Life with Princess

Chapter One - There's Always Next Time

He takes the first stroke of his supervised masturbation.

"STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP!" she shouts. "HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK."

"I'm sorry Princess" he immediately stammers. She cuts him off with a snap of her fingers. He knows to fall silent immediately.

"I did not say "start," did I?"

"No Princess" he says softly.

"And yet you took a stroke."

"I'm so sorry Princess. I don't know how it happened."

"You don't know how it happened?!?! Your grubby little hand came around and gave it a stroke!"

"I just mean I didn't mean to, Princess. It just happened."

"It just happened! I can't think of a more pathetic excuse. Take some accountability for yourself, Pig."

"Yes Princess."

"So how do you think we should proceed? What is the proper course of action after an unauthorized stroke?"

"Uh," he manages.

"Take your time," she says, examining her nails in order to communicate disinterest.

He knows the correct answer. He is cursing inside, loudly and at length, but the truth was the stroke had just sort of happened. It hadn't been a conscious thought, he knew better than to take a stroke before Princess told him to start. So it was just his body betraying his good intentions.

But none of that changes the answer he knows Princess is expecting. He could say something else, of course.

"well I think you could be a little understanding with a guy who's been locked up for more than six months and is only permitted to stroke once a month under strict supervision. I think you could forgive a guy in that situation a little underachievement in his self-control."

But mouthing off to Princess last happened... in another lifetime. Somebody else's lifetime. The creature Pig is now isn't going to try that even for a second. The creature Pig is now knows the correct answer.

He pauses, trying to stay measured, calm. "Say it without the attitude" had previously resulted in more than two sessions with Princess and the cane. "Straight back into chastity," he says.

"Bet. I'm very proud of you for having the courage to take accountability. Stand up, hands behind your head."

Princess turns to her side and takes the thick rubber gloves off the bathroom counter. She strides over to the side of the tub and crouches down. She takes a deep breath, obviously steeling herself for something terrible, and moves to put the chastity cage back on.

Her rubber-coated fingers slowly approach his fading erection. At the very first instant of contact his hips twitch and his cock makes a tiny, almost imperceptible thrust toward her. Once again, he thinks, things just happen.

She gives a small scream and backs up. The look on her face is like a particularly ugly rat has just crawled out of her soup.

"I can't deal with it," Princess says. "It's too disgusting. And the fucking gooner vibes radiating off of you in this moment is more than I can tolerate. I am going to stand outside and if you do not walk out, fully secure, key in hand, in fewer than 90 seconds we are going to have more problems."

And with that she steps outside, closes the door behind her. He silently takes a deep sigh and silently lets it out. Then he hustles to get the cage on.

Putting it on is a familiar feeling, though for so long it had been for an afternoon of self-indulgence, that sort of thing.

Despite the familiarity he is a bit out of practice, as the cage has only come off for the seven supervised masturbation sessions, one per month of their time together.

Princess used the time to update the log she was keeping in her notes app.

Session 1: Canceled after 79 seconds due to going WAY too hard and pig being about to hurt himself

Session 2: Canceled after 74 seconds due to excessive thirst in glance toward superior

Session 3: Canceled after 63 seconds due to constantly messing up "Stroke Slut's Poem of Gratitude"

Session 4: Cancelled after 210 seconds due to being boring af

Session 5: Cancelled after 54 seconds due to sarcastic smile that was giving "I don't understand how hard this is for Princess" energy

Session 6: Cancelled after 45 seconds due to announcing impending orgasm in tone that was lowkey threatening

Session 7: CANCELED IMMEDIATELY (less than 0 seconds) bc pig had absolutely ZERO self control, literally couldn't even START before getting shut down (embarrassing)

Same basic form. She screams "STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP," offers a brief explanation of issue, prompts Pig to provide an adequate solution. The first month had featured a modicum of what he thought of as discussion. The second session ended with what he thought of as earnest disappointment, but Princess knew was passive aggressive resentment.

He scared himself after the third session broke down. He had tried to memorize the ten line poem she had written and when it came time almost none of it was there, just stammering and pausing while he went at it.

The scary part was that after she cut him off he thanked her, babbling almost, thanking her for providing strength and discipline when he himself could not, for compensating for his massive faults, for his inability to control himself when granted a tiny bit of personal freedom by his superiors.

"You're welcome, Pig. I'm happy to be helping you," Princess had said. A pause fell between them, and they were both surprised to discover how deeply they meant what they were saying.

On his part, he ached to be controlled. He had begged more than one woman in his life, found them all less into it than he needed them to be. And now there was Princess, new to the game but devilish, creative, and apparently ruthless.

For her part, she was still in awe of what was developing, finding it fascinating. He had asked her to be unfair, he was getting it, and he was eating it up. Princess had always wondered about the people out at the edge of human experience, and now she had found one.

That was four sessions ago. She is still fascinated. He is weeping. He exits the bathroom and hands Princess the key.

"Thank Jesus," she announces as she threads the key back on to her necklace. It falls outside of her shirt. There was a time where she would have tucked it under the hem. That time has passed.

Currently they were headed for a relaxing evening in, the supervised masturbation being Princess' idea for a celebratory kickoff into the weekend. He has promised to control himself this time, to behave appropriately.

"To the kitchen, Pig" says Princess. He heads down the hall, careful not to mope or hesitate.

Princess follows him into the kitchen and motions for him to stop and stand in a particular spot. She goes into one of the cupboards for a handful of rice, which she pours in a thin layer in front of where Pig stands.

"Kneel," Princess says. He complies instantly.

"This is the first of your punishments for ruining the evening," Princess says. "I'm wrecked that what could have been a fun and relaxing evening must now be all about the endless task of correcting your inadequacies and unfortunate impulses."

There was a short pause. He takes his cue.

"I'm sorry for ruining the evening, Princess."

"I know," she says as she gently strokes his hair while he settles in on the rice. "I know."

Several hours later he is in the at-least-its-human-sized dog bed that sits at the foot of what used to be his bed. He is on his stomach, trying to avoid irritating the sharp sting from the lines across his ass. This has the effect of making his chastity cage lie awkwardly, either under him or folded back. This is uncomfortable. He squirms.

"Get it together, Pig" Princess calls as she exits the bathroom and crawls into bed. "I won't have my beauty rest interrupted."

"Yes Princess," he replied, and he turns over to rest on his back.

Chapter Two - Waiting For Spring Rains

They had started as roommates. It was a college town without enough housing, and she had just gotten a job as a quant in the college's investment office. He had bought a house back when he graduated, which was well before the price of everything went completely insane, the most recent round of which left him wondering if a roommate could hurt.

There was her more-or-less innocent stumbling on to his vast and lengthy internet life, postings and threads and, finally, a chunk of stories plainly about himself and a bright young college grad who moved in as a roommate.

That gave her enough of "the ick" to bring it up, and there were a series of long and often awkward conversations, but ones in which she was curious and far from judgemental.

He figured she was, at best, 48 hours from telling him to shove his lease up his ass and departing from his life forever. So he decided to shoot his shot. Haven't you ever wondered?

She had not. Before, at least. But she had started to? A little bit?

He tried not to panic, not to overdo it, not look a cliché horse in the mouth. He tried to bring some curiosity to things. He tried to find out what sounded appealing to her, what sounded weird.

She was into the service. "It's a love language, right?" she had asked. That was easy, he figured, and it could grow from there. Every story he wrote had marathons of pussy eating, furious spankings, all the classic material, but he figured one thing at a time. Princess had moved in in August, and the conversations lasted for a while.

One day in late September she reached into the refrigerator for her lunch, silently cursing for not having re-upped her supply of the seltzers she downed all day. Except she found, sitting there, a fresh case of her usual and another case of a new flavor she'd been meaning to track down.

Is this what he had talked about? Subs, he had said, good ones, anyway, anticipate needs. It's not just, like, sitting around waiting for you to draw up a list of chores.

Once she had an inkling of what was possible, it was easy to see this and that around the house that either needed to be brought up to standard or she simply didn't enjoy doing on her own.

By mid-October she had prodded him to improve his basic habits; sweeping and mopping now happened daily, and all dishes were done by him. As he worked, she sat on her laptop and browsed his forum posts and his stories, trying to get a deeper understanding.

So that was how the twice weekly sweeping and mopping went from a standard household chore to the scene of a grown man stooped and scurrying, carrying two pieces of the Let's Play House! 6 Piece Pretend Play Set.

He looked ridiculous, stooped over and pushing a 28 inch broom across the floor. She was once again relaxing and watching this happen.

It was striking to think about, that she had simply dropped this restriction on him and he had said yes. Thanked her, even! And as November's days grew cold and the light began to disappear, her thoughts turned to chastity.

It had featured heavily in his online life and he framed it as essential to the kind of relationship he craved. There was no more immediate and tangible form of control. She was still just a roommate, at that point, and taking an active interest in his cock was too wild to contemplate.

He understood that, and knew that this whole thing was incredibly unlikely to fly, but if it did it would be service, then punishment and humiliation, and then, maybe, sex.

But the sight of this grown man pushing a 6 inch wide broom across his floors was so striking that as she was watching it happen she just got it in her head that it could be improved.

"Are you locked up?" she asked.

"No," he said, sheepishly.

"Go get it," she said, "You'll put it on yourself, and you'll finish the floors naked."

She had looked at pictures of chastity when they first discussed the subject, but this was her first glimpse at his. It was stainless steel, and the chastity made it look really quite small. Maybe he's a grower, she thought, Maybe I can do this without ever learning.

From there things began to snowball. The stores had barely put out their Christmas wares when she special ordered two bone-white mats for inside the doors. ""It's such a clean, festive vibe!"!" she said. They somehow picked up dirt even on the days when no one stepped on them.

The new year saw her turn her attention to the laundry. He was doing all of it, and the fact that he was handling her most delicate and salacious undergarments began to eat at her.

She made a late Christmas gift of a pair of goggles designed to simulate a.13 blood alcohol level. The intricate details of the lace were obliterated, and most of his energy went into not spilling soap everywhere. It was more than effective in taking any sexual thrill out of the task.

Mercifully most of the remaining laundry wasn't done by hand, and it wasn't stimulating enough that Princess felt the goggles were necessary. Laundry was laundry, for a time, until February brought a new and colorful agony.

He was hanging a few sweaters up when something caught his eye in the back corner of the Closet. Reaching in for it and what he found behind it, he pulled out an array of classic dominatrix gear. Leather and latex, corsets and catsuits, fine lingerie sets, more classic dominatrix gear.

He hadn't asked her to buy the outfits, and she hadn't mentioned them when she did so. They had simply shown up. She hadn't told him about them, hadn't teased him about hiding them, she hadn't threatened him with punishment if he asked about them, nothing.

They were just there. Mocking him.

The subtlety of this drove him insane. One day, when he knew she was at work and would not be back for a few hours, he took it all out.

He hung the pieces on the bedframe's upper railing and laid them out on the bed in different combinations, staring at each for a moment, trying to picture Princess wearing them.

His hand drifted to his crotch and started stroking a phantom dick He looked down at it but didn't stop, simply marveling at what his current life was driving him to do.

There were several layers to process. A real man wouldn't have begged a woman to lock up his dick. A real man, even an unlocked one, wouldn't be stroking to fancy lingerie and boots laid out on a bed. He wouldn't even be stroking it to a real woman wearing the ensemble. He would be taking her, fucking her.

His hand kept moving and he tried to imagine being that man. He tried to honestly evaluate what he would do if given the choice, the life that was currently developing, or the one he was imagining.

It all started to eat at him and he moved to wipe his fingerprints off the boots and put everything back in the deep reaches of the closet.

He felt a very particular sort of ache, one unfamiliar to many. It was a delicious, deep feeling, the echo of pleasure that so perfectly validated his denial fetish.

He told himself it would be best to confess his laying them out, his delusions about other lives.

He moved on to a task that was tedious but possible to do correctly, but difficult for Princess to verify. Washing the produce in water that had been boiled to sterilize it and then cooled to precisely 68 degrees was annoying, but manageable if he planned correctly and used a big enough pot of water to do it in one batch.

When Princess had made this stipulation she knew full well she would never be home to verify that it was being done, and would have no way of checking.

She knew she could explode one day if she wanted to, claim she could "lit-trally just tell" and he would grovel and apologize. That didn't really appeal to her, although physical punishment had become way more fun than she had expected.

It was simply something she had thought of that would make him feel controlled. This was the meat of it for her, on a daily or moment to moment basis. She had read all his stories by now and she found the bitchy dommes in them trite and uninspired.

If I'm going to do this, she had told herself, I'm going to absolutely eat. Show him just how far it can go.

All of this - the passing of time, the growth of control, who he is, who he can and can't be, how lucky he feels - passes through his head as he does the day's chores. He pauses before tidying up the living room in order to quickly snap a few quick pictures.

Last week's tidying had gone... wrong. He and Princess had stood, the first spring breeze of the year coming in the window, and she had told him that it wasn't right, it wasn't tidy.

"Put it back exactly like it was," she said, "then clean it again."

After the 8th time he failed to correctly place the spare change that had been on the coffee table he broke down and begged Princess to just cane him and let him clean the room.

As she let him catch his breath between two substantial strokes she thought about this, the begging.

Why let him waste my time with that many attempts? she thought. I should have gone to the cane quicker. That's on me. Lesson learned, I guess. The lesson he learned was to take a few pictures.

Chapter Three - Friday Night Is Date Night

Princess arrives home and finds Pig's efforts largely unremarkable. She does check the spice rack, which she had told him to organize by country of origin.

"The cinnamon?" she asks him. The jar is unlabeled.

"Sri Lanka?" he asks hopefully.

"Vietnam," she says with some regret. If he had chosen Vietnam she would have said Sri Lanka, of course, and they both know it.

She briefly considers levying some kind of penalty for this error, but the truth is the impossible tasks are a new escalation of the arbitrary ones and she still feels uncomfortable literally hurting him for something he had zero hope of avoiding.

She focuses instead on asking him to prepare a snack of crudite, knowing he will agonize over perfectly uniform vegetables. Following that, she tells him, he should put on his blindfold, lock himself in the queening box and lie on the bathroom floor to await her.

The box is of his own creation, from back when there wasn't any queen to occupy the throne, nevermind a Princess.

Things are different now, though, and his body is stretched out along the bathroom floor, his head cradled in a foam-lined box with an opening at the top. Despite the blindfold his chastity cage twitches in anticipation.

The shower cuts off and Princess steps out. After a bit of toweling off, she comes and sits on top of the box, positioning herself so that her pussy is centered in the opening, directly in what would have been Pig's line of vision. She nudges Pig with her heel.

"Thank you for denying me a glimpse of your perfection, Princess," he says.

"You're welcome, Pig, but I don't want to talk about me right now. Let's talk about you."

He knows what is coming. They have had this conversation before.

"Do you think I'm attractive, Pig?"

"Yes Princess."

"And when I showed up on your doorstep, here to see the room you had for rent, did you think you were the luckiest man on the planet?"

His thoughts go back to that day. He can't remember if he felt lucky. Shortly thereafter he left his laptop out in the living room, and now he can't tell how lucky he is. "Yes Princess," he said. "The luckiest."

"When I left after an hour, did you think about fucking me? Did you think about me getting down on my knees and sucking your dick?"

He pauses. Even though they've had the conversation before, even though he knows where it's going.

"No, Princess."

"That's actually wild," she muses. "I mean, not to be glazing myself but literally every man who has ever had the privilege of seeing me has thought about fucking me."

This isn't a question, so he keeps silent.

"Maybe you thought about being my friend? I wouldn't blame you for thinking you couldn't bag me. Anyway, did you think about that after I left? Fun chats over a glass of wine?"

"No, Princess."

"Hmmmm," she says. "Well that's also giving weird energy, but I guess it points to a totally different option. Did you think about this? What's happening now?"

"Yes, Princess."

"This exact scenario? You thought about having your head in a little box, staring up at my gorgeous vagina, with your little dick locked in a chastity cage?"

"Yes, Princess."

"Oh. Well I guess it makes sense that you ended up down there, doesn't it?"

"Yes, Princess."

"I know there's often a bit in things like this, your little perverted fantasies, a part where I go on and on about the hot guy I'm going to go fuck, and how big his dick is, blah blah blah." He said nothing. "And I call you my cuck. Do you want to be my cuck, Pig?"

"Yes Princess." He knew where this was going too but giving the wrong answer was not a good time.

"Well you can add that to the list of disappointments in your life, I suppose, because you're not. 'Cuck,' to me, somehow implies some kind of sexual relationship between us, like I am somehow contributing to your sexual fulfillment. The idea of it, honestly, gives me a bigger ick than any ick anyone has ever gotten."

There were many instances where he wished that he could speak freely without fear of repercussions. He recognizes, and accepts, that this was not that kind of relationship. But with this point she had made, he hungers to ask her, "really?"

Could she really think that they don't have a sexual relationship? What did she think drove his willingness to put up with constant verbal abuse and manipulation? What part of his brain did she think got a massage from ongoing denial?

You and me, he thinks to himself. We're in this together.

He says nothing.

Princess stands up and he hears the key to the queening box scrape along the bathroom counter, then hears it plink against the floor deeper into the bathroom.

"Just something to help you pass the time while I'm out," she says. "What do you say?"

"Thank you Princess" he says.

"You're welcome," she replies.

He gropes along the floor for a time, eventually finding the key under the radiator. She is out the door as he takes the box off, leaving without saying goodbye.

Chapter Four - How Did That Make You Feel?

The client sits on the couch, soft and plush leather, and looks at the therapist, who is looking at her.

"How are things with your..." the therapist pauses, "roommate." The therapist used to pause for longer. Maybe she's getting used to the idea, the client thinks.

"It's whatever, I guess," the client says. "I did this super toxic thing the other day, like hardcore gaslit him and then switched it up just to see if he'd call me out on my BS or anything."

"And he didn't?" the therapist asks.

"Not even close," the client says, "But I did it right before I dipped out, and when I got home, about to crash, I noticed that all the bottles in my bathroom were, like, spotless. You know how they get all crusty and gross? Gone."

"Hmmm," the therapist says. Like the pauses, the "hmms" have gotten shorter, the client notes.

"So basically I was being a total bitch, and his response was to do something nice for me," the client says.

"Is that still uncomfortable for you?" the therapist asks.

"I tried to check in with myself, you know? Like you said about tuning into my emotions and not just ignoring the feels."

"And?"

"I think I liked it? I think I actually liked it." Neither of them say anything for a moment. "Something else happened though, and I can't stop thinking about it."

"Oh?"

"So we're at his house, it's Saturday and he's mopping the floors, right? I found this tiny toy mop and it's like, stupid small, and he has to hunch over to use it but it lowkey works, and that's his floor cleaning setup."

The therapist regularly makes an effort to remain even in her "hmms" and "I see"s.

"So he's doing his thing and I'm in my room and I just strip down and decide to go grab one of his seltzers from the mini fridge. I took three yesterday for work and I'm kinda hoping he forgot to restock."

The therapist takes mental note of her client itching to punish this man, but continues her effortful neutrality.

"So I walk out there completely naked, and obviously he looks at me. And I go off on him, like 'get your eyes off me you absolute creep, I'm just existing and your nasty gaze is giving predator vibes,' that whole energy."

"Right," says the therapist, thinking about how she wouldn't mind her client giving more verbatim dialogue and less summarizing.

"So I grab the seltzer, crack it, take a sip, and head back to my room. And of course, now his eyes are glued to the floor like his life depends on it. And right before I bounce, I turn and tell him it's very triggering that he's not even acknowledging how good I look or my gym grind, that it's actually deeply invalidating for a woman to not be seen."

"Oh dear," says the therapist, regretting it but unable to help herself.

"That's our normal vibe," the client says, "But after I storm off I realize I'm actually in my feelings about it. My stomach literally hurts, I'm pressed."

"Oh dear," the therapist says again.

"I literally set the whole thing up myself, I planned the entire situation. I hurt my own feelings. Which is so embarrassing."

"I think we often put ourselves in situations where a likely outcome is hurt feelings," the therapist says, working to normalize what they both know is a pretty not-normal situation.

"Facts," the client says, and appears to think to herself for a moment while looking out the window.

The therapist jumps at the chance to adjust herself in her seat. She had been unable to do so thus far, because under her loose sweater there are two small bells clipped to her pierced nipples, and if she moves the wrong way they will jingle and might make for a deeply awkward moment in session.

The therapist had thought about raising this issue with her Master this morning, when she sat on her knees and watched the bells go on. But she had worn the bells at work before, and she knew she had earned it this time.

She had absentmindedly forgotten to thank Master for the load he had deposited in the back of her throat, and she knew that there would be consequences for that lapse. So she wore the bells, knowing she knew she had some moves up her sleeve.

The move this time is to cross her chest with her arm as if she is scratching her shoulder, and press gently on the bells to hold them in place. The client does not take her eyes off the window, and the therapist gratefully settles into a new position. She clenches around the plug in her ass and thinks, very briefly, about how she will make it up to Sir tonight.

""Do you think he suffers in the relationship with you, or do you think he is satisfied?" the therapist asks. Her earlier work with the client had been pretty standard CBT stuff, and the therapist is hoping that her client will see that this is black-and-white thinking.

"Lowkey my first thought is it's not one or the other, it's both," the client says. "But there's more to it than that, isn't there?"

"Is there?" the therapist asks. "Follow that thought."

"The suffering... is... the satisfaction," the client puzzles through. "Right? Is that a thing?"

"First thing," the therapist says, "you learn very quickly with this job that when it comes to people that pretty much anything is possible."

"So is this some unconscious shit?"

"Thinking back to when you first brought this up to me, you told he had written some 90-odd stories about you?"

"Only four were about me specifically," the client says, "Written after I moved in. His account had like, 96 stories posted to it, or something. They were all about the same thing, super bitchy women and the pathetic men who served them."

"You read them all?" the therapist says. There is minimal clinical value to this question, but the therapist cannot help herself.

"Yeah," the client says.

"Ok, so four about you and 92 about some other women, probably imaginary, maybe not."

"Yeah," the client says.

"That doesn't sound unconscious to me, that's all I'm driving at. It sounds like someone who has spent a long time thinking about what they want. About what satisfies them."

"I guess," the client says again, and returns to looking out the window.

The therapist wants her client to better understand the relationship she has found herself in, and better understand the man involved. But the therapist notes the break in eye contact and, because she takes such things seriously, she abandons this poor submissive man and returns to center on her client.

"Okay," says the therapist. "Let's stipulate for a moment that he is... fulfilled. How *you* feel is much more important."

"Lol," says the client. "He said that to me once, in like, one of our first conversations about this stuff."

"Oh," says the therapist. "I didn't..."

"No I know, how could you. It's just sending me." There's an extended pause. "I literally have zero idea how I feel. Is that allowed?"

"Always."

"I know how I might feel. Maybe. Let me think about it for a sec." Another pause, longer this time. "There are things that are fun, and two things that are kinda sus."

"Start with whichever," the therapist says.

"This is, or has been so far, mostly a game. Call him out on this whole 'serving me' vibe, about submission, all of it. Because no way he actually means it. There has to be some point where he's just going to go 'come the fuck on,' right? I'm going full chaotic evil on this."

"Let's come back to this," the therapist says, "let's stick with you. This is the fun part, I think?"

"I think so too! Like, I'm not 100% sure. But I think so. He just keeps taking it. Everything I can dream up. I had him literally counting grains of rice for my dinner the other night because I told him if I ate more than 300 grains I'd feel like a whale and I'd never forgive him for doing that to me."

The therapist says nothing.

"But he went 'of course' so quick I decided OK, let's level up. He puts the plate in front of me and I go 'no way you expect me to eat rice your crusty hands touched.' And you know what he says?"

"What?" asks the therapist, who is trying not to think about the time her Sir had her kneel on rice.

"'I used gloves.' I almost lost it and broke character like 'okay you got me.' But that's not the point of the game! So I hit him with 'And did you wear gloves to touch the gloves?' like he's an idiot."

"Oh dear," the therapist says.

"For real. Anyway I pushed the rice onto the floor and made him eat it and he grinned like an idiot the entire time. Fulfilled, you said? Wild."

"I do not want to make anything of this but I want to point it out to you," the therapist says. 've got a pretty big grin on yourself. Make of that what you will."

The client shrugs in resignation. "Like I said, this is the fun part."

"One of two."

"Yeah. The other one is... Haven't you ever wanted to just demand your way? To tell some guy in your life that his 'best effort' ain't it and he needs to level up immediately?"

That is not, the therapist thinks to herself, The relationships I have had with the men in my life. She does not say this. "And the less fun part?" she asks instead.

"I wasn't raised to be a raging cunt 24/7, that's the short version."

"Ah," says the therapist. "Sometimes we find ourselves in roles that don't come naturally." She winces inwardly at this answer, makes a note to herself to write down the exchange and discuss it with the older therapist she sees for supervision. Is her own kinky self pushing this girl to accept and enjoy the admittedly odd relationship she's found herself in? "So that's one downside," the therapist says.

"The other," the client says, "is that it's hard to accept that somebody could actually be this pathetic."

"Ah," the therapist says again. "Tell me more."

"Zero backbone," the client says. "I've just gotten more and more straight up unhinged, for literally no reason. I am mistreating him without end, and he just keeps taking it. This guy isn't even a loser, he's an investor, has a social life, he's good with his fam, keeps himself clean and fit. Like all the makings of someone with actual worth and dignity are right there and I'm ignoring it to--metaphorically, thank god, not literally--but I'm ignoring it to metaphorically shit in his mouth and he just takes it. I'm begging him to say 'bitch, come on' and he simply will not."

"Do you remember when we talked about reframing?" the therapist asks, recognizing where she's going with this comment and mentally underlining the need to check in with her own supervisor.

"Yeah," says the client. "Facts don't change, we just look at them different."

"I hope you will not consider it a betrayal of anyone's confidence to share with you that I have counselled submissive men before."

The client's eyebrows raise slightly.

"They are, uh, more common than people tend to think," the therapist says, mentally running through her own "I wish everyone could understand and experience the joy of complete submission" rant.

"Not shocked, tbh," says the client.

"Indeed," says the therapist. "But when I have worked with them, and they often struggle with this, this bleeding of the fun, play kind of pathetic into the oh god am I really a piece of human trash kind of stuff. So we work to a point where we can see it a different way."

"Well don't keep it a secret, shit."

"It often takes courage to accept what turns us on. That's the short version. The farther it is from what we're told we're supposed to want, the harder it is. Your roommate might be someone who knows who he is and who isn't afraid to dive into it."

"Isn't afraid."

"He doesn't sound afraid to me," the therapist says. Another pause passes. "We're getting a little bit low on time here," the therapist continues. "We can run over a bit if you need to, I'm just giving you a heads up."

"Nah," the client says. "I'm good. Well not good, but, you know. He knows who he is and what he wants, good for him I guess. I just have to figure out who I am and what I want."

"Is that all?" the therapist says, not unkindly. As the client gets up to leave the therapist stifles, again, the urge to ask what he calls her, and what she calls him.

Chapter Five - Never Trust a Drunk Sadist

Princess comes home late from "an appointment," she tells Pig. He knows better than to ask for more info.

"The house looks good, Pig," Princess says, and stops herself from adding 'thank you.' Pig is somewhat taken aback. Praise has happened before, but it is not common. Princess banishes him to the corner while she gets ready for a night out.

Many hours later Princess stumbles in, heels in hand, finds Pig on his knees by the front door holding a tray. The tray holds ice water and two activated charcoal tablets.

"Good," she hiccups, before swallowing the tablets and downing the rest of the water. "Follow," she tells Pig, a specific word indicating that he should travel on all fours.

They head down the long hallway together and as she walks she slides out of the bodycon dress she is wearing. She is not wearing underwear and Pig tries to think how long it has been since he was allowed to see her naked.

"Stop there," she calls as she climbs on to the bed. He stops, six feet or so from the bed, still staring, unsure of what to say.

"Do you want to fuck me, Pig?" she asks. There is a right answer to this, he knows, I'm not worthy, blah blah blah, but there is something different about the energy and he says nothing.

"I don't get fucked enough in this relationship," she says. The word choice does not escape him.

"Let me offer you a deal," she says, wiggling her naked bottom in front of him. "I'll unlock you right now and I will fuck you senseless, and then we break up."

He is stunned. Terrified? Is she tired of this? What does "break up" mean when your partner in the relationship showed up to rent a room and ended up taking over the house?

"Come on!" she shouts. "Tell me you want to fuck me and I'll unlock you!"

"Princess," he says softly. "I don't want this to end."

"Okay," she says. "Fine! Fine. Forget that part. Just fuck me!"

Now he's even more lost. Is this a trap? If he says "yes" does she just dissolve into laughter and lecture him about how disgusting he is?

"I know you want to fuck me," she says. "You're a human man. I don't even know why I'm doing this. I want to get fucked? I'm drunk. Drunk enough that my contempt for you has wandered into pity. You know you want to fuck me."

He says nothing.

"This is your once in a lifetime chance, Pig. Ask to fuck me and I'll let you."

This has to be a trap, he thinks. He can think the whole thing through in a second, how offended she is that he would believe that of himself, on and on.

A new cane arrived in the mail on Thursday. She showed him when she ordered it, a skinny, acrylic number, light and fast. What better way to incite an occasion to take it through its paces? His ass, his thighs, the bottoms of his feet all almost ache in anticipation.

He says nothing.

"This is get out of jail free, all other rules and everything else completely suspended. This is your ticket to an hour in heaven, Pig. I'm good. I will throat you so fucking deep and I will ride you until I grind you into dust."

He says nothing.

"I mean it when I say once in a lifetime. I will never ask you again. I will never even hint at abandoning our dynamic again."

He says nothing. Ordinarily non-responses quickly become an issue but he knows she is very drunk and he is scared and confused.

"You couldn't be normal, could you?" There's less contempt in this. It's a regrettable observation. "You just, just... can't."

A moment passes, no one saying anything.

"If you can't, you can't," Princess says. She gets off the bed. "I need to do my skincare routine, go put a bunch of clothespins on your balls and more than two on your nipples. You can take them off when I'm asleep. If you wake me up they'll go back on and stay on."

Some time later he sits in the dog bed trying not to move. Moving makes it worse. She exits the bathroom and crawls into bed, says nothing. He listens to her breathing, very familiar with it by now, and after a short time he hears it settle, slow down. He takes the clothespins off, one at time, writhing in silent agony as the blood rushes back in.

He continues to listen to her breathing for some time before he falls asleep. His nipples are very sore, and the listening feels intimate.

Chapter Six - You Can Only Answer A Phone That's Ringing

"Make sure you pick up all the shells," Princess tells Pig as she finishes an afternoon snack. "And when you're done with that pick up some of the bubbly that I enjoy."

Pig, who has been lying on his back under the table with Princess's feet resting on his face, is grateful he and Princess have eased back into tasks. There were some tense days following her coming home drunk and full of... whatever that was.

A case of seltzer that he hadn't bought had shown up in the fridge had set off alarm bells for him, and then there had been a distinct lack of Princess around their home. He kept at his chores as best he could but it gave him a lot of time to think, and he was able to stop panicking from time to time for other thoughts.

What had he expected? was one that kept coming up. Some random girl shows up just trying to rent a room for her first year as an adjunct professor, and the fact that she rooms with a massive pervert is dumped in her lap. It wasn't quite a fairy tale.

Still, he was proud of himself for taking a chance and pitching her on an FLR relationship when she 'bumped' his laptop and woke up a screen showing a story that was pretty clearly about her.

Easy come, easy go he found himself thinking sometimes, although often with a question mark, and often with a resentful thought. This had been fun, exactly as much fun as he had dreamed of, and to go back to the days of putting his chastity key in ice to reduce the temptation to unlock was a deeply unappealing idea.

So he was very, very grateful when Saturday afternoon rolled around and Princess returned home from the gym and instructed him to lie under the table and clean her sweaty feet as she ate a snack. The pistachio shells clicked as the ones that didn't land on him hit the ground, but he was too lost in the feet to really notice.

When she told him to clean them up he quickly did so and then stopped himself as he grabbed his keys. If Princess was really back, it was very possible there was a pistachio shell somewhere else in the house. "Make sure you pick up all the shells," she had said. Not "pick up my mess" or anything vague.

He paused, keys in hand. If she were being diabolical about it it would take him hours to search high and low for potential shells. He also wanted to know where things stood, and he thought that if she had set a trap and he walked into it he would get some kind of answer. Was that topping from the bottom, he wondered.

In the end the practical concern of needing to fetch the champagne gave him enough of an excuse that he was willing to let the chips fall where they may. He set out to get the specific brand of champagne he knew Princess liked, which as it happened was only available at a bottle shop quite a ways out of the way. The drive gave him more time to think.

There was an eerie atmosphere in the house when he returned. The lights were low. The ice bucket was on the table, full of ice, one glass sitting next to it. He opened the bottle, filled the glass, fetched the stopper from the bar and clipped it on before depositing the bottle.

Absent any other instruction, it seemed clear to him that he should bring the glass to Princess, and so he cast his eyes down and set off to find her.

She was where he expected her to be, sitting on the couch in the living room. That was about the only thing that wasn't totally stunning.

There was a great deal to take in, but it was the boots that first caught his attention. Black pleather, running to just below Princess' knee, with a 4 inch heel, and laces that ran the full length of the boot. They shined back the low light of the room and Pig it was a long moment before Pig could take his eyes off of them.

It was worth the effort. As they moved up her crossed legs he caught sight of a very short, very tight, very shiny black skirt. A hint of Princess' midriff was present below a leather corset that was doing a fine job sculpting Princess' already trim form. The corset pushed her breasts up and forward, a contrasting lace detail playing along the top and drawing the eye to her cleavage, which supported a small diamond pendant.

Pig dared not rest his eyes on that, and his gaze took in the dramatic makeup on Princess' face

as his brain struggled to process the... smile? It was definitely a smile. The hungry smile of a leopard spotting a limping gazelle, maybe.

Princess permitted about two and a half seconds of gazing before snapping her fingers and pointing at the floor in front of the couch. "On your knees, eyes down," she told Pig.

Pig complied. He could, and did, still stare at the boots.

"I believe you owe me an apology, Pig," Princess said.

"Princess?" he asked.

A simple reflexive "I'm sorry" felt cheap, like she might grill him on what he was apologizing for. He wondered where the errant pistachio shell had been. Maybe they'd been all over the place, obvious, and her irritation with his ignoring them led to some full femdom energy?

That didn't make any sense. If she were mad Princess would have put on sweats.

"Several apologies, actually," Princess started. "To begin with, you need to apologize, like actually apologize with your whole chest, for your drunk ass behavior the other night. Your whole begging to fuck me thing was not it."

"I-" he started to say before his confusion crashed into her desire to steer what was happening.

"And don't even with the alcohol excuse, that would give major red flag energy," she continued, "but what really has me pressed is that you didn't realize that pulling that kind of BS was high key going to wreck everything we've built."

He blinked heavily but said nothing. I did know that, a part of his brain started to insist before a different part remembered that he wasn't even the one who was drunk.

"Look, I get it - you were probably overwhelmed by how fast we've been moving," Princess said, "And honestly? You were probably scared, maybe even intimidated by how I've been absolutely serving in this role. Plus you're probably questioning if you can actually commit to this kind of situationship."

It clicked for him, suddenly. Princess was apologizing.

"I'm sorry Princess," he said, and this time she didn't interrupt him. "I hope you can understand how..." his brain was scrambling. He felt like he was tumbling downhill, and the bottom of the hill featured a pond and a rocky shore.

"How people like me can have trust issues and get anxious about major life changes," he said. She raised an eyebrow at him. "What I mean is that people who are new to this aren't the only ones who can have little freakouts sometimes." It was normal, he was trying to say.

He swallowed several sentences about how she could have come to him, they could have talked. Even this wasn't the respectable out-of-scene conversations that risk aware consensual kinksters would have. But it was what was happening, it was how she chose to approach it, and he wanted to stay with that, to respect it.

"I'm sorry Princess..." he said again, his words now reflecting an urgency, but he was still unsure how to apologize for whatever it was she felt she needed to apologize for.

She came to his rescue.

"For risking everything we're building?"

"Yes Princess," he said, "For risking everything we're building."

"For being afraid of the corners of your own psyche?"

"Yes Princess. It's difficult to learn to live in a territory that we're told we should avoid."

"Facts, Pig! but couldn't you have trusted me? I laid things out clear as day and never once gave you reason to doubt them. You should have trusted that."

"I'm sorry Princess. I am praying that I came to my senses in time and that you might be enjoying yourself enough to forgive me." He wondered if he was making any sense at all. No worries he was trying to say. We're way out on the edge here. If you're having fun, take another step.

"And, of course, you are apologizing for being unwilling to take another person at their own word? You, laughing at the idea that I could mistreat you without end and expect you to just take it?"

This was more clear to him. "It was just hard for me, Princess, just struggling with the size of what was being claimed." I understand. I made a big claim and you didn't think I could back it up and then I did. It's bound to get a little squirrely.

"You should have believed me, pig. it's rude not to take someone at their word when they've given you no reason not to. Understandable, but rude."

"Yes Princess. I'm sorry Princess."

There was a long pause. She stared at him, and he stared at the floor, or maybe her heels. Without saying anything, she planted her feet on the ground, lifted her hips off the ground. She moved quickly to unzip her skirt and slide it down over her legs. She kicked it off and spread her legs.

"Do you want to worship my pussy, Pig?"

He had been waiting more than seven months to hear this question. In some sense he had been waiting his entire adult life waiting for that question.

She put a foot under his chin and raised his head slightly. "Well?" she asked.

"I do, Princess," he said.

"Well," she said, "I think, given the massive transgressions that you finally took accountability for, I'm gonna deny you that. Chin on the couch, now."

He was in awe. Princess had come to him and made, in her own way, a massive apology. He had accepted it, tried to communicate this in the odd code that had emerged in the moment, and his reward for this was... more denial.

She beckoned him forward and took his chin in her hands. She placed it on the sofa and then raised her legs to rest on his back, angling one heel to dig in a bit, then just resting.

This was the closest he had ever been to her pussy. The head box held her a solid 10 inches away, and here she had scooted down so that there was barely three inches between them. And he could see it!

She was very turned on, more turned on than she had ever been in his presence, and she realized she badly wanted him to smell what she was not allowing him to have.

He stared and thought. His mind flashed back to an early conversation with her, after the anger had taken a back seat to her curiosity.

"I like to get off," she had said. "A lot."

"I like it too," he had said, "but I like the anticipation and the craving a lot too."

"Do you like it better?"she had asked.

"I don't know," he had said. "It's like... my desires make sense when I'm horny. Like how being in a warm shower is comfortable, maybe."

"Facts," she had said.

"But then when I have an orgasm... it's like getting out of the shower. I'm old enough that I don't hate myself or anything, it's just... uncomfortable for a bit. And I've never been strong enough to just stay in the shower forever. Wow, it sounds stupid when I say it like that."

"Maybe you just need somebody more committed than you," she had said, and when he looked at her to reply she was walking away. They'd had a lot of half conversations in the early days. She'd ask a bit, they'd talk about something, and she would give herself the space to do some processing, as she put it.

How had they gotten from there to here, he wondered. How did anyone get anywhere? They did what seemed right at any given moment, or what seemed interesting.

The how didn't matter. He was where he was, and there was nowhere else he'd rather be. He tried to disguise a deep inhale.

"Fucking disgusting, Pig," she said, and scooted a fraction of an inch closer.