Family Ties

They left him there on the floor, sobbing, the dildo gag still strapped obscenely to his face, as they went about their daily business as if he were nothing more than a piece of discarded furniture. Chloe left the room and went out to pick a few things up for dinner. Miriam showered and dressed in comfortable, yet stylish designer jogging pants and a top, then left the bedroom without saying another word.

He lay there for a long time, the taste of rubber and his own tears filling his mouth. Eventually, he tried to shuffle a little to stretch his screaming muscles, but something bit into his leg and held it in place. He looked down to find a metal cuff around his ankle, attached to a thick chain that was in turn anchored to the heavy bed frame. He almost burst into fresh tears at the sight of it. They must have put it on him while he was so distraught that he didn't even notice.

When Miriam returned a few hours later, Simon was lying on his side in a tight fetal position, his body curled in on itself as if to escape the world. With his hands bent and bound to the collar, his cuffed fingers were pressed against his lips, making him look like a grotesquely oversized infant sucking his thumb. A wave of amusement washed over her, and she had to press her lips together to keep from laughing.

She crouched down, adopting her most maternal, caring voice. "Wake up, Simon, love," she cooed softly. "Time to come eat."

He stirred, his eyes fluttering open in a haze of pain and confusion. He woke to find her untying his arms, her fingers working deftly at the knots around his elbows. She then untied the rough twine from his thumbs, a fresh wave of humiliation washing over him as his hands were finally freed, though they remained cuffed. She helped him up, his limbs stiff and aching. She reached behind his head and unbuckled the dildo gag, pulling the monstrous thing from his mouth and tossing it contemptuously onto the bed. As he worked his jaw, the muscles sore and protesting, His mother unlocked his ankle from the cuff. Though she didn't remove the leash, which still dangled from his collar, a constant reminder of his status.

She led him to the toilet by the leash, her grip firm and proprietary. In her other hand, she held the red ball gag, a silent promise of its return. She stood over him, arms crossed, her expression bored, as he used the toilet. His face burned with shame so profound it felt like a physical weight. There was no privacy, no dignity, only the cold scrutiny of his mother.

When he was finished, she tugged on the leash, leading him out of the room and downstairs. He shuffled behind her. In the kitchen, the table was set for three, and he instinctively moved toward an empty chair, a desperate pull toward normalcy.

"Stop," Miriam's voice cut through the air. He froze. "That's not your place." She pointed to the floor beside her chair. "Your place is on the floor." He looked down and saw them: two metal dog bowls. One was empty; the other was filled with water. "Until your behavior improves," she reminded him, her voice cold and matter-of-fact, “you will be treated like an animal. You will eat and drink from your bowls."

He sank to his knees, his last shred of hope withering. The basement door opened, and Cindy, the contractor, walked in, wiping her boots on the mat. "Smells good," she said cheerfully. She walked into the kitchen, nodded at Miriam and Chloe, and then her eyes fell on Simon, kneeling on the floor by his bowl. She didn't even flinch. Her expression didn't change. She gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment, as if seeing a man in a dog collar, kneeling and waiting to be fed from a bowl, were the most normal thing in the world. That casual dismissal, that complete lack of surprise, was more crushing to Simon than any pain or humiliation he had endured. It confirmed his new reality: he was no longer a person. He was just part of the scenery.

Once the three ladies had finished their dinner, Chloe stood and cleared the plates. She took the leftover pasta and a few slices of bread, mashed them together in a bowl with a fork, then tipped the unappetizing mixture into Simon's empty dog bowl. He looked up at her, desperate, his eyes pleading for a scrap of mercy, for some sign that this was all a horrific joke.

"Eat it all," Chloe told him, her voice devoid of any emotion. "We didn't stand over a hot stove cooking just for you to waste food." She placed the bowl on the floor in front of him.

He looked down at the mushy mess, his stomach churning, but he knew he had no choice. As he hesitantly lowered his head to the bowl, the women carried on their conversation about the new gym Cindy was building after this job, ignoring him completely. They laughed and chatted as if he weren't there, his noisy, messy eating the only soundtrack to their pleasant evening.

Eventually, they all stood up. "Let's go check on the basement," Miriam said. They descended the stairs, their voices fading. He could hear them talking and laughing down below for a good twenty minutes before they all came back up, their laughter echoing up the stairs. He noticed that when Miriam came back up, she took a key from her pocket and locked the basement door behind her. It was a heavy, new-looking deadbolt, a lock that hadn't been there a week ago.

Miriam walked over to where he was kneeling, the now-empty bowl beside him. "You will clean this kitchen," she said, her voice sharp and clear. "Then you will report—" she paused on the word, letting its formal, official weight sink in—"You will report to Chloe and me in the lounge. Do you understand?”

As Simon cleaned the kitchen, his mind raced, plotting against the two demons he had once mistaken for guardian angels. If all went as planned, the cuffs would be off tomorrow, and hopefully the collar and the cock cage with them. He glanced at the clock on the wall: 6 p.m. He went to the kitchen drawer where he and his father used to keep business cards and other miscellaneous items. He found what he was looking for. He remembered the conversation with the solicitor at the funeral: "You can call me anytime, day or night."

He didn't have access to his cell phone, but his father had stubbornly refused to give up the landline. He went to the wall phone. He was surprised to hear no dial tone. A cold knot of dread formed in his stomach. He headed for his father's office, where another phone sat on the desk. He crept past the closed lounge door, silent in the hallway, and into the office. The door creaked as he opened it, and he stumbled through the dark, his hands fumbling for the desk. He lifted the receiver. No tone. He didn't have time to think as the overhead light sprang to life, blinding him and casting him in a stark, unforgiving spotlight.

Miriam stood in the doorway, her silhouette a dark, imposing figure against the hallway light. She wasn't angry; she was curious, like a scientist observing a specimen in a maze.

"And what do you think you're doing, Simon?" she asked, her voice calm, almost conversational. "You were supposed to be cleaning the kitchen."

He jumped, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I... I was just trying to call a friend," he stammered, the lie sounding weak even to his own ears.

"A friend?" she tilted her head. "And who might that be?"

He hesitated, his mind scrambling for a name, any name. "Just... someone."

"I see," she said, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips. "Well, I'm afraid your efforts are in vain. The landlines were a needless expense, so I had them cut off this morning."

Something inside him snapped. The constant humiliation, the pain, the complete and utter violation—all of it coalesced into white-hot rage. He straightened, his shoulders squaring, a flicker of his old self returning. "You had no right," he said, his voice shaking with fury. "I'm fed up with you and my bitch sister taking over my life. This is my house!"

Miriam stood there, not reacting, her expression unreadable as she let him vent, letting his words hang in the air between them. When he was finished, panting from the effort of his outburst, she slowly reached into her pocket and took out her phone. Her thumb tapped an icon on the screen with deliberate precision.

He didn't understand at first. Then a searing, blinding pain shot through his balls, a violent electrical shock that seemed to arc through his entire body. He screamed, a high-pitched, agonized sound, and collapsed to the floor, his body convulsing as the electrical system in his cock cage came to life.

He didn't understand what was happening at first; his mind was numb, and his cock and balls were in agony. The pain was a living thing, a fire that devoured all rational thought. Through the haze, he saw his mother move. First, the ball gag was forced back into his mouth, cutting off his cries. Then she produced a set of small, gleaming keys. She unlocked one cuff, pushed him onto his side with her foot, then recuffed his hand behind his back.

Chloe came in a moment later, holding a short length of chain with a cuff on each end. She fitted it between his legs, locking it around his ankles. Then she took another, shorter chain and pulled his legs up, forcing his ankles to meet his wrists behind his back. He was now hogtied, utterly helpless on the floor of his father's office.

They stood over his trussed-up figure, two cold, indifferent goddesses. He looked up at them, his eyes burning. The despair that had clouded them for days was gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated hatred. They ignored the look entirely, as if it were beneath their notice. They turned, switched off the light, and left him in the complete, suffocating dark.

The night was punctuated by the steady tick of the ancient Gilbert Curfew clock on the mantelpiece, its bell striking every half-hour with uncanny accuracy for a timepiece over a century old. Each chime was a hammer blow to his sanity. The night dragged on for Simon, his body cramped and screaming in the hogtie position, his mind whirring in a frantic, desperate loop.

He had fallen into a trap, and he understood that now. Finding the planted card in his father's belongings was the first breadcrumb, and his mother and sister knocking on the door was the cage closing around him. But what was their goal? Everything belonged to him. He had solicitors and accountants protecting it all. It didn't make sense.

His thoughts were interrupted by sounds from down the hall—moans, the sharp smacks of flesh on flesh, and cries of pleasure as his mother and sister carried out their debauchery just outside his view, each sound a fresh twist of the knife.

At some point during the long, dark hours, he must have fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion. He woke with a start to a gentle tap on the back of his head from a foot. As his eyes and senses focused, he looked up and found himself facing the driver's huge, steel-cold eyes. It was then, in that moment of pure, abject terror, that his bladder gave way, the hot, shameful flood spreading across the floor beneath him.