The Morning After..
I woke in a gilded cage (well, to be accurate, a brass cage, but polished to a luster, like muted gold) from the foot of Mistress Hunter’s bed. The sound of Mistress Hunter’s soft breathing registered in my ears, like wind moving through branches, or rain thrumming on a roof, a soothing sound that informed me that I was where I belonged. Oh, that I could wake up each morning to the music of Mistress Hunter in her sleep.
I thought of my competition, the other candidate, condemned to the dungeon, hopefully already out of the running after my successes last night. I resolved to not take anything for granted. There were two days to go; anything could happen, I could still fail in some unforgivable way and put myself out of contention, or trip short of the finish line. Case in point, the thought of being branded terrified me.
Thoughts About Being Branded
Could I go through with it? Enduring that type of pain? Could I live with a permanent mark seared into my flesh? This would not be a tattoo, erasable or modifiable sometime later. This would be a permanent mark, a brand of ownership. How to explain that to a potential fiancée? “Well, you see dear, once upon a time I was the slave of a Goddess who insisted on branding me with her mark for all time . . .”
I decided it might not even happen and I’d deal with it if and when it ever came. For now, I needed to get a hard-on before Mistress Hunter woke. I rose to my knees and quietly unzipped the access panel to the urination tube. The Viagra had finally worn off, so I found the process of inserting the head of my penis into the tube quite a bit easier. My only concern was that I might wake Mistress Hunter, but her breathing remained steady. When I had finished, I did some cage yoga.
Next, I turned my attention to my cock. What to think about while I stroked it?
The first thing that came to mind was unexpected: Miss Lilly and I, in the dungeon. We faced each other in opposing stocks, naked, our heads and hands protruding from wooden slats. Mistress Hunter circled us like a hungry panther, clad in a black dominatrix corset, fishnet hose and stiletto heels. She held a whip and it snapped against Miss Lilly’s back and bottom, the pain of each lash etched on her face. Then my turn, my back and bottom lashed, and I saw sympathy Lillian’s eyes.
A Hard Cock for Mistress Hunter
I had no idea what sort of punishment Mistress Hunter actually had in mind for us, but the erotic vignette worked; my cock grew firm in my hand and then even harder as I heard the sound of Mistress Hunter stirring in her bed. I heard a yawn, the rustling of the sheets, the mattress creaking; the thought of her inspecting me in the cage pumped even more blood into my erection. I assumed the sexiest dog pose I could: back arched, muscles taut, stomach in, bottom perked up.
Scanning rearward, I was pleased to see my cock was plenty hard—perhaps not so rigid as last night, but certainly an enthusiastic salute for the Goddess who held the key to my cage. She padded out of the room, and a few moments later I heard her peeing into the toilet. The sound brought me a measure of relief; I doubted I could serve as her toilet on a regular basis. She came back into the room, her feet and lower legs coming into my peripheral vision. I sensed her inspecting me.
“Nice to see you hard for me, Mr. Green,” she said. “Did you sleep well in the cage?”
“Yes, Mistress,” I replied, a little white lie. In truth, I had slept fitfully.
“Good. You stink, though.” Her feet moved out of sight and a moment later, I heard her speak into an intercom. “Lillian, are you awake?”
A scratchy but audible reply: “Yes, Mistress, shall I bring up your breakfast?”
“Yes, and bring the dog’s leash, I’d like you to take Mr. Green to the mud room and give him a wash; I want him clean inside and out before we start this morning.”
“Yes, Mistress Hunter.”
On Our Way to The Mud Room
A minute later, I heard the sound of the shower, dashing any hope I had that Mistress Hunter would use me for a little wakeup sex. Oh well, I resumed stroking my cock, thinking Miss Lilly might appreciate an erection, even if she didn’t know her role in its creation. Properly hard, I returned to my dog position. I thought about canine alter ego. What sort of breed was I?
German Sheppard, I decided. Chance—the well-hung German Sheppard.
I soon heard Miss Lilly’s footsteps coming up the hallway. She entered the room and I watched her set down a tray on a table in the corner. She picked up a note and read it, one eyebrow lifting, and then turned her attention to me. “Ah, Chance, my handsome boy, I see you’re a horny doggy this morning, even after last night. Was your time with Mistress Hunter everything you hoped for?”
The way she said this, I could tell she knew everything. It was all in the note, I surmised. I wondered if the note mentioned anything about her getting punished. Probably not. Maybe Mistress Hunter had just said that for effect. I debated on what to say, and settled on as little as possible: “Yes, Miss Lilly.”
She slapped the leash against the cage. “Oh, no, no, no . . . that won’t do. When I address you as Chance, I want a good, solid, happy bark in response, is that understood?
“Woof!” I barked.
“Good doggy. Now let’s get you and your doggy hard-on downstairs and get you squeaky clean. Would you like a bath, Chance?”
A moment’s hesitation. Did dogs like baths? If it pleased Mistress, then yes. “Woof!”
“Good boy. Now let’s get you out of that cage and leashed.” She unlocked the padlock and opened the cage, holding out the snap end of the leash. I crawled forward until my collar was under her hand. She snapped the leash in place and took up the slack. “Heel, Chance.”
I hadn’t done that before, but I figured Miss Lilly wanted me at her side. I crawled forward next to her right leg.
“No, Chance, not on all fours. When I say ‘heel,’ I want you on your haunches, like this.” She jerked the leash up, pulling me upright. “Now drop down on your heels, hands on thighs.”
I settled back, my bottom against my heels, hands on the top of my thighs.
“Sit up straight, Chance,” Miss Lilly ordered with a jerk of the leash. I lifted up and put an arch into my back, shoulders thrown back. “Good boy, that’s how you heel. Now when I say ‘follow,’ I want you to stay close to my right leg, understood?”
“Woof!”
Ms.Lilly and Her Pink Maid’s Dress
“Good boy. Now, follow!” She jerked the leash and I went down on all fours, following her out the door, staying close to her right leg as she led down the hallway. At the stairs, I had to turn around and got a look at her: she wore a pink maid’s dress with a white collar, tight-waisted with a flared skirt, the hem short, mid-thigh. No makeup, her dark-brown hair braided in a ponytail. God, she was cute as hell.
The mud room was on ground level, next to the kitchen. Cleaning a slave “inside and out” turned out to be a humiliating process. Miss Lilly had me crouch on hands and knees while she inserted an enema tube up my rear. After the lukewarm contents of the bag had drained inside me, she made me stand up in the corner cubicle over the large drain hole in the concrete floor.
I stood there, my insides heavy. I held the volume of fluid until Miss Lilly slapped my ass and told me to let it out.
