The Will Of The Wongs

Ten years later, 58-year-old Arthur Sterling was perfectly preserved, a living monument in the sprawling Wong family mansion. To the outside world, he was a recluse, an eccentric millionaire who had gone a little crazy after his whirlwind marriage to the much younger Mei Wong. The business world spoke of him in hushed, pitying tones, a titan who had faded into obscurity, his empire consumed by the very family he had married into. The truth was far more absolute: Arthur no longer existed. There was only the creature in the hood.

His life was one of pure and utter subservience. The collar around his neck and the matching metal bands around his wrists and ankles were no longer accessories; they were his skin. The polished steel had been spot-welded shut, becoming unremovable extensions of his body. The tight leather hood, with its built-in gag, was an almost permanent feature. His world was muffled, broken only by the specific tasks for which he was granted a temporary reprieve from its enveloping silence.

He hadn't heard his name spoken in over two years. He was "boy," "servant," or simply addressed with a sharp tug on his leash. He had become a thing. He wasn't allowed to speak, the only words permitted to pass his lips a muffled, garbled thank you to the parade of men who pleasured his wife. After six months of marriage, Miss Mei had introduced him to the ritual of being taken by a real cock. It was not a violation; it was an initiation. Since then, it had been a regular occurrence, sometimes daily, a reminder of his purpose and his inadequacy.

The shift in his fortunes had been as subtle as it was absolute. Grandmother died four years into his marriage. In the quiet reordering of power that followed, Mei's mother became the undisputed head of the Wong dynasty. With this elevation came a new phase for Arthur. Mrs. Wong, now Mistress Wong in every sense, began to summon him. Once a week, the hood was removed, and he was made to sit at her feet, laying out his company's deals, financial projections, and market strategies. He spoke with the same sharp acumen that had built his empire, but his eyes never left his Mistress's feet, seeking her approval for every word.

The shock merger with Wong Industries was the public execution. Arthur's own detailed reports, prepared under Mistress Wong's direction, were used against him, creating a perfect, legal storm that left his shareholders with no choice but to accept the Wong takeover. Soon after, the Wongs controlled 56% of the shares. A year later, the board was almost entirely replaced by Wong family members, with a few key positions held by the original members as a show of stability. Arthur Sinclair, the founder, stepped down from his own company in a press release written by his wife. He disappeared from sight. He no longer had the spirit for it. His mind had a primary focus, a single north star: his wife, then her family. All else had fallen away.

His service was comprehensive and meticulously detailed. Mornings began with him being unchained from the foot of his and Miss Mei's bed. His first duty was to attend to her morning toilet. A thin, silk blindfold was placed over the hood's eyeholes, and with only his mouth, he was expected to perform his ablutions. Afterward, he would prepare her clothing for the day, laying out her panties first, then her bra, then the rest of her chosen outfit, each item held up for Mistress's final approval before she deigned to wear it. He would then kneel and wait.

If Miss Mei was home, his day was comprised of household duties. He was the most meticulous cleaner the mansion had ever known. He polished the immense collection of boots and shoes belonging to the women of the house, each task performed with a reverence bordering on worship. He prepared food, but was never permitted to eat with the family. His meals were scraps from a bowl on the floor, placed in the corner of the kitchen.

The arrival of a suitor was a special day, an event of ritualistic importance. Arthur would be bathed by one of the sisters, his body scrubbed and oiled until it gleamed. The hood would be replaced with a specially fitted one, with a removable panel over his mouth. He would be stationed at the foot of the bed, chained by his collar, and would be expected to remain perfectly still and silent as a statue for the duration of the tryst. Only after the man had left would the panel be removed, and he would approach the bed to perform his final, sacred duty, cleaning every trace of her lover from her body. His reward was a soft "Good boy" from Miss Mei and the privilege of sleeping at the foot of her bed.

His life became one of profound, disturbing peace. The chaotic desires that had once plagued him- the ambition, the greed, the lust—all of it had been scoured away, replaced by the simple, immutable clarity of his purpose. He was the lock on the door, the polish on the silver, the clean tongue between his wife's thighs. He was the silent, grounding force that allowed the Wongs to live their lives of opulent, unapologetic power. There was no more Arthur Sinclair. There was only the faithful, kneeling thing, and he had never been more content.