Mistress stood over me in the dim light, arms crossed, her expression decadent with satisfaction. I was still trembling slightly, the remnants of my ruined orgasm leaving my body weak and pliant beneath her.
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She glanced down at the small, wet patch on the floor beneath my caged cock.
"Well," she said, voice cool and amused, "look at the mess you made."
She didn’t move to help. Of course not. She simply looked at me, waiting.
"Do I really have to say it, bitch?"
Shame flooding my cheeks, I immediately lowered myself and began licking the mess off the floor. The taste of my own ruined release was salty, degrading and overwhelming. Each stroke of my tongue pressed that humiliation deeper into my chest.
She crouched beside me, one arm draped casually over her knee as if she were watching a pet eat. Her tone was soft, dangerously soft.
"Look at you," she murmured, brushing a finger under my chin, lifting my face just enough to meet her gaze. "There was a time you used to sit beside me. My husband. My equal."
Her voice lingered on equal with a mocking sort of nostalgia, like she was remembering a costume I once wore.
"But now?" She leaned in a little, her breath brushing my ear. "Now you're on your hands and knees… licking your own cum off the floor like a cum eating whore you are."
I whimpered and kept licking, my face burning.
When I finally lifted my head, hoping I’d done enough, her hand lashed out with a sharp SLAP across my cheek.
"Don’t stop until I say so."
I whimpered and went back to licking.
Finally, after another minute of that degrading cleanup, she grabbed my leash where it trailed from my collar.
She gave it a sharp tug.
"On your fours, bitch. Crawl," she said.
I scrambled to obey.
"To the kitchen first," she added, turning with ease and walking ahead of me like it was just another evening stroll. "Fetch your bowl."
I padded behind her, knees aching, the tail plug shifting with every humiliating movement. The floor was cold under my palms. My cheeks still burned from her slap.
When we reached the kitchen, she pulled open the cabinet beneath the sink and retrieved my stainless steel dog bowl. Without even looking back, she dropped it to the floor with a loud metallic clang.
"Carry it properly."
I bent down, gripping it with my teeth like the obedient mutt she had made me.
Mistress turned and walked away, tugging gently at the leash.
Back down the hallway we went, her upright and composed, me crawling, bowl swinging from my mouth, collared and plugged.
When we reached the den, the low light made my assigned "puppy corner" feel more isolating than ever. A simple mattress rested on the floor, near the wall. The metal ring Mistress had installed into the floor stood empty, waiting.
She crouched, clipped the leash to it with a firm click, then gave it a sharp tug to make sure I was going nowhere.
She picked up the bowl from where I’d set it down and placed it beside the mattress.
"In case you need to pee," she said, brushing her palm over my head. "Dogs don’t get bathroom privileges."
Then she straightened and looked at me for a long, silent moment before stepping forward and slapping me again, hard, across the other cheek. My head jerked from the force of it.
"That’s just for being you," she said with a smirk.
I whimpered, drool hanging from my lips, completely broken.
"One last thing before I go," she added, tone softening but eyes still wicked with control. "I already know the answer, but I want to hear you say it."
She knelt in front of me, tipping my chin up with two fingers.
"Tell me, puppy. Do you want to fall asleep tonight with your mouth full of Mike’s taste… or mine?"
I didn’t hesitate.
"Yours, Mistress."
She grinned, victorious. "Of course you do."
Without another word, she straddled my face slightly, grabbed my hair for balance and let go a slow, golden stream pouring into my open mouth. I swallowed eagerly, reverently, the taste now unmistakable and overwhelming. Her scent, her heat, her ownership.
She stepped back after relieving herself in my mouth, watching the last of it drip off my tongue. I knelt in silence, breath trembling, my face a flushed, dripping mess, my leash locked down, my body still twitching from the humiliation that had pushed me over the edge.
Mistress looked down at me, calm and amused.
Then, SLAP. Her hand struck my cheek with practiced precision.
I gasped. SLAP. Another one, harder. I whimpered, eyes wide.
She crouched beside me, her voice velvet and steel.
"You didn’t think you could cum without permission and not expect consequences, did you?"
I opened my mouth, but her finger pressed gently against my lips.
"Oh, don’t get me wrong," she murmured, smiling darkly. "I loved watching you break. Seeing you cum like a good little humiliation whore? That just confirmed everything I’ve worked for."
Her fingers caressed the red mark on my cheek; possessive, proud.
"But still…" she continued, rising to her full height again, looking down at me like the creature she had created, "rules are rules. And cumming without permission?" Her eyes sparkled. "That still calls for punishment."
She let that hang in the air.
"So consider your next orgasm postponed. Indefinitely."
I tried to whimper, to plead but another SLAP shut me up.
"Ah ah. Not a word, bitch."
She gave my head a light pat, like she might to a pet, then walked to the door.
And before flipping off the lights, she added coolly:
"You should be proud of yourself, though. You’ve finally become what I always wanted. My perfect little cum-drunk, piss-tasting, cock-worshipping humiliation whore."
Click.
Darkness swallowed me whole. Her footsteps faded down the hall.
I stayed there, motionless in the silence, the leash taut, the metal hook in the floor holding me exactly where she wanted me.
No good night.
No say in whether I wanted the lights on.
No phone to scroll.
She had taken my nights too.
I used to sleep beside her. There was a time her arms wrapped around me, a time when I mattered in her bed.
But that was long gone.
My throat tightened at the memory.
She had left me like I was nothing more than an object. A thing to be put away when no longer in use. My desires, my comfort, my voice, it didn’t matter anymore.
And somehow, deep down, I knew…
That was exactly what I craved.
To be treated like her owned, broken, forgotten thing.
Because I was.
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