It was Saturday afternoon, and I was now alone in my house, Hannah having left. The buoyed up feeling I'd had in her presence had dissipated, and I knew that it would be a week before I saw her next—and therefore a week before I would be unlocked. How would I, someone addicted to self-pleasuring, cope for a week? I had absolutely no idea!

But I did know she would be keeping tabs on me. For a start, she was now expecting me to wear panties every day, which meant wearing them to work and not just in the house. No big deal, you might think, but she was also going to WhatsApp me, demanding photographic proof that I was following orders.

Furthermore, for twenty minutes every evening, I was required to stand in the corner of my lounge, just in my panties, while filming myself on FaceTime. It was a time for devotion, she'd explained—a time to be thinking of her and nothing else.

oooOOooo

The week passed by slowly, with my sexual frustration growing by the hour. Three times she sent me messages demanding that I provide evidence that I was wearing my panties and not boxers. The first time, I was at my desk in the office, and it was simply a case of walking to the toilets and locking myself into a cubicle to take a picture.

The second time, I was giving a presentation to visitors. I heard a buzz from my smart watch and, glancing at it, I saw a message from Hannah: Picture time, Mr Benson!

Embarrassingly, I had to excuse myself, saying my stomach was upset. I could see my boss, Mrs Wilson, was none too pleased, but she had to assume it was a genuine emergency, so, with a roll of her eyes, she remarked, “Off you go, John! Make it quick.”

I did make it quick—quick in terms of dropping my trousers and taking a photo of my panties.

The third time was the most difficult. I was in a traffic jam at the time, on my way to visit another company, when the same message flashed up on my watch. There was no way I could obey her command there and then. I had to wait for the traffic to crawl along until I could turn off into a deserted side street. There, I unbuttoned my flies and photographed my underwear through the opening.

By the time the image was sent, fifteen minutes had passed—Hannah's deadline of five minutes had been missed by ten. I soon received a cryptic reply from her: Naughty man!

Did that mean I was going to be punished by her? She had already explained that she intended to follow a carrot and stick approach, with zero tolerance when it came to the stick part.

oooOOooo

As she expected, each morning and evening I sent her a short message giving honest feedback about my feelings. She had told me that nothing was off the record, so I didn't mince my words. I explained that I was struggling to cope wearing a cage. Getting a decent night's sleep was impossible, and, repeatedly, I would be woken up in intense pain from nocturnal erections... or, rather, from attempts at such a feat.

And daytime was little better. Just wearing panties—their delicate construction, their tight fit, their ultrasoft fabric—was enough to keep me in a state of semi-arousal, my penis pushing relentlessly against its steel tube, a continuous dribble of precum wetting my underwear.

Doing corner time each evening, being expected to think about her and not knowing whether she was watching me, exacerbated the problem, and my panties would become saturated with my juices.

She had jokingly remarked that by Friday, I might want to murder her. She was not wrong, except I had reached that point by Wednesday. I was praying that on Saturday, she would release me.

oooOOooo

When the day came, I was awake early, counting the minutes until 9 AM when she should arrive.

But nine o'clock came and went. She was late! Was she coming? I was sweating, and my relief was palpable when, at fifteen minutes past the hour, she gave her usual double press of the doorbell.

I opened the front door in record time. “God, I didn't think you were coming!” I blurted out.

“What?! And miss the fun? No way, Mr Benson,” she grinned.

She was dressed as she always was: white T-shirt and tight blue jeans. As I expected, through the shirt I could make out the outline of her bra.

She swiftly brushed past me, coming closer than necessary so that her breasts rubbed against my chest and her sensual perfume drifted up my nose. I winced as my penis spasmed painfully inside its cage. Was she aware that she had a cruel streak?

I trailed behind as she headed for my lounge, where she sat herself down in my favourite armchair. “You know what to do, Mr Benson. Hmm?”

Yes, I did know what to do. In the space of a week, being locked in a chastity device had trained me to be totally compliant. There were no arguments from me—no attempts at prevarication. I quickly stripped off, until I was standing in front of her wearing nothing but a pair of silk pink panties cut in a bikini style. My penis was pounding inside its cage.

She looked pleased—delighted even! “Good man,” she commented, “you're a fast learner. Spread your feet a shoulder width apart, and place your hands flat on the top of your head... We will call this the standing presentation position, Mr Benson, so remember that!”

She smiled again. “There's also a kneeling presentation position. Show me what you think that is, Mr Benson.”

I dropped down onto my knees, keeping my back straight and my hands on the top of my head.

“Good man!” she squealed, as if she were praising a dense puppy that had just learnt a simple trick.

“So,” she continued, “have you been obedient enough this week to be released from your cage?”

I could have answered “yes,” but, at the back of my mind, I was aware that I'd missed a deadline to send proof that I'd been wearing panties. Honesty seemed my best policy. “I've tried to be, Miss, but I was late sending you an image one day.”

She stared thoughtfully at me, a neutral expression on her face, keeping me on tenterhooks. I could feel beads of sweat again forming on my forehead, and I was sure she could see them.

A smile slowly appeared, and she concluded, “I'll let you off that, Mr Benson.”

I gasped, “Oh, thank you, Miss!”

“But Sheila tells me that unlocking a sub from his cage for relief is a tricky moment. I don't need to tell you that after spurting your load, your libido will tumble and your submissiveness will plummet. That can make it difficult to get you back into your cage. You see the problem, Mr Benson?”

“Yes... But I promise I won't put up any resistance.”

She laughed. “It seems that's what all submissives say, Mr Benson. Until they've cum, that is!”

“Yes, but I mean it and—”

“I've two options for you. The first is I unlock you, and you toss yourself off. Then I have to hope you've been honest and will allow me to cage you again.”

She hesitated, allowing me to process this first choice. “The second option is I tightly secure your hands behind your back, so you won't be able to stop me relocking you.” Another pause followed as she gave me time to work out that, with my hands tied, I would not be in a position to masturbate.

Was she hinting at a hand job? My eyes must have lit up, but even I was surprised by what she said next. “In return, I'll give you a blowjob.”

Had I heard right? A blowjob? “Yes!! I'll go for option two,” I screamed.

“I knew you'd say that, Mr Benson,” she laughed, “What man wouldn't?” She reached into her handbag and extracted two pairs of nylon tights. “I came prepared! Follow me...” she commanded and led the way into my bedroom.

With one of the pairs of tights, she tied my wrists tightly together behind my back. The other pair she used to secure my bound wrists to the metal bars of my headboard.

Smiling slyly, she reached into the neck of her white T-shirt and pulled out the gold chain holding the key to my cage. She deftly unlocked the padlock and gave the cage a sharp yank to free it from my penis, which, ironically, was so swollen it was reluctant to let go of the tube. But nothing could stop the inevitable separation, and my dick immediately expanded to become fully erect.

“Oh, my God!” I murmured. “That feels so good.”

She didn't reply, instead bending forwards and touching the end of my erection with her tongue, drawing a circle around its circumference. The sensation was out of this world, and I found myself thrusting forward, trying to push my dick into her mouth.

“Stop that, you naughty man!” she exclaimed, leaning back and staring at me fiercely. “We do this my way, or not at all. Understood?”

Yes, I understood perfectly. “Very sorry... Miss,” I muttered.

With a final stern look, she resumed her work. She was clearly in no hurry, and she diligently toyed with the glans of my penis, exciting it and causing a leakage of precum, which she lapped up. Then, she turned her attention to the shaft, gently licking it from top to bottom. My balls were the next to receive attention, as she kissed them with her lips.

I was desperate to cum, but this was an operation to be completed at her speed, not mine. For several minutes, she repeated her manoeuvres, licking my shaft, kissing my scrota and playing with my glans. Then, when I least expected it, she wrapped her lips around my shaft, allowing it to partially enter her mouth.

Her tongue entered the action again, exciting me in ways I thought impossible. Slowly, over a couple more minutes, she took more of my erection into her oral cavity. She knew, as I knew, that such was my sexual frustration, I was like an unexploded bomb with the timer now ticking. A wrong move on her part, and I would spurt, but it was obvious she understood what she was doing. Several times she took me close to the point of no return, only to remove stimulation, allowing me to calm down—relatively speaking, that is.

And then, when I wondered if she was just playing with me, she firmed up her grip, and the back-and-forth thrusting increased in intensity. It took just seconds before I experienced the most powerful orgasm of my life. It went on forever, and I detected her swallowing repeatedly as my store of semen filled her mouth.

Then it was over. She stood up and, without a word, went into the bathroom, returning with my flannel drenched in warm water. She proceeded to clean my penis, which was now half the size it had been.

“Thank... you... Miss,” I said. “I really never expected that...”

“I promised you fun, Mr Benson, if you helped me with my dissertation. You must trust me.”

“That was more fun than I was expecting. And... and... please lock me up again.”

She smiled and nodded before fetching frozen veg and then securing me back into the cage.

Undoing the knotted tights proved difficult, and my suggestion that she use scissors was met with derision. “Uh! You think a student can afford to replace two pairs of tights! Think again, Mr Benson.”

After an eternity, I was free. “Now run off and make me a black coffee so I get rid of that goddam awful taste. Then you can get on with the cleaning while I type up some notes. Come on! Chop, chop!”

oooOOooo

The cleaning took less time than it had the previous week. Now I knew I was responsible for that job, I had been careful during the week not to create more work for myself by being untidy and slovenly.

After a couple of hours, I reported back to her. “Adopt the standing presentation position,” she ordered, so I placed my feet and hands in the way she expected, bringing a delightful smile to her face.

She looked at me for a few seconds, before remarking, “It's not right, Mr Benson, that I, a real live girl, am wearing cheaper underwear than you are.”

“Er... I... I could buy you some nice stuff, Miss,” I enthusiastically replied. “What would you like?”

“I'm happy with what I've got... But I'm not happy with what you've got.”

“Sorry?”

“I want you to wear cheaper, everyday stuff, Mr Benson. Plain, white cotton panties, in a full brief style.”

“But... but I like what I'm wearing. These are pretty and ultrafeminine, which makes them more humiliating to wear.”

“Possibly,” she remarked. “But Sheila said it's important that a submissive doesn't think he can make the rules. The mistress makes the rules, and the sub obeys them.”

“Yes... I can understand that but—”

“So, plain white panties it will be for you. They're still girly, and I bet more women wear plain white than the fancy stuff you've got on. That doesn't make those girls any less feminine, does it? Or do you judge femininity based on what a girl's wearing? I hope not, Mr Benson. That's very degrading to women.”

She was backing me into a corner, and I had to be careful not to say the wrong thing. “No... I'm not like that. Honestly!” I mumbled.

She stared suspiciously at me, but said nothing, forcing me to continue. “Please... please let me wear simple cotton panties... white ones.”

A smile appeared on her face. Again, she had broken my resistance, and once more I had given in to her.

“And when you're in the house, you're going to wear bras as well.” My penis, which had only recently squirted its load, gave a jerk. “Again, simple, white T-shirt bras, underwired for shape. Have you got a tape measure?”

I swallowed hard and nodded. “Well, go and fetch it then!” she said, with a roll of her eyes.

She wrapped the tape around my chest and looked at the measurement. “Er... we'll get you a 38C, Mr Benson. It might be a little tight, but that way you won't forget you're wearing one!”

She gave me another sly smile, hoping I would raise some protest, but I kept quiet. I was learning that she wins every argument, and, besides, I pictured what she was saying and being made to wear a bra, in the house, excited me.

Not getting a rise from me, she continued, “Find a plastic bag, and collect up all your panties and boxers, clean and dirty. Go on, chop, chop!”

I scurried off and did what she asked, returning to the lounge with a full bag. “Is this all?” she asked. “I won't be happy if I find out you've missed some.”

“It's everything, Miss.”

“Good man. Now take off the pair you're wearing, and put them in the bag. I'll take the bag back to my place for safekeeping. But, first, we're going shopping for new underwear this afternoon, and you can go commando.”

“Shopping?! Can't we... can't we order something online?”

“Well, now you mention it, yes, we could. But that wouldn't be so much fun, would it?” she grinned, watching my face redden.

“I don't know if I can do that, Miss? That's a step too far.”

“You won't know unless you try, Mr Benson.”

“Shouldn't I have a safe word?”

She sniggered and shook her head. “That would mean we're playing a game, Mr Benson. I've told you that for my research this is not a game. This has to be for real.”

“Er...”

“Obviously, if you're not man enough to buy yourself panties and bras, then you could refuse. I can't make you.” She purposefully placed a lot of emphasis on the word “man”, knowing the irony she was invoking. “But then I'd be very disappointed in you, and we would stop having fun together. You don't want that to happen, do you?”

“No, Miss,” I muttered. Yet again, she had used her sex appeal to get her way.

Her face now bore a big, satisfying smile. “Now, get dressed, then we go shopping, Mr Benson. Chop, chop!”