After a day of cleaning Hannah's flat and discovering she lived with a friend, Maisie, I returned home tired and frustrated. I couldn't get it out of my head that Hannah and Maisie were both going on hot dates that evening. Moreover, they were both going to get fucked.

But were they? Was it possible they were making it all up to increase my frustration? They were both psychology students, so they were well-equipped with gambits to play with my mind. Yet they were both attractive girls, so they would have no trouble getting dates—therefore, it might be true they were going to get laid.

My brain was scrambled, and I had little appetite for my dinner.

At 7 PM, I followed Hannah's instructions and spent twenty minutes in the corner, doing what she referred to as my devotional corner time, all relayed to her via FaceTime. It wasn't difficult to think of her, or Maisie, and the time passed surprisingly quickly.

oooOOooo

Hannah now had a key to my house, and I knew she could drop in any time to check I was correctly attired, meaning that I was always wearing nothing but a filled bra and knickers.

But the week was passing by, and there was no sign of her. Then, at around 8 PM on Thursday, I heard a key turning in my front door. I muted the television and stood up as she walked into my lounge.

“Evening, Mr Benson,” she cheerfully said. “Kneeling presentation position!”

I knew what she meant, and I placed my hands flat on my head and dropped to my knees. She smiled before disappearing from the lounge. What was she up to?

It was several minutes before she returned. “I'm pleased you're keeping the house clean,” she remarked, “but there are dirty dishes in the kitchen. Hmm?”

“I've... I've only just finished eating and not had time to wash them,” I muttered, realising that she was setting some trap.

“But you found time to watch the telly,” she responded, pointing at the screen.

“Er... yes... well... er.”

“Sheila—that's Professor Williams to you—told me that subs shouldn't have much leisure time. And certainly not when there are chores to be done.”

“Erm...”

I watched as she picked up the remote control and turned the television off. “I think I should look after this, Mr Benson,” she declared, slipping the control into her handbag. “It will take away temptation.”

She stared at me, almost begging me to challenge her, but I knew better.

“And don't even think of watching stuff on your computer. If I find out you have, there'll be big trouble.”

She continued glaring, but, realising she wasn't going to get a rise from me, she continued. “Sheila says it helps subs know their place if they spend time on some tedious task every evening.”

“Er?”

“Every evening, after you've completed your chores and corner time, I want you to write out this line fifty times neatly.”

She held a piece of paper in front of my eyes on which was written: I, a mere slave, worship my goddess and mistress, Miss Hannah.

I felt my penis give a spasm. This was another tightening of the noose—she was further controlling my life, not only in terms of what I wore but in how I spent my evenings. And I could see that she had turned up specifically to find fault and set me this monotonous task.

“What do you say, Mr Benson?” she asked.

What could I say? “Yes... er, Miss... I understand.”

“Good man!” she declared in a happy tone of voice. “I'll leave you to start writing! I'll see you on Saturday, and I want you in the kneeling presentation position facing the front door when I arrive.”

oooOOooo

The next day was uneventful, but most of my spare time was spent either doing devotional corner time or writing lines. I had thought it must be possible to operate a television without a remote control, but it proved too complicated. And it was too risky to watch on my computer in case she had some way of knowing what I'd done.

On Saturday morning, dressed as expected in just a bra and panties, and with my falsies inside the bra, I knelt in the presentation position a few feet from my front door.

She was never early and often late, but I couldn't assume that she would not trick me by arriving early, so I was in position by 8:50 AM. However, true to form, she was fifteen minutes late, letting herself in.

“Morning, Mr Benson,” she announced, smiling. “How are you today?”

“Er... morning, Miss,” I replied. “I'm fine, thank you.”

The situation was utterly bizarre, with me on my knees in my underwear and her in her trademark jeans and white T-shirt. There was no look of surprise on her face, nor any sense of wonder. She simply took it in her stride that I would be in the demeaning situation I was in.

“Up you get. Please make me a black coffee and then get on with the cleaning.”

“Er... there's not much cleaning to do, Miss,” I replied. “I'm keeping the place very clean, as you expect and saw on Thursday.”

“That's good, but you can still spend two or three hours cleaning the house from top to bottom, so it stays that way. Yes?”

I nodded. If there was to be any chance of release from my cage that day, then total obedience was needed.

oooOOooo

Work done, I reported back to her, automatically adopting the kneeling presentation position. She was sitting in my favourite armchair, her laptop open.

She shut it and stared intensely at me. “I'm wondering whether to unlock you today... or not,” she remarked, after what seemed to be an interminable delay.

I felt myself panicking. It had been a week since she last released me, and my sexual frustration was sky high. “Please do, Miss,” I pleaded. “I can't last much longer.”

She laughed. “Of course you can! Sheila—that's Professor Williams to you—says a man of your age should easily last two weeks without ejaculating.”

“But... but I've never done that!”

“No... because you've never tried.”

“Well... no, I haven't... but surely there'll be a massive build-up of semen. It can't be healthy!”

“Sheila said that a spontaneous emission acts as a safety valve.”

“Eh?”

“A wet dream, Mr Benson! It's nature's pressure release valve.”

“But... but...” I mumbled, lost for words. “But... but I can't get stiff in the cage, so a wet dream's impossible.”

“Sheila says wet dreams don't need erections.”

“How does she know?”

Hannah shrugged her shoulders. “She just knows! She's a professor.”

I couldn't think what else to say, but I saw she was smiling at me, a sign she'd been winding me up. “I've got two options for you, Mr Benson.” She paused to ensure she had my full attention. Then, from her handbag, she produced a sturdy pair of handcuffs, which I assumed were on loan from Professor Williams.

“Option one is I cuff you, and then I allow you to hump the bed and cum on the sheets. Very, very messy and probably all over in thirty seconds... if that.”

There was another hiatus as she waited for me to process this first possibility. She knew it would not find favour—it was all part of the psychological game she was playing.

“The second option is you remain caged, but I blindfold you, and we go to bed together... with me completely naked.” Sensually, she ran her tongue over her top lip. Undoubtedly, this was the choice she was steering me towards. “With that option, you stay caged for another week, but you get to explore my body with your fingers and mouth. No part of me will be off limits. Hmm?”

She was a good saleswoman. Going along with this option would mean I would be spending two weeks without climaxing, yet I would get to touch and feel her in the most intimate of ways. Despite having no idea of how I would cope for two weeks—bar having a wet dream—it was a no-brainer for me.

“Yes, please!” I screamed, much to her delight.

“Good man!” she quietly said. “So now you think you can last two weeks,” she laughed.

From her handbag, she extracted a leather mask. It had no eye holes, but it would leave my mouth free. Another loan from Professor Williams, I guessed. “It's clean,” she assured me as she pulled it over my head, tightly securing it with straps.

oooOOooo

She guided me into my bedroom and left me standing while she got undressed. She took her time and must have known that I was visualising the scene in my head. I heard her kick her trainers off, then her jeans unzip, then something being dragged, which I took to be her top. She must have been standing in front of me in bra and panties. Even without touching her, I was horny, and my penis was spasming inside its prison.

There was no further sound, her bra and panties being too delicate to create any noise. I heard her plop down on the bed, and she beckoned me over. I stumbled as I went, causing her to giggle. “Mind where you're walking, Mr Benson; those are my panties you're kicking,” she called out cheerfully.

I lay down on the bed, and she placed her arms around me, pulling me closer. Then, her lips made contact with mine, and her tongue wormed its way into my mouth. For what seemed like several minutes, we passionately kissed. With a free hand, I reached out and groped one of her breasts. The flesh was warm, and the nipple was firm and erect.

She pulled her tongue out of my mouth. “I like you, Mr Benson,” she exclaimed. “I like older men, and I like them to be obedient and to put my interests first. You do that in bucket loads.”

“I'm so happy to oblige,” I replied.

I moved my head down towards her breasts and licked the smooth flesh before suckling a nipple. I was careful to be gentle, and she responded with murmuring noises, her hand reaching down and cradling my balls, causing my dick to experience even more agony.

“I'm getting so wet, Mr Benson,” she muttered. “Have a feel.”

I did, and she was dripping. My fingers began exploring, with my brain constructing a three-dimensional map of her sex, confirming what I'd previously discovered with my tongue. Her clit, I detected, was erect, and the merest brush against it caused her to squirm in delight.

How I wished I could fuck her! She'd said she liked me, but with conditions. She had set clear boundaries beyond which I was never likely to cross.

“My sweet pussy needs stroking with your tongue, Mr Benson. She needs you! She's craving for you. She's purring... she's salivating...”

I repositioned myself, and my lips and tongue embraced her vulva. Her familiar taste and scent assailed my sensory receptors, causing further discomfort, but I was determined to please her in every way I could.

I worked away, teasing and tantalising her with my lips and tongue, while reaching up to fondle her firm breasts. She, in turn, responded enthusiastically, grabbing my hair and grinding my face against her pussy. “Keep... going...” she panted. “I'm... I'm getting close! Aaaahhh!! Fuck... fucking hell!! FUUUUUCK!”

She thrashed around, riding the most powerful orgasm imaginable, more juices squirting out of her into my mouth. Her climax seemed to last forever until her body went first stiff and then limp. “Keep... keep going...” she gasped. “Again!”

I continued to labour away, and it was only a brief time before her body again began to shudder as if possessed by an alien spirit.

For several minutes, she lay on the bed, her breathing resembling that of a marathon runner who had just crossed the line in a personal best. Speech, at least in any interpretable form, defeated her.

I lay patiently and silently, elated that I had brought her so much pleasure. Eventually, she whispered, “Good... man!”

She let go of my hair, saying, “Get off... the bed, Mr Benson... Kneeling... presentation position.”

I did, and I listened as she rolled off the other side of the bed. “I'm... going for a shower,” she muttered. “Stay like that.”

It seemed a long time before she returned. I listened carefully as she got dressed, my imagination running wild.

“Unbuckle the hood, Mr Benson,” she instructed. “Then bring me the devotional lines you've been writing. I want to check that your writing's neat.”

She spent several minutes examining my work. More time than was necessary, and I sensed she was replaying the devotional sentence in her head, probably arousing herself further. “Okay, Mr Benson, these are nicely written. Good man.”

We returned to the lounge, and she sat herself in my armchair with me kneeling in front of her. She flipped her laptop open, saying, “It's debriefing time, Mr Benson. Tell me how things have been for you in the past week.”

Where would I begin, but she listened earnestly as I related the ups and downs of my time as her submissive. She made notes in her computer and then, with a final smile, told me she was off. “See you tomorrow at nine, Mr Benson. You're cleaning my flat again.”

oooOOooo

Sunday was just her, Maisie being away. The day followed a familiar routine, with me cleaning the flat and doing the laundry, including Maisie's. I was stunned by how messy the flat had become in the space of a week, and how much washing had accumulated.

Work completed, some teasing followed and, inevitably, Hannah expected me to please her orally. I enjoyed myself, despite the inevitable distress down below from not having any relief for eight days.

oooOOooo

I was disappointed not to hear from Hannah during the following week, but she had explained that the deadline for her dissertation was rapidly approaching.

The following Saturday morning, I was ready and waiting for her arrival at 9 AM. I was in the kneeling presentation position, facing the front door.

The minutes passed by, and there was no sound of a key being pushed into a lock. Not for the first time, I began to have doubts that she was coming, but then, as she had told me before, not coming would mean her missing the “fun”.

I waited patiently, just occasionally taking a quick glance at my watch. Then, at twenty past nine, the doorbell rang with a familiar double ring. Who the hell was it? It couldn't be Hannah, as she had a key.

I sprang up and opened the door a little, keeping out of sight. It was Hannah!

“Aren't you going to let me in, Mr Benson?”

“Yes... Yes, of course. Have you lost the key I lent you?”

“No! I don't lose things!” she curtly replied, struggling through the front door with a large plastic bag.

“Then... er... what... why?”

She grinned. “I submitted my dissertation yesterday, Mr Benson! I'm so, so grateful for your help. I even mentioned you in the acknowledgements, but only as Mr B, so don't get worried.”

“But...”

“I'm back as your cleaner, Mr Benson. And here are your boxers, silk panties and the remote control for your telly. And here's the key to your cage!” She yanked on the gold chain around her neck, pulling out the key.

“Sorry?”

“I need to unlock you, Mr Benson, and then I'll make a start on the cleaning.”

“But... but! How can I put this, Hannah... Miss? You're not... er... not actually very good at cleaning.”

She looked at me in disbelief. “How can you say that? That's really hurtful, Mr Benson. I'm deeply offended by that.”

“Sorry, but since I took over the job, this house is far cleaner! And your flat is much cleaner and tidier as well.”

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying I should do the cleaning, and you do the... er... motivating?”

“Motivating?”

“Yes, encouraging me to work hard in the way you and Maisie... Miss Maisie... do so well.”

A broad smile spread across her face. Had she been pretending to misunderstand, stringing me along?

“Yes, I do understand what you mean, Mr Benson. We must both play to our strengths, and your strength is being obedient to women.” She slipped the key back down inside her T-shirt.

“When did I last release you, Mr Benson?”

“It was two weeks ago, Miss!” I stared at her, hoping she would say something. She didn't, but she just stared back. “I'm getting very desperate,” I mumbled.

She smiled. “If you can last two weeks, let's try for three, shall we? I'm interested to know how long before you have a wet dream. You must let me know when it happens, Mr Benson.”

I gulped and nodded, realising that protesting would get me nowhere.

“Please make me a black coffee and then start work. I will be inspecting the house very carefully indeed, and I hope, for your sake, I don't find a single speck of dust. And I might need some cleaning up myself later.”

She swept past me to plonk herself down in my favourite armchair.

THE END