Every time he stepped on the scale, he felt his stomach drop. Would it be enough? Would she be pleased?

And every two weeks, Libby would cane him, her strokes precise and unforgiving. She never missed a beat, never gave an inch.

You're doing well," she said one night, inspecting his bruised and battered body. "But you still have a way to go."

He nodded. "Yes, mistress."

"I'll be watching you," she warned. "Every bite you eat, every step you take."

And she did. She was always there, a constant presence, a reminder of his failure.

When Libby stepped into the hallway one September evening, the first thing she noticed was the warmth—an uninvited, sticky heat that clung to the air. She stood momentarily, letting her senses register it fully, then closed the door behind her with deliberate slowness.

The house was spotless, as always—each surface gleaming with a quiet pride. George was in the kitchen, folding a cloth napkin with the reverence of a monk arranging relics. His nakedness, now so familiar, made him appear innocent.

She entered without a word.

“Why is it so warm in here?” she asked.

George straightened, his hands still holding the edges of the napkin. “It’s getting colder outside,” he said. “I turned up the heat.”

Libby tilted her head, one brow rising. “You turned up the heat?”

“Yes,” George said, trying for an even tone. “To twenty-five degrees.”

There was a pause.

“I see,” Libby said at last. She moved past him, brushing his shoulder with a single finger. She pressed a hand to the radiator. “You’re right. It is colder outside.”

He looked at her, a little surprised.

“But I never thought of adjusting the heat,” she continued, more to herself than to him. “That’s my fault.”

George didn’t answer. He had long since learned when not to.

Libby turned to face him. “I must remedy this.” She sat on the couch and reached into her bag.

“I have something for you,” she said.

From the bag, Libby pulled a folded square of deep purple cloth, embroidered at the edges with faint silver thread. She held it up. “It’s a prayer cloth,” she said. “I bought it downtown. This is where you will kneel. Or sit cross-legged, like I want you to do now, so I can see your CB6000.”

She said the words casually.

George’s breath caught a little, but he obeyed. He sat, crossing his legs carefully on the cloth. The polished curve of the device between his thighs caught the lamplight. Libby examined it with clinical calm.

“Good,” she said after a moment. “It’s clean and shining. Just as it should be.”

She stood. “Now be silent. I need to prepare for tomorrow’s lecture.”

For the next hour, George remained seated on the cloth, motionless, while Libby typed and muttered and occasionally sipped from her tea. Outside, the last light of day vanished.

Then she stood abruptly.

“Get in the car,” she said.

George blinked. “Now?”

Libby was already retrieving a powerful hand-held lamp from the cupboard. “Yes. Bring nothing. Just yourself.”

It was nearly ten o'clock when they drove out of town, the road dark and empty beneath them. Libby drove with confidence, humming softly to herself. George sat in silence, arms folded tightly around himself. He could feel the heat of the car dwindling.

They pulled into a gravel lot on the edge of a regional park. Trees loomed in the distance. The wind was damp and sharp, and George hesitated.

“Libby... It’s very chilly.”

“That,” she said, stepping out of the car and turning on the lamp, “is the point. Come.”

He followed reluctantly, the gravel biting at his bare feet. The cold slapped at him like a scolding mother. His body shivered, instinctive and unrestrained.

“You must get used to the temperature,” Libby said, walking ahead, her beam of light slicing through the dark. “You must learn to be comfortable in a moderate climate.”

She turned the lamp on him to remind him she was always watching.

“Walk without shame,” she said, her voice floating through the mist. “You belong to this air now. To this night. There is no need to hide.”

They walked for an hour, their footsteps muffled by soft earth and fallen leaves. No one else was there—only the sound of their breathing, the occasional snap of a branch underfoot, and the slow grinding of the wind through the trees.

George’s skin was a patchwork of goosebumps. Libby’s silhouette moved with quiet certainty.

“From now on,” Libby said as she started the engine, “the temperature is sixteen degrees Celsius when I am out of the house.”

George didn’t speak.

“When at home, I will decide the temperature,” she continued. “But when I’m gone, sixteen it is. Climate change demands that we use fossil energy sparingly. This is your contribution.”

She looked at him, her expression firm. “And when you are cold, remember this night. Remember that the body can adapt. And that your comfort is not always the highest priority.”

When they arrived, Libby led him to the bathroom. "Wait here," she said, gesturing to the plush bathroom mat. "Kneel, and I'll be back soon." He did as told, his knees pressing into the soft material as he watched her disappear into the steamy shower. The sound of the water cascading over her body filled his mind with a delicious warmth that began to thaw the chill from his bones.

At last, Libby emerged from the shower, her skin glistening and her hair damp. She was wearing nothing but a small towel, which barely concealed her ample curves. She looked at him with a sultry smile, droplets of water clinging to her lashes. "Follow me," she beckoned, the towel dropping to the floor as she turned to walk away.

George's eyes followed her, drinking in the sight of her bare back and the gentle sway of her hips. He followed her into the bedroom.

"Come here," she said, patting the space beside her. "Use your tongue to warm me up."

Without a second thought, George approached the bed and knelt beside her. He leaned in, his breath hot against her skin as he placed a tender kiss on her collarbone. Libby shivered, not from cold but from the thrill of his touch. He trailed his tongue along the line of her neck, feeling the goosebumps rise in his wake. His hands roamed over her body, exploring the softness of her breasts and the curve of her hips.

He moved down her body, his kisses growing more urgent as he reached the apex of her thighs. He parted her folds with gentle strokes of his tongue, tasting the sweetness of her arousal. Libby's breath hitched as he began to circle the essence of her womanhood with the tip of his tongue, her legs trembling slightly. He felt her hands tangle in his hair as she guided him, urging him deeper, her body arching into his mouth.

George's tongue danced over her, exploring every inch of her sensitive flesh. He listened to the sounds of her pleasure, using them as a map to navigate her desires. He felt her body tighten, her muscles clenching around him as she grew closer and closer to climax. With a final flick of his tongue, she gasped, her body shuddering with the force of her release.

George lay beside her, his body humming with the echo of her will. Every nerve in him was still tuned to her frequency, as if she had left fingerprints not just on his skin, but deep within his marrow.

A slow, satisfied smile curled at the corner of Libby´s lips.

“Now go back to the living room,” she said, her voice husky, trailing the scent of possession like smoke from a blown-out candle.

George blinked, lifting himself slowly onto one elbow. Her tone left no room for interpretation.

“Sleep on your prayer mat,” she continued. “From now on, the guest room will be off-limits to you.”

There was a pause—long enough for the words to land and take root.

“You are not a guest. You are my property.”

Her gaze was unwavering, calm and powerful in its certainty.

“I own you,” she said. “Now get out of my sight.”

The words did not feel cruel, only true. There was no anger, no mockery.

George slipped off the bed without a word. The carpet was soft beneath his feet, but it may as well have been stone.

The hallway was colder now. He padded down to the living room, still dimly lit by a lamp she always left on for atmosphere. The prayer mat was waiting for him, neatly spread in the centre of the room as if it had known he would return.

He knelt first, the ritual gesture. Then he sat cross-legged as she preferred. The thin fabric offered little comfort on the floorboards, but comfort was no longer relevant.

His thoughts began to unfold, slow and heavy.

She owns me.

He repeated the words silently, letting them wrap around him like a blanket that offered no warmth, but still enclosed.

She owns me.

I am not a guest.

The guest room is not mine.

George thought of her body still warm in the sheets, of the way she’d looked at him with satisfaction before banishing him.

He lay back on the mat, curling slightly against the cool air, the nakedness, the truth of the night.

The clock ticked somewhere above the mantel.

The silence accepted him without judgment.

He would wait to be summoned.

The next day, Libby came home with a small shopping bag. She held it up.

“Put that down. We have a new ritual to establish.”

George obeyed, looking up. “Yes, mistress?”

From the bag, she pulled out a pink-and-white box with an image of smooth, glistening legs on the front. “Brazilian wax,” she said casually, placing it on the table. “I’ve decided I hate the hair on your legs. It’s coarse. Ugly. Unworthy of someone who serves me.”

George’s mouth opened slightly, then closed. A flush crept across his neck. “—I see.”

“You will have soft, clean legs from now on. No arguments.

Libby put on disposable gloves and opened the box, removing a little jar of wax, a small plastic spatula, and a stack of waxing strips. “Lie on the chaise. Left leg first.”

He obeyed, his legs pale under the light.

Libby straightened up after giving her instruction, the latex gloves snapping softly as she adjusted them. Her tone had been calm but unmistakably firm: “Now don’t move until I tell you to.” George lay still on the chaise, his hands resting awkwardly at his sides.

Libby picked up the jar of wax and turned without another word, her heels clicking rhythmically as she walked down the hallway toward the kitchen. George could hear her move through the house with unhurried precision—the opening of a cabinet, the gentle thud of the microwave door, the beep of the keypad.

He stared at the ceiling, every second stretching. The anticipation was thick, electric. He flexed his toes slightly, then froze again, remembering her command. Don’t move.

From the kitchen, a low hum began—the microwave heating the wax. A faint floral scent reached him.

Then came the soft ding of the microwave. A moment later, Libby appeared in the doorway, cradling the small jar in one gloved hand like a sacred instrument, a wooden spatula resting against its rim.

“It’s ready,” she said.

She walked back to him slowly, her gaze sweeping over his outstretched body to his pale, exposed leg. She set the jar on the side table, stirred the wax once with the spatula, testing its temperature. Satisfied, she looked at him, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“You didn’t move. Good.”

George swallowed and gave the faintest nod, his voice caught somewhere between fear and devotion.

Libby dipped the spatula into the hot goo and spread it across his leg. George twitched.

“Don’t move,” she said sharply. “This is what care looks like, George. A woman improving her man.”

She pressed a strip over the waxed area, smoothed it down slowly with her palm, and then—without warning—ripped it off.

George cried out, jerking reflexively.

“Oh, come now,” Libby said with disdain. “Surely a little pain isn’t so surprising. You’re doing this for me.”

He nodded quickly, biting his lip.

She waxed a second strip, then a third. Each pull left a stripe of red skin behind. His leg began to tremble. After the fourth, she stood.

“That’s enough. You’ll do the right leg yourself now. No stalling.”

George sat up, his breath shaky. “Yes, mistress.”

She handed him the spatula. The wax was cooling. He dipped into it clumsily, his hand unsteady. He placed the first strip awkwardly, and it bunched up.

Libby tsked. “Smooth it out or I’ll redo the whole leg myself—with double the wax.”

George obeyed, pressing the strip down firmly. He took a breath, then yanked. The pain surged up his thigh, and he groaned—but he didn’t pause. Strip by strip, he repeated the process until both legs were clean, red, and bare.

When he was finished, Libby examined his work with narrowed eyes. “Acceptable. Stand.”

He rose shakily to his feet.

“Go to the bathroom,” she said. “You’ll shave your armpits. From now on, every morning after your shower. No stubble. No excuses. If I ever find even a shadow of hair, I’ll cane you. Understand?”

George lowered his gaze. “Yes, mistress.”

She smiled, satisfied. ¨Now go.”

George closed the bathroom door behind him and leaned against the cool tile. His legs still stung—small, angry pinpricks flaring wherever the wax had done its work. He looked down at them: smooth, flushed, almost unfamiliar. Female.

He turned on the tap and let the water run warm, then opened the cabinet beneath the sink.

George shook his head slightly, almost a smile on his lips. She planned everything now.

He raised one arm and looked at the mess of dark hair in his armpit. It felt primitive now, wrong. He squirted the cool and silky cream into his palm and lathered it in gently. The razor slid through easily, revealing pale skin beneath. He rinsed, checked for missed spots, and repeated the process with the other side.

Libby tapped on the door. “Are you finished?”

George opened it. “Yes. I shaved.”

She gave him a once-over and reached out, running her fingers under his arm to feel the skin. Her nails grazed lightly over the surface. “Very good,” she said. “Keep it like that. I expect to be able to inspect you anytime.”

“Yes, mistress.”

She studied his face. “You’re beginning to see what I want without me having to spell it out.”

“I want to learn,” George said quietly.

She reached out, cupped his chin between her fingers. “Good. That makes it easier for both of us.”

Then she turned and walked away. George waited a moment, then slowly followed her out of the bathroom. The air on his bare legs and freshly shaved underarms made him feel alert, as though he were being exposed.

Later, he would fold the wax kit neatly and put it back in the drawer where Libby kept her hairbrushes and skin creams. It belonged there now.

George had indeed become accustomed to the new dynamics in his life. It was not uncommon for his days to be punctuated with sudden, intimate summons. He found himself both nervous and excited by the prospect of serving his wife's desires, which had grown increasingly frequent since the revelation of his infidelity. It was as if their relationship had been reborn with a new set of rules and boundaries, which he was eager to navigate.

One afternoon, as George was reading a book cross-legged on his praying mat, he heard the unmistakable sound of Libby's fingers snapping. He glanced up and saw her standing by her desk, her legs slightly apart. She wore a smart blouse and tailored skirt, the fabric stretching tautly over her hips as she moved. Her eyes bore into him, filled with an unspoken command.

"Come here," she said, her voice low and firm.

George swallowed hard, setting his book aside. He rose to his feet and approached her, his eyes never leaving hers.

"You know what to do," she continued, gesturing to the space between her legs.

With trembling hands, George knelt before her. He reached out and gently pushed her skirt up, revealing her bare thighs and the smooth skin of her abdomen. He could feel the heat emanating from her body, a testament to her desire. He knew that this act was not just about pleasure; it was about power, about reestablishing control and trust in their marriage. He was her devoted servant, eager to please and to be forgiven.

George leaned in, his nose brushing against the soft fabric of her underwear. He could smell her arousal. With trembling hands, he slid her panties aside, exposing her to the cool air of the room. He took a moment to gaze upon her, his eyes lingering on the petals of her sex, already glistening with anticipation. He felt a surge of love and admiration for this strong woman.

He began to kiss her inner thighs, his lips leaving a trail of fire as he moved higher and higher. He could feel her muscles tense beneath his touch, a silent plea for more. He complied, pressing his mouth against her, his tongue tracing delicate circles. Libby's breath hitched, her hands clutching the edge of the desk for support.

"Oh, George," she moaned, her head falling back. "That's it. Just like that."

Encouraged, George grew bolder, his tongue darting in and out of her, tasting her sweetness. He slid two fingers inside her, curling them just so, feeling her tighten around him. Her hips began to rock, her movements growing more urgent.

"Faster," she panted. "Harder."

George obeyed, his tongue flicking faster, his fingers moving deeper. He felt her entire body stiffen, and then she cried out, her orgasm crashing over her like a wave. Her legs buckled, and she leaned back against the desk, panting.

For a few moments, the only sound in the room was the harshness of her breathing.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Now go and kneel on our mat."

George looked up at her, his face flushed with the exertion. "Anytime, mistress," he replied, his voice hoarse. "I'm here for you."

This was their new normal. And as he watched her sit back down at her desk, her cheeks flushed with pleasure, he knew that he would do whatever it took to keep her satisfied. After all, it was his penance, his way of making things right. And if it brought them closer together, then it was a price he would pay gladly.

With each passing week, Libby’s command of the household, and George settled into something more assured and fluent. The rhythms of control became part of daily life, as unremarkable as brushing one’s teeth, as inevitable as dusk.

And with ease came precision. She no longer raised her voice. She didn’t need to. Expectations were clearly defined, and her tone was cool and sculpted like glass. But when George faltered—and falter he did—Libby corrected him with an almost impersonal elegance, like a clockmaker fixing a gear.

The punishments were never random. They were calibrated.

It was a Tuesday when George first hesitated. Libby had come home late from a seminar and dropped her coat onto the bench by the door. “Tea,” she said plainly, walking into the living room without looking back.

George was folding the laundry and allowed himself a few seconds too long to finish the last towel before obeying. He even mumbled something—something not quite audible but carrying the unmistakable undertone of reluctance.

Libby noticed. She always noticed.

Ten minutes later, when she was seated and sipping Earl Grey in silence, she looked up.

“You were slow,” she said.

“I was folding—”

“You were slow,” she repeated, cutting across his words like a scalpel. “And you muttered. Did you think I wouldn’t hear?”

George stood silent, the tea tray still trembling faintly in his hands.

Libby set her cup down.

“Fetch the clamps.”

He blanched. “Please—Libby—”

“Fetch them,” she said, calmly, without cruelty. “You will wear them for an hour. You may use the prayer mat if you wish, but you will sit cross-legged so I may see they are affixed properly.”

He obeyed, teeth clenched against the knowledge of what was coming. He hated the clamps. Pain wasn’t his fuel—it didn’t awaken him; it closed him off, turned his body into something distant and foreign. But that was the point. Libby knew it. Pain, for him, was not pleasure. It was discipline. It was a reminder.

He handed the clamps to her.

She applied them with gentle precision, which made it worse.

“One hour,” she said. “Do not remove them before then. And do not slouch.”

Another incident followed that Friday. He had contradicted her at breakfast. The topic had been trivial— about whether the blinds should be kept partially closed during the afternoon sun—but he had raised his voice a touch. He had interrupted her.

Libby had put down her spoon, looked at him levelly, and stood.

“Come,” she said.

“Where?”

“Bathroom.”

He followed her, dread crawling through him like ice.

She turned on the cold tap, full blast.

“Ten minutes,” she said.

“Libby, please—”

“You raised your voice to me. You corrected me at my house. You have to cool off. Take the shower. Now.”

He stepped under the stream, flinching as the cold crashed into him like shattered glass. She remained by the door, one hand on the frame, watching.

“I will stand here,” she said. “To ensure your penance is complete.”

He closed his eyes and shivered violently. His hands clawed around his chest for warmth, but none came.

“You need this,” she said, her voice calm over the hiss of water. “You need to stay on edge. Don’t you?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His teeth chattered.

“I asked you a question.”

“Yes,” he hissed. “Yes, mistress.”

“That’s better.”

When the timer went off, she handed him a towel without ceremony and turned, leaving him alone in the wet silence.

Later that evening, when he knelt beside her while she read, she glanced down at him and touched his head lightly.

“You do hate it, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” she said, smiling slightly. “If you loved it, it wouldn’t work. Now hush.”

George knelt still, the damp still lingering in his bones. He stared at the floorboards beneath the mat, his thoughts restless but ordered.

There was a kind of peace in being corrected.

There was safety in knowing his edges were guarded.

He hated it

And he needed it.

At night, when the house had gone still and the lamplight cast long, honey-colored shapes on the walls, George would lie on his prayer mat and stare at the ceiling. There was something reverent about the silence of the living room, like the hush of a church after the last visitor had gone. It was the only space he occupied now, both physically and in his thoughts. The guest room, once his refuge, had been taken from him—not in anger, but in quiet assertion, as though Libby had returned a piece of furniture to its rightful place.

The mat was thin and did little to soften the floor beneath him. Every night, his back ached. But it was the ache in his mind that gnawed deeper.

He would lie there, sometimes hours, restless, aroused, helpless, held in check by the hard plastic of the CB6000, its restraint a constant reminder that he was no longer the owner of his desires. The device was unforgiving, intimate in its authority. Even the small unconscious gestures—his hand moving toward his groin in the dark—were stopped short by its impassive shape. There was no negotiation. No secret indulgence. Just the click of boundaries enforced in moulded plastic.

He hated the punishments. The nipple clamps, the cold showers, the sudden commands to kneel, the exacting standards she imposed. He hated the way Libby’s gaze could reduce him to compliance with no more than a lift of her eyebrow.

But there was no escape.

He had made sure of that himself.

The memory returned more often now, usually in the quiet hours before sleep, like a guilt that refused to loosen its grip. A night out, a haze of drinks and blurred judgments, a call made out of arrogance, loneliness, or both. The woman had been professional and efficient. George had felt bold, reckless. He’d used the wrong credit card out of stupid carelessness.

Now, on the mat, months later, George traced that path with his thoughts like a prisoner pacing the same route in his cell.

He knew he was changing. That was the strangest part—not the rules, not the punishments, but the understanding that the person he had been was dissolving slowly. His thoughts were quieter. His instincts blunted. He no longer challenged, not even in his mind. The desire to rebel was still there, but distant, like a flare burning beneath a sheet of ice.

Arousal hummed constantly in his body like static, a low fever of denial and longing. Libby did not allow release. Even when he begged. Even when he offered tears in exchange.

“I don’t want your pleasure,” she had said one night, her voice soft but final. “I want your discipline.”

And so it was: the arousal that once made him feel powerful now made him docile. Needy. It weakened his will. He could see that.

He had become easier to control. He had become aware in a different way—aware, like prey is of the wind, of the crack of a branch in the underbrush.

And yet, beneath the shame, there was peace. Not happiness—nothing so bright. But a kind of gravity. He no longer had to invent himself every morning. His role was defined. His purpose was curated.

He no longer dreamed of freedom.

He dreamed of her voice, her touch, even her silences.

He dreamed of her approval.

And he feared, most of all, her indifference.

As the night deepened and the silence held him like a cold hand, George closed his eyes and let his thoughts soften at the edges.

He hated this life.

But he needed it.

And in some secret chamber of his mind, he knew:

He was becoming a slave not just in practice, but in spirit. He remembered the recent months and what punctuated them.

There were mornings when George awoke before the light had touched the curtains. The mat beneath him bore the imprint of his body, and the stiff muscles in his back reminded him, without ceremony, of where and what he was. He no longer wondered how it had come to this.

Instead, his first waking thought was always practical: Has Libby risen yet? Have I missed her footsteps?

He had become a listener. Listening was safer than speaking. His body now understood the cadence of her breath when she was displeased, the way her silence could thicken just before a reprimand. He was trained. He had trained himself under her eye.

Sometimes, in the blank hush before sunrise, George would recall moments of the old world when his voice was loud in meetings, when his jokes carried authority, when people deferred to his opinions with the kind of polite tension that surrounds status. He had once been someone who issued instructions. He had once had the key to every room.

Now he was told what to wear, what temperature to keep the house, and what to cook. Even the smallest liberties had been surrendered: the time he woke, how long he showered, whether he could leave the house. These had not been taken suddenly or through cruelty. No, Libby was precise. Each boundary was withdrawn with the same care that a doctor uses to suture a wound—deliberately, for healing. Or at least, that’s what she said.

“You lost your right to choose,” she told him once, seated calmly across from him while he knelt on the hardwood. “You used freedom to lie, to cheat, to humiliate me. So I am building a new kind of truth for you. One with structure. One with purpose.”

And structure, it turned out, was a powerful narcotic.

He had not expected that.

The house had changed, too. There were fewer soft surfaces now. The guest room had been locked with a new key—hers. The sofa no longer invited slouching. The dining table was polished to an unreasonable gloss. Everything breathed her sense of control.

One morning, George had made her eggs two minutes too early. She was still in the shower when he put the plate on the table.

“Did I ask for them yet?” Libby said, coming down the stairs wrapped in a towel, her hair still damp.

“No,” he said quickly. “I thought—”

“Do not think,” she said. “Wait.”

She didn’t raise her voice. She never needed to. Her stillness was the rebuke.

That night, Libby had him stand before her while she sat in the high-backed chair that now resembled a throne more than furniture. She had a book in her lap but didn’t open it.

“Tell me,” she said. “What are you?”

George swallowed. The words had become familiar, but still lodged in his throat like bone.

“I am your property,” he said softly.

“And do you believe it yet?”

He hesitated. Then, slower: “Yes.”

She looked up then, her eyes gleaming with almost maternal satisfaction.

Then she said. “Ownership isn’t about chains. It’s about knowing who you are without being told. One day, I won’t even have to ask.”

He nodded, his chest tight.

“And you still hate it?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” she said. “Love is noise. Obedience is truth.”

Alone again that night, George curled onto his mat and stared at the ceiling, as he always did.

He didn’t imagine escape. That had died even sooner.

Instead, he imagined her voice, giving him instructions. He imagined her disappointment—and worse, her silence. He imagined what it would be to be forgotten by her, to lose the gaze that bound him more than any lock or rule.

He hated this life. And yet…

There was a stillness in knowing who you were, finally, undeniably. The world had been loud and complicated. Now it was simple and honest.

And for the first time, lying on the prayer mat, George understood something that chilled him deeper than the winter air in the house:

He didn’t just serve Libby.

He needed to.

There was no alternative.

While George was musing, Libby went to her study, opened her laptop and wrote a letter to Dorothea. She was entitled to a report. She typed:

¨Dear Dorothea, I’ve delayed writing this far too long. Perhaps because I needed time not only to reflect but to grow into the truth of what I am now living. You asked me on WhatsApp lately, how I have managed—not simply to survive George’s betrayal, but to transform it into something else entirely. Something that now gives shape to my life. And I promised I would answer. This is me keeping that promise.

Let me begin not with what happened, but with what died.

When I saw that credit card charge, Dorothy, something inside me did not scream—it simply fell silent. There were no tears, only a door closing in my heart. What had bound me to George—marriage, trust, the gentle fictions we call intimacy—dissolved in that moment. And I did not try to bring it back. I didn’t know that yet, but I see it now.

You once told me: “Don’t try to resuscitate what has betrayed you. Transfigure it.” I did not understand the power of those words until they began to root themselves in me.

I could not see George as a husband anymore. The sight of him brought no warmth. Only a question: What will I do with this man now that I cannot love him as I once did?

I did not want George back—not as an equal, not as a partner. I wanted to own him. Not out of cruelty. Not even out of vengeance. But because the love had been transfigured into a new form: the desire to make him mine utterly, beyond question. To tether him not with affection, but with submission.

And so, I began to mould him.

It started with rules, of course. Kneeling, temperature, language, and things that shape behaviour. But almost immediately, I noticed something else: the more I imposed, the more present he became. Not like the husband I had lost, but like a being learning his shape through me. He listened in a way he never had. He watched me move with awe and anticipation. He responded to tone like a violin string tuned to its bow.

There is something almost sacred about that.

You told me once that the dynamic of ownership can be spiritual. That a woman who claims a man entirely becomes both priestess and sovereign. I did not believe it then. I thought I would feel shame. Or doubt.

But I feel neither.

I feel clarity.

George now lives to serve. His arousal, his stillness, his discomfort, even his longing—they are mine. And through that surrender, he has come closer to me than he ever was in bed, or during any of the soft, domestic illusions we once called love.

He sleeps on a mat I gave him. He eats on my schedule. Remains naked unless I say otherwise. When he fails, I discipline him, not to hurt, but to remind. To sharpen his awareness. To remind him of who he belongs to

Does that make me cruel? Or simply honest?

I no longer ask.

You must understand, Dorothea—I do not hate him. I don’t even despise him. That would still imply passion. I’ve redirected what could never be rebuilt. I have made something new. Something stronger than romance, more enduring than trust.

Possession is not violence when it is precise. It is the expression of complete control—and yes, devotion, for I care for him. Deeply, but in a way more suited to what he has become.

He is not my husband.

He is my prize.

And in that shift, I have not lost a man. I have gained a life shaped by my design, disciplined by my will. This is not a substitute for marriage. It is something altogether different. Richer. More demanding. True. Not everyone will understand. But you do.

So thank you, Dorothea. For the questions you asked. For the freedom you offered. For helping me see that control is not something taken—but something that can be grown, with care, with clarity, and with a quiet kind of love that does not need permission.

I hope to see you soon. I would like to show you what I’ve made of this life. And perhaps—one day—let George kneel before you too. As a symbol. Of what we, as women, can shape from the ruins.

With affection and iron,

Libby¨

Libby sat at the kitchen table, the letter resting under her fingertips like a delicate decision yet to be sent. She reread it slowly, not because she doubted her choice, but because each line felt like a stepping stone toward something new. Something irreversible. She folded the paper, slid it into the envelope, and stared out the window.

Yes, she thought. It's time.

George was hers now, entirely, in every sense she deemed appropriate. She wanted to mark that. Permanently. Irrevocably.

That night, she said nothing of her decision. George served her dinner silently, his posture deferential, his eyes lowered. She let her gaze rest on him longer than usual, imagining the curve of steel around his neck, how it would catch the light, how it would remind them both of what they had chosen.

She woke before him. The air was still cool, the shadows soft along the floorboards. She looked down at him, still sleeping on his rug, his bare shoulders rising and falling.

"George," she said, her voice low.

He stirred, then sat up quickly, alert at once. "Yes, mistress?"

"Kneel."

He obeyed without hesitation, bowing his head. She reached for the tape measure she had placed on the table the night before. Carefully, she placed it around his neck.

She measured twice. His skin was warm beneath her fingers, and she felt the faintest tremble run through him. It pleased her. Then she measured the distance between his neck and his crotch.

Later that morning, Libby walked into the old smithy at the edge of town. The blacksmith looked up from his workbench, eyebrows lifting at the sight of her.

"I need something made," she said without preamble. "A collar. Steel. It should hinge at the back, but not close with a lock. I want it secured with a screw and nut. A small wrench, perhaps, to open it. And it needs a ring at the front. For a chain."

The blacksmith blinked once, then nodded slowly. He was too professional or too used to odd requests to ask questions. He reached for his notebook.

Libby left him with precise measurements and her phone number. He promised to have it ready in a week.

As she stepped out into the sunlight, she felt lighter. The air smelled different, sharper. Her thoughts wandered back to George—how he had knelt without question, how he had closed his eyes when she touched him.

He was still George, technically. But she frowned at that name now. It sounded... misplaced. The collar would transform him, but the name must follow. Something plainer, less personal. More fitting for someone whose purpose was no longer self-defined.

She would decide soon. But first, the collar. First, the ritual.

She imagined the moment of fastening it, the small click of metal tightening, the turn of the wrench.

Standing in the morning light outside the smithy, Libby didn’t hesitate. She took out her phone and dialled the number she'd found after a few well-placed inquiries. A woman answered, her voice low and professional, with a faint edge of mischief.

“Studio Adastra.”

“I need a home visit,” Libby said. “Private setting. One recipient. Male. Intimate placement. Tomorrow, if possible.”

There was a brief silence on the other end, then a slight chuckle. “We have an opening at eleven. May I ask what kind of piercing?”

“Prince Albert.”

The voice did not waver. “Understood. We’ll bring a sterile kit, gloves, clamp, receiving tube, curved barbell, and lidocaine if needed. Cash or card?”

“Card,” Libby said. “You’ll be expected.”

The next morning, the apartment smelled faintly of roasted coffee and paper—Libby was reviewing a student’s thesis, but her mind strayed often. George moved silently around her, respectful not to interrupt.

At precisely eleven, the doorbell rang. George put on his wrap skirt and answered it. He saw a woman in a black utility jacket, carrying a sleek silver case in one hand. Her cropped hair was dyed silver at the tips, her gaze direct but not unkind.

“You must be the object,” she said.

“Yes,” George replied, lowering his eyes.

“This way,” he murmured, leading her to Libby, who looked up and smiled.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “He’s ready.” She set aside the thesis.

The piercer nodded. “I’ll set up here, if that’s all right. Light’s good.”

Libby turned to George.

“You get a gift today,” she said. A Prince Albert. Remove that wrap skirt of yours”

Out of her purse, the piercer retrieved a small brass key and knelt. With slow care, she opened the lock on the clear CB6000. It clicked softly. George exhaled through his nose, barely audible. She removed the chastity cage and placed it on the table.

The piercer raised an eyebrow as she examined George’s freed anatomy.

“Beautiful anatomy for this,” she said with a small nod. “Nice symmetry. He’ll carry the ring well.”

She pulled on gloves and opened her case. The tools gleamed: antiseptic, gauze, clamps, a receiving tube, a curved barbell.

George was instructed to sit on the edge of the recliner, legs parted.

“I’ll clean first,” she said, her tone steady. “Then mark the entry point—just under the gland. The exit is through the urethra. You’ll feel pressure and a sharp sting. Bleeding is normal.”

She dabbed him with a cold antiseptic wipe. George’s breath hitched slightly.

“Try to breathe evenly,” she said, almost soothing now.

The clamp went on next, pinching the frenulum to hold it taut. He grimaced but stayed still.

“Good,” she said. “Now the receiving tube is inside the urethra.”

This part brought a sharp intake of breath. His fingers clenched the sides of the chair.

“You’re doing fine. Don’t move now.”

Then came the needle. It gleamed in the sunlight for a second—and then pushed through. A sharp, hot line of pain flashed through George’s body. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

The piercer worked quickly. The barbell followed the needle, guided carefully through the new tunnel of flesh. She screwed on the one captive ball and wiped away the blood.

“There,” she said. “Done.”

Libby stepped closer. She looked at the glinting steel peeking from the underside of his glands and nodded, satisfied.

George blinked. His face was pale, shining slightly with sweat, but his eyes were steady.

The piercer removed her gloves.

“It should heal in four to six weeks,” she said. Rinse with warm saline twice daily. Avoid tight clothing. No sexual activity for at least three weeks, though I assume—” she glanced at Libby with a knowing smile, “—you’ll manage that just fine.”

Libby tapped her card against the terminal. A soft beep confirmed the payment.

“Thank you,” she said. “We’ll take good care of it.”

“I’m sure you will,” the piercer replied. ¨And it can be worn with the CB6000¨. She gave George one last look—half clinical, half approving—then packed up her tools and let herself out.

Libby picked up the chastity cage and held it in her palm thoughtfully, then looked down at George.

“Now,” she said, “you’re starting to understand for real what you are.”

Libby was prudent with him. The piercing, fresh and tender was tended to with clinical care and calm command. Twice a day, he knelt while she rinsed the wound with saline, dabbing it gently dry, inspecting the site for signs of swelling or irritation. The chastity cage remained on the nightstand, gleaming and patient.

It was replaced carefully, four weeks after the piercing. He made no sound when she locked it back in place. His eyes closed, and he breathed out through his nose. He understood what it meant: he was once again entirely hers.

For Libby, satisfaction came not only from control but from observation. From discipline. From precision.

Every fortnight, she still held the weighing ceremony. George would step onto the digital scale, hands behind his back, while Libby noted the numbers on her notepad.

Each time, he was lighter.

“You’re nearly there,” she said one morning, tapping her pen. “One kilo to go.”

He bowed his head.

“Present your sorry ass to me.”

He did so, without hesitation, gripping the side of the couch as he bent forward. Libby retrieved the cane from the tall ceramic vase by the door. It whistled softly through the air and landed across his skin with a sharp crack. He hissed between his teeth.

Five strokes. Just enough. No more.

Two weeks later, the piercing had healed entirely. The flesh was smooth and strong, the barbell seated cleanly. The wound was now a ring of commitment—metal and skin, sealed by pain and will.

That morning, Libby stood behind George as he stepped once more onto the scale.

A pause. Then a soft chime.

She leaned forward and looked at the display.

“Perfect,” she said. “Body mass index: optimal.”

No more caning.

She let her eyes travel over him. She took in the strength of his frame: the defined line of his back, the curve of his shoulders, the sculpted flatness of his belly. He was tall, strong, and lean. His chest had taken shape with daily physical tasks, his arms firm, legs like columns. His regular face was accentuated by the blonde hair on his head, which covered his ears.

She stepped around him and stood before him.

“Erect,” she said.

He straightened his spine, hands at his sides, eyes front.

She circled him slowly.

“You’re beautiful,” she murmured. “You’ve become what I wanted. No more haircuts for you. The blonde suits you. But of course, your chin and everything else will stay clean. Smooth.”

A pause. A smile.

“I like my property bare.”

She stepped close, took his chin in her hand, turned his face this way and that. Then she let go and stepped back.

“This is your final form,” she said.

George felt excitement and trepidation as he stood before Libby in his most vulnerable state. The cool air of the room kissed his bare skin, causing his penis to twitch slightly as he awaited her command. His eyes remained fixated on hers, which gleamed with a mischievous delight that sent shivers down his spine.

With a graceful flick of her wrist, Libby ordered him to bring a plate from the kitchen. He hurried to obey, his bare feet padding softly against the cold tiles as he navigated the familiar space. His heart raced with anticipation as he grabbed a ceramic plate and rushed back to her.

When he returned, panting slightly, she took the plate from him and placed it on the floor. Then, smiling seductively, she reached into her purse and pulled out the small, metallic key to his CB6000. The coolness of the metal was stark against the warmth of her hand as she approached him. George felt his breath hitch in his throat as she deftly unlocked the device, freeing his member.

Now," she said in a voice that was both gentle and firm, "you may masturbate onto the plate."

With trembling hands, George reached down and wrapped his fingers around his shaft. The feeling of skin touching skin was almost too much to bear after the seemingly endless confinement. He began to stroke himself slowly, savouring every sensation as it rippled through his body. His eyes never left hers, and he could see the way her pupils dilated as she watched him pleasure himself.

The cool metal of his Prince Albert piercing ring glinted under the dim light of the room, adding a tantalizing edge to George's already erotic self-exploration. As he stroked his length, the ring would occasionally catch the soft flesh of his thumb, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure up his shaft. . Each movement caused the piercing to slide and tug at his delicate member, enhancing the sensations and making him gasp.

He built up a rhythm, his hand moving faster and faster as he approached the precipice of his climax. His breath grew ragged, and his hips began to thrust in time with his strokes. The tension grew unbearable, coiling in his abdomen until it felt as if he would explode.

With a guttural moan, George released his pent-up passion onto the plate. The first rope of cum shot out with surprising force, and he watched in awe as the rest followed, painting the ceramic surface with his essence. The feeling was intense, overwhelming, and utterly liberating. His body trembled with the aftershocks of his orgasm, and he felt as though he could collapse to the floor at any moment.

But Libby wasn't finished with him yet. She pointed to the plate. "Lick it clean," she ordered.

George looked at her, his eyes wide with shock. He took the plate in his shaking hands and brought it to his mouth. The taste was salty and musky, a stark reminder of his submission. He lapped at the cum, eager to clean the plate as thoroughly as possible to avoid her displeasure.

As he worked, Libby stepped back, her eyes scanning the floor. She noticed a solitary drop of his semen that had escaped the plate and landed just next to it. "Lick that too," she said, pointing to the offending spot.

George obeyed without question, extending his tongue to catch the rogue drop. It was a humiliating act, but he felt a sense of pride in pleasing her. He had done as she asked, and she seemed satisfied.

But Libby's eyes narrowed as she took in the sight before her. "You've earned your reward," she said, her voice taking on a steely edge. "But you must be disciplined for your carelessness."

She gestured to the cane resting against the wall. George had hoped for a gentle touch, a sign of her approval, but instead, she had chosen to assert her authority. He knew better than to protest, so he quietly took the cane from its place.

"Five strokes," she announced. "Do not scream or flinch."

He bent over the arm of the chair, his buttocks exposed and vulnerable. Libby took a step back, measuring the distance with practised ease. She raised the cane and brought it down with a swift, sharp motion. The pain was intense. He gritted his teeth, determined not to make a sound.

One, two, three, four. The strokes fell one by one, each more painful than the last. George's body quivered with the effort to remain still, his knuckles white from gripping the chair so tightly. But he did not scream, he did not flinch.

“I love you, Mistress,” George gasped.

The words seemed to hang in the air for a moment too long.

Libby’s eyes narrowed, her mouth drew into a hard line. She tilted her head slowly, like a judge about to pronounce a sentence.

“You what?” she said, softly. The softness was colder than a scream. “You love me?”

George blinked, the last remnants of bliss evaporating from his face.

“How dare you?”

He opened his mouth to protest, to explain—but she took one step toward the drawer, and his breath caught.

“You—” she hissed, “—are a philanderer. You went to whores. You lied to me. And now, now that I’ve reshaped you, purified you, now you dare to say that you love me?”

“Libby, I—”

She held up the cane.

“Silence. You are not my husband anymore. You passed that station. You are something else now. Useful, yes. Divorced? No. But husband?” She laughed, low and bitter. “That’s not what you are.”

She stood tall, command burning in her voice.

“Kneel and remove your wedding ring.”

George hesitated. Then he knelt and, slowly, as if the band weighed a thousand grams, he slid it off his finger. He dropped to his knees.

“Present it.”

He held it up, like an offering at an altar.

Libby plucked it from his hand without a glance. Then she twisted that of hers from her finger. She looked at both rings for a moment, then walked to the kitchen bin.

“These are for the dustbin,” she said flatly, and let them drop. A soft metallic clink echoed from the trash.

She returned with something wrapped in velvet: the collar.

It gleamed in her hands—cool steel, smooth and final.

“I own you,” she said. “I need you. I may even care for what you’ve become. But I will never again live with you as a wife lives with her husband. That man is gone. You are my property, my slave.”

George remained kneeling, lips parted, but silent. The weight of her words was heavier than chains.

Libby leaned down, brushing his neck with one hand. Her fingers were gentle as she closed the collar around his throat. She returned to the drawer, retrieved a screw, a nut, a tube of Loctite, and a small screwdriver. She brought them back, knelt, and began the slow, deliberate act of sealing him in.

The screw slid in place. The nut turned. She tightened it carefully—firm, precise. A small drop of Loctite seeped in and hardened with air. Final.

“No one will ever unscrew you,” she whispered. “You’ll go into your coffin with that collar around your neck.”

She rose and returned to the drawer once more. This time, she took out the last piece: a thin aluminium chain, soft and cold in her hand. Made to George´s measure.

She walked to him, unwrapped the coil, and passed it carefully through the small ring of his Prince Albert. George shivered as the cool metal touched him. She guided the two ends upward and connected them to the ring on his collar with a triangular emergency link.

The pull was gentle but effective. His member lifted, obedient now not just in function, but in form. His testicles hung clear, unshrouded.

Libby stepped back.

“It looks very nice on you,” she said. “Fitting. Ornamental. Functional.”

She looked at his face, then shook her head.

“George… no. That name is not yours anymore. You’ve been reborn.”

She paused. The name came easily.

“Adonis. That’s what you are now. My slave Adonis.”

She pointed to the vacuum leaning in the hallway.

“Now go. Clean the house. I want every room spotless by lunch.”

Adonis stood, his chain rising with him, his collar gleaming, his Prince Albert piercing ring shining. He bowed and turned to obey.

As Adonis opened the cupboard where the vacuum cleaner was, a feeling of happiness suddenly came over him: This was right. This was meant to be. Libby guided him to his deepest self. He took a deep breath and the aluminum chain pulled his penis upwards. Like his penis from now on everything would go upwards again . All thanks to Mistress Libby's intervention.