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Ashley was different the next morning.
She moved through the kitchen slower. Lighter. But not free -- no, it was restraint. A practiced stillness. She didn't speak first. Didn't look up.
Andrew was already seated, coffee in one hand, scrolling casually through his phone like nothing had changed.
But everything had.
Her nightly report sat in his inbox, read twice. He'd even highlighted a few lines.
"I cried after. Not because I was ashamed -- because it wasn't enough."
That one in particular.
He didn't speak until she reached the fridge.
"You forgot something."
She paused. Turned halfway.
"Sir?"
His smile was small. Calm. Controlled.
"Your uniform. You're wearing panties."
Her heart stuttered.
She dropped her gaze and opened her mouth to respond -- but there was no excuse. No defense.
Only disobedience.
And she knew what came next.
"Go fix it."
"Yes, Sir."
She turned and left immediately, hands trembling. She'd obeyed perfectly last night -- plug in, door open, hands to herself -- but this? This was a slip. A careless, stupid mistake.
She slid the panties down in her room. Tiny, soft, pink. Soaked.
She didn't even want to wear them.
She just forgot.
And now?
She was soaked again.
⸻
Later that night
He made her wait.
No message. No knock.
She sat on her bed, naked, flushed, thighs sticky. Plug back in place. Knees together. Door cracked three inches.
Just as he told her.
At 10:17 PM, her phone buzzed.
"Come to the living room. Now. Nude."
She was already moving before the message finished loading.
She walked slowly. Her nipples ached from rubbing against her robe all day. Her thighs already wet from anticipation. She crossed the hardwood floor like she was walking into a confession booth.
Andrew was sitting on the couch.
Laptop closed. Waiting.
"Sit."
He motioned to the floor.
She lowered herself onto her knees, eyes down. Breathing shallow.
He said nothing for a moment. Then reached beside him.
He held her sketchbook.
Her stomach twisted.
"You've been drawing since before you moved in, haven't you?"
She nodded. "Yes, Sir."
"You ever show them to anyone?"
"No, Sir."
"You wanted me to find it."
Silence.
Then--
"Yes, Sir."
He flipped it open casually, thumbing to page 23. A drawing of a girl -- clearly Ashley -- on her knees in an airport bathroom, plug tail visible beneath her skirt. The door was open just enough to show the silhouettes of strangers walking past.
"What's this one?"
She swallowed. "A fantasy, Sir."
"Say it."
She blinked.
"Out loud."
Her cheeks burned.
"... To be caught, Sir. Plugged. Leashed. Left alone in a public space. Forced to kneel in front of strangers and pretend it's normal."
"Do you want that?"
She hesitated.
Then: "Yes, Sir."
"Then let's make something clear."
He leaned forward, elbows on knees.
"You're not here to fantasize anymore. You're here to obey."
"Yes, Sir."
"You'll wear what I tell you. Say what I tell you. Touch only when allowed. Orgasm only when earned. Understood?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Your reports will be nightly. Confessions. Details. Everything you felt, saw, touched, wanted. If I think you're lying, I'll punish you."
"Yes, Sir."
"Good. First assignment starts tomorrow."
He leaned back.
"You're to wear your plug all day -- through travel, through the terminal, on the flight. You will not remove it. You will text me updates throughout."
He picked up a small black velvet pouch and tossed it onto the floor in front of her.
"Use this one."
She opened it.
It was heavier. Metal. With a small remote tucked inside the pouch.
Her hands trembled.
"And if it falls out?"
He smiled.
"You'll confess. In detail. And I'll make sure your next punishment starts before you land."
She nodded.
Then he stood.
Walked past her.
Paused behind her.
And whispered:
"I'll be waiting for your report, toy."
She came the moment the door closed.
And hated herself for it.
The plug slid in with a soft click.
Ashley let out a slow breath as the weight settled inside her. Heavier than the silicone one she'd used before -- colder, too. The metal made her feel owned.
Her thighs clenched as she fastened her bra, smoothed her navy-blue uniform over her hips, and double-checked the hem. From the outside, she looked perfect. Crisp. Composed. Like any professional flight attendant ready to smile and say "coffee or tea?"
But beneath?
Her soaked, bare skin.
The plug.
The leash -- metaphorical, for now -- wrapped around her throat in the form of two unread messages from Andrew sitting in her phone.
She slid her heels on, tied her hair into a neat bun, and left the apartment exactly on time.
⸻
8:13 AM -- Shuttle to the airport
She sat in the back row, legs together, phone in hand.
She opened the message from Sir:
"Update 1. Confirm plug is in. Describe your walk."
She swallowed and began to type:
Plug is in, Sir. The metal's colder than I thought. It made my whole walk to the shuttle feel... stretched. Heavy. Like my steps were too wide. I felt my thighs tremble with every movement. It buzzes with memory even when it's off.
She hit send.
A minute later, the reply came:
"Good. Stay soaked. Update again at TSA."
Her body pulsed.
⸻
9:02 AM -- TSA Line
The line was long. She shifted from foot to foot, the pressure of the plug making her hips sway more than usual.
She could feel eyes on her.
And then--
"Ashley?"
She turned.
It was Derek, a fellow crew member. Cocky. Tall. Always just a little too friendly.
"You okay? You're, uh... walking a little funny."
She forced a smile. "Just sore from the gym."
"Right. Or maybe from getting wrecked last night?"
He smirked.
Her cheeks flared red.
She laughed it off.
"Nothing that exciting."
He leaned closer, voice low.
"You sure? If I had you in my room after layover tonight, you'd be lucky to stand tomorrow."
Her stomach dropped.
Heat flushed between her legs.
She bit her lip.
And walked faster toward security.
⸻
9:25 AM -- In Uniform, in Line, Plugged, and Drenched
She texted Sir again.
TSA update, Sir. Still plugged. Coworker made a comment about how I walk. Said if I was in his room tonight I'd be lucky to stand tomorrow. I almost came standing in line. My panties would be ruined if I were wearing any. I'm dripping. Soaking. I need to beg.
The reply came quickly:
"You will report the entire interaction in tonight's confession. Word for word. Word. For. Word. Understood?"
She shuddered.
"Yes, Sir."
⸻
11:34 AM -- At 30,000 Feet
She walked the aisle smiling, heels clicking, hips swaying under strict control.
Each bump of turbulence sent a jolt through the plug.
Each crouch to pass a tray made her whimper silently.
Derek watched her closely.
"Seriously, you okay today? You're flushed."
She grinned.
"Just warm. I'm fine."
"You look like you need to get railed."
She dropped a glass on the tray.
He winked.
She clenched her thighs and walked away -- cheeks burning, slick coating the base of the plug.
⸻
8:52 PM -- Back in the Apartment
Ashley collapsed onto the bed, body shaking, legs aching from holding back every gasp and tremor during the flight.
She didn't even undress.
She opened her Notes app.
And began to write.
⸻
Nightly Report -- Day 2
Sir,
I wore the plug all day. Metal. Cold. Heavy. I didn't just feel used -- I felt filled. Yours. I could barely sit without shifting. It made me desperate.
At TSA, Derek saw. I know he saw.
He asked if I'd gotten wrecked last night.
He said, "If I had you in my room tonight, you'd be lucky to stand tomorrow."
I laughed. I lied. I told him nothing happened. But I was soaked.
I thought about pulling him into the service galley and telling him, "Sorry, I belong to someone else." But instead, I let him look. Let him wonder.
I came home soaked, plugged, leaking.
But I didn't cum. Not once. Because you didn't say I could.
Do I make you proud?
I want to be ruined tomorrow.
I want to be punished for how wet I got.
- Toy
⸻
She hit send.
Minutes passed.
Then the reply:
"You make me hard. But not proud."
"Sleep gagged. Plug in. Tomorrow: discipline."
She whimpered.
Gagged herself.
Plugged herself.
And fell asleep soaked in her own shame and heat.
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