, her hand on his chest. She didn't look at me once. Not one goddamn glance.

Then she appeared. A blonde sliding onto the stool next to mine like this was some shitty rom-com.

"Hi," she said. "I'm Trudy."

"David," I ground out, barely keeping the rage from my voice.

"Here on your own, David?" She smiled, and I wanted to wipe it off her face.

"No, I'm here with my wife. You?"

"Me neither, I'm here with my brother." She sipped her wine. "You work with this mob, or does your wife?"

"My wife. I'm a digital ad designer." The words felt like ash in my mouth. "What do you do?"

"Oh, me? I'm a policewoman."

My ears perked up. A fucking cop. This was it—my chance, my one shot. I had to play this perfectly, had to keep the fury buried deep. Keep calm, you stupid bastard. Don't blow this.

Trudy glanced at the dance floor. "Which one's yours?"

I pointed her out, my finger stiff with suppressed rage. "That one."

"She's beautiful. You're a lucky man."

I looked Trudy in the eyes. She was gorgeous, and my cock twitched in its cage—a traitorous response that made me even angrier. "So it would seem," I said, the sarcasm thick enough to choke on.

I had to push this forward. Had to get out from under that bitch's thumb. "Can I ask you a question, Trudy?"

"Sure, as long as you have a dance with me."

"Oh, I don't know if I should," I replied, the hesitation real but not for the reasons she thought.

She put one arm on my shoulder, one on my wrist, her grip firm. "You know I have ways of making you."

The rage flared for a second —who the fuck was this woman to touch me? But then I saw the humor in her eyes. I looked for my wife. Still wrapped up in Marcus's arms, laughing like she didn't have a husband ten feet away.

Fuck it. Fuck her. Fuck all of this.

"That won't be necessary, officer," I laughed. I stood and held my hand out. She took it, and I directed her as far away from that bitch as possible, every step fueled by four weeks of pent-up fury.

We danced through two songs, her hand warm in mine, her body moving easily with mine. The music was some slow jazz bullshit, giving us space to breathe. Then she leaned in close, her lips near my ear, and asked the question that cracked me wide fucking open.

"What did you want to ask me, David? When I first came over?"

The floodgates didn't just open—they fucking exploded. Words poured out of me in a torrent of rage and desperation, four weeks of silence breaking like a dam under pressure.

"I'm a prisone," I hissed, voice cracking with fury. "That bitch has me in a cage. A fucking chastity cage. With shocks. She can control it from her phone. She controls everything."

Trudy's body stiffened against mine, but she kept dancing, kept us moving. Smart cop. Don't cause a scene. Don't let the broken animal make a spectacle.

"She records everything," I continued, the words tumbling out faster than I could think, each one a bullet. "She has footage. She'll post it. She'll fucking ruin me. She keeps me silent with an electric collar. She makes me wear... I'm wearing women's fucking underwear right now. Panties. Stockings. She shaved my goddamn head. She fucks me with a strap-on. She makes me... she makes me clean her after other men. She's got a guy. I think it's the guy she was dancing with, Marcus."

"Keep dancing," Trudy murmured, her voice professional, calm. "Keep talking. Low. Fast."

"She's going to make me watch," I snarled, tears of pure rage streaming now, mixing with the sweat on my face. "She's going to make me watch him fuck her. Then she's going to make me... I'm not allowed to speak. I'm not allowed to leave. I'm not... I'm not..."

Trudy's jaw was set, her eyes hard as flint. "David, listen to me. I'm going to help you. But you need to show me some kind of proof."

"I can’t, " I choked out, the frustration boiling over. "She has the remote. She has everything. She'll shock me until I can't walk. She'll post the videos. She'll—"

I saw my wife look over Marcus's shoulder, directly at me. But there was no acknowledgment, nothing to say she had noticed me. Maybe the flashing lights. Maybe she was just scanning her property.

"Fuck," I whispered, real murder in my voice now. I started steering us toward the edge of the dance floor, toward the doors. Toward out.

Trudy became aware of what I was doing and firmly put her hand on my elbow. "Let's go, David. Now."

I let her lead me. Because for the first time in months, someone was leading me out instead of deeper in. And I was ready to burn the whole fucking world down to keep it that way.

We passed through the doors into a hallway. We jogged past a reception and through some side doors to an alcove just before the doors to the VIP car parking spot. Trudy stopped me, looked at me, and said, "Show me, David."

I looked at her questionably.

"You need to show me proof," she said, her voice urgent but controlled. "Right now. Before she finds us."

My hands shook. "Here?"

"Here," she said, stepping closer, using her body to shield me from the hallway. "Quickly."

I fumbled with my belt, the buckle clicking loudly in the quiet alcove. Unzipped my trousers. The black silk panties were immediately visible, obscene against my pale skin. I pulled the waistband down just enough to expose the metal cage locked around my cock, the contacts pressed against my skin, the LED blinking red.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Trudy breathed, her professional mask cracking. She pulled out her phone, snapped a photo. "The collar marks. Show me."

I yanked my tie loose, unbuttoned my collar. The red marks were faint but visible, the pattern of metal contacts clear against my throat.

"Fuck," she muttered, taking another photo. "The stockings. Pull up your trouser leg."

I did, exposing the garter clasped to the sheer stocking. More fucking photos. She reached up and hugged me, tears in her eyes.

 ‘I’m so sorry, David, nobody deserves this.’ She kissed me full on the lips, her thigh grinding against the cage.

 I groaned and pulled away, anger and frustration boiling in my gut at the fucking device that controlled me. She looked at me with a thousand questions in her eyes. 

“It’s designed to hurt me when I get excited,” I explained, my voice tight with rage.

She smiled and grabbed my arm, pulled me toward the VIP parking doors. “My brother’s car is just over there,” she said, pointing to a black Rolls-Royce Ghost. I didn’t have time to think, my mind consumed with fury at my wife and this whole goddamn situation. We pushed through into the cool night air. The VIP lot was nearly empty. She opened the back door and told me to jump in. The luxury hit me like a brick—the smell of leather and wood, the softness of the seats. I slumped down, too angry and exhausted to process anything else. Trudy didn’t get in immediately. I wondered what she was doing, but dismissed it as unimportant. Wait, how did she open the door? Surely a car like this wouldn’t be left open. The thought flickered briefly but was drowned in the storm of my rage.

Trudy jumped in, lifted the armrest in the middle, and hugged me to her. ”I just texted my brother an SOS. He’s on his way now.” I sighed with relief, then I thought. And asked,

 “How did you open the door? You didn’t use a key.” 

“Oh, David, the door locks are set to my and my brother's phones.” She put her hand high on my thigh and squeezed. “You know only too well what phones can do these days, don’t you?”

 I saw a glint in her eye, but misread it as excitement about our escape. I didn’t really have time to process my thoughts—my anger was still focused on my wife, not the woman saving me.

The driver's side door opened. “I believe you have already met Marcus,” said Trudy, her nails digging into my thigh. 

What the fuck was going on? Confusion cut through my anger for the first time. I just stared into his smiling face, trying to make sense of it. 

I jumped as the door next to me opened. “Hello, David,” my wife said.

 I didn’t have time to speak. I bent forward in agony as the cage around my cock came alive. Everything went dark as a rubber hood was pulled over my shaved head. My hands were cuffed behind me, and I was pulled upright. I felt the collar slip around my throat, and I heard the beep as it became active. I guessed the windows of the Rolls-Royce were some one-way glass as they kept me sitting upright.

The final scene of a movie came to mind—The Long Good Friday, with Bob Hoskins being driven away by his enemies, a look of resignation and realization on his face. 

Trapped behind the hood. I imagined the end credits rolling in, my rubber-masked face. I was well and truly fucked, and every single one of these cunts had played me like a goddamn fiddle from the start.