My story is based on a fairy tale, which I have translated to our modern life, continues. (It’s still firmly a fantasy).
Hans hunched uncomfortably, scrubbing the floor. No easy task, hobbled by chains between his ankles and from collar to wrist. Constantly reminded of the stretch of the metal plug nestled in his ass, teasing and tormenting every movement, as he cleaned. Barb checked his work at intervals, taking pictures on her phone.
Hobbling with the bucket almost slopping suds, Barb halted him.
Bending to his groin she fumbled short-sightedly to unlock his cock-cage. Her hot breath tickled his trapped manhood then suddenly it was free. His relief from the constriction was immense but with the cage removed his erection began springing up.
Barb twitched the back of his lace-frilled thong aside. Hans’ sphincter pulsed when she grasped the plug and removed it, making his cock bob. He quickly felt a new coldness against his taint. Barb reached round to grasp his burgeoning boner and pumped briskly.
“Unngh” he gasped involuntarily. Barb took the opportunity to press a larger butt plug home. Enjoying the stretch, precum oozed over his cock head. She settled the lacy thong back in place.
“Very nice,” she admired. “You’ll prove popular once I’ve prepared you.” Smirking, she left, high heels pounding the hard floor.
A cold trickle of apprehension coursed his spine; Barb planned to sell him. Hans staying with Greta wasn’t on Barb’s agenda, but training him as a chastity sub was.
The diminuitive Domme planned humiliation not fucking – had Hans’ luck run out?
Hans’ cock strained against the flimsy panties. His stockings were laddered, the cuffs chafed. He spat into his hand and stroked his member up and down. He was sensitive but he felt a quickening in his balls – his finish line in sight.
The sound of Barb’s heels hammering stopped him in his tracks.
“Never touch yourself without permission,” she railed. “Where’s your discipline?”
Fuming, she filled another bucket.
“Spread your arms wide”, she instructed, putting one bucket in each hand.
“Hold that pose, as punishment.” She tapped the timer app on her phone.
Sweat ran down Hans’ temple, his neck corded. Muscles in his shoulders, biceps and triceps screaming for mercy. Struggling to keep his arms at 90 degrees to his body, he held the buckets. He daren’t let water slop.
His calves bunched like balls, unaccustomed to wearing heels, even his back passage throbbed against the metal of the butt plug. He couldn’t fail.
“OK stop!” This time, Barb’s shrill command was welcome. Lowering the buckets carefully he sneaked a glance at her thunderous face.
“Empty the buckets. Return to your room.”
On his slow journey, hindered by chains and heels, a door stood ajar. A desk and chair faced a bank of monitor screens, viewing different areas of Sweet Treat Inn. He realised how Barb had seen him wanking. He saw a girl, who might be Greta, handcuffed to a bed.
Barb locked Hans in his cell, re-securing his cock in the cage, padlock fastened once more. Concerned and frustrated, he listened to her retreating footsteps.