The soft hum of the minibar filled the silence after she left. George lay half-dressed on the edge of the hotel bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above. The sheets were a tangled mess of sweat, perfume, and regret. The call girl—what was her name? Tasha? Tanya?—had gone twenty minutes ago, her stilettos clicking down the hallway like a gavel pronouncing judgment.

He reached for his wallet on the nightstand, thumbing through the cards. The black one with the discreet logo—his special card—was right there, untouched.

“Oh, hell,” George muttered.

He fumbled for the receipt, heart skipping a beat as he read the name of the card he'd used. Not the discreet one. Not the one routed through a harmless offshore holding. No. The blue card. The joint one. The Libby Card.

“Shit. Shit. Shit!”

He stared at the paper, hoping the numbers would change. They didn’t.

Two days later, at home, the kitchen light was too bright. Libby stood with the iPad in her hand, scrolling, pinching, tapping. Her lips were tight, pressed into that line he knew from years of arguments, silent treatments, and bitter apologies.

“George?”

He stopped mid-step on the stairs, coffee mug in hand. “Yeah?”

“Come here. Now.”

There was something about the tone. Not angry. Not cold. Just final.

He stepped into the kitchen. “What’s up?”

She held the iPad out, the screen facing him. “Explain this.”

He squinted. A charge from two nights ago. Hotel. Room service, minibar—and something else. “That’s, uh... that’s—”

“A charge for escort services. Itemized, George.”

“I—Libby, listen—”

“You used our card,” she said. “The one we pay our bills with.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said, backing up a step. “I meant to use the other one. I was drunk. It was a mistake.”

She stood still. “A mistake?”

“I didn’t—look, it didn’t mean anything. It was stupid. It was a business trip. I was lonely, I had too much scotch, and—”

“And you thought hiring someone for sex was the solution?” Her voice cracked just a little.

“I—Libby, please.” He fell to his knees with a thud, hands spread. “Don’t do this. I’m sorry. I am so sorry. Please. I’ll do anything.”

“Get up.”

“No. Not until you believe me. Not until you know how much I regret this. I swear to you, it’s the only time. The only time.”

“I don’t care if it’s once or a hundred times. You broke something, George.”

He looked up, eyes glassy. “I can fix it.”

“No, you can’t,” she said. “At least not tonight.”

“Libby, please—”

“Guest room,” she snapped. “Now.”

He hesitated. “I’ll sleep on the couch. I’ll—”

“George.”

He stood slowly. “I’ll go. I’ll go.” He shuffled past her, head bowed. “But I’ll do anything, Libby. Anything. I’ll win you back.”

She didn’t answer.

Libby lay on her side most of the night, crying. The sheets still smelled faintly of him—aftershave, clean cotton, and betrayal. At some point, the tears just stopped coming. Not because she was over it, but because even sorrow had its limits.

When dawn pushed gently through the curtains, she rose stiffly and shuffled into the kitchen, hair tangled, feet cold. The house was quiet.

On the counter sat a piece of paper folded once. Her name was scrawled on the outside in George’s familiar hand.

She picked it up.

Libby,

I didn’t want to wake you. I’m going to the office, but please know you’re all I’ve thought about since last night. I love you more than anything. I will earn your forgiveness. I’ll prove I’m worthy of you. No matter how long it takes.

G.

She stared at it. For a moment, her fingers trembled, then she walked to the waste bin, opened it, and dropped the note in. The lid thudded shut like punctuation.

“Bullshit,” she muttered.

She marched into the bathroom.

Before stepping into the shower, Libby paused at the mirror.

She stood straight. Naked. Unflinching.

A slender woman stared back at her: slim waist, hips curved with quiet strength, thighs that spoke of long walks and poised confidence. Her breasts remained firm, and upright, her nipples high. There were lines around her eyes now, yes, but they suited her—sharp as the edge of wit, the mark of someone who had seen and chosen, and commanded.

Her hair—raven black, just a few stubborn greys tucked near the temple—fell over one shoulder. She touched a lock, raised it, and studied it. A touch of paint this week, no more. Still hers.

“How,” she whispered, narrowing her eyes, “how could he—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She knew. She knew the cocktail of weakness and self-pity that made men crawl to cheap bodies. She knew the impulse that made them choose filth for a moment’s comfort, rather than face the clarity of truth and strength.

It wasn’t that the whore was better. It was that she was easier.

Libby stepped into the shower. The water came. She tilted her face into it, arms braced against the tiles.

He would pay.

Thirty minutes later, in jeans, boots, and a fitted leather jacket she hadn’t worn in years, she stormed towards the shopping centre. Her hair was loose, wind tugging at the ends.

At Zara, she tore through the racks like a woman on a mission. Bright colours, bold cuts. A statement wardrobe for a woman reclaiming herself.

“Libby?”

She turned. There, just outside the changing rooms, stood Dorothea Whitmore—tall, poised, and unmistakably the same firecracker from university. Only now she wore a beige trench coat cinched perfectly at the waist and a look of amused surprise.

“Dorothea?” Libby blinked. “God, it’s been—what, fifteen years?”

“At least! You look amazing! Well… you look like you’re in the middle of a storm. But amazing within the storm.”

Libby laughed. A short, surprised sound. “That’s about right.”

“Lunch,” Dorothea said firmly. “You’re coming with me.”

At a quiet corner of Brasserie Marseille, they sat across one another, glasses of sauvignon blanc sweating in the noon sun.

“So,” Dorothea said, after the first sip. “Tell me everything.”

Libby hesitated. Then the story spilt out—hotel room, wrong credit card, the icy shock of discovery, George on his knees, the guest room, the note.

Dorothea whistled softly. “Classic idiot move.”

“He’s not an idiot,” Libby said quickly. “He’s just… weak.”

“Ah.” Dorothea tilted her head. “And you still love him.”

Libby looked down at her hands. “Yes. I do. God help me, I do. I don’t want to divorce him.”

“So you want to keep him.”

Libby flinched at the bluntness. “I guess. But I can’t trust him.”

Dorothea leaned in. “Then you need control.”

Libby blinked. “Control?”

“You need assurance. Physical, undeniable, locked-in assurance. Tell me—do you know what a CB6000 is?”

“A what?”

Dorothea’s eyes twinkled. “It’s a male chastity device. Polycarbonate. Sleek. Completely secure if worn properly. It’s like putting a security system on your man’s dick.”

Libby nearly choked on her wine. “You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly serious,” Dorothea said. “Chastity devices have been used in fetish circles for ages, but more and more couples are using it for… relational discipline. Boundaries. Recovery from infidelity. You keep the keys. He wears it. No access. No cheating. No accidents.”

Libby stared. “You mean... like a physical cage?”

“Exactly. The CB6000 is one of the most popular models. Comfortable enough for long-term wear, but completely effective. No sex, no touching, no funny business—unless you allow it. Trust, rebuilt with steel and plastic.”

“That’s insane,” Libby muttered.

Dorothea smiled over her wine glasses. “Insane is trusting a man to change just because he cried. This? This is leverage.”

Libby sat back. “I don’t know…”

“I’m not saying it’s for everyone. But if you want to keep him—and make sure he earns that second chance—why not test his devotion with a lock?”

They sipped in silence for a few moments.

Finally, Libby said softly, “Where do you even get something like that?”

Dorothea grinned. “Darling, it’s 2025. There’s an app for everything.”

Libby laughed—this time genuinely. Then she looked out the window, the sunlight catching the edge of her glass like a prism.

Maybe, just maybe, control wasn’t such a dirty word.

“Take your cell phone,” Dorothea said, leaning in with the same gleam in her eye she used to have before daring someone to jump into the campus fountain at midnight.

Libby hesitated, fingers grazing her bag.

“Come on,” Dorothea coaxed. “Strike while the iron—and the betrayal—is hot.”

With a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh, Libby pulled her phone out and placed it on the white linen tablecloth between their wine glasses. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m liberating,” Dorothea corrected. She tapped the phone with a red-lacquered nail. “Safari. Type in: ‘CB6000 male chastity device official site.’”

Libby shot her a sidelong glance but complied.

Within moments, they were scrolling together. Product descriptions, discreet packaging, and user testimonials range from apologetic husbands to stern wives.

“Oh, this one has a chrome finish,” Dorothea murmured approvingly. “Very futuristic.”

“I’m not locking up a robot,” Libby replied dryly.

“This one’s translucent,” Dorothea noted, tapping. “Looks like Tupperware for penises.”

Libby snorted. “How romantic.”

Finally, they found the right model: the classic CB6000. It was made of clear plastic, with ventilation holes and a tamper-proof seal.

“This is the one,” Dorothea declared.

Libby hovered over the screen, finger trembling slightly. Then, with one swift tap, she added it to her cart. A few more swipes, her credit card autofill kicked in, and it was done.

Order Confirmed.

She set the phone down, staring at it. “I just bought a chastity device for my husband.”

“Yes, you did,” Dorothea said proudly, raising her wineglass. “To consequences.”

They clinked glasses.

After a pause, Libby tilted her head. “Don’t you work anymore?”

Dorothea smirked. “Define work.”

“I don’t know… the last time we spoke, you were interning at that fancy law firm. Weren’t you on the partner track?”

“I was.” Dorothea swirled her wine, eyes far away for a moment. “And then I realized I’d rather be the one holding the leash than filling out briefs. So I left.”

Libby blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I consult,” Dorothea said lightly. “Relationship accountability. Coaching. Alternative domestic power dynamics.”

Libby narrowed her eyes. “You’re telling me you make a living telling other women to put their husbands in chastity cages?”

“Among other things,” Dorothea said with a smile that was both wicked and serene. “Some people go to couples therapy. Others... install physical reminders of commitment.”

Libby shook her head slowly. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Sure I have,” Dorothea said. “I just changed before the crisis came. You? You’re just catching up.”

Libby leaned back in her chair, suddenly feeling taller.

The CB6000 was on its way.

George was still in the guest room.

And Libby, for the first time in months, felt like she was the one writing the next chapter.

Meanwhile, George sat on the edge of the fountain outside the steel-and-glass tower of Wexler & Denton, staring blankly at the water as it gurgled and rippled. His tie was loose, his shirt untucked, and his briefcase sat next to him like a sad prop from a different life.

Just two hours earlier, he had been striding into the building, trying to shake off the guilt from the night before and focus on work. He was determined to claw his way back into Libby’s good graces, maybe buy flowers at lunch, draft a heartfelt email—something.

Instead, he’d walked straight into a firing squad.

“George,” his boss had said, arms folded across his chest, “do you remember what you said to Harrison Pembroke Tuesday night?”

George had blinked. “Harrison? We had dinner—client dinner—at the Carlton.”

“Yes,” said his boss. “And you got drunk. And you told one of our oldest, most conservative clients that his daughter should ‘get laid properly for once’ before closing a deal.”

“I—”

“You also told him you were planning a ‘good fuck’ that evening and hoped she was half as good as the escort you had lined up.”

There had been silence in the room, sharp and sterile. George had no words.

Then came the security guard. The elevator ride. The silence. And now, the fountain.

He couldn’t tell Libby. Not yet. Not after last night. Not after kneeling like a man on the scaffold, begging for mercy. He had to get another job first, anything, just to make sure she wouldn’t see him as the complete failure he now felt himself to be.

A failure with no income. No office. No insurance. And no leverage.

God, he was going to have to live off Libby’s salary.

A senior lecturer in family law. How ironic. She’d probably taught a seminar on “Financial Control and Spousal Misconduct.” Hell, maybe she was giving that very lecture now, to some wide-eyed undergrads, while he was sitting outside like a discarded shoe.

He buried his face in his hands.

What the hell was he going to do?

How could he tell her?

The house was quiet when George opened the door.

Too quiet.

He stepped inside, clutching the doorknob behind him for a second longer than necessary. His suit jacket was wrinkled, his collar stained with sweat and the faint musk of failure.

“Libby?” he called softly, unsure if he wanted her to answer.

He found her in the kitchen. She stood at the counter, slicing zucchini with mechanical precision, her back to him.

She didn’t turn.

“Libby,” he said, voice cracking. “I need to tell you something.”

Nothing.

He stepped further in, eyes darting. “I—I lost my job. Today. I was fired. Walked out with a guard like a shoplifter.”

The knife hit the board with a sharp, final thunk.

“And now…” He laughed bitterly. “Now I’ve got nothing.”

Libby’s shoulders moved—slowly, as though releasing a breath or a burden.

“I’ve made a complete mess of everything,” he continued. “But I swear to God, Libby, I’ll fix it. I’ll find something. I’ll scrub the toilets. Please—don’t give up on me. Please.”

She turned then.

Her face was unreadable. Not cold, not cruel—just detached, as though she’d already filed him under some category that no longer required emotion.

“You fool,” she said.

He flinched.

“I come home from lunch with a friend to find an email from your firm’s HR, thanking me for being your emergency contact,” she said calmly. “So don’t pretend you’re confessing out of courage. You’re here because you have nowhere else to go.”

“That’s not true—”

“I don’t want to see you,” she said, stepping past him. “I don’t want to hear you. I want you to go to the guest room. And I want you to stay there.”

George swallowed hard. “For how long?”

She paused at the door, looking back at him like he was a question she no longer intended to answer.

“Until I say otherwise,” she said. “Or until you disappear entirely.”

She left him standing there, small in the silence.

Libby stood at the upstairs window that evening, arms folded, watching the fading light brush gold across the trees. Hers. Everything in it. Her childhood drawings were still in a box in the attic. Her mother’s teacups were stacked in the kitchen cabinet George never opened.

This house wasn’t just her shelter—it was her foundation.

And George?

He was in the guest room. Obedient. Pitiful.

The encounter with Dorothea had left her with more than a shopping bag and half a bottle of sauvignon in her blood—it had left her with clarity. A way forward. She didn’t need to scream. She didn’t need to plead. She needed to decide.

George had broken the contract of their marriage. But she held the house. She held the money. And soon, she would hold the key.

The next morning, she dressed with calm efficiency. A navy blouse, a charcoal skirt, and a silver pendant her mother had given her when she’d defended her dissertation. She prepared coffee, left a list of chores on the fridge in her sharpest handwriting—laundry, floors, groceries, bathroom, dinner—and set out for the university.

Just after she left, George shuffled into the kitchen.

He read the list.

No “Good morning.” No “Please.” Just tasks. Domestic penance.

He sighed, rolled up his sleeves, and began.

When Libby returned, the house was spotless. The scent of lemon polish lingered faintly in the hall.

She walked into the bedroom and saw the package on the dresser. It was a neat, discreet, padded envelope.

She picked it up. It was lighter than she expected. It looked clinical, unassuming.

She opened it. Inside: the CB6000. Clear polycarbonate. Curved and cold in its precision.

And beneath it, a small key in a white satin pouch.

Libby held it between thumb and forefinger, weighing the future.

George looked up from the sofa as she entered the living room. He was barefoot, wearing an old shirt, eyes sunken and uncertain.

“I cleaned everything. I made dinner. I hope that’s all right,” he said, searching her face. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“You’ll find out soon,” she said.

He stood, hesitantly. “Libby, please. Talk to me.”

“I will,” she said, her voice measured. “After dinner, you’ll clean up. Then we’re going to talk.”

“About…?”

She stepped closer, her eyes level with his. Calm. Cool. Certain.

“About your new reality,” she said. “And about the one thing I’m willing to offer you now.”

“What’s that?”

“Structure,” Libby said, then slowly added: “And accountability.”

Then she walked past him, leaving the words hanging behind her like a thread pulled tight.

The showdown had begun.

George heated a meal from the supermarket. They ate in silence. Then he cleared the table and did the dishes. With a pounding heart, George sat down at the dining table again.

“You wanted to talk?” he asked.

Libby didn’t return the smile. Her voice was low, clipped. “Get naked.”

George blinked. A flicker of hope crossed his face, as though interpreting her command as a thaw, a reconciliation wrapped in steel.

He hurried out of his clothes, almost tripping on his socks in his eagerness. “Should I—”

“Fold them and put them away,” she said.

He chuckled nervously, obeying without protest. The sight of him scurrying, naked, folding his trousers, seemed to fuel a quiet strength within her.

Libby turned without another word and walked toward the bathroom. Her footsteps were slow, deliberate. George followed, unsure if he should say anything. He didn’t. His nakedness already spoke enough.

Inside the bathroom, the lights were too bright. The mirror showed him pale, exposed, and tentative. Libby closed the door behind them with a soft click. She pointed at the edge of the tub.

“Sit,” she said.

He obeyed, the cold porcelain under him making him shiver.

“Shave everything. I want it smooth.”

George hesitated just long enough for the silence to grow sharp. Then he nodded, turned toward the sink, and ran the tap until the water was steaming. He found a bar of soap, worked up a lather in his palms, and began spreading it carefully across his groin. His fingers trembled as he reached for the razor.

Libby stood behind him, arms crossed, watching his reflection in the mirror. There was no room for clumsiness. When he nicked the skin above his thigh, she raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

He tried to focus, drawing the blade slowly across his skin, rinsing it between each stroke. He lifted, stretched, and turned as best he could to reach the hidden areas. Each pass was measured, obedient. The soap stung a little in the places he’d already shaved bare.

Libby stepped closer and leaned in, inspecting him without touching. “Again,” she said. “Underneath. There’s still a shadow.”

George crouched slightly and worked more soap into the skin, reshaping the area with careful, almost reverent strokes. The air felt cooler now, the light harsher. He didn’t look at her; he didn’t need to.

Only when she gave a soft “Good” did he dare to breathe easier.

Then, without a preamble, Libby walked out of the bathroom and returned with a white box. She set it down on the counter and opened it slowly.

Inside, nestled in soft foam, gleamed the CB6000: sleek, translucent, unmistakable.

George froze, his mouth just slightly open, eyes fixed on the device. Libby met his gaze in the mirror.

“You know what this is,” she said.

He swallowed. “Yes.”

“Good,” she said again. I do not want you to touch yourself or anyone else in the future again.

When he straightened up, she was standing now, the device in her hand.

He stepped toward her.

She stopped him with a firm hand on his chest. “No. Stand there. And listen.”

George hesitated, puzzled. He nodded.

“You’re going to wear this,” she said calmly.

He glanced down at the object in her hand. “What is it? A… sex toy?”

Libby raised an eyebrow. “Quite the contrary.”

He frowned. “Then what—?”

“It’s called a CB6000,” she said. “It’s a chastity cage. A physical reminder of where things stand now. Of trust broken. And of structure restored.”

His face paled slightly. “You’re… serious?”

“Absolutely. Stand still while I adjust it.”

She knelt, not in supplication, but like a technician assembling something important and delicate. The CB6000 came in two main parts: a base ring and a cage. The base ring, smooth and slightly oval, she fitted around the root of him, threading his testicles through first with firm but careful hands. He twitched beneath her fingers, but she said nothing.

“There are spacers and locking pins,” she said, not looking up. “We’ll start with the medium.”

She slid the spacer and pin into place, then brought the cage forward. He was soft enough—humiliated enough—for it to slip in neatly.  

Then she took the padlock.

The small metal click echoed in the room.

“There,” she said, standing. “Now you don’t just say you’re sorry. You live it.”

George looked down at himself, stunned, and touched the curve of the plastic. It was snug. Inescapable. A thing not just felt but worn.

George looked at her. “For how long?”

She met his eyes. “Until I trust you again.”

He swallowed. “And if you never do?”

Libby’s expression didn’t change. “Then you’ll remain locked.”

George couldn't believe this was happening. The coldness of the plastic cage around his manhood was a stark reminder of his new reality. Then Libby ordered him to go to the bedroom. She followed him and began to undress, her movements deliberate and unhurried. Each piece of clothing that fell away from her body was like a silent declaration of her power over him.

Her breasts were full and firm, her nipples already hard with anticipation. Her hips swayed as she stepped out of her panties, revealing the neatly trimmed mound of her sex. He felt his cock try to stir in response, only to be held at bay by the unyielding cage.

"Come here," she said, her voice a low purr. "Use your tongue."

George approached her. He had always loved going down on her, but now it was a command—his only form of intimacy allowed. He knelt before her, his eyes level with her womanhood, and tentatively licked. Libby's breath hitched, and she placed a hand on the back of his head, guiding him closer.

He lapped at her, feeling the heat and wetness of her arousal, savouring the taste that was now denied to him in any other way. He slid his tongue into her folds, exploring her, teasing her opening with the tip before delving deeper. He felt her legs tremble and her grip on his head tighten.

He worked her with the flat of his tongue, feeling it swell beneath him. He knew her body so well—every spot that made her moan, every shiver that ran through her. Her legs spread wider, and she stepped closer, pressing herself against his mouth. He sucked gently, then harder, feeling her respond, her hips rocking against his face.

Her breathing grew ragged, and her hand began to pull his hair, urging him on. He could feel her building, the muscles tightening around his tongue. He redoubled his efforts, his mouth a frenzy of licks and sucks, his nose buried in her scent.

Her orgasm washed over her in waves, her body convulsing as she cried out. George felt the vibration of her pleasure resonate through his entire being, even as his caged penis remained untouched. The intensity of her climax seemed to be amplified by his own denied release, and he felt a desperate ache in his balls.

As she came down from her peak, Libby pushed him away. "It could have been worse," she murmured, then added, "Now go back to the guest room and stay there. I have to think." Then she ordered: ¨“Tomorrow, I want the windows cleaned. Also out. You’ll find the ladder in the garage.”

George stood, his face wet with her juices, his cock straining against the plastic. He knew better than to argue or ask for more. He nodded and went to the guest room, the weight of the CB6000 a constant reminder of his newfound obedience.

But as the hours ticked by with no sign of Libby, George's frustration grew. He couldn't even touch himself to find relief. He was utterly at her mercy. But he also knew this was his penance, and he would endure it for as long as it took her to forgive him.

The cold, hard plastic of the chastity device was a constant presence, a reminder of his submission to Libby's will. The feeling of her orgasm had been so intense, so powerful, and yet he remained unsatisfied—a mere instrument of her pleasure.

He thought about their past, the moments of passion and connection they'd shared, and how those moments had led to this. He thought about the trust she'd placed in him, and how he had shattered it. The ache in his balls was a physical manifestation of his regret, a punishment that was both deserved and humiliating.

His mind wandered to the moments of pleasure they'd had, the sweet taste of her on his lips, the feel of her skin beneath his fingertips. The memories taunted him, making his caged manhood throb with unfulfilled lust. He tried to shift on the bed, to find a position that didn't remind him of his captivity, but there was no escape.

Exhaustion slowly claimed him, and as the night deepened, his thoughts grew fuzzy. As he finally drifted off to sleep, George wondered what the future held. Would she ever trust him again? Would he ever feel the sweet release of her touch? Or was this his new life, forever locked away, a silent witness to her pleasure but never allowed to share in it himself?

The sun had barely crested the horizon when Libby's eyes fluttered open. She lay in their bed alone. She had sent George to the guest room locked in his cage, a symbol of his submission and her control.

Libby climbed out of bed and began her morning routine. After a quick shower, she dressed and went to the kitchen, leaving a note for George detailing his chores.

As she sipped her coffee, she thought about Dorothea. With her thoughts still swirling, she picked up her phone and called her friend. "Hey, Dorothea," she said, her voice low and measured. "I hope I didn't wake you."

"No, no," Dorothea replied sleepily. "What's up?"

"I need to talk to you," Libby said. "Can you meet me for breakfast?"

"Sure," Dorothea yawned. "Where?"

"There's a café down our street," Libby suggested. "I'll be there in half an hour."

At the café, Libby ordered a bagel and a strong black coffee. As she waited, she thought about what she would say. How would she explain the sudden shift in power dynamics in their relationship? How would Dorothea react?

When her friend arrived, looking fresh and well-rested, Libby took a deep breath. "Yesterday I put George in the chastity cage," Libby said, watching her friend's expression. "The CB6000. And it's working. I've never felt more in control, more... satisfied."

He can't get hard or touch himself. I hold the key."

"And what happens when he misbehaves?"

"He doesn't," Libby said.

Dorothea nodded, a glint in her eye. "I've got a couple of things that might be useful," she said, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Would you like me to bring them tonight?"

"Tonight?" Libby's heart raced. "What's tonight?"

"Dinner," Dorothea said. "I'll bring the instruments."

"Instruments?"

"Trust me," Dorothea said, her grin wicked. "You're going to love them."

They planned to meet at a Chinese restaurant downtown, known for its spicy food and discreet service. Libby felt excitement at the thought of what might be in store.

After breakfast, Libby went to the university to give her lecture. Her mind wandered as she talked about the history of feminism. She found herself eyeing the young men in the class, wondering which of them would be brave enough—or desperate enough—to wear a CB6000 for their girlfriends.

As the lecture dragged on, her thoughts grew more intense. She imagined the power she would have over them, the way they would look at her with fear and awe. Her hand strayed to the purse where she kept the key.

At the restaurant that night, Dorothea slid a small bag across the table. "These are for you," she said, her voice filled with mischief.

Inside were two small metal clamps, connected by a chain.

"Nipple clamps," Dorothea explained. "For when you want to remind him who's in charge."

Libby's eyes widened. "Thank you," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Thank you so much."

Dorothea leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Look in the bag," she said, sliding the plastic sack towards Libby.

Libby's eyes widened as she peered inside. Nestled within the folds of the bag were two dark objects. One was long and slender, with a thick, leather tail at the end—a horsewhip. The other was thinner and more flexible, with a wicked-looking knot near the tip—a rattan cane.

"What are these for?" Libby asked, her voice a mix of excitement and trepidation.

Dorothea's smile grew. "The horsewhip is for when you want to make a statement," she said, her eyes gleaming. "It's loud, it's dramatic. It's for when you need to get his attention, to make him understand who's in charge."

"And the cane?"

"Ah, the cane," Dorothea said, her voice taking on a wistful tone. "That's for when you want to leave a real impression. You've got to be firm, but not too hard. You want to strike him just enough to make him feel it, but you will try not to leave a bruise."

"Where do I hit him?"

Dorothea's smile grew. "Well, that's entirely up to you. But I'd start with the thighs or the ass. It's a good place to build up his tolerance."

She took a sip of her drink before continuing. " It's best used on bare skin, and it stings like nothing else."

The conversation grew more intense.

"It's all about control," Dorothea said, her eyes serious. "You're not trying to hurt him—you're trying to teach him. And when he's learned his lesson, when he's begging for your forgiveness, that's when you know you've won."

Libby nodded, as she considered Dorothea's words. The Chinese restaurant they had chosen was dimly lit. The food was exquisite, a symphony of flavours that danced on her tongue, but she found it difficult to focus on the meal.

"The key is to make him dread it," Dorothea continued, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "Make him think that every misstep, every act of disobedience, could lead to the bite of the cane."

Libby took a bit of her kung pao chicken, the heat of the peppers mingling with the rich flavours of the sauce. "But what if he doesn't learn?" she asked, her voice tinged with doubt.

Dorothea's smile grew sly. "Oh, he will," she said, twirling a piece of lo mein around her chopsticks. "They always do. And if he doesn't, well, there are always more extreme measures."

Then they spoke of limits and trust, of the fine line between pain and pleasure.

The thought of George, bound and begging for her mercy, was almost too much to bear. She felt her grow wet at the very idea.

"And never forget the importance of aftercare," Dorothea reminded her, popping a dumpling into her mouth. "Even when you're cruel, you must show him love."

Libby nodded. She knew that George was not a masochist, that the very thought of pain would fill him with fear. And that was exactly what she wanted—for him to understand that his actions had consequences, that his submission was not just a game.

As they parted ways for the night, Libby felt a newfound sense of purpose.

Back at the house, she found George as she had left him. She could see the fear in his eyes as she approached, and she felt a thrill of satisfaction.

With a flick of her wrist, she produced the horsewhip. The sound of it cracking in the air was like music to her ears, a symphony of power and control. George's eyes widened, and she knew he understood.

The cane would come later when the time was right. For now, she would bask in the glow of her newfound power, the thrill of knowing that she had taken control and George was waiting for her, helpless and obedient. She had restored order to their world, and she had Dorothea to thank for it.

The possibilities were endless, and Libby felt excitement at the thought. The CB6000 was just the beginning.

The following days passed in a blur of cleaning and obedience. George woke each morning to find himself naked, the cold plastic of the CB6000 a stark reminder of his new role in the house. Libby had been true to her word, keeping him busy with a never-ending list of chores.

"Remember, George," she would say each day as she handed him the cleaning supplies, "the house must be spotless when I return from work."

And so he cleaned: windows, floors, surfaces. His days were filled with the drone of the vacuum and the sting of the horsewhip or the cane when his work wasn't up to par.

At first, the pain had been shocking, a bolt of agony that made his eyes water and his knees buckle. But over time, he grew accustomed to it, his body learning to expect the sharp crack and the subsequent sting.

He began to long for the moments when she deemed his work satisfactory when she would stroke his cheek with the back of her hand, the softness a stark contrast to the leather that had just been lashing his skin.

In the evenings, Libby would sit at her computer, her nose buried in books and articles about dominance and submission. She took her role as mistress seriously, studying the intricacies of power dynamics with the same dedication she brought to her law texts.

"You see, George," she said one night, her eyes gleaming as she looked up from the screen, "consistency is key. You must always know where you stand with me."

He nodded, his voice meek. "Yes, mistress."

"And speaking of standing," she continued, her smile turning predatory, "you've been getting a bit cheeky lately. Perhaps it's time for a reminder of your place. Undress at once."

With that, she produced the rattan cane. The sight of it made George's stomach drop.

The first strike was a line of fire across his thighs, making him gasp. The second and third followed quickly, a sharp staccato of pain that brought tears to his eyes.

"Count them, George," she instructed, her voice calm and collected. "Remember each one."

He did as he was told, counting aloud through gritted teeth, his body trembling with the effort not to cry out.

"Five," he choked out as the final blow landed, his thighs a mottled mess of red and white.

"Very good," she said, her tone approving. "Now, go to the bathroom and clean yourself up. And don't forget to put the cane back where it belongs."

"You know," she said one evening as he served her dinner in his cage, "it's unwise to start divorce proceedings against a woman who might soon be a full professor in law."

The words hung in the air, a silent threat George knew she didn't need to voice. He nodded, his jaw clenched. "Yes, mistress."

"Good boy," she said, patting his head. "Now, tell me, how does it feel to serve me?"

He took a deep breath, his eyes downcast. "It feels...humiliating, mistress. But it also feels right."

Her smile was smug. "That's what I thought."

Their conversations grew more tense as the weeks went on. George now spoke only when spoken to, his thoughts consumed by his caged predicament and the fear of the next punishment. He found himself craving the moments of tenderness she would sometimes show, the rare times she would allow him to kiss her feet or whisper sweet nothings into her ear.

But he also knew that the path to redemption was long and painful. And so he continued, each day a little more broken, each day a little more hers.

As Libby gained more confidence, her punishments became more creative. The horsewhip was a constant presence, but she had also introduced him to the joys of clamps and paddles, her strokes precise and calculated.

"You must always fear the cane," she told him one night as he lay trembling on the bed, the welts from the rattan still fresh.

He nodded, his eyes glazed with pain and need. "Yes, mistress."

But even as the fear of the cane lingered, George couldn't help but feel some sense of peace. For in this world of pain and control, he seemed to have found his place.

One morning, Libby threw an envelope at his feet. Her handwriting was neat and precise, the words "Contract" written in bold, uncompromising letters.

George picked it up. He took a deep breath and opened it, his hands trembling slightly. The paper was thick and expensive, the words typed in a font that screamed finality.

"As of this date, I, George, do hereby surrender all rights and control over my body and soul to my mistress, Libby," he read aloud, his voice shaking.

He looked up at her, her eyes cold and unyielding. "Is this what you want?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"It's what you need," she replied, her voice firm. "Now, sign it."

With trembling hands, George picked up the pen on the table. He knew there was no going back. He signed his name, feeling a part of himself die with each stroke.

"OK," she murmured, taking the paper from him and placing it in a drawer. "Now, go get undressed."

He obeyed, his movements mechanical as he stripped away his last vestments of dignity. When he was naked, she handed him a set of suitcases. "Pack your clothes," she said. "You won't be needing them anymore. Store them in the attic."

The attic was dusty and cold, but George didn't complain. He packed his suits and shirts, his jeans and t-shirts until every last piece of his clothing was neatly folded and stored away.

“You’ll be naked from now on,” she said, not unkindly, but with that precise clarity of someone discussing the change of seasons.

George turned, unsure if this was still the game, the play, the elaborate charade that began months ago with a single, nervy dare. “All the time?”

“Of course.”

He stood, utterly still, thoughts crawling slowly through the edges of his brain like cautious beetles. “Why?”

Libby stepped forward, her bare feet making no sound on the wooden floorboards. “Because it is my pleasure.”

The simplicity of it was terrifying.

“But what must I do if I’m home alone and the bell rings?” he asked, practical, ever so slightly pleading.

Libby smiled then, a flash of warmth and calculation. She turned to an old lacquered cupboard near the attic door and opened it with reverence. Inside lay a single garment: a blue wrap shirt, sheer and fine, its fabric soft enough to suggest it might dissolve in the moonlight.

She held it up. “When the bell goes, you wrap this around your middle,” she said. “You answer the door, speak if you must, then you take it off, fold it neatly on that chair—” she pointed to a spindle-legged relic in the corner “—and return to your natural state.”

George took the skirt in his hands. It shimmered slightly, catching the low sun, barely more opaque than breath.

“What will people think?” he asked. He tried to sound dry, and sarcastic. But his voice cracked slightly like a boy asking the headmistress if his punishment could be reconsidered.

“That,” Libby said, turning to leave, “is not of my concern. If someone complains, refer them to me.”

When he returned, she was waiting for him, the horsewhip in her hand.

The crack of the whip made him jump, and he knew what was coming. He dropped to his knees, his eyes downcast. "Yes, mistress," he said, his voice a whimper.

The first strike was a line of fire across his back, making him arch in pain. He knew better than to beg or plead—that would only make it worse. Instead, he took it, each blow a reminder of his submission.

"You're mine," she said, her voice a sweet, deadly caress. "Mine to use, mine to punish."

The whipping continued. Each stroke was a punctuation to her words. And as the pain grew, so too did his need for release. He could feel his cock straining against the bars of the cage, desperate for the touch of his mistress's hand.

But she withheld it, her strokes growing faster, more erratic. He could feel his body responding, his muscles tightening, his arousal building despite the agony.

And then, just as he was about to break, she stopped.

He collapsed to the floor. "Please, mistress," he panted. "I need—"

"You need?" she snarled. "What makes you think you deserve anything?"

He had no answer, He knew he was wrong to want release—that was for her to grant, not for him to demand.

"Now," she said, her voice softening, "go get the bathroom scales and come back to me."

The tiles were cold beneath George’s feet as he walked briskly to the bathroom. Libby’s voice still echoed in his ears—firm, clear, devoid of anger, but leaving no room for negotiation.

“The scale,” she had said, “bring it to the living room. Then wait for me.”

He found the scale in the corner near the bathtub, where he knew it would be. He picked it up carefully, his palms already sweating, though whether from anticipation or fear, he could not tell.

George put the scale in the centre of the room, just as instructed, and stood beside it. Waiting.

Libby didn’t speak at first. George’s hands fluttered near his sides, then fell limp.

“I want you to face me,” she said softly.

He obeyed.

Her gaze travelled deliberately over his form—neck to shoulders, chest to abdomen, thighs, back up again.

“You’ve been healthy, I’ll give you that,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “Your skin is still smooth, no sign of stress or bad sleep. But this...” She stepped closer, her fingers grazing his abdomen, then tapped it twice with her index finger. “This tummy. Where did this come from, George?”

He flushed. “I—might have been careless. With portions, maybe.”

“Hm,” she said after a pause. “There’s too much fat stored here.” She tapped his buttocks, once, with her fingertips. “Soft. You’re becoming... padded.”

She came around again and faced him. He did not dare meet her gaze.

“Stand on the scale.”

He did. The digital numbers flickered, then steadied. Libby read them silently.

“Seventy-nine point three,” she said aloud.

He flinched.

“And you’re one meter seventy-two, correct?”

“Yes.”

She took out her phone and opened the calculator app.

“That gives us a Body Mass Index of... twenty-six point eight.” She glanced up. “Overweight.”

George tried to speak, but she raised a hand.

“No excuses,” she said calmly. “I’m not angry. But I am concerned. You’re nearly ten kilos over what you should be. You know what that means?”

He swallowed. “It means I’ve let myself go.”

“No,” she said, taking a step closer. “It means you’ve stopped caring for yourself. It means you’ve forgotten that discipline is care. That self-respect starts with what you feed yourself, how you move, how you breathe. This isn’t about how you look, George. This is about what you’re becoming.”

He nodded slowly, ashamed.

Libby reached out and placed her palm flat on his chest. “You know I wouldn’t let you drift without calling you back.”

“I do.”

“Good.” She stepped back. “Here’s what we’ll do. Starting today, I’m taking charge of your meals. No more processed snacks. No more lazy dinners or late-night grazing. I’ll plan everything. You’ll eat exactly what I give you, and nothing more.”

He smiled, cautiously. “Will I ever earn dessert again?”

Libby arched an eyebrow. “That depends. Are you asking if sweetness is ever coming back into your life?”

“Maybe I’m just asking for mercy,” he said, a touch of laughter in his voice.

She didn’t laugh. But she stepped forward and brushed his cheek with her hand. “No mercy,” she said, gently. “Only transformation.”

He lowered his head in surrender. “Then I trust you.”

“I know,” she whispered. “Now step off the scale. And sit with me. We have a plan to fulfil.”

He obeyed. He felt light already—not physically, but somewhere deeper. Somewhere under the fat, under the skin, something had already shifted. And Libby, with her patient strength and unflinching eyes, was holding the key."Look at yourself," Libby said, her voice cold as ice as she handed George the contract. "You're pathetic. Five strokes of the cane for every kilo overweight. Starting now.¨

The reality of the situation sank in, and George felt a cold sweat break out across his brow. The cage was bad enough, but this? This was a whole new level of humiliation.

"But I—"

"No buts," she snapped. "You will do as you're told. And you will lose the weight."

He nodded, his eyes downcast. "Yes, mistress."

"Good," she said with a smug smile on her lips. "Now, let's get started."

"You're already ten over," she said, her eyes gleaming. "So you're getting fifty strokes tonight. And if you haven't lost any weight by the next check-in, it'll be fifty again"

He knew he was overweight—his lack of self-control was one of the reasons she had caged him in the first place. But this? This was too much.

"Please, mistress," he begged. "I'll try, I swear. I need a little more time."

"You've had time," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. "Now, bend over. Place your hands just over your knees."

With trembling legs, George did as he was told, his bare ass in the air, the cage pressing into his stomach. He knew better than to argue with her—it would only make things worse.

The first stroke fell, and he screamed. The pain was like nothing he had ever felt before—searing, white-hot agony that seemed to burn through his very soul. He bit down on the pillow to muffle his cries, his body taut with tension.

"One," she said, her voice almost bored.

The second stroke landed, and he bucked against the bed. Tears streamed down his face, his ass already on fire.

"Two."

He couldn't take much more of this—he had to find a way to make her stop. He promised himself he would diet, he would exercise, he would do anything to please her.

"Three."

The fourth and fifth strokes fell in succession, and he lost count. All he could focus on was the pain, the searing, relentless pain that seemed to go on forever.

"Twenty-five," she said, and he realized that she was halfway done. He whimpered, his body shaking with the effort of holding still.

"You're doing well," she said, her voice almost kind. "Just twenty-five more."

He nodded, his eyes squeezed shut. He could do this—he had to do this.

The strokes continued, each one a fresh wave of torment. He could feel the welts rising on his skin, could feel the blood pumping through his veins with each painful thwack.

"Forty," she said, her voice a little breathless. He knew she was enjoying this, savouring every moment of his suffering.

He gritted his teeth, his eyes squeezed shut, as she delivered the final ten. "Forty-five," she murmured, the cane coming harder and harder.

He didn't know how much more he could take, but he had to.

Fifty."

George was sobbing now, his body writhing with pain. He could feel the sweat pouring from his forehead.

"You're mine," she said, her voice soft. "Mine to punish, mine to mould."

He nodded, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Yes, mistress."

He knew what was coming—more dieting, more exercise, more punishment if he didn't meet her expectations. But he was determined to please her and regain her trust.

End of the first instalment