Your pen leaves the document, your signature now scribbled on the bottom, bearing a name that now carries much less weight than a few moments prior.
There was nothing legally binding about the contract, of course; how could there be? Its purpose was more play than any actual formality, and all this parchment held was the rules you agreed to follow.
“Alright, and that’s that,” he spoke, that mountain of a man, as he took the other end of the paper and stood up. You could feel the blush of your cheeks, as you both acknowledged what you had just began. “And just for you, I’ll get this here contract nicely framed up in the living room, just in case you or anyone else forgets what you are now~”
A thin veil over his real purpose: humiliation. Once he hangs it, it’ll be one of the few ornaments on the walls of his home, standing proud in the most public quarters of this farm house. That document, announcing your relinquishing of all your worldly possessions, your autonomy, your name, your status as a person… All of it, signed away to him on a piece of paper clear view of anyone who would be a guest in his house, and more importantly to you, his new ‘property.’ It was difficult to contain your excitement.
“And while I’m working on that…” He reached behind his sofa and callously tossed a bag at your chest. Its contents were soft enough as they collided with you and your arms wrapped the other side. “I got your uniform all sorted out, so go ahead and put it on.”
“Ah, yes sir,” you meekly replied. You stood up, preparing to move, “I’ll go into the washroom and p–”
“No need for that,” he corrected. “Just change in here, and toss your old clothes in the bag when you’re all ready to go.”
You gulped, and turned to the large window of the living room, curtains drawn wide. “Sir, if I do that… people might…”
“Then let ‘em look~” he smirked, and he waltzed over to you. His free hand cupped your ass, drawing you in close to him. “Who wouldn’t be proud to show off a fine piece o’ meat like you?” He was bent over just enough that your face nearly met his collarbone, but instead found the forest of his chest hair. Your heart pounded, but after a quick slap to your backside, he turned back around and left the room.
You sighed, and spied the contents of the bag. A white polyester dress shirt, a pair of black thigh-high socks, suspenders, oxford dress shoes - they looked a bit worn - a clip-on bowtie and what appeared to be a woolen skirt, the last two bearing the same tartan pattern of green, blue, black and white. A black leather collar sits at the bottom, surrounding a cage of similar colour for your member. You look back at the window, your uniform presented before you on the table now. It takes some bravery to finally bring your fingers to the first button of your shirt.
Soon enough, the shirt slides down your arms, your torso exposed, and your eyes glance to the side, peering out the window. It feels like every sound of the world around you is enhanced, now that you’ve exposed yourself to the empty world of the countryside. No signs of movement beyond the window, aside from the gentle breeze caressing the leaves of the large elm tree in the front yard. You exhale, undoing the fly of your trousers, and allowing them to slip down your legs bit by bit. Again, you peer out the window, even as you bend down to bring the pants off your ankles and feet. Still nothing. Again and again, and more frequently do you peer out the window, as more of your body reveals to the window. Your underwear provides a surprise, as your excitement flicks out from under the waistband. Your head turns this time to look out the window.
Still… nothing.
No one to see your erect dick. No one to see your ass. No one to see how you’ve exposed yourself. Naked to the world, cheeks flushed, and so very visibly excited, and fortunately… not a living thing exists out that window right now.
Your senses return to you, and you continue undressing yourself, as every moment you act out a deer in headlights instead of putting on your uniform is another moment someone COULD drive by. With every piece of clothing removed, you look at each piece of your uniform, trying to figure out which would be the first shackle on your body. You look at the cage, but one look at your hard-on made it clear that would have to wait. The skirt was no better an option, as the tent you’d pitch would defeat the purpose of covering your shame first; that, and you want to tuck your shirt into the skirt, so it’s easier to put the former on before the latter. The shirt starts to look like the best option, before you look back at the collar…
The leather slips around your neck easily, and adjusting it takes little time. It’s a gentle fit: not so tight that it would choke you, but enough that its caress is consciously felt. You were made for it. The thought brings a twitch to your crotch. You reach to the shirt, pulling it down your arms. You spy out the window as you do up the buttons…
And just a glimpse of shining metal escapes down the road.
Your face burns, your arms freeze, and your thoughts race. They looked - they HAD to have looked! You feel your pulse in your chest and in your groin, but only for a moment, as you try to collect yourself. They had their eyes on the road like any decent driver would, you insist to yourself. They probably passed by too fast to see anything. The words eased your mind, but not your cock. You sigh, as you button the rest of your shirt, and reach for the tartan skirt.
You have to tuck your erection under the waist of your new bottomwear, only to have it lift up the front swiftly enough. The warm fabric tickles your cock as it drapes the sides of it. You gaze over all the remaining pieces of your outfit before fastening the skirt’s buttons. Of course, though, there’s still no sign of any underwear, at least none but the pair you had already removed for the last time. You and your owner agreed to that, after all: the only thing covering your ass from now on would be that skirt’s hem, so he could quickly and easily find his way to your hole when he wanted it. As you fasten the buttons on your skirt, you grumble under your breath, “Kinda wish every bit of this didn’t turn me on so much; I’m never gonna get that cage on at this rate…”
In spite of your grievance, your erection fades - recognizing it may be the last you have for a while threatened otherwise - as you don the rest of your uniform, piece by piece. Even with each glance out the window, you don’t see any other signs of vehicles or passerbys, and all that’s left on the table is the cage. An initial struggle reveals you need to sit down to get any progress on the ring, but after some struggle, you feel the plastic slip over the head and some of your foreskin, squishing down the rest in a notably less comfy fit than your collar. It’s clear to you right away: your new cage will be sure to remind you of its existence regularly.
You stand up and peer out the window, seeing the still world outside once more, before searching for a mirror to view the collected outfit. The hunt brings you just outside your owner’s door, where a mirror over three meters tall stands against the wall. The man who meets you on the other side… No, neither one of you are really men anymore, are you? But his composure in this new attire, the tartan print matching your owner’s family tartan, the gap of hairy thigh meat between the skirt and socks, the black leather peeking out under the white polyester at his neck… Your smile creeps up his face. It fits you both so well.
That’s when you spy your owner walking up behind you. “Now that’s a look,” he whistles. His hands rest on your shoulders, heavy and hot. “Glad you talked me out of making you wear the overalls~” You hadn’t turned from the mirror. Instead, you met his gaze through the looking glass. He towers over you effortlessly, his chest hair billowing out from his shirt just above your head. You’re a mouse caught in the grip of the king of beasts. He sneered, and massaged your shoulders gently as he could. “You like it, right?”
“O-of course, sir,” you chirped. “It feels great!”
He pats you on the shoulder and pulls a hand back. “Good to hear, bud! Because quite frankly, those tartan fabrics ain’t cheap to buy, and I wasn’t about to spend a cent more on you without gettin’ you to work first!” His hand slips under the short hem of your skirt and cups your trapped package, and you nearly jump in his grip. He giggles, “Just gotta make sure you’re wearing EVERY piece!”
“Y-yes sir!” You wonder for a moment if he can feel the strain that’s growing in your cage as he grips it. His lingering and groping at your nethers entices you, torments you… His pouting fakes a professional interest of your dedication to the uniform, one that the fire in his eyes betrays. He wants you to whimper, to twist in his grip and seek your own pleasure in his facade. He’s testing your restraint. You’re tempted to give him what he wants, just to see what kind of “punishment” he would give you. The idea of a “reward” for good work tempts you as well, but either way, you remain stalwart and obedient, standing at attention as his search continues.
When it’s clear he won’t get what he’s seeking from you tonight, he gives you a polite smile. “Looks like you’re all ready to go, then! I got the contract framed up, already, so with all the prep work sorted…” His hand glides across your thigh to your backside, and takes sharp grip of your cheek. You choke back a squeal. The hand still on your shoulder pushes against your shoulderblade, bending you over in a bow. His chest glues to your back as you both sink down, and he breathes onto your ear, the warm air tickling you. He parts your asscheeks, and presses his denim overalls against your hole. His cock underneath must be getting hard, or else that’s one of his thighs shoved into your taint. The hand on your shoulder pulls back, and the sound of a button releasing from fabric catches your ear, just before he whispers into your ear:
“Congratulations, slave. You are now officially the property of Joshua Forbes.”
Rule number 1: Self-moderating property must always be ready for its owner’s use.
That’s how the rule is written, anyway. How you and your owner practice it is a bit more lenient: you’re always open to state that you’re not really prepared for Joshua to ‘use’ you, and depending on the context, he’ll be more than happy to prepare or punish you as he sees fit. The real idea of the rule is to give yourself an excuse to ask for rough treatment in the boundaries of your usual play. It does work the other way around too, though: Joshua can just make something up and claim you’re not fully prepared for what he’s going to deliver to you, and then he can make you ready.
Your current concern on the matter is how that relates to the household chores, as your hand grasps another dish from beneath a veil of soap bubbles and tepid water. Readiness - logically - would imply you would be prepared to offer your full attention to your owner’s use of you, but would Joshua see it that way…? Then again, it’s easy enough to overthink the wording of such an open-ended rule. Neither you nor he would need to abide by that rule by the letter, since the heart of it is simply “We’re gonna have sex whenever I want, and how you respond to my wont determines what kind of sex we have.” You fathom he could justify you as ‘ready’ as long as he can just waltz up behind you, toss up your skirt, and stick–
A finger shoves itself between your cheeks and pushes against your asshole, interrupting your musings. You gasp, shoulders tensing immediately, but the reflex you fight is the one trying to bring you to your tiptoes and away from that finger.
“Haha, sorry for catchin’ you off-guard,” Joshua sang with a gentle, cooing tone, “Just got finished outside, and I thought I’d see how my favourite plaything’s doing~?” It wasn’t quite the same as how you would speak to a dog, but in his voice was still some condescension - some patronizing, even - that hinted at the divide between your status. If the finger wasn’t already doing it, that tone certainly helped get you hot and bothered.
“Y-yessir,” you stammer, “I’m just finishing up cleaning the dishes from lunch.”
“There a reason you leave those for last? Lunch was a few hours ago; doesn’t it make sense to handle them just after I finish eating?” After he finishes eating, you note. Sure, you get through your meal a bit quicker - if only because you eat faster and get a bit smaller portions - but it’s almost as if when you finish isn’t relevant to the thought train. You’re serving him, after all.
“Just the remnants of bad habits, sir. I used to leave chores like this for much longer, and admittedly I just used a dishwasher whenever it was available.”
You feel him push his finger into your hole again, sinking in, but no more than a couple of centimeters. “Hm, I guess it would be nice to get something like that installed in here. Would be a waste of money for me, though, since I already have a dishwasher~”
Your eyes flit back and forth around the lower cupboards in confusion. “Where–” You catch the word too late, realizing the true meaning of his words.
He gives you a chuckle before you feel his chest press onto the back of your left shoulder. His free hand pats your tummy, and the finger inside you sinks a little deeper as its cohorts give your asscheek a playful grope. “You, dummy~!” You’re not prepared to tell him the impact of names demeaning your intelligence can have. You can feel his eyes turning to the soap water and your hands still submerged within. “Speaking of, how far in are you?”
Your hands swim through the mire, clattering dishes against the metal of the sink. “I don’t have a lot left; feels like just the plates and silverware–” His finger slips deeper into you with a forceful push, shoving a whimper out your throat.
“Guess that’s fine,” he shrugs, “get those finished up, will ya? I got a little more work I need to do over here.” His finger retreats from your hole, and his hand follows back after a gentle smack to your ass. His chest leaves your shoulder, but he still keeps a hand on your tummy, even sliding it up your shirt and massaging your chest beneath. You can hear some wet sounds coming from his mouth as you continue your own work, and you contemplate his next move.
His fingers return to your hole - as expected, but the pressure is greater than before, stretching your hole open as he pushes what has to be two fingers inside you. You swallow down a moan as you keep your hands on the dishware in front of you, but the venturing digits make focus a difficult task. Your caged dick pushing hard against its confines didn’t help. “You remember yesterday, right,” Joshua hissed into your ear, “when I was hotdogging your ass and fucking your thighs for almost an hour before shoving you to your knees and ‘christened’ you with a facial?”
“Y-yessir,” you gasped. How could you forget, after all? Even without any outright penetration, your legs felt like jelly up until a couple hours ago, and the load he plastered onto your face was huge! He didn’t bother helping you clean up, either; he gave you a pat on the head, being wary not to touch any of his own jizz, and walked away whistling. You felt abused and humiliated by his treatment, while your cock was frustrated and sore in its new home.
“And what about what I told you just before that?”
“Before that…?” You don’t have to ponder it for long, though the wriggling fingers make concentration a tough task. “I think you said ‘I can’t break you in tonight’ or something to that effect.”
“Good boy~” he cooed, and flexed one of his fingers just right to hit your prostate. Pleasure shoots up your spine, mixing with the giddiness of being called a good boy in a soup of ecstasy. Your hands tremble just a bit. “That’s right, I couldn’t really break you in last night. I already gave you a nice look at my dick in the truck, right; you know how thick that monster is? See, most fellas I find get real excited to see this beast, one way or the other: some wanna ride it right away, and some know better and would rather just get their hands or mouth on it. So what happens? Some can’t even get their asses on a chair for the next week, and some get lockjaw.
“But you? You’re not just here for a one-night stand, are you? No, you happily signed up to be my trophy boy, my sex toy -” he leans in close, “- my property.” His two fingers dig in deep, and you can feel his other fingers poke your asscheek. You do your best to snap your focus back on the dishes, but you realize you’ve been mindlessly wiping a rinsed plate for the last minute as he slipped his poison into your ears. “So I get to be patient with you, and work your hole up until you’re actually ready for me to use - plus! I think it’s a lot of fun to tease you before giving you what you’ve been waiting for~”
“A-and what is it I’m waiting for, sir?” you pant.
“Oh-ho~!” he guffaws, “You’re really gonna play coy with me, like you weren’t drooling over this meatstick in my slacks from the first moment we met?” You feel him grind against your side. He’s hard, without a doubt. “But I guess we still got time, before you’re ready for that.”
Your hand fishes around the sink, and all you can pull up now is the silverware. “How much longer do you think it’ll take until I’m ready, sir– haah!”
He jabs into your prostate, setting your senses on fire. “Well, first of all, this hole needs to be a fair bit looser; I can tell you’ve played with it a bit, but you’re still so tight…! How can you walk around with this apple butt here and not throw it on more dicks?” There’s something weird about him shaming you for not being enough of a slut, but you’re not sure you disagree with him. “Second, I need to make sure you’re much hungrier for it. If you’re still being a sassy bitch, you don’t want it bad enough.”
You chuckle, half at his remarks, and half in response to the pleasure in your rectum. “I mean I really enjoy being snarky, sir. If you’re waiting for me to beg for it, you might be waiting a long time~”
“Oh, I’ll be waiting?” That’s when you feel his fingers retreat from your hole. The feeling of being emptied rivals the pleasure of being filled, oddly enough, but you still want him to put his fingers back in. The hand on your belly shoots up to your jaw and yanks your face to meet his gaze. He’s smirking, still intent on torturing you further. “You think yours is the only ass I can find around town? If you really think you can ‘deny’ me like this forever, then maybe this hole of yours is fine as is? Maybe I’ll just head into town and find some more willing holes? I know Trey’s always happy to hop on my dick, and Bonnie’s a total freak…”
You feel his fingers rub against your hole again, even as you finish rinsing the silverware. His hand on your chin slithers up the side of your head, cupping around your ear and rustling your short hair. “I mean, I won’t just leave you hung up to dry - because I gotta admit, your face looks real good drenched in my sauce~ But I was reared up right, and wouldn’t dare force myself on an unwilling partner. If you don’t want it - and I mean really want it - then I’m just not giving it to you~”
There’s something so dirty about him twisting the idea of consent like that, but even now you realize you wouldn’t be able to deny your thirst forever, especially if your cock keeps throbbing and begging for some kind of release like this. You drop the silverware into the drying rack, bite your lip, and mutter, “You can do whatever you please with me, sir…”
Joshua smiles, and leans in. His lips plant onto your forehead. “That’s a good boy~” He leans lower and shoves his mouth over yours, and his tongue pushes deep past your teeth. Your tongue can hardly wrestle against his, not that you’re trying. Letting him dominate you in as many ways as you can fathom was always the plan, to feel the unique pleasures each surrender offers, and letting him tonguefuck your mouth is especially captivating. His fingers continue to massage your hole, even as you wiggle in his grip, taunting him to dig back in.
He pulls back, saliva linking your tongues together just a moment longer, before he speaks: “But all that sass… You don’t think you can give your owner the runaround like that and get off scot-free, do you?” He swallows up a bit before spitting in your still-open mouth. “Not to mention you weren’t ready to go when I walked in the house.” He glances at the sink, emptied of all but the warm water. “Think that calls for some proper punishment~”
He pushes your head down, leaving you bent over the sink with your ass peeking out from your tartan skirt. Not a second later, a sting erupts across your cheeks, bringing a yelp from your throat. Even as heat seeps into your seat, it doesn’t escape your face. His hand returns to your cheeks, gently this time, massaging them. “After all, you’re an extension of me now; a new member of the Forbes family, like a pet.” His hand retreats from your ass only to collide back onto it, capitalizing on your sensitivity. A sharp inhale, followed by a sigh, just before he returns to his massaging. “And I can’t have you being disobedient, rude, and all kinds of unruly like that…”
Another smack. You try your best not to throw yourself forward too far, in fear of smacking your face against the faucet. “Maybe I could be punished somewhere else, sir…?”
The next smack to meet your bottom is distinctly lighter. “Maybe you should’ve been finished the dishes earlier~” You pout at him, which prompts a giggle from him. “Alright, alright, I guess we can take it to the living room. It’ll probably be more fun to slap you when you’re on my lap anyway~”
“And after that, I still have to make sure that hole of yours is a bit more ready for me~”
To Be Continued