Chastity was the only reality. Mistress had the key. That was power. And Sissy stayed exactly where she was put… until Mistress decided otherwise.
Mistress’s Sissy existed to be denied. That was the truth, and the little pink cage locked around her cock was the proof of it—a constant, throbbing reminder that her pleasure wasn’t hers anymore. It belonged to Mistress. It always would.
Sissy remembered the click of the lock. The soft, knowing laugh that followed. That sound haunted her sleep, as did the ache—a sweet, mean ache that radiated out from her caged cock and never quite faded.
Mistress took every chance to remind her: the rules had changed. Ownership seeped into every moment, every breath. Sometimes Mistress would wrap her hand around the aching flesh, voice low and final: “You have no right to pleasure.” And then, as if to drive it home, Mistress stripped naked, letting the man who was once her husband see what he’d never have again.
“On your knees, sissy,” Mistress would say.
There was never a choice. Naked except for the tiny chastity cage, Sissy knelt on the rug, legs spread, wrists bound behind her back. She watched, helpless, as Mistress brought herself to climax after climax. Sometimes, Mistress just said, “Be a good girl and go down on me.”
What choice did Sissy have? None.
When Mistress had sex with one of her bulls, Sissy was granted the privilege to taste the aftermath. Nothing more. Never release. Never even the hope of it. Sometimes Mistress would just watch Sissy get used by a man she selected.
The cage wasn’t just a piece of plastic or some sinister device. It was diabolical. It was a presence, a ritual, a sacrifice. It meant control. Who had it, and who surrendered it. It was like a deed, a reminder to Sissy that she belonged to Mistress. It signified obedience. Compliance. It was a warning about punishment if Mistress’s rules weren’t met, and the rare, shimmering possibility of reward, leaving Sissy in a state of constant desperation. Disobedience? Another week in chastity.
Sometimes, Mistress would say, “Your desperation is adorable. I hope your balls turn blue thinking of me.”
Every time the ache surfaced—sharp, insistent, a trembling pulse between her legs that made her whimper—it was Mistress’s voice she heard, cold and sadistic. “You’re caged because you’re nothing but a desperate little slut who can’t be trusted with her own body. That’s your design flaw, isn’t it, needing a Superior Woman to control what you can’t?”
Sissy’s friends—the select few Mistress permitted in their circle—would never have imagined how far she’d willingly descended into submission. Not that Sissy cared anymore; humiliation had become her addiction, a craving that grew stronger each time. She cherished Mistress for understanding this need, for nurturing it with exquisite precision.
When Mistress paraded her on public outings, the small key dangling from a delicate chain around Mistress’s elegant neck served as a constant reminder of Sissy’s imprisonment. That visible symbol of her denial made the ache more acute, the yearning more profound. The knowledge that her pleasure remained locked away, accessible only at Mistress’s whim, intensified every sensation, transforming ordinary moments into exquisite torture.
Mistress’s demands circled in Sissy’s head, over and over, until she started to repeat them to herself, like a prayer. Mistress never missed a chance to reinforce her superiority. Some mornings, she’d pull up Sissy’s skirt or make her drop her pants before work and smack the plastic until it ached. “If you are a good girl, maybe I’ll let you out,” she’d say, lips curled in a smile that killed hope on sight.
Sometimes, Mistress would pretend tenderness, running gentle hands down her Sissy’s trembling, restrained body, whispering, “I restrain you because I care. You’re helpless without me.” Then, in the same breath, she’d describe—in lurid, clinical detail—the consequences of disobedience and the endlessness of denial. Mistress would make her recount every time she’d failed to bring her to orgasm with her tongue.
She learned to recognize the cycle: first the heat, then the desperate, clawing need, then the final, shattering humiliation as she realized the cage wasn’t punishment. It was her future. Mistress never tired of teasing her about it.
At parties, Mistress arranged to humiliate her Sissy. She would say, “My little cocksucker here is on month three. Can you see how much she trembles when I touch her thigh?” Sometimes, the guests laughed; sometimes, they just watched. Either way, it reinforced the reality of her prison.
At night, alone in the dark, Sissy would twist and strain for relief, but the cage was always tight, the lock always cold.
Mistress would only say, “Thinking of you, all locked up and leaking. You’ll thank me someday.” The device was the axis around which her life spun—a lesson in helplessness, obedience, and the total loss of control.
Mistress took pleasure in making it obvious: her Sissy’s body was hers, and hers alone. There wasn’t a moment of the day—a twitch, a shift of weight, a flutter of the eyelids—that escaped Mistress’s attention. She stalked her Sissy like a cat.
Mistress was a creature of impulse and appetite, and every day brought new reminders of the rules. Whenever the urge struck, she would snap her fingers or simply fix her Sissy with a hungry, predatory stare, and the command would come: Sit. Kneel. Hold up your skirt and show me your lock.
Each order landed like a jolt, electrifying and terrifying at once, and the Sissy obeyed instantly—sometimes trembling, sometimes flushed, always desperate to please. Mistress liked variety in her cruelty. Some nights, she’d order her Sissy to crawl across the living room on hands and knees, skirt bunched at the hips, the plastic sticky and slick from arousal and pleasure denied. Other times, she’d make her kneel for hours, hands clasped behind her back, eyes fixed on Mistress’s feet, waiting for further instruction.
It was never predictable. One moment, Mistress would pull Sissy onto her lap and stroke her hair with tenderness, whispering, “You’re doing so well, you’re such a good girl,” and the next she’d march her to the center of the room, point to the floor, and bark, “Down. Now.” Sometimes the commands grew more elaborate, and Sissy’s humiliation deepened in direct proportion to her obedience. “Go down on me,” was delivered with the casual certainty of someone expecting flawless performance. “Bend over. Grab your ankles.” Sissy’s heart always hammered at those words, the promise of exposure and discipline, the inevitability of being seen and used, opened and left wanting.
If Mistress were in a generous mood, she’d let Sissy warm up her bull, the dark-eyed man who visited sometimes and never spoke a word to her except for “open” or “clean.”
On those nights, Sissy was made to kneel at the foot of the bed, hands behind her back, watching as Mistress took her pleasure from someone else, the key around her neck shining in the candlelight. Then, when the bull was sated and gone, Mistress would summon her Sissy back to the bed, her voice still thick with satisfaction. “Take my strap on,” she’d say, and Sissy’s body would obey, no matter how much it hurt, no matter the choking pressure of the cage reminding her just how little she deserved.
When Mistress wanted a different flavor of control, she’d assign chores. “Clean the house,” she’d sigh, tossing a feather duster into Sissy’s trembling hands, and then follow her from room to room, watching, correcting, sometimes groping her just to see the shudder of need ripple through her.
At every turn, Mistress found a way to assert ownership: a slap on the ass, a tug of the hair, an order hissed in a low, venomous voice. Sissy learned quickly that there was no task too small, no moment too private, for Mistress to invade and conquer.