The Reluctant Mistress and Her Unexpected Transition Part 2
Monday afternoon, I texted Danny a little before five p.m., just before his shift ended. The text was intentionally cryptic, “meet me” from your mistress, followed by the address of the local Tractor Supply Co. store, which is a country living store that carries just about everything imaginable, under headings like “Farm & Ranch,” “Home & Garden,” Trucks & Trailers” and “Pets & Livestock.”
It was the latter category that had caught my eye during an on-line search. To wit, I was thinking about purchasing “The Retriever Single Door Dog Crate,” a steel wire crate for pets over 70 pounds. It was just over 48 inches long, 30 inches wide and 32 inches tall, which might serve as an adequate cage for my guy but I wanted to take a look before making the $89 investment.
Danny’s sun-faded blue Ford F-100 pickup truck was parked in front of the store when I pulled up. He got out and waved as I pulled up. I turned off the engine, released my seatbelt and sat behind the wheel, the car speakers still playing Pandora (I know, I know, Spotify is better but I’m too lazy to switch). I waited for him to notice that I was not getting out. Eventually, he came around and looked inquiringly through the window. I rolled it down. “Danny, a gentleman always opens the door for his lady.”
His face blanched. He looked crestfallen, then his features took on a genuinely contrite expression. He stuttered an apology as he opened the door, “Sorry, Vanessa.”
“You’ll be punished for this later . . . and call me Mistress.” The look on his face was priceless.
As we walked in the store, it struck me that Danny was not prepared for this; he was several moves behind. It was obvious that he had never really thought through what a smart girl like me might do with the reigns to a cute guy like him. Just as well, since I was winging it; one move ahead was all I needed.
I had him grab a shopping cart and instructed him to follow me. We walked down every aisle. When I saw something I thought might be useful (rope, snap links, screw-eyes, chain, a roll of wire, miniature padlocks, wooden paint stirring sticks, duct tape, dog collar), I dropped the item in our basket.
Danny eyed my selections with a growing bulge in his crotch. He followed obediently. I saw a nice pair of size-7 women’s leather field boots and tried them on. They fit, so into the basket they went. No riding crops, but there was always the paint stick if my hand got sore.
Eventually we arrived at the pet cages, stacks of them against a store side wall. The biggest one looked just large enough. I checked the tag to make sure it was the same one I had found, reported in stock during my on-line search.
I took a deep breath and said to my love, “Danny, why don’t you see if this cage is big enough.”
“Uh, you . . . you want me to get in?” he stammered.
New Submissive Role
After Sunday’s spanking/sexcapade, I had given serious thought as to how I was going to reinforce his new submissive role. Last night I had gone online and done a survey of BDSM sites. Humiliation was mentioned more than once. As for the term “pet,” it seemed sweet and loving. When I thought about him in the dog crate, it seemed perfect.
Using my firmest Mistress voice, I ordered: “Yes, my pet, I want you to get in.”
His eyes darted up and down the aisles. Clearly he was panicked that someone might see him crawl on his hands and knees into the cage. Who would do that? (Obvious answer: only a submissive.)
To Submit; or not to Submit
“Are you going to submit to me or not, Danny?” I said crossly. “This isn’t negotiable; either you do as I tell you when I tell you or I’m not going to be your Mistress.” I crossed my arms. I was still wearing my office power suit—knit jacket, knee-high skirt, hose, pumps with two-inch heels, a square-cut, white silk blouse that revealed just a shadow of cleavage (all I possessed). I tapped a foot for effect.
My boy opened the cage door, did a quick look up the aisle, waited until a woman with two children moved out of sight, then swiftly got down on his hands and knees and crawled in. He was so rattled that it didn’t occur to him to turn around and back in, so his rear stuck out the wire door.
I loved the sight of his pert tush in tight blue jeans, but still, I had to suppress the urge to laugh. Clearly, he would fit in the cage, if only barely. It would be uncomfortable; he had to kneel, no lying down. Perfect.
I almost felt sorry for him, but he asked for this. “Okay, you can come out, love.”
He backed out as fast as he could and hastily stood up. I stepped into him, pressing my body to his, taking his finely boned jaw in my hand. I murmured, “That’s a good pet.” I gave him a sensuous brush of his lips with my own. “We’ll take the cage.”
At the check-out counter, I made him pay for everything.
Danny followed me home. I live in the older part of town in one of those cute row houses built in the 1930s that stands tall and narrow. It features a wet basement, a dry main floor with a small master bedroom, cozy kitchen (no dishwasher) and a dining room connected to a fairly spacious living room. A covered porch out front. Adjacent to the kitchen, a steep flight of stairs leads up to two small bedrooms on the second floor. I use one for sewing (I make most of my clothes). The other room is empty but has a thick blue carpet. Here I set up a queen-sized Aerobed for guests. This room has a dormer window that looks out on the street, a tall closet with a single clothes rod, a storage shelf above it, and a small cubby with a door to the attic, where cardboard boxes rest on plywood sheets nailed to the rafters.
I had Danny assemble the dog crate in the empty bedroom. It seemed a little flimsy so I had him wrap steel wire (women’s intuition to buy the wire; aren’t we geniuses?) around every seam and corner, and tie off the free end with a twist like I’d seen him do safety wire on critical nut and bolts. While he worked, I went downstairs to change into a pair of capris and a sexy halter, meaning my nipples showed through the fabric. Not dominatrix leather garb, but it would have to do. Upstairs, Danny had finished. He stood awkwardly next to the cage, pliers in hand. I took the pliers, gave him a lingering embrace and then whispered in his ear, “I want you to strip naked and get inside your cage, pet.”
Trembling in Excitment
Danny stripped, trembling. His dick popped out like a pole when he tugged down his underwear.
“My, oh my, aren’t we excited?” I teased.
He stood there, seemingly confused about what to do. A suddenly stupid sub, it seemed.
I sternly ordered, “Get on your hands and knees and back yourself into the cage, Danny.”
He got down and backed in until his toes touched the rear wall of the cage, just enough room on all fours to close the wire door about six inches from his face. From the shopping bag, I fished out two mini padlocks and locked them around the vertical wires that formed the edges of the gate.
Danny’s hard-on was magnificent, the tip of his dick touching the metal floor pan, dripping cum.
“Can you tell me why you have been confined inside your cage, pet?”
“Because I came yesterday, Mistress?” Danny postulated. Brilliant boy.
“That’s right. And you failed to open my door like a gentleman. And you failed to call me Mistress. You’ll be confined to the cage for an hour as punishment.”
I rattled the padlocks, making sure there was no way he could open the gate. I examined each of the corners and the seams where the wire panels joined. Danny had wired them thoroughly; no way it was ever coming apart; he was locked in for the duration. I had read that subs can’t help themselves when they are locked up; they are compelled to try to escape. If they can’t, into subspace they go.
You’re not getting out Pet!
“You’re not getting out, pet, I had someone very handy make certain of that, so you might as well relax and spend your time in there thinking about how you can be a better submissive.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Danny replied, sounding grateful, which I’ve read is good for the soul.
God, he looked cute in there. I wanted to climb inside and jerk him off. But no room for that, barely room for him. “I’ll check on you from time to time, pet,” I said, “You’ll hear me coming up the stairs.”
I had told him that I would be checking on him to reassure him, but now a sexy idea occurred to me. “Each time I come upstairs, I expect your cock to be hard for me. You may stroke yourself if you need to, but I always want to see you hard in my presence. Is that understood, pet?”
From the look on Danny’s face, I knew I had hit a button: subspace. “Yes, Mistress.”
Another idea. I bent over, slipping my halter off the shoulders so that the areolas and my nipples became exposed. I taunted, “I want you to think about these, slave.”
Calling Danny “slave” seemed remarkably natural, a term of endearment, a variation on “pet.” When you have your man in a cage, I guess you can call him what you like.
I could see the longing in his eyes; he was imagining sucking on my nipples. Danny once confessed that he preferred small breasts. Mine were a 32C. I had always been a bit self-conscious about their size until Danny. He liked me to wear bras, not because I needed them but for effect. “If you are a good boy and behave yourself, perhaps I’ll let you suck on them when you get out,” I teased.
He licked his lips hungrily. God, he was incredibly horny. “I . . . I’d love to, Mistress.”
Are You Hungry?
“Good.” Then I marched down the stairs, making sure my footfall sounded on each step. Slamming the door at the bottom for good measure, so Danny would know he was alone, locked upstairs in his cage, completely dependent on me to return. I paused, my hand lingering on the old crystal doorknob, and I realized I was smiling. I had just learned how to put lightning in a bottle—you stuffed it in a wire cage. Being a dominatrix was more fun than I ever imagined. What would I think of next?