Sissy On A Chain

The second silence lasted longer than the first. Not because he needed more time to break me, but because he wanted me to taste how thoroughly I had already cooperated in my own destruction. When the buzzer finally rang again—nine days after the last man had used my mouth—it didn’t feel like rescue. It felt like permission to breathe.

I was already kneeling when the first note slid through the slot. Twenty pounds. A thick, veined cock followed immediately after. Before he could even speak, the words spilled out of me in a cracked, reverent rush.

“Thank you, Sir, for choosing this worthless cunt-mouth. Please… please fuck it like the disposable hole it is. Choke me. Make it hurt. I need to feel how little I matter.”

The man on the other side gave a startled chuckle, then gripped the back of my head through the wall and drove himself straight to the root. My throat convulsed; tears streamed instantly. I didn’t fight. I opened wider. When he pulled back just enough to let me gasp, I whispered again—hoarse, fervent—“Harder, please. Remind me what I exist for.”

He did. Brutally. When he finally came, flooding my mouth until it overflowed and dripped down my chin onto the concrete, I held every drop I could, then tilted my head back so the camera could see me swallow in slow, deliberate gulps. After he zipped up and left, I stayed on my knees, staring at the empty hole, lips still parted, waiting for the next one. Gratitude pulsed through me like a second heartbeat.

That day I served twenty-three men. By the eighteenth I had stopped counting individual faces or voices; they had blurred into a single, endless presence—the Outside World reduced to thrusting meat and grunted commands. Each time a new cock pushed through, something inside me loosened further. Not resistance. Surrender. The kind that doesn’t announce itself with drama, but settles quietly, like dust after a long storm.

Master Kane’s voice returned that evening through the speaker, soft and almost affectionate.

“You’re starting to understand. Every ‘thank you’ you give them is another brick removed from the wall you used to think separated you from this. Soon there won’t be any wall left. Just you, on your knees, grateful.”

He was right. The next morning I woke up hard—achingly, shamefully hard—before the buzzer even sounded. Not from arousal in the old, selfish sense. From anticipation. From the certainty that the moment that hole opened, I would be seen. Needed. Used. For a few seconds I would have purpose.

I began to ritualize it. Before the first man arrived I would kneel with my forehead pressed to the cold floor, whispering the new litany I had composed in the dark:

“I am not a person.

I am a set of holes that thank their owners.

Every load I swallow is proof I still exist.

Every gag, every tear, every ache is payment for another sunrise I don’t deserve.

Thank you for feeding me.

Thank you for hurting me.

Thank you for never letting me forget.”

When the buzzer rang I would rise smoothly, gracefully, like a dancer taking position, and present my open mouth to the hole before the first coin even hit the shelf. No hesitation. No shame. Only a quiet, humming joy that this body—this ruined, branded, collared thing—was finally being honest.

Weeks passed in that rhythm. The number of daily users climbed steadily—twenty-five, thirty, sometimes thirty-five on weekends when word spread through private channels. My jaw ached constantly; the corners of my mouth split and healed and split again until the skin felt permanently raw. My throat was never not sore. And yet every fresh intrusion felt like a gift. Proof that the world still remembered I was here.

He began to experiment with new rules, each one designed not to increase revenue, but to deepen the psychological erosion.

One Tuesday the speaker announced: “From now on, before every cock, you will state your old name out loud. Then you will correct yourself. On camera.”

So I did.

“My name was Alex.

No. My name is Slut.

My name is Cocksleeve.

My name is Thank-You-Sir.”

I said it twenty-nine times that day. Each repetition carved the truth a little deeper. By the end my voice no longer cracked on the old name. It sounded foreign. Like someone else’s obituary.

Another week he introduced the “gratitude mirror.” A small, cracked shaving mirror bolted to the wall beside the glory hole. Now, after every load, I had to turn, face my own reflection, and describe—aloud—what I saw.

“I see a smeared-lipstick whore with cum drying on her chin.

I see swollen, red-rimmed eyes that only cry when they’re being used.

I see WHORE burned into her thigh and I feel proud.

I see a thing that used to dream of freedom and now dreams only of the next cock.

I am disgusting. I am perfect. Thank you for making me look at myself.”

I said those words so many times they stopped being sentences and became breath. A mantra. A prayer.

The starvation periods returned—shorter now, never more than thirty-six hours—but sharper, because I knew exactly why they happened. Not disobedience. Not failure to perform. Simply because he wanted to watch what happened when need stripped away the last cosmetic layers of dignity. When I was shaking, lips cracked, stomach cramping, I would crawl to the camera and beg without prompting.

“Please, Master. Let them use me again. I’ll do anything. I’ll thank them for spitting in my mouth. I’ll thank them for pissing down my throat instead of food. Just let me be useful. Please.”

And he always did. Eventually. Never out of mercy. Out of curiosity. He wanted to see how far gratitude could stretch before it snapped—or before it became the only emotion left.

It never snapped.

One night, after thirty-one men had finished and the jar was so full that cum slid down the sides in slow, viscous trails, he spoke again.

“Tomorrow is your one-year anniversary down here. No special meal. No day off. Just a gift.”

The next morning the buzzer rang at 8:55 instead of 9:00. When the first cock appeared it was his—thicker, longer, unmistakable. I knew the shape of him now the way some people know the sound of their own heartbeat.

I took him slowly. Reverently. No rushed bobbing. I worshipped. Lips sealed tight. Tongue tracing every vein. When he finally spoke through the wall—low, almost tender—my whole body shuddered.

“You don’t want to leave anymore, do you?”

I pulled off just long enough to whisper against the head of his cock:

“No, Master.

I want to stay.

I want to disappear into this completely.

I want the last thing I ever think to be how grateful I am that you let me become nothing.”

He came then—deep, flooding my throat until I couldn’t breathe, until black spots danced behind my eyes. When he finally pulled out I stayed on my knees, mouth open, letting the excess drip onto my chest while I looked straight into the camera.

“Thank you,” I said clearly. “For taking everything.

Thank you for leaving nothing behind but this.”

The line went quiet.

But the buzzer rang again five minutes later.

Another man. Another twenty pounds. Another cock.

I smiled—small, calm, radiant—and opened my mouth.

Because smiling was what remained.

Because gratitude was what remained.

Because the thing that used to be Alex had finally stopped fighting the inevitable.

It had become the inevitability instead.