Following Hannah's visit on the Saturday, I slept fitfully that night but still awoke the next morning with a strong erection. It wasn't long before I spilt my seed into my hands, as I excitedly remembered the way she had humiliated me the day before.

But, as I came down from my climax, sanity began to return. Being dominated by her had been mind-blowing, yet, deep down, I knew that being submissive towards Hannah wasn't right. After all, she was only nineteen years old. With the age difference, she couldn't be sexually attracted to me. She was just toying with me for her own amusement—and to provide material for her incredulous dream of writing a dissertation on male submissive tendencies!

How could I have been so stupid to confirm her suspicions that I was wearing panties? How could I have been foolish enough to allow her to give me a ruined orgasm? And how could I have been so crazy to clean my own house while she lazed around doing nothing?

I must have been temporarily deranged, so, as I lay in bed, my penis now limp, I took a firm and sensible decision! I reached for my phone and sent her a text: Hannah, sorry, but your cleaning services are no longer needed. Good luck in future. Mr Benson.

It took her only seconds to reply: We'll talk on Saturday, Mr Benson.

No! I don't need a cleaner any longer. You don't need to come here.

See you Saturday, Mr Benson.

Was she so thick she couldn't see I'd finished with her?

oooOOooo

I spent the week fretting. There were times when I became aroused recalling how she had humiliated me, but a quick wank brought me back down to earth. Reason told me that I was right to terminate her position, so I resolved to have it out with her on Saturday.

That day came, and, at 9 AM, there was her familiar double ring of the doorbell. I took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Hannah, I've told you, I don't need you any—”

She brushed past me, her firm breasts rubbing across my back. “Morning, Mr Benson,” she chirpily greeted me, with a smile. “Hope you're wearing panties!”

“Listen—”

She strode purposefully into my lounge, plonking herself down in my favourite armchair. With her, she had her handbag and a laptop. I could see I was going to have my work cut out for me explaining I was ending her employment.

I found myself standing in front of her, looking down. She was dressed as she always was—blue jeans with a short white T-shirt, through which I could easily make out the outline of her bra. I felt my penis give a twitch and then begin to tumesce. She'd barely been in the house two minutes, and already I seemed to be subordinate to her.

Get a grip, I told myself—you need to put your foot down and end this fantasy.

I took a deep breath, working out how to express myself, but before I could say anything, she spoke. “I knew this would happen, Mr Benson. My prof told me it would and—”

“What?!! You've been talking about me to your professor?!”

“Don't worry, because I obviously didn't mention your name. But she—”

“She?!”

“Yes, Professor Sheila Williams. She holds the chair of sexual deviancy—”

“Chair?!”

She chortled, “You think I mean a queening chair, don't you?”

“No! Obviously, I don't, you stupid girl! But what university has a professor of sexual deviancy?”

“Mine does! I've just told you. Do try to keep up, Mr Benson!”

I shook my head in bewilderment.

“Professor Wilson found it fascinating that I'd chosen male submissive tendencies for my dissertation. She said—”

“Hang on a minute, she's actually agreed to that ridiculous topic for a—”

“When did you last masturbate?” she asked, changing the subject.

“What?!”

“Please stop interrupting! It's annoying!” She shook her head in exasperation before patiently continuing, “On the sexual deviancy module, Professor Williams told us that men who masturbate excessively suffer a drop in their submissiveness. But deep down they're still submissive. The desire to submit to a woman never goes completely away.”

“I'm... I'm... not submissive!”

She giggled, “You were last Saturday, Mr Benson! Very submissive. Drop your trousers!”

“No!”

“Oh, Mr Benson! We don't have to go through all that palaver again, do we? I'll show you mine, if you show me yours... blah, blah, blah. Let's cut to the chase, and you drop your trousers.”

I defied her while aware that my erection was growing.

“Is that a tent forming, Mr Benson?” she asked, peering down at my crotch.

“No!” I lied.

“Hmm? That's a clever impression of a tent pole. A nice party trick to entertain guests!” she smiled while holding me in her gaze. “You know you want to submit to me, so please get on with it. Take your trousers off! It's harmless fun.”

“Er... no... sorry, I won't. I've told you that I don't need you to come around anymore. You're... you're fired! Sacked!” I replied as fiercely as I could, but I sensed she was close to breaking me.

“Sheila—that's Professor Williams to you—said it's common for submissive men to see a decline in their submissiveness when they're not in contact with their mistresses—and doubly so when they masturbate without approval. Did she have you in mind, Mr Benson?”

“Er...” She was spot on, but I couldn't bring myself to admit the truth.

“If you're a good submissive,” she continued, “there'll be rewards, I promise.” She paused while I processed what she was saying. “Look at my chest, Mr Benson. Go on, you have my permission to stare. I know you never miss a chance to gawp at my boobs when you think my gaze is elsewhere.”

Red-faced, I lowered my eyes to take in her pert breasts, encased as they were in a white bra visible through her T-shirt. Then, without warning, she whipped up her shirt only, an instant later, to pull it down again.

For a fraction of a second—it can't have been any longer—she gave me a glimpse of her bra. The image was almost subliminal, yet it burnt itself into my brain.

“See!” she asserted. “Even though you're being badly behaved, I've given you a reward. Just imagine what you might get if you follow my instructions.”

Last week it had been a glance of her panties and this week a peek at her bra. God, she knew my weaknesses! I took another deep breath and lowered my trousers, my erection now rock hard.

But her expression of victory quickly turned sour. “Oh! Mr Benson! What on earth are you wearing?”

I had on a pair of boxers, an act of defiance I was now regretting.

“This is so disappointing, and I'm sure, deep down, you don't want to disappoint me!”

My erection was throbbing—my submissiveness had returned in bucket loads.

“In your undies drawer, there's a pair of silk tanga briefs in a gorgeous tangerine colour. Go and put them on! Chop, chop!”

Once again, I was under her spell. I did what she ordered and was soon back in my lounge, my stiff phallus grotesquely protruding over the top of my brightly coloured panties.

“Good man, Mr Benson,” she remarked, with a nod of her head. “Take everything else off, so you're just wearing your panties. Then kneel in front of me, hands on head.”

I did so, feeling a mixture of humiliation and intense sexual desire.

She stared at me. “We don't want to go through this nonsense every Saturday, do we, Mr Benson?”

I swallowed, despite my mouth being so dry, there was nothing to swallow.

“Luckily, Sheila has a remedy, which she says never fails in maintaining male submissiveness. She's lent me this from her collection. Look!”

She opened her handbag and pulled out a small, shiny, tubular steel object. I recognised what it was straight away, as she could tell from my facial reaction.

“Yes, Mr Benson, it's a chastity cage. Don't worry! It's been sterilised...”

“What?! She's lent you that?”

“Yes! I told her I have a friend who's keen to explore his submissive side to help with my research. I wasn't wrong, was I?”

“Er...”

“If you wear this, it'll mean you can't wank, and your submissive tendencies won't bob up and down like a yo-yo. What do you say?”

I was breathing heavily, and I felt my blood pressure must have been sky high. “Is... is this a game we're playing... Miss?”

“Good grief, no, it's not a game! Sheila has told me that if I'm to explore the psychology of male submissiveness, it has to be done for real. It's pointless playing games.”

“Er... well—”

“But we can still have fun, Mr Benson, while you help me with the research. Being denied sex will turn you on like you've never been turned on before—at least, that's what Sheila told me. Lack of sex will drive you up the wall, but you will love serving me and pleasing me—and pleasuring me!”

“Er... I see...” I mumbled in disbelief. Did she really mean that?

“Have you ever worn a cage?” I shook my head. “Never mind, I'm sure you'll soon get used to it.”

“I suppose I could—”

“Just think of the rewards you'll get if you're obedient, Mr Benson... can you picture pleasuring me... with your lips? With your tongue? Hmm?”

She had broken me. “Yes! Please lock it on me,” I blurted out, without thinking through the full consequences.

oooOOooo

Ten minutes later, with the help of a bag of frozen peas, my dick was imprisoned in a chastity device. And, my goodness, it was a small one. Hannah had been briefed by Professor Williams that this model was an expensive one, fully adjustable for any size of organ. Unkindly, I thought, Hannah decided that I was best suited to a smaller fit.

I was now standing in front of her, hands on my head, and she had insisted I pull up my tanga briefs.

“I like that,” she concluded, after staring at my panties for a while. “Sheila said that this cage had been designed with a smooth outline, so it was nearly invisible beneath clothing. You look very feminine, Mr Benson. That could be a mound of Venus I'm looking at.” Surely not, I thought.

Dressed in nothing but my expensive and unmistakably female underwear, I felt very exposed and very vulnerable. Yet, as the coldness wore off from my penis, so it began to reawaken, causing me to wince. The delight on her face was a pleasure to behold. “You'll soon get used to it,” she assured me, from the basis of zero personal knowledge.

I watched as she slipped the key onto the gold chain around her neck. “How... how long do I need to wear it?” I asked, suspecting I knew the answer. “I think you're meant to start for just a few hours at a time, slowly building up to longer periods... Miss.”

“Really? Sheila didn't mention that. Acclimatisation would take us ages, Mr Benson, and I've got a dissertation to write, with a tight deadline. We have to go 24/7 from the start!” We? She meant me!

Defeated, I nodded, wondering how I would cope, especially with morning wood.

“Now, you've got a lot of cleaning to do, Mr Benson, so you best make a start. And if you do a good job, you'll get a special treat. Off you go. Oh—be a sweetie and make me a coffee before you start. Black with no sugar.”

oooOOooo

The next few hours were spent with me cleaning the apartment from top to bottom, while Hannah lounged in my chair typing into her laptop. I wanted the treat she referred to, so I went to extraordinary lengths to ensure that my house was cleaner than it had ever been. Certainly cleaner than Hannah had ever achieved!

A couple of times, she called me to make more coffee for her and, understandably, as I was cleaning the bathroom she came in, saying she needed to pee.

I went to leave, but she remarked, “No, just turn and face the wall.” I did just that, causing her to add, “Cute bum! I wish I could afford knickers like those.”

As I stood there, I listened to the tinkling sound, knowing that her naked pussy was just feet away from me. My penis was throbbing, and I wanted nothing more than to turn around to see, but I had no wish to fall into a trap.

After an eternity, she stopped urinating, and I heard her tear off some toilet paper to dab herself dry. Then I detected she was standing up and pulling up her underwear and jeans. “You can turn around now, Mr Benson. I'll leave you to flush and then you need to reclean the bowl. It needs to be clean enough so you could eat your dinner off it!”

I stared at her open-mouthed. “I'm only joking!” she retorted, with a wide smile. “You're so gullible!” But was she joking? I couldn't be sure.

oooOOooo

I finished the cleaning and reported back to her. “Good man,” she exclaimed, weirdly making me feel proud that I had cleaned my own house.

Leaving me nervously standing there, she went off on an inspection of the house, checking that everything had been done to her satisfaction. It was with much relief when she returned, smiling, saying she was pleased with me.

“Good man,” she said yet again, adding, “You've earnt your reward, Mr Benson. Are you any good with your mouth?”

My penis gave an agonizing jerk. “Er... I've... I've done it, yes, with my ex-wife.”

“Well, that's promising,” she smiled. “Unless that's the reason she's the ex-Mrs Benson!” she snorted, pleased with her quip. “You'll need to be blindfolded as submissive men don't usually get to see their mistresses' private bits. And I don't want you pawing me with your hands, either. Understood?”

I nodded, and she went into my bedroom, returning with something to wrap around my head to obscure my vision. “On your knees, Mr Benson,” she commanded.

For the second time in the space of an hour, I heard her unzip her jeans and pull them down, along with her panties. She then sat back down in my armchair, inviting me to come forward.

“I'm wet already, Mr Benson, so you shouldn't have too much work to do. Off you go.”

I didn't need telling twice, and it required little effort on my part to detect her pussy, a combination of her own scent and some applied perfume guiding me in. As I homed in, so I felt the soft hair of her bush brushing against my forehead, and her sweet secretions tantalising my taste buds.

When she described herself as wet, she was not exaggerating. It sank in, perhaps for the first time, that humiliating me and controlling me was a massive turn-on for her. This was about much more than me providing her with material for her damn dissertation.

My lips encircled hers, fondling and sucking them, while my tongue occasionally flitted past her engorged and throbbing clit. She reacted with jerks and sharp intakes of breath. I continued working away, exploring her geography, exciting her further. My penis, by now, was causing me excruciating pain in its efforts to escape its impregnable cage, but I was determined to please her.

Her responses were becoming more intense, and she grabbed me by the hair, grinding my face into her vulva. Then, almost without warning, her body began thrashing about. It was as if I was riding a bucking bronco as she bounced up and down in my chair, her hands firmly gripping my head to keep me in intimate contact. More juices squirted from her, and I readily consumed them.

Then, as suddenly as it began, her orgasm was over, and she collapsed like a limp doll into the chair, still holding me tightly. She could barely breathe, let alone talk, but eventually she recovered enough to gasp, “Good... man...”

A couple more minutes passed before she let go of me. She stood up and got redressed before removing my blindfold.

“Would... would Sheila—I mean Professor Williams—approve, Miss?” I ventured to ask.

She gave me one of her wry smiles. “Cheeky man! Mind your manners.”

I smiled back at her. “Would you like a coffee, Miss?”

She nodded, adding, “You can have one as well, Mr Benson.”

oooOOooo

We spent a quarter of an hour drinking coffee, she sitting in my favourite armchair and I kneeling on the floor. She was keen to learn what I had made of the day. Had doing the cleaning, dressed just in my tangerine panties, been humiliating? I agreed it had been, but it had also been arousing, and I had been continually aware of dull thudding inside my cage.

Was it the menial work or the minimal attire that aroused me more, she inquired. I explained it was both, and that one had synergised the other.

And how about me performing cunnilingus, she wondered. I told her I was amazed she'd allowed it, but she responded by reminding me that Professor Williams was a strong advocate of the carrot and stick approach. “You've still to experience the stick,” she reminded me, with a grin. “Are you a masochist? Someone who gains pleasure from pain?”

“No! I'm definitely not,” I hastened to say. “I hate pain!”

“Good!” she exclaimed. “Sheila has said that it's much easier to train non-masochists to be obedient because they fear punishment. And I will punish you, if I need to, Mr Benson. Don't you doubt my resolve.”

I didn't—not for a moment. I nodded nervously, wondering what sorts of punishment she had in mind, but not daring to ask. She read my mind. “You'll find out soon enough, Mr Benson. No one is perfect, and I will make no allowances for human imperfection.”

I clenched my lips and gulped.

I made us each a second cup of coffee and returned from the kitchen to see her hammering away on her laptop, making notes of our conversation.

Taking the coffee mug from me, she stared at me for a moment, seemingly summoning up courage to say something. “Mr Benson?” she asked, with unusual timidity, “I know this is a big ask, but would you mind still paying me? I can't afford not to have a Saturday job.”

If it meant continuing to serve her, then it was a no-brainer. I quickly confirmed I would still pay her, bringing a broad smile to her face. “You won't regret it! We're going to have fun.”

She took a sip of coffee before saying, “I'll be back next Saturday, Mr Benson. I'm sure you'll survive locked up until then.”

I wasn't so sure, but what could I say? In place of words, I put on a poignant expression, seeking sympathy. “If you've been good during the week, you will get released on Saturday,” she assured me. “But,” she continued, “I expect total obedience until then.”

It wasn't clear to me what she expected me to do during the week to show obedience, but I was jumping the gun. She intended to explain. “For a start, you wear panties every day, even to the office. Understood?” I swallowed hard. This was something new for me. “I might WhatsApp you, asking for proof, and I expect you to return a photo within five minutes. Whatever you're doing, you stop doing it, you find a private spot, and you take a photo to prove you're pantied.”

I nodded in agreement, my brain trying to figure out the practicalities of what she was demanding. “And every evening at 7 PM, starting tonight, you will FaceTime me and then spend twenty minutes standing in the corner, over there,” she added, pointing to the other side of the room. “You will stand there motionless, dressed just in your panties. Consider it to be an act of devotion. You are worshipping your mistress in total silence, with nothing to disturb your thoughts.”

“And... and you'll be watching me?” I asked, thinking how boring this could be for us both.

She returned another sly smile. “I might be watching... or I might not be... You won't know, but if I catch you fidgeting then... well... that would count as disobedience. Understood?”

“Understood,” I muttered.

“Total obedience is called for.” My stomach sank with what was clearly a threat.

“And every morning and evening I want you to send me a brief summary of how you are. How you are coping? How you are feeling? I want total honesty. I don't care if, by Friday, you want to murder me, because it's your honest feedback I need for my dissertation.”

I nodded my agreement. “Good man,” she concluded. “I'm going home now. Don't forget—at 7 PM tonight, you FaceTime me and then do corner time for twenty minutes.”

She drained her coffee, gave me a peck on the cheek and then a final reminder. “Remember, Mr Benson, this is not a game. Mess me around, and you will be punished... To be frank, I'm looking forward to doing that.”

I watched her sashaying out of the lounge, her adorable bum swaying sensually. My penis gave another painful twitch.