I never thought I'd be here, tied to my own bed, wrists raw from the silk scarf she used to bind me. Jess called it a "surprise" after work last Friday. She’d been teasing me all week, running her nails down my back while I cooked dinner, whispering, "You know I own you, Mike," like it was some kind of secret we both loved. I didn’t realize "surprise" meant "slave" until the first time she snapped the paddle.
She’d always been the bossy type. Petite, but with a voice that cut through you. At 24, she worked in finance, wore heels that made her stare me down even when I stood tall. I’m 26. We’d been dating nine months. She called me "boyfriend," but tonight, she said, "You’re my property. Act like it." I should’ve said no. I didn’t.
The lamp was dim. Her red hair spilled over her shoulders as she unclipped the silk scarf from my wrists. "Don’t move," she said, and my cock twitched before my brain caught up. She untied the blindfold next, and I blinked at the wall mirror across the room. That’s when I saw the paddle hanging on the bedpost. It was a cheap thing, wood painted black, the kind you’d get at a dollar store. She must’ve bought it during some late-night freakout while I was at the gym.
"What’s this?" I asked, trying for casual. She smirked. "A lesson." She crouched, thumbs pressing into my kneecaps, and I gasped when she dug in hard enough to bruise. "Call me Mistress," she said. "Now." My mouth opened, but nothing came out. She squeezed harder. "Mistress," I wheezed. She grinned. "Louder." "Mistress!" I barked, and she slapped my inner thigh with the paddle. Heat bloomed there, immediate and sharp. I flinched. She laughed. "So responsive. I love it."
She made me crawl to the middle of the bed, knees scraping the comforter, chest heaving. The paddle thwacked my ass, and I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood. "You’re pathetic like this," she said, voice low. "Crying out for more." I hadn’t even cried out yet. She hit me again. "Say it," she ordered. "Say you’re pathetic." "I’m… pathetic," I hissed, face burning. She groaned. "Oh god, I love you when you’re embarrassed."
Next came the collar. A black leather thing with a silver D-ring. It dug into my throat as she clipped it shut. "You’re not allowed to talk unless I let you," she said, adjusting the strap. "If you say anything without permission, I’ll make it hurt worse." I nodded. She crouched to look me in the eye. "Good boy. Now, let’s see how well you behave." She shoved me over to my hands and knees and wrapped a leather leash around my waist. The pull of it yanked my hips up when she tugged, forcing me to crawl forward as she wound the leash around her arm like a training rope.
She made me clean the bathroom. Bare-handed. Toothpaste? Mop? I was on my knees, face smushed against the tile as she knelt behind me, her hands gripping my hair. "Do it right," she hissed, yanking my head back. I whimpered. She pressed her knee into my lower back. "You’re a dirty little slave," she said. "No one wants to touch what you touch." The shame of it—feeling the grout between my fingers, the cold floor on my cheek, the weight of her knee grinding into me—I wanted to beg her to stop, but she’d already warned me. My throat closed tight.
After the bathroom, she dragged me to the basement. The air was thick with the smell of wood and old dust. She tied me to a chair, leather cuffs biting into my ankles and wrists. "You’re staying here tonight," she said, lighting a candle nearby. The flicker danced over her face as she unbuttoned her shirt. Her tits were small, perfect, and she let the fabric pool at her feet. "Look at you," she said, trailing a finger over my chest. "You look like a caged animal." I struggled against the ropes. She slapped my cheek. "Still? I thought you learned your lesson."
She brought the paddle down on my thighs, slow and deliberate. Each hit was a firestorm. The chair creaked as I jerked against it. "What’s your job?" she asked suddenly. "As my slave?" I panted. "To serve," I rasped. "Good." She kissed my neck, teeth grazing skin. "Now suck me." I tried to move, but she held my chin in place. "Wait. Let me teach you." She guided my head to her pussy, fingers tangling in my hair. I opened my mouth, and she groaned. "So greedy," she muttered, thrusting her hips. Her clit brushed my face, and I gasped, but she smacked my forehead. "Quiet. You’re a good little slave. Be quiet."
By the time she was done, my lips were numb, my tongue raw. She untied me just long enough to make me cum on my face. "You’re dirty," she said, wiping my cheeks with a tissue. "But mine." Then she bound me to the chair again, leaving the candle burning until I passed out.
When I woke up, I was home in bed. No collar. No leash. But her hair was still on my pillow, and the red marks on my thighs refused to fade. I left a message that night, just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming: Was that real?. Her reply was immediate: "You’re mine now. You know where to find me."
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