Sissy On A Chain

My name was Alex once, but that was before I became Alexa – or, as he calls me now, simply "Slut." I had always been a secret crossdresser, lurking in online forums, chatting with dominant men who promised to turn my fantasies into reality. The thrill of dressing in lace panties, stockings, and heels, of imagining myself bound and used, had consumed me for years. One night, scrolling through a dark corner of the web, I connected with him – Master Kane. His profile was sparse, but his messages were commanding, laced with a cruelty that made my heart race. "You want to be owned? Truly owned, no turning back?" he typed. Foolishly, I replied yes. We exchanged details over weeks: my sizes for outfits, my limits (which he laughed at), and finally, instructions for our meeting.

It was a foggy evening in late autumn when I drove to the abandoned warehouse district on the outskirts of the city, as per his orders. My hands trembled as I parked in the dimly lit lot, the only light coming from a flickering streetlamp. In the glove compartment, I'd stashed the bag he'd mailed me days earlier – a black leather hood with a locking zipper, a pair of steel handcuffs, and a small padlock. "Put it on yourself," his final message had read. "Kneel by your car. I'll find you."

I stepped out, already dressed as Alexa: a short pink skirt that barely covered my ass, a tight corset squeezing my waist, fishnet stockings, and red high heels that clicked echoes across the concrete. No underwear – he'd forbidden it. My makeup was flawless, lips painted whore-red, eyes shadowed smoky. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the hood over my head. It was thick, blinding me completely with built-in eye patches, and had a small mouth hole for breathing – or other uses, I suspected. The zipper ran from the top to the base of my neck, and I heard the click as I locked it with the padlock, the key tucked into my skirt pocket as instructed. Then, the handcuffs: I snapped them around my wrists behind my back, the cold metal biting into my skin. I knelt there, vulnerable, exposed, my skirt riding up to reveal everything. The wind whispered cruel promises as I waited.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Then, footsteps – heavy, deliberate. A hand gripped my arm, yanking me to my feet. "Good slut," a deep voice growled, his breath hot against the hood. He didn't say more. He led me stumbling across the lot, my heels scraping, until I heard a car door open. Roughly, he shoved me into the trunk, slamming it shut. The engine roared to life, and we drove – first on smooth highways, then onto rough, potholed roads that jostled me painfully. My mind raced: Was this real? Could I back out? But the hood and cuffs reminded me – I'd done this to myself.

After what seemed like an eternity – maybe 30 minutes – the car stopped. He hauled me out, slinging me over his shoulder like a sack. The air smelled of damp earth and rust as he carried me inside, the door creaking shut behind us. He dumped me on a cold floor, unlocked the handcuffs, but left the hood on. "Listen carefully," he said, his voice echoing in what felt like a large, empty space. "You're mine now. Put this on." He pressed something heavy and metallic into my hands – a thick steel collar, hinged, with a ring for chains. Trembling, I fitted it around my neck, feeling the weight settle like a noose. I heard him snap a padlock through the hasp – one I'd apply myself? No, he guided my fingers to it, making me click it shut. Then, the horror: the whine of a welding torch. Sparks flew – I could smell the burning metal even through the hood – as he sealed the collar permanently. No key could ever remove it now. "The hood key is in your pocket. Enjoy your new home," he sneered, footsteps retreating, door slamming.

Fumbling blindly, I found the key and unzipped the hood, gasping as it came off. I was in a dimly lit room – concrete walls, no windows, a heavy steel door bolted from the outside. The collar was indeed welded shut, a thick chain attached to it running up to a beam in the ceiling, long enough to let me move around the 10x10 space but short enough to stop me from reaching the door by a foot. Panic surged as I tugged at it – unyielding. The room was sparsely furnished: a thin mattress on the floor, a bucket for a toilet in the corner, a small sink with a single tap, and a wooden chair. On one wall, a hole – about 4 inches wide, at waist height – with a shelf below holding an empty glass jar and a small money box. Above, a camera blinked red, watching everything. A note taped to the wall read:

"Welcome, Slut. Rules:

1. No escape. The chain is your life.

2. Obey, and you eat. Disobey, and starve.

3. Work starts at 9 AM. Cocks come through the hole. Suck them dry for £15 each. Collect payment in the box.

4. Cum goes in the jar. Drink it all at day's end, on camera.

5. Before every meal, drink what I deliver through the hose in the trough.

6. One day off a week – watch the TV I'll turn on. Otherwise, serve.

7. Break rules? Pain follows. Master Kane"

A trough? I saw it now – a metal basin built into the floor near the wall, with a hose protruding from above. My stomach churned. This wasn't a game; this was forever.

The first day blurred into nightmare. At 9 AM sharp, a buzzer sounded. Through the glory hole, a voice: "Pay up, slut." A £20 note slid through, followed by a semi-hard cock. I froze, but hunger gnawed – I hadn't eaten since yesterday. Kneeling, I took it in my mouth, lips stretching around the stranger's girth. He groaned as I worked, tongue swirling, throat opening. He came quickly, pulling out to shoot into the jar as instructed. "Good whore," he muttered, zipping up and leaving. More came – five that day, each paying, each using my mouth like a toy. Fat cocks, thin ones, clean and musky. I collected the money, drooled their loads into the jar. By evening, it was half-full, thick and white. The buzzer rang again: end of shift.

Then, the hose gurgled. Yellow liquid filled the trough – piss. His piss. "Drink it all for dinner," a speaker crackled. Starving, I cupped my hands, slurping the warm, acrid fluid. It burned going down, but soon a slot in the door opened, sliding in a tray: bread, cheese, water. I devoured it, then faced the jar. On camera, I tilted it back, swallowing the mixed seed of strangers. It coated my throat, salty and bitter. Tears streamed, but I did it.

Weeks turned to months. The routine hardened me – or broke me. Business grew; Master Kane advertised online, I later learned from overheard snippets. Ten cocks a day became fifteen, then twenty. Services expanded: for £5 extra, rimming – I'd press my face to the hole, tongue delving into anonymous asses, some shaved, some hairy and unwashed. The taste lingered, humiliating. For £10 more, anal – I'd back up to a larger hole he'd cut one night while I was hooded and chained to the bed, presenting my ass like a bitch in heat. They'd fuck me raw, sometimes with condoms (PrEP pills came weekly through the slot), sometimes bare, pumping loads inside that I'd squat to drip into the jar. Pain became pleasure, or numbness. The money box filled; he'd empty it nightly, profiting thousands a week – £200-£300 daily from fees, plus streaming my sessions live to paying viewers (£1,500 extra, he bragged once through the speaker).

Cruelty escalated subtly at first. If I gagged on a particularly thick load or hesitated on a dirty rim, no food that night – just more piss to drink. One week, after serving a group of rowdy men who laughed as they double-teamed the holes (one in mouth, one in ass), he introduced "special deliveries." The hose now sometimes dispensed not just urine, but thicker waste – his shit, plopping into the trough. "Eat it for breakfast," the speaker commanded. The first time, I retched, refusing. Punishment swift: the glory hole boarded up, water tap shut off, no food for three days. I weakened, lying in my own filth as the bucket overflowed. Delirious, I begged through the camera: "Please, Master! I'll do anything!" The board came off, piss flowed – I drank greedily. Then, food, but only after lapping at the trough's contents.

The breaking point came two months in. I'd sobbed one night, yanking the chain until my neck bled, screaming for release. "Let me go! This isn't what I wanted!" Silence. Then, isolation: glory hole sealed, lights dimmed to near-darkness, no deliveries. Four days of thirst, my tongue swelling, visions haunting me. Waste piled in the bucket, the stench choking. On the fifth, I crawled to the camera, whispering, "I'm yours forever, Master. Use me." The hose activated – piss first, then a meal. But he wasn't done.

That night, hooded again, he entered – first time I'd sensed him close since the welding. Strong hands cuffed me spread-eagle to the bed. "Time to mark my property," he growled. The sizzle of a blowtorch filled the air. He heated a branding iron – shaped like "WHORE" – and pressed it to my left thigh. Agony exploded; skin bubbled, the smell of charred flesh nauseating. I screamed until my voice broke. He bandaged it roughly, left antibiotic cream, and exited. The scar healed into raised letters, a permanent reminder.

Now, three months later, I'm fully his. I serve 25 men daily, my body a vessel for their pleasure. Cum jars are larger now; I chug them like protein shakes, nourishing my submission. The trough gets "full service" – piss mornings, shit evenings before dinner. He fucks me occasionally through the hole, his cock massive, stretching me to limits. Streaming brings in £3,000 weekly; he boasts of my earnings: over £150,000 yearly, all his. No escape dreams anymore – the chain, the brand, the camera are my world. Cock is life; waste is sustenance. I write this on his orders, typed on a laptop he slid through the slot one "off" day. Now, the buzzer sounds. Time to kneel.