Sally and David

Six months later, the collar was gone, but her control had only tightened around me in ways more intimate and absolute than leather ever could. I was told we were meeting somebody for lunch at The King's Head on Rochester High Street, in a reserved back room. I didn't question things these days; the words caught in my throat like a gag that never left. The questions still burned—who are we meeting, what do they want, what will she ask of me—but they’d stay unsaid.

We pulled into the small car park beneath the shadow of Rochester Castle. I got out, walked around, and opened her door. The ritual still made my cock stir in its cage—a device she enjoyed keeping me. It could cripple me with shocks. I helped her out, her hand light on mine, and we walked arm in arm along the newly cobbled Boley Hill. The imitation of intimacy was perfected now; we looked like any couple, but beneath her summer dress, I knew she wore the key to my chastity on a thin chain between her breasts, and beneath my respectable trousers, my cock strained against metal.

The pub smelled of ale and history. She introduced herself to the bar staff, and they directed us to a small, cosy room at the back. She ordered: wine for her, soda water for me, as usual. Alcohol dulled obedience, and she wanted me sharp, attentive, ready.

She looked at her phone, scrolling through messages I could only imagine. Perhaps from Marcus, who was out of the country on business but never truly absent from our dynamic. Perhaps from Trudy, the viciously beautiful switch who'd become both our play partner and my occasional tormentor. Or perhaps from the person we were meeting—the reason for this lunch, this back room, this careful choreography.

My mind wandered to the previous night, when she'd strapped me face-down over the steel cage in our bedroom. The rubber hood had been hot and claustrophobic, her hand pulling at it from behind as she drove the largest strap-on she owned into my ass. "Soon," she'd whispered, her breath hot against the rubber, "I'll have help. Soon you'll service more than just me." I'd come, despite the chastity cage locked around my cock for three months now—a ruined, leaking mess that she made me clean from the floor with my tongue while she laughed and took photos.

My mind wandered further back, to the party at Leeds Castle.. The one that had changed everything. Where they played me for a fool, they took me handcuffed, hooded, and collared back to Marcus’s mansion.

Marcus had fucked me first, his cock thick and merciless while my wife held my head in her lap and encouraged him. "That's it," she'd murmured, stroking the rubber hood  as he pounded into me, "break him in properly." They'd chained Trudy to the wall nearby, beating her with crops and floggers while she thanked them between screams, her cunt dripping down her thighs. Then Trudy had fucked me with her own strap-on while Marcus and my wife made love on the four-poster bed above us, their moans of genuine passion a stark contrast to my debasement.

I'd served them all that night—fetching drinks, cleaning toys with my mouth, being used as furniture, as a urinal, as a cum rag. Marcus had pissed on me while my wife held my head, the hood protecting me a little. Then they'd both jerked off over my face, leaving me covered and blinded. Trudy had added her own juices, grinding her cunt against my mouth until she came, screaming. Then they'd left me there, chained in the corner of the playroom overnight, wallowing in the filth and stench of their pleasure, my cage dripping with my own desperate arousal.

The next morning, they'd hosed me down in the garden, laughing, before Marcus's driver had taken me home in the Rolls-Royce. I'd sat on the leather seats, still naked beneath a robe, the smell of sex and piss and shame clinging to my skin despite the cold water. My wife had kissed me goodbye, her tongue tasting of Marcus's cum. “The collar is live now; you will not be able to leave the house until I say so. Never forget that this is what you are now.”

Two more months of their orchestrated cruelty—Marcus's precise, methodical beatings, Trudy's inventive humiliations, my wife's delighted orchestration of both—had reduced me to something that functioned only on need and obedience. Then she took me to see Lady Charlotte.

The woman was grotesque and magnificent: sixty-five, maybe seventy, her massive body poured into black rubber that strained at every seam. She chain-smoked in a dim consultation room that smelled of antiseptic and latex, her jowls wobbling as she examined me like a specimen.

"Strip," my wife ordered, and I did, folding my clothes neatly while Lady Charlotte watched through a haze of smoke. "Kneel." The carpet burned my knees. "Kiss her feet." The rubber was warm, slick with her sweat. I pressed my lips to the instep of her boot while she chuckled, a low wet sound.

"Good," Lady Charlotte rasped. "Now drink this." She handed me a tumbler of something amber and viscous. I swallowed it in one gulp. The world dissolved into static.

I woke in a bed that wasn't mine, in a room that smelled of nothing. Sally sat beside me, dabbing my forehead with a cloth, her touch impossibly gentle. She smiled—the old smile, the one from before. Before the collar, before the cage, before everything.

"Wha... what happened?" My voice worked. That surprised me.

"Oh my darling." Her voice was honey and poison. "You had a breakdown. Collapsed right in front of me. I've been so afraid."

"When?" My throat was dry.

"Two weeks ago." She stroked my cheek. "You've been in Dr. Charlotte's clinic. She specializes in... delusional episodes."

"You hurt me." The words came out flat, factual.

"What do you mean?" Her hand withdrew, defensive.

"All the time. I was your slave."

Her laugh was brittle. "David, Dr. Charlotte said this might happen. When I found you, you had the most awful things on your computer. Those stories you wrote. Those... fantasies." She leaned close, her eyes wide with manufactured concern. "You don't remember? You created all of it. The collar, the cage, Marcus, Trudy. None of it was real."

"Mike," I said, grasping. "You fucked Mike."

"Mike?" She looked genuinely puzzled. "You argued with Mike over a year ago. You haven't spoken since. Don't you remember?"

My hand went to my head. Shaved smooth. "You shaved it. To punish me."

"Dr. Charlotte needed it for the scans. The EEG, the MRIs. To see what was misfiring in your brain." She touched my scalp gently. "I'm sorry, love. I know it looks severe."

I threw back the covers. Stood. My legs were weak, but they held. "I need to piss."

The bathroom was sterile, white. I relieved myself, splashed water on my face. When I came out, Sally was still there, waiting. I walked toward her, unsteady but determined.

"David," she said, her voice soft as velvet restraints. "Kneel."

I knelt. No thought. Just the command and my body obeying.

She stood, circled me, her fingers trailing over my bare scalp. "David, you can't speak." She stopped in front of me, looked down. "Try for me."

I opened my mouth to scream, to curse, to beg. Nothing. The words were there, a torrent in my mind, but my throat wouldn't shape them. My tongue lay useless. I tried again, harder, and only a strangled hiss escaped.

"There," she said, satisfaction dripping from the word. "No more need for that silly collar. Dr. Charlotte's procedure was quite effective. You have no will David.

She reached into her bag and pulled out the hood. The black rubber gleamed. "Before you put this on and service me, I want you to remember everything. I want you to hate what I'm going to do to you, what I'll make you do. I want you to feel every degradation, every moment of your complete powerlessness." She crouched, her face level with mine, her eyes bright with triumph. "There is no escape, David. Not from this, not from me, not from what you are now. Dr. Charlotte is a specialist in behavior modification, not delusions. And you, my darling, are her masterpiece."

She pressed the hood into my hands. "Now put it on and service your Master."

I looked at the rubber, at her, at the truth that had been there all along. The breakdown was the fantasy. The clinic was real. The collar was gone because they no longer needed it. They had something better.

I pulled the hood over my head, positioning the breathing holes, feeling the world narrow to her voice, her commands, her absolute control., The hood sealed me in darkness, rubber, and truth.

Her hand found the back of my neck, guiding me forward. "Good boy," she whispered. "Now let's go home. Marcus and Trudy are waiting. They want to see how well your therapy is working."

I crawled after her, her perfect, broken toy, her willing slave, her masterpiece of flesh and obedience. The questions were gone. Only the certainty of her control remained.

_______

The pub door opened, pulling me back to the present. A woman entered—elegant, severe, her eyes assessing me with the same practiced gaze my wife used. She smiled, not at me but at my wife, a smile of shared understanding.

“Sally?” The lady asked

“Er, yes, are you Rosemary ?”

“Yes, I am, my dear, so very Nice to meet you.”

“This is all very mysterious, Rosemary, a call out of the blue to meet you here.”

“Well, the landlord is a very old friend of mine.”

“So what can I do for you, Rosemary ?”

“Can we talk in front of this?” She said, pointing at me as if I were a piece of dirt. 

"This is my property," my wife said, her hand possessive on my thigh beneath the table.”He will not repeat anything that is said here.”

“Ahh,” Said Rosemary, “Lady Charlotte has told us all about the modifications you ordered. 

“You know, Lady Charlotte ?”

“Oh yes, dear, she’s a very good friend, and she’s the one who brought you to our attention.”

“I'm not sure what you mean, “ said my wife.

“Tell me, my dear,” Asked Rosemary, “Have you ever heard of the Sisterhood?