A Failed Servant

I wrote a few stories for an online Domme. For whatever reason she has dropped off the internet, so I thought I would share the relevant stories here. Both of the stories are based off plots she commanded. If there is any interest in this story, I will post the next story I wrote for her. I hope you enjoy...

A Failed Servant

I cannot believe I’m doing this. Mistress Melody has entrapped my mind so deep in her clutches that I am at a loss to stop the motion of my body. My heart and stomach seem to sink as each irrevocable step is completed, my phone’s camera transmitting each and every step of my fateful journey to a woman halfway across the country…


I stand at an empty table and place the key in my shaking fingers and unlock the sturdy, pick-proof lock before dropping the keys in a manila shipping envelope and seal it. The envelope she sent me is affixed with the shipping label and no return address, and there is now no way I can retrieve the keys without Mistress knowing.


I can barely function as my fingers fumble with the lock, twisting it around the cylinder that is keeping the stainless steel belt secured to my nether region; once the lock is closed there will be no way of getting this belt off without serious damage to my body. Various tamper methods have been built into the device which will shock my testicles if it detects the bands being cut. The belt will begin to shock me at regular intervals when the charge drops to 20%. My mouth becomes completely dry as my fingers, commanded by Mistress Melody and seemingly outside of my control, turn the lock to its final resting place.



My finger encircles the lock slowly, waiting, heart... beating...thumping.


“Lock it, bitch.” commands the voice from my phone, and my fingers reflexively obeys.


I stare at your boots in helpless desperation just as the screen goes dark.


Mistress Melody has such insight into the submissive male that she can expertly elicit the desired emotion with the greatest of ease. I can assure you she wanted to create an incredible sense of impotence and helplessness in her subject, while at the same time putting on a grand display of her power over her subject. The emotions coursing through me at this moment are a testament to her insight.


I get dressed and take the long walk to the post office, repeatedly staring at the manila envelope that contains the only keys to my masculinity and sexual pleasure. I think back to the events which led up to this moment, and my mind reels to find the fairness in my sentence. Mistress had revoked my wine privileges simply because she wanted to, and in my weakness I disobeyed her and had a glass while I was out celebrating my incredible bonus; for the first time in my life I have a sizable amount of money in my bank account. This was the third of recent transgressions against her and I knew I was in trouble. After telling Mistress of my disobedience I waited for the inevitable reply of her disappointment in me, but received none. Each passing hour without a message from her was punishment in itself. After a couple of days I was beside myself with the overwhelming fear that I have been banished from her service. After weeks of desperate pleading Mistress Melody finally relented and I received the coveted email from her offering me the path to a long road of redemption; lock away my manhood in a high-end chastity belt and send her the keys, after six months she would think about what it would take to begin my long journey. During the six months I would be banished from her service and would have to suffer my penance without any communication.


One thing Mistress has taught me is that I am a desperate and needy slut, there was no way I could wait such an eternity before being back in her good graces. I could not survive so long without her strong hand and guidance. In my desperation I suggested a few different ways I could make my way back to her quicker, and the idea of a debt contract intrigued her. She asked me a million questions, amongst them was how much of a bonus I received. After some negotiation we came to an agreement that would bring me back to her service in a mere two months, although costing me my bonus and then some.



I am in disbelief that my body is continuing on this journey. My brain, rational and calculating, is reading the destination address...a PO box in New York City. I would have to save for the plane trip and hotel, and the futility of the trip, while my mind, ensnared by her words, keeps pushing my body forward. I stare at my hands as the package is suspended in the mail slot, the finality of this moment is intense, I have so much to…


“Hurry up!” A man yells out, tapping me on the back.


The envelope drops from my fingers and slides down the slot. I scream out, the line behind me has grown while I stood there contemplating such an incredibly important life event. “What’s wrong with you?” an attractive woman yells scornfully, angry that I am wasting her time. I can only stand their ashen faced, staring at the slot as people push past me and push their mail through the innocuous slot and go about their lives. Time ceased as a fog of people in a fog of noise bustled around me mailing Christmas cards and holiday cheer. The keys to my life a foot away, and at the same time a million miles.


At some point my feet began to slowly pull me away from the tiny, innocuous slot. I felt so heavy that my trembling legs could barely carry me. I pulled out my phone and tapped…


servant : the keys are in the mail Mistress

Mistress Melody : I had the most powerful orgasm ever when you closed the lock slut

Servant : i’m so happy my plight has aroused you Ma’am

Mistress Melody : That’s nothing compared to what I’m going to do when I get the keys.

Servant : i’m scared Mistress.

Mistress : You should be. I’ll contact you soon.

Servant : Yes Ma’am.


I held the phone in front of me as the indignation filled my soul; she just had an incredible orgasm just as I sealed the lock to my manhood, making it impossible for me to have one.


Mistress calls me via Skype immediately after I walk in the door. I accept the video call and I’m once again staring at her boots. Her webcam is placed on the floor at her feet, and this is the only view of her that I have ever been privileged to see.


“Strip slut.” Mistress Melody says seductively.


“Yes Ma’am.” I reply, and immediately comply.


“Play with yourself bitch.” Mistress commanded.


The terse manner with which she calmly stated her commands which would have an immense psychological effect on me, would themselves pump an intoxicating mixture of submission and emasculation through my veins.


I am in a quandary as I know the punishment for not obeying her command, yet I am not able to obey her command.


I take my finger and rub it down the steel plate, rubbing the steel labia. Mistress begins to laugh as my fingers rub the labia that protrudes from my belt, giving me a very feminine appearance. Mistress then has me perform for her for a few minutes, teasing myself like a woman, before the camera goes black, leaving me incredibly aroused...yet completely helpless to do anything about it.


My mind races to try and make sense of my predicament: I have locked an incredibly secure chastity belt on and have mailed the keys to a PO Box in New York City for a woman I’ve never seen, save for her boots which she has so enthralled me with (along with her wicked sense of the submissive male psyche). I have signed a debt contract that stipulates I send her $2,500 per week for 2 months with a final $5,000 at the end of the contract, and in return she will absolve me of all my sins. If I disobey a command that did not cross the predefined limits or if I were late with my payment it would be counted as a failure, but I would still be committed to completing the sentence.. If I wanted to end my contract early I would be charged a $2,000 penalty per day. If I fail to meet the obligations of the contract my employer, family, friends, and all of my contacts will receive incredibly humiliating pictures of me. All of my social media accounts will also be filled with those same pictures and videos...and I shall be forever banned from her stable. Only after all debts are paid with interest will the keys be returned.


I have taken my two month sabbatical from work. It takes 5 years of hard work to get a month's sabbatical, where the company will pay you half your salary to go off and get recharged. I was hoping to take some of the bonus money and see the Andes, a dream I’ve had for a very long time, but I shall instead devote myself to Mistress Melody in hopes that I might return to her service..



The contract will consume much more than I can afford per month, and will wipe out my bonus by the time the contract is completed.


Over the next 3 days Mistress Melody has teased and tormented me mercilessly; humiliating Skype sessions, text messages at the most inopportune moments, calls which have pulled me from important meetings, and the endless emails which detail the standing orders which I am to obey unless given explicit permission by her to skip or delay. My mind cannot keep up with the overwhelming litany of commands and demands, the sensual undertones and sexual overtones drive my arousal to an insane new level. I feel as if I am being pushed and pulled simultaneously by the barrage of communication from her and the ever building sensual desires building within. I have to create a spreadsheet of all the things I’m not allowed, the things I’m commanded, my tasks, my chores, my dress code, my schedule. As I’m talking to her I’m writing things down from her whatsapp message, while yet another email message alerts me to yet another standing command.


Mistress sent me out on shopping trips to my local thrift stores in search of items that would befit a person of my stature better than the expensive things I’ve become accustomed to: a small cheap bowl, a small cheap plate, a cheap spoon and fork, a dish strainer (as I will no longer be allowed use of my dishwasher), a thin blanket, and a towel. I was to buy a cheap pair of trousers, a shirt, shoes and socks...these would be the only things I would be allowed to wear out if I weren’t going to work. If she deemed any of these items more opulent than what a homeless person would have I would be severely punished.


Mistress then sent me to a discount grocery store to buy a large box of plain oatmeal, 6 dozen eggs, 8 bags of 9 bean soup, and 8 bags of brown rice; I was able to buy a month's worth of groceries for what I would normally spend on a dinner. I am then commanded to throw or give away everything in my refrigerator and pantry (except for the spices).


Mistress has created a shopping cart for me on Amazon. Arousal once again rushes through my veins as I look at the items she has selected for me, however the $2,000 price tag makes me feel ill, as I am now no longer able to afford such lavishness. My stomach once again churns as my fingers push through the few mouse clicks necessary to complete the purchase.


The packages begin to arrive the next day from my shopping spree. My arousal once more ebbs as my fingers caress the gaudy material knowing that these shall soon be my uniform, the only thing I will be allowed to wear while confined to my home turned prison.


I caress the red and black leather collar and can’t help but appreciate Mistress Melody’s creativity as I look at the fake diamond encrusted lettering glimmering in the light, the words printed backwards so I will be able to read them in the mirror. Every detail meant to control and emasculate me.


I can see that my key arrived yesterday at the designated PO box, but the contract does not begin until she picks up the package. For days after the package languishes in her PO box, Mistress continues her onslaught of teasing and tormenting my already desperate soul. After a very late Friday night of teasing and torment I find myself sleeping incredibly late after Mistress gave me permission to have a bottle of wine and said I could sleep in as late as I so desired.



I screamed as I jumped out of bed as a pulse of electricity surged through my nether regions. My head was pounding and I felt incredibly sick with a hangover. I reach for my phone and see that it is 4 AM. As I’ve been so programmed, I looked at my phone for any messages from Mistress and find one. My heart races as I open her email…


“Did I say you could sleep late?


Oops



Your contract begins today and I thought you’d want to get up early to enjoy it fully. To mark this exciting transition I am setting your furniture off limits to you. You will replace your expensive leather office chair with the little wooden chair you bought from Goodwill. You may only sit on that chair when you’re typing lines, otherwise you will sit on the floor. You will sleep at the foot of your bed. You may use your new pillow and blanket. Your television and sound system are also considered furniture and are off limits.


You will place the old boots I sent you on the floor in front of where you normally sit. Every day at 5 PM you will pour me a glass of wine and set it on the table nearest my boots. At 5:30 PM you will serve me a beautifully plated dinner on the coffee table nearest my boots. At 5:45 you are to dump the wine and set the food in one of the provided take out boxes and set it on the porch. After my dishes and pans are cleaned you may then eat your food.


Enjoy bitch.



I crawl out of my bed and lie on the cold floor, desperate to return to sleep, but the pounding in my head and the queasiness of my stomach, coupled with the realization of my plight prevent me from finding any solace from my indulgence. The only thing that could save me from the incredibly horrendous pain I’m experiencing is a strong cup of coffee and a nice heavy breakfast of bacon and eggs….


My mind begins to replay the events from yesterday and my stomach twists as I remember that last night I was restricted to oatmeal, a hard-boiled egg, rice and 9 bean soup, and water until further notice. NO!! I NEED EGGS, BACON, HASH BROWNS...C..O.F..F..E..E!!!!!


The house is so cold. I look at the thermostat and see that it’s set to 60 degrees. I instinctively reach up to turn up the heat before I remember I’m not allowed to touch it.


“FUCK” I scream, realizing how powerless I am.



I look up and see the web camera that I recently installed, watching my every movement. I put on my little pink bathrobe and matching 5” bedroom slippers, and stumble to the kitchen. My heart drops as I spy my expensive coffee maker and grinder...as impotent to me now as the thing between my legs. I heat up a pan of hot water and pour some instant oatmeal in my bowl. My legs begin to quiver as I stand there waiting for the water to boil...my god how do women stand on these instruments of torture!!??


I pour the hot water into my little bowl and begin to make my way to the couch before I remember my latest command. The indignation wells up within me as I look down at the hardwood floor. There is really nothing for me to do but to sit down on the floor or stand at the counter to eat my breakfast. I really don’t even have that choice as my feet and legs quiver in agony; I cannot believe how difficult it is to kneel on the floor when teetering on a pair of 5” heels, but manage to ungracefully plop on the floor without spilling my meal.


The hard floor is cold against my naked skin. The short little housecoat offers little comfort or warmth as it has ridden up as I hunch over.


I stir the gray mush with my cheap little spoon. I push a small glop of my breakfast past my lips and mush the tasteless porridge around in my mouth before pushing it down my throat. The small spoon is not so much a spoon, much more of a small round plate attached to a small handle. My small tea spoons would be a hundred times better than this stupid little spoon. It seems to take forever to transfer the gray porridge from my bowl to my mouth.


I will not be allowed to rinse or wash my bowl until tonight, so I get as much of the tasteless glop out of the bowl as I can, knowing how difficult it is to clean hardened oatmeal from a dish. I really can’t believe this will be all I will have for breakfast for the next 2 months and once again suffer what will become never ending twinges of indignation.


After I place my bowl in the sink I mince over to my computer and check for any messages since I last checked my phone. I check the tracking number and see that my keys were picked up a little more than an hour ago. A sense of relief washes over me, and I mark my calendar: I will experience female domination beyond my wildest dreams for the next 2 months I think to myself.


I set my phone time for 2 minutes and jump in the shower and twist the valve to its maximum temperature. The cold water startles me as I quickly soap up, I am only allowed 2 minutes to shower. Mistress had me set the safety stop so that at the hottest setting I would only get a tepid shower, once the hot water has made its way from the basement.


I pull the cheap towel across my cold wet body and find it is sorely unfit as a towel, the thin material quickly becoming soaked long before I am dry. After I finish with my shower I put on my first outfit. I pull the red satin panties up my legs. A red patent leather mini-skirt barely covers my panty clad bottom. red shiny blouse, red pumps. All of my shoes have straps, which prevent me from finding any relief from their torture throughout the day.

The slutty clothes offer no protection against the bitter cold temperature Mistress has set the thermostat to.


I place the thick leather cuffs around my ankles adorned with insidious little bells that shall soon become the bane of my existence. The heavy one foot chain will limit my gait to a delicate mince. My wrist cuffs are also held together with a one foot chain and also adorned with little bells.


I look at myself in the mirror and see a completely emasculated bitch staring back at me, a freak. Neither man nor woman, just a hideous looking creature dressed like a $20 hooker. I touch the sparkling letters on the collar…”Bitch” spelled out so I can read it every time I walk by a mirror. A little bell hangs from the D ring, and will be a constant source of annoyance as the incessant ringing will be one of the only sounds I hear all day, that along with the sound of my heels on the hardwood floor and the tapping of my fingers on the keyboard will be my bell concerto.



I open Paypal and send the first of many $2,500 payments. The intoxicating feeling of submission is overwhelming as so much of my hard earned money is about to be whisked away to a woman I know so little about. How many hours did I work to earn that, how much did I sacrifice to save it. I clicked send and a surge of submission flooded my veins. I can barely function as I begin my set of daily tasks. I click on the link to my daily Write For Me task, which I am to complete 10 times per day…


“Hello there my chaste little bitch. Let these words fill you, consume you, become you. You’re my little bitch now and thinking will just make things worse for you. You really do not want to dwell on your current circumstances, it will just make you angry and sad. Let your thoughts fade away and find happiness in your obedience to me. That’s really your only hope now, because if you think about the sacrifices you’ve made for me or how unfair your life has become, well, you’re just going to be miserable my little bitch. So just free your mind of such thoughts and don’t worry your pretty little head about things you can’t control.


Now go ahead and let the words become you, find happiness in your obedience as you type this line over and over...just as you’ve been commanded to.


I start the task and begin typing my lines: “I am Mistress Melody’s mindless little bitch.”


Once I begin typing I cannot take even the smallest break as stopping for 7 seconds results in 20 more lines. Each mistake adds 2 more lines. I curse as I make a mistake on my very first line. I don’t have much time to wallow in my desperation and begin another line…”FUCK!” I scream out as I make another mistake.


The interruptions are finely tuned to twist at my psyche and play with my mind like a cat plays with a mouse.



I finally type the last line and take a pause reading my stats: “You’ve spent 32 minutes and 24 seconds typing 180 lines of the 100 you were assigned. Mistress Melody will be so pleased with you.”


This is now the only line I am allowed to type, not that I would have time to type anything else, however it would do a lot to quench my curiosity to see the other tasks she’s creating, or even if she’s been on recently. My computer has been locked down and I cannot get to any other page but this.


The room begins to grow increasingly warm. I mince over to the thermostat and see that it’s set to 95 F. “Oh my god!” I blurt out.


I boil the water for the dozen eggs which will be my lunch for the next 12 days; it isn’t long before I begin to sweat profusely from the heat emanating off the boiling water adding to the heat from the blazing furnace.


I look at my phone to see if I have any new messages and my stomach sinks as I see that there are no new messages from Mistress. I walk over to the sink and place my shot glass under the tap and fill it with tepid water. I am not allowed to run the tap to allow the cold water to come up from the ground, nor am I allowed to use the water dispenser on the refrigerator. I look at the glass…It simply says ”Bitch” in beautiful cursive. I drink down the contents and pour myself another shot of tepid tap water. I drink 5 more 1 oz glasses of water before my thirst can be quenched. I shall not know the gratification of a cold glass of water to quench my thirst for a very long time, nor shall I experience the lustful flavors of a glass of wine, or the satisfaction of a cold beer or sparkling water.


I look over at the camera mounted on the wall. Mistress Melody told me she has assigned her minions to watch over me. The minion that catches me disobeying any one of her commands will receive an all expense paid trip to have dinner with her, of course it is my $1,000 fine that will be paying for the trip.


After I’ve completed the eggs I log into the Corner Time app, paste in the punishment Mistress has sent me. I push the 4” black penis gag into my mouth and pull the pink strap taught before buckling it. I unbutton my blouse and attach the nipple clamps to my nipples and moan into the gag as the steel bites into my tender flesh. I push start and mince as quickly as I can to my place in the corner. The pain in the balls of my feet and my calves begin almost immediately as I experience what women endure to look sexy for their man. I struggle to stand motionless with my feet perched on a pair of 5” stiletto heels. My arms have their own struggles to endure as my hands rest on the top of my head, pulling my skin tight under the cruel clamps. It isn’t long before drool begins its uncontrolled flow down my chest. Each minute standing in the corner is much worse than the last minute, testing my ability to endure the moment.


“You’re dismissed” finally blurts from my computer and I fall to the ground in a heap. I try to rub my tortured feet through the red patent leather but find it as futile as gaining sexual relief through my emasculating chastity belt.


I finally regain the strength I need to mince my way to the computer and send Mistress the completion report. The emptiness fills me as I notice that Mistress still has not contacted me. My angst begins to grow as the hours pass without a message from my beloved Mistress. The only messages I’m allowed to send her is a 50 word message in the reports of my completed tasks, otherwise I am to await for Mistress to initiate a conversation. I so desperately need to see a message from Mistress Melody.


I sit on my little hardwood chair and begin typing another set of lines again so that I can write a worshipful letter to my beloved Mistress in the hopes that I will respond.


I cannot help but to keep looking at my phone and computer for a message from Mistress. My soul desperately longs for a message from the woman who has so encaptured my spirit and emasculated my soul. Each passing second without a message from Mistress feels like another step into an empty void.


The doorbell rings and panic floods my body, leaving me shaking. I mince over to the door and see a man jumping into a delivery truck before driving away. I open the door and see a large canvas sack, a box, and a wheeled clothes rack sitting on the porch. I struggle to pull the heavy bag in, unable to lift it in my heels. I look at the tag attached to the top, “Pick up Dec 10, 8 AM”, twenty four hours from now.




My stomach sinks as I pull open the top of the bag and see it is filled with dirty laundry. I open the box and see an envelope sitting on a pile of wire hangers. I become immediately excited thinking that this is a letter from Mistress and my fingers shake as I open the envelope. Inside are the directions on how to wash, iron, hang, and fold each of the different articles of clothing.


I feel as if I am going to be sick as I dump the large pile of women’s clothes in the entryway. I quickly begin sorting the laundry and pile the first load in a laundry basket. It’s a struggle to carry the basket down the flight of stairs to my basement in my teetering heels and chained ankles, and I end up having to sit and scooch my way down the stairs. .


I rush back upstairs to place the hand wash items in the sink to soak. While the panties and bras soak I begin another set of lines, the realization sinking in that I will have to work hard to get the laundry done in time on top of my tasks. I can’t help but to make mistake after mistake in my frustration...each mistake causing yet more frustration; a cruel feedback loop feeding on itself. I am not allowed to start over and can do nothing but keep trying to complete the task. It takes over 10 minutes for me to get down to the original 100 lines, typing 230 total lines.


At precisely 5 PM I set down a chilled glass of Chardonnay on the coffee table in front of her soiled boots. I can’t help but to feel the chill from the glass as my fingers hold the stem of her glass, careful not to touch the glass itself. Sweat builds from the side of the glass as the hot air of the house touches the glass containing the refreshing nectar. The cold wine looks so incredibly inviting and it takes everything I have to resist the temptation to drink it, or even to lick the cool refreshing sweat from the side of the glass.


I am parched and drink down more tepid water from my excruciatingly small glass and look at my phone, Mistress’ words playing over in my head…don’t think, it will only hurt.


At 5:30 I place a steaming hot plate of salmon piccata on the table next to the wine. Two thinly sliced lemons placed so gently just off center, one overlapping the other just so, while freshly chopped parsley is sprinkled lightly across the top with a bit of freshly ground pepper. Two sprigs of parsley, one overlapping the other, are placed just to the edge of the perfectly made basmati rice. The aroma of butter, lemon, garlic, and salmon fill the house and my senses.


I retreat to the kitchen and clean up mess that has been made in the kitchen. At 5:45 I retrieve her food and wine, and I can’t help but to stare at the incredible plate of food, savoring the aroma coming from the plate, looking at how inviting the dinner looks, how refreshing the glass of wine looks as I dump it in the sink. I place the dinner every so gently in the takeout box and place it on the porch; it isn’t but a few minutes later when I hear a car pull in my driveway. I will soon find this amongst the cruelest of my daily tasks as each day of my tasteless meals becomes tortuously monotonous.


I struggle to get all of my tasks and the laundry completed by midnight. All the shirts, pants, and skirts cleaned and ironed and hung on the rack, while all the underwear and socks are sorted and folded neatly. 10 tasks completed, dinner cooked, dishes washed, and my chores of the day completed.


The first day of my long sentence is coming to a close. I am so incredibly exhausted and cold as the furnace is turned down for the night. I kneel before Mistress Melody’s old soiled boots and place my lips every so reverently as I place a loving kiss on the toe of each boot.


My legs and feet ache so badly that I am reduced to crawling. I lay my pathetic blanket and pillow at the foot of my bed and take off my slutty outfit and replace it with a satin nighty. I plug my chastity belt into the charger and try to get some sleep. The blanket does little to fend off the cold night air as I lay on the floor and try to fall asleep.


I scream as I jump from the floor, grabbing at my testicles. I look at my phone and see it's only 4 AM. I feel the despair and emptiness as I see there are no messages from Mistress Melody. I begrudgingly put on my slippers and begin my second day of penance for my failures to Mistress Melody.


At 7 AM I pull the full clothes rack out to the porch and place the folded clothes on top of the folded empty bag. At eight the doorbell rings and my stomach sinks as the realization that she has farmed my services out to a local cleaner. For the duration of my sabbatical I shall endure the lowliest of drudgeries, which are normally relegated to the women of society.


Days turn to nights, and my first long week in Mistress Melody’s internment has come to a close, and I am so incredibly worried that I’ve not heard from her that I am becoming sick with fear. If I initiate contact in any way I will fail, but will be indebted to this contract, even if she doesn’t reply.


I toil away each and every day, alone in my thoughts and fears, no music to comfort me nor t.v. to distract me. Just an endless series of tasks and chores which are quickly becoming incredibly tedious and tiring. I dread each and every morning as it will begin with a bowl of tasteless porridge, and end with me exhausted and frustrated. My angst about what has happened to Mistress Melody eats at my soul like a cancer. I don’t know if I’ve been played a fool or if something dreadful has happened to Mistress.


I think back to how I thought I had suffered such privations when she simply allowed me tap water to drink, and now I am suffering a thousand times more.


Each successive day becomes increasingly more difficult. I feel ridiculous as I dress up each day like a little slut to toil away through the drudgery and tedium. I don’t know if Mistress Melody’s minions are watching me or if she has shared the link with the world and I am now the star in some freak show being transmitted around the world. I have never felt so alone, so confused, so desperate to know what is happening, as I feel right now. The desperation to hear from Mistress is only matched by my desperation for sexual release.


I don’t have time to worry my pretty little head though as I have chores to do. I have to change my sheets; one of the many tasks which is used to twist my malleable little mind. Nobody sleeps in what was once my beautiful queen size bed, yet I have to change and wash the sheets every Saturday.


Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I am tasked with finding 10 pictures that convey what I find to be the most stimulating pictures relating to female domination. I am to add those pictures to the desktop background and screensaver folder, which will also be displayed on large monitors throughout the house; constantly arousing me, constantly torturing me. On Saturday and Sunday I am to find a porn move that I find the most stimulating and write a 1,000 word essay of what I found arousing about it.


The only sexual stimulation I receive is my weekly “slut time”. I am required to mount an 8 inch dildo on a wall and perform vulgar acts on it for half an hour, although I am only allowed five minutes of anal penetration. “Allowed” I thought when I first read this, I don’t want a dildo shoved in me at all!


I spend fifteen minutes playing with myself like a little slut, my fingers caressing my body, pinching my nipples, rubbing my stainless steel labia and exploring the folds. I then have to tease the silicon cock with my lips and tongue before taking it in my mouth fist slowly, deeply...in and out, and finally skull fucking myself...something I have only ever felt as the recipient in this weekly display of vulgar depravity.


I am then required to fill myself with the large cock, so much larger than mine. My ever swelling prostate feeling a subtle hint of pleasure as I am spread apart before falling to the floor feeling used and violated before quickly running off to commit myself to my chores...feeling so much like what I envisioned so many millions of women have suffered throughout history; being used for a man’s sexual pleasure, left unsatisfied before running off to complete the never ending household chores.


I felt terrified as I sent off the next payment to Mistress Melody. The endless loop of what may have happened to her play over and over in my mind. I can’t believe I didn’t request a contingency plan in case something happened to her, but given where I am now it’s apparent I wasn’t really thinking at all when I agreed to this. Pressing the send button this time did not have the same submissive rush as the first time; the fear I have that something has happened to Mistress Melody is now becoming overwhelming



It was the third week where I found myself so very close to release when the timer signaled for me to stop. I was so very confused as I pulled myself off and dropped on the floor...so desperate now to be invaded by it again so that I might find some relief. I now found myself longing desperately to be penetrated, desperate for the relief that it might give to my ever so desperate need.




Anxiety begins to overwhelm me. Not hearing from Mistress Melody for over a month has really taken a toll on my psyche. I cannot help but to think that something has happened to her and that I will be encased in this hideous chastity belt until the batteries degrade, shocking my testacles for hours until the battery finally dies when the batteries can no longer hold a charge. How many years will it take to get to that point?



I have grown quite adept at sashaying in my heels as I run about performing my chores, although they are still quite debilitating with chores that require me to carry something, or when I have an especially long time in the corner.


After a couple of weeks I have resigned myself to the fact that I am the victim of an incredibly cruel woman. She has set in motion the wheels of this hideous torture which I am unable to stop and must endure alone. An endless series of tedious tasks and chores, a slave to the machine. I have no idea whether something terrible has happened to her or if she’s sitting back in her chair with a glass of wine watching me on her monitor, relishing in the places she is taking me. Humiliation, desperation, anxiety,and fear are my constant companions as I struggle through each an every waking minute, and then reliving the torture in my dreams.


The monotony of my bland diet; plain oatmeal for breakfast, a hard boiled egg for lunch, and rice and 9 bean soup for dinner...washed down with tepid water from a 1 oz glass, has affected much more than I have expected. I have worked incredibly hard throughout my life and brought myself from nothing, and have come to enjoy some of the finer things in life like good quality food and expensive wine. Yet each and every Saturday a box arrives at my door filled with fresh herbs and vegetables, along with the finest cuts of meat and fish, that I shall only be allowed to savor the aromas as I prepare each of these delectable dishes.



I am stuck in a spiral of suffering and humiliation which will fill my every waking hour. Each day brings with it a day filled with drudgery and tedium served out in my personal little sweatshop. I toil each day to complete all of my tasks and the laundry by midnight or I will be further indebted to Mistress Melody.The cameras watch me incessantly, never tiring as a harem of Mistress’ minions take turns watching my every move.


I send Mistress the last payment, $5,000.. and fall on the floor and cry. I can’t believe the hell that I have lived through the last two months. I stare at my phone and sob uncontrollably, still waiting, still longing desperately for her words. I reach down and feel the impenetrable steel imprisoning my manhood.


A week after my intense imprisonment I am still trying to get used to daily life again. The sites and sounds are overwhelming, the taste of food, coffee, and especially wine are so much more intense. I cannot keep my eyes off of women as my ever increasing desires can never be satisfied. My only reprieve is the occasional wet dream, but even that is merely but a shot glass of tepid water which does nothing to quench one's thirst.


I have called Mistress a hundred times since my release, only to have my heart drop in my chest as I listen to her quick voice mail prompt before I begin my pleading, my voice cracking as I struggle not to cry. I follow up the call with a desperate text, begging Mistress to please contact me. I send her long pleading emails, telling her how desperate I am to hear from her.


One day I let the charge to my belt drop below 20% to test it and dropped to my knees as the warning shock surged through my manhood, far stronger than any shock I’ve ever received before. As soon as I regained my composure I ran over to the charger before anything so excruciating happens again. .


I could not help but to once again think of the offenses which I have committed against Mistress Melody that has warranted the harsh penalty which I continue to suffer: I had a glass of wine in celebration when I was forbidden to drink, I was tarty in response to a text message she sent...choosing to not interrupt a dinner with a close friend, and not coming close to the number of committed lines on a day I had to work late.


While I could not even begin to explain to another man why such harsh punishments are not only just for such trivial matters but needed by a man like me. I could not explain to another man why I was even writing lines like an errant child for a woman. Nor could I ever begin to tell another man why I have suffered such a punishment for a woman I have never had the pleasure of making love to, or kissing, holding hands with, or even seeing. How could I begin to explain how I’ve suffered so much for so little for a woman halfway across the country that I have never even had the pleasure to smell her sweet perfume?


My fingers trace the cold hard steel which imprisons my manhood while its batteries are once again refilled with the juice which will have the power to drop me to my knees in excruciating pain for hours and hours, while I stare at the blank message counters on my phone. My heart and my stomach in a constant state of free fall as each passing moment without hearing from Mistress drives me further and further down my hole of despair.



My arms are wrapped around Mistress Melody’s old boots like a child would hold a treasured stuffed animal. My lips pressed against the worn leather as tears rain down my cheeks while I plead and beg for Mistress to call me, to text me, to email me, to snapchat or Skype me. I wonder if she’s home watching me in my abject desperation, gently rubbing herself as I lay prostrate before her boots, sobbing like a little child.


What has happened to my beloved Mistress, and, what shall happen to me?

 

Thank you,

I don't know what MMM is.