A Slave’s Paradise

By DX

Copyrighted, 10/2026, all rights reserved.

 Reese felt nauseous.

 As she roused, shifting in her space, she felt metal clutching her wrist, and something clinking as she moved.  Squinting awake, she found herself supine on a thin mat, in the shadowy space of a cubby hole, overlooking a bright room filled from floor to ceiling with other cubby spaces, some occupied.

 Her berth was at floor level.

 ‘What the fuck?’  Her mind raced.  ‘Where the fuck am I?  Am I under arrest?’  She struggled to sit up, only to find the cubby didn’t have enough room.  ‘Is this the brig?’  She blinked as her mind tried to wake up, thinking of the tight berths aboard ship.  It had been fifteen years since she left the US Navy, but it felt like that dream where she was five minutes from a junk on the bunk inspection and her sea bag was no where to be found.

 She wasn’t dreaming.

 As she reached up to pull herself out, her attention was called back to the metal on her wrists: two inch wide bands a quarter inch thick connected by a heavy chain.  The shackles were oval, and fit her wrists precisely.  The chain passed through a welded ring on the front of a thick belt locked tight around her waist.  Moving one hand pulled the other to the belt.

 ‘Okay, what?’  Her mind began to blister into panic.  ‘What the fuck is going on?’  She looked up into the room to call for help, but could only make mewing sounds.  ‘Is there something in my mouth?’  She found her chain had just enough slack to reach her head, but it pulled her other hand tight to her belt.  She felt a tight, heavy band of steel across her mouth.  When she tried to open her mouth, she felt metal encapsulate her head and she couldn’t move her jaw.  ‘What’s this on my head?’  She felt soft, prickly fuzz in the gaps of the steel straps across her scalp.  ‘Did… did someone shave my head?’

 Almost at a full panic she kicked out, but shackles on her ankles made her struggling futile.

 A woman touched her shoulder.

 Stunned, Reese only looked at her.

 The woman held up her hand.  ‘Calm,’ she gestured.

 The woman was perhaps in her late twenties, and had large, brown expressive eyes.  A band of steel, three inches wide, ran around her head and sealed her mouth away.  From the bottom of the band was a strip of metal hooked under her jaw.  At the top of the band, Reese could see the skin of her cheek bones bulged from the tightness of the metal.  There, two strips of steel ran at an angle, framing her nose and connecting at the bridge, before a single band ran up over her forehead.  At her forehead, another band connected, ringing around her head.  The entire structure fit snug to her head, obviously custom fit to very small tolerances.

 The woman gestured, ‘Come.’

 Slowly Reese complied, guided by the woman’s touch.  

 ‘Put your foot there,”  She gestured.  ‘and shimmy a little, good… now duck your head… good.’  The woman shuffled back to give Reese a little room.  ‘Roll to your knees, that’s it’  Reese struggled to move in her limiting restraints.  ‘Lean back, one foot forward.’  The woman touched Reese’s leg.  ‘This foot forward… now stand.’

 Reese complied, fighting to keep her decorum as she felt the cold cement floor on her bare feet.  As she rose to her full height, she felt the press of the band of steel against the back of her head, keeping her cowed.  She touched her head and felt the plate around her mouth.  “Mmm!”  She grunted, and felt a hard rubber guard in her mouth.  She tried to shift her jaw and move within the confines of the metal cage, but couldn’t move in the slightest.  ‘Did they cement my teeth together?’  She imagined a mouthguard filled with epoxy behind the plate across her lower face.  

 As her mind fought to make sense of anything, she looked at the woman.

 ‘Calm.’  The woman gestured.

 ‘Yeah, I’m fucking calm.’  Reese’s eyes were hard.  “I am the mother fucking calm guru of Calmovia.’

 The woman pointed to her belt.  Crudely stamped on it was the number, 8311.  She pointed to herself.  She then pointed to Reese’s belt.

 Reese looked down, and read upside down and backwards, 10166.

 Reese nodded understanding.  ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane.  Got it.  Okay, I’m gonna call you Belle, because in my dyslexic brain that is 8311.  Okay, Belle… what the fuck?’

 Belle’s head was locked as Reese’s, and she wore a thick, heavy collar snugly around her neck.  She wore a steel bra connected by flat chains around her chest.  Around her waist was a solid steel belt with flat chains connected to it that strapped around her loins and welded to a vented plate over her neather.

 Reese felt her anger rise at the sight of the chastity belt.  ‘This is not the brig.  Fuck!  It’s the Island of Doctor No!’  Slowly Reese reached up, and touched the steel bowl of her own bra to confirm its presence, then down to confirm she too was in chastity.

 Reese took a long breath, hissing in her nose, and let it out.  ‘Okay, I’m gonna kill some fucker.’  She mentally growled.

 Belle held up her hand.  ‘Calm.’  She insisted.

 Reese nodded.  ‘Oh, I’m a fucking tidal wave of calm.  I have so much clam right now I’m gonna fucking drown this place in calm.  People will be like, oh, she’s so calm she can juggle cotton balls in a wind storm.’  Her eyes glared.  ‘I am the calm that is going to calmly throat punch some fucker.’

 ‘Calm.’  Belle insisted.

 Reese tried to pull back her building rage with minimal success.

 Belle pointed to herself, then her eyes, then Reese.  ‘I will show you.’  She pointed to the corner of the room.  ‘Look there.’

 Reese turned where Belle had pointed.  In the corner of the room by the ceiling was a quarter section of a black plastic dome.  Reese knew instantly that behind the dome were security cameras.

 ‘They watch us.’  Belle gestured, then touched her neck, pointed to the security cameras, then drew a zig-zag down.  She tensed up, shivering, her fingers like claws and her eyes closed in pain.

 Reese touched the collar on her own neck, then made a half-hearted cringe as if in pain.  

 Belle nodded.

 ‘Got it.’  Reese thought.  ‘Shock collars.’  Her engineering mind warmed as she calculated how the collars worked.  ‘Radio transceivers in the room.  Battery in the collar, high voltage, low amps, like a police stun gun to the neck.  Not pleasant.’  

 As she thought, she looked around the room.  The other women in their cubbies, clad only in steel, ignored her, obviously trying their hardest to get often denied sleep.  

 ‘Am I…  Is this, some sort of, Slave Prison?’  The idea twisted within her.  ‘Fuck!  This can’t be real.  Some county sheriff perverted form of justice?’  She looked to the other women in their bunks.  ‘All young-ish, slim,’  She glanced at Belle.  ‘pretty.’  Her brows knitted as she tried to remember.  ‘How did I…?  I had… I was home, I just ordered delivery.’  She pushed back the fog.  ‘The guy came… but the porch light was out… he moved…’  The fog thickened in her memory.  ‘What happened?  I can’t remember… he had something, then…’  Images moved like playing cards.  ‘He had a thing, a little gun, like how we got inoculations in the Navy, a hypo gun.’  Her memory ended with a pinch to her neck.  ‘He hit me with some drug and now I’m here.’  She sighed hard.  ‘Well, no tip for him!’  She thought sarcastically as she looked at the walls of cubbies.  ‘That means I don’t get a lawyer or a phone call.  I’m fucked and stuck in a nightmare that I would like to wake up from.’

 Belle touched her to get her attention.  ‘Come.  I will show you.’  She pointed to the cement floor by the heavy steel door.  ‘Stand there.’  She reached for the door but pulled back her hand, followed by a zig zag drawn in the air, then a shiver of pain.  ‘Don’t touch the doors, you’ll be shocked.’  She stood beside Reese and waved at the security camera.  She pointed to herself, then Reese.  She waited calmly for a minute, then waved again.

 The door slid open violently with a harsh metal bang, startling Reese.

 Belle grabbed Reese’s arm and pulled her along.  ‘Quick!’  The two shuffled as quickly as they could in their ankle chains out into the hall.  Just as they passed, the door hissed and banged shut, followed by the clock work gears sliding a heavy bolt to lock it into place.

 ‘Come.’  Belle moved down the hall, a little anxious.  ‘Come.’

 The hall was a long, dreary cement corridor illuminated by buzzing and flickering fluorescent lights.  Shackled women, their heads locked in heavy metal, moved about—everyone with a chore.  They were all metal clad as Reese was.  They were silent, their eyes forlorn and weak.  Their hair was in several stages of short, showing their head cages plainly.  The women were all thin, and under fed.  Some of their shackles chaffed, leaving red raw patches of worn away skin.  

 They glanced up at Reese as she passed, and she could feel their sadness and despair at seeing the new girl.

 One woman, slowly swabbing the deck, locked eyes with Reese.

 ‘Welcome to hell.’  Her eyes spoke.

 ‘Come.’  Belle waved Reese on.

 ‘What’s the hurry?’  Reese looked away from the woman and her mop.  Along the hall were other locked doors and Reese looked at them as they passed.  ‘What’s in there?’

 Belle dismissed them.  ‘Later.’  She pointed ahead where bright daylight streamed.  ‘We’re going there.’  She pointed to double doors at the end of the hall.

 At the end of the hall were heavy, imposing doors, designed to withstand a nuclear blast.  

 White sun light shone through the small, impenetrable glass window of each door.  Judging the thickness, Reese imagined it was six to eight inches thick.

 Belle stopped at the door and faced a camera dome on the ceiling.  She waved, then made a walking motion with her fingers, then pointed to Reese.

 They waited.

 Minutes passed, and Belle started rocking her feet back and forth, heel to toe to ease the hard press of the solid floor against her feet.  She looked at Reese and shrugged.  ‘We wait.’

 Needing something to do, Reese looked at her shackles.  They were smooth, shiny, and seamless metal clasping her wrists tightly.  She touched Belle to get her attention, and made a turning motion and pointed to the cuff.  ‘Where’s the key?’

 Belle shook her head.  ‘There is no key.’

 ‘What?’

 Belle sighed, and pointed to her head cage.  She slowly turned showing one continuous band.  ‘No key,’  

 Reese tugged at her gag, feeling its solidity.  ‘Then how do we unlock them?’

 ‘We don’t.’  Belle’s eyes were steady.  ‘We wear them forever.’  She then pointed as a woman approached.  ‘Here we go.’

 Holding on to her building questions, Reese watched another slave, perhaps in her thirties, shuffle forward.  As she did, other slaves paused in their chores and began to wander over.  The slaves all kept a respectable distance, but were drawn by a morbid curiosity.

 As the slave approached Belle, Belle nodded and motioned to the door.  ‘After you,’

 The slave hardened, and held up a collar in her hand.  She pushed it at Belle.

 Belle fanned her hands refusing, and motioned to the door.  ‘You.’

 The slave pushed the collar at Belle, almost hitting her with it, but Belle shifted back, afraid to touch it, before looking at the slave and conceding.  She swallowed a little nervously, then carefully took the collar.

 With a sigh, Belle accepted her mission.  She looked up at the security dome and waved the collar.

 Reese glanced at the women gathered.  Their eyes were focused on the collar in Belle’s hand.

 Locks shifted with a deep clack, and the doors slowly opened.

 Squinting as the hall filled with day light, Belle waved at Reese.  ‘Come on.’

 They shuffled outside.

 It was a cement paved area, as big as a basketball court.  On the ground were painted footprints lined neatly in rows and columns.  Reese recognized it as parade deck for morning formation or physical training; although with her wrists shackled to her belt and a short chain on her ankles, jumping jacks were out of the question.

 It was breezy and cold.  Stepping out, Reese looked up, then slowly turned.   Beyond the cement pad was a flat, treeless, rocky, area, perhaps thirty yards wide, with dried sticks and branches poking up randomly.  Beyond that, the ground sloped away, making a gentle, but rough climb down to the craggy shore of the beach far below.

 And then the ocean.  

 As Reese turned right, she could see the massive concrete building they had emerged from.  It was windowless, austere, and over engineered.  It was abutted up against the hill which continued up, making the building seem as if grew out the side of the rocky knoll.

 “Mmm!”  Belle called her attention.  She led her over to the edge of the cement pad.  As she neared the edge, she slowed, and seemed hesitant.  She paused, and pointed with the collar.  ‘Stand there.’

 Reese glanced back.  She still had an audience.

 The women were terrified, but couldn’t look away.

 “Mmm!”  Belle called.

 She was standing at the edge of the pad, her eyes filled with fear and dread.  She shifted the collar to her left hand which was tight against her belt to give her right hand as much slack as possible.  She then raised her chin and touched the collar on her neck.  ‘See this?’  She then clumsily took the collar from her left hand and held it up.  ‘Same collar.’  She motioned.  ‘Same one you wear.’

 Reese glanced back at her terrified audience, then back to Belle.  ‘Uh, yeah?’  She nodded.

 Belle lowered her stance and spread her feet as wide as they could go in her ankle chains.  She took a breath to psyche her self up.  She made a little practice throw to make sure her arm would not get caught up in her chain.

 ‘Ah, shit.’  Reese thought grimly as she felt everyone’s fear.

 Belle shifted hard and clumsily, and flung the collar away.

 It sailed in the air, maybe ten feet, before it exploded.

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Copyrighted 10/2026 all rights reserved
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Petgirl

By DX

Copyrighted, 9/2026, all rights reserved.

 From the top of my barn’s roof I spotted her as she walked down the long, lonely dirt road to our farm.  The early morning sun hit her full on, and I saw she was tall and lithe, and wore a long, flowing summer dress that swished around her ankles.  She had something on her head, but from that distance I couldn’t quite tell what, perhaps a scarf.

 She moved easily, and her hands were empty, and I couldn’t imagine her dress to have pockets, and I dismissed all that because I had work to do.  I was resurfacing the metal roof of the barn and the sealant, once mixed with an activator, had to be sprayed on before it set, coupled with the equipment I had was rented.  The pressure was on to get it done.  I didn’t have time to worry about some rando woman walking down my road.

 My worst worry was the sun.

 I had a small window before the blazing sun turned the roof of the barn into a glowing, hellish landscape.

 “Let’s be farmers!”  I had convinced Zack, my boyfriend, that for my third incarnation of my life I wanted to be a farmer; to be one with nature, feel the land, my cheeks flush and my hands rough.  “Farming is fun!”  I said.

 No farmer ever said that, because they know how hard farming is.

 My first incarnation was the Army, and back in the day it was tough for women like me who took it as a serious career choice.  The Army didn’t like feminists.  

 My second incarnation was an administrative supervisor for the State.  I detested the job, and my subordinates detested me because I held them to a work standard.  They were delighted when I was able to use my military time and add it to my accrued time to take early retirement.

 Now in my fifties, and armed with two pensions, my boyfriend and I bought a hundred acre farm.  It was a fixer-upper, to be polite, and I in my delusional state I declared I would do the DIY.

 To be fair, Zack used his best diplomatic skills and tried to warn me off because farming is the most difficult, miserable things a human being could do, but I took that as a challenge.

 He was right.  I was wrong.  

 When faced with reality and logic, I chose neither.

 We could have spent a lot of money and had professionals do things, but I could be stubborn to a fault.

 Which is why I was on the roof of the barn sweating to death in a paint suit, armed with an air powered spray gun, my back already being roasted by the dawning sun, spreading goo across a metal roof as a woman walked up to the front door of my house.  

 I left Zack to deal with it.

 He has this job, it has a title, and I’ve seen him do it, just don’t ask me what it is exactly.  For eight months of the year it was four hour days with an hour and a half lunch, which meant he would have plenty of time for farming, and painting, and fixing things because there was a lot of that to do.  It was a good plan.

 Except the closing on the farm was at the start of his ninth month, where his fluffy, purring job became a rabid beast of fifteen hour days with foreign dignitaries and Prime-Ministers on video chat, and spread sheets twenty-two feet long.  He would be ensconced in his home office, living off of meal bars and caffeine.  His salary was insane, which is how I got the farm.  He simply bought it out right and signed it over to me.

 Did I mention I love him?

 I took some notice when the woman climbed up the steps to the front porch and rang the bell, but I had goo to spread and I was confident that Zack in his calm and extensive vocabulary would tell the woman we weren’t interested in whatever she was selling, and to fuck off.

 On the roof, the unmerciful sun climbing in the sky, balanced precariously on the slope, I spread sealant and gave no more thought about anything.  I made good progress.

 “Yip!”  Something said.  “Yip!”

 I paused the machine, not sure what I had heard.  I had only lived on the farm for few weeks, so many of nature’s sounds were strange to me.  Although we didn’t have any domestic animals yet, except the chickens which came with the farm, there were still plenty of wildlife, like wild turkeys and deer, neither of which said, Yip.

 “Yip!”  It said again.

 I shifted carefully and looked around.  I actually lifted my goggles so I could hear better.  Surprisingly, that did work.

 “Yip!”

 I made my way over to the edge of the roof and looked down.

 I had assumed the woman had left.

 She had not.

 She was naked.

 She was also bald, and in her brief moment in the sun her skin was already pinking up in preparation for a nice deep burn.

 I was gobsmacked, and only stared, mouth agape.  She only smiled, and pointed to something.  I creeped to the very edge of the roof and craned over to see.  On the shelf of the open dock was a pitcher of ice water, and a tall glass.

 The woman nodded, and turned back toward the house.

 She was naked, and brought me water.  This was all my brain could process as she made her way back to the house, carefully picking her way through the tall crab grass.

 As I watched her walk away in her bare feet, she suddenly skipped, then jinked, then hopped frantically.  

 “Yip!  Yip!  Yip!”  She screamed.

 I knew by the stress of her voice she had walked into a moundless nest of fire ants.

 They were hidden land mines of single minded terror.  Imagine an ant, and he suddenly finds himself looking up at a mountain so big he can’t even see it all, and armed only with a knife requiring a micro-scope to see, screams, “Die Mothah Fuckah!”  and attacks.

 That tiny, tiny bite delivers a neurotoxin that hurts like being stabbed with a needle that’s glowing red hot, multiplied by a thousand, because that’s how many are screaming Die Mothah Fuckah! at you.

 I set down the sprayer, scrambled down the ladder as quickly as I could and ran over to the dancing girl, trusting my work boots would give me some protection against the ground now seething with angry ants.  I wrapped my arm about her waist and hoisted her up, and hauled her over to the water trough, filled with rain water and bright green with algae, and dropped her in.  

 I quickly splashed water over her thighs to brush the climbing ants off, then down into the murky water to scrape off the ants still screaming, Die Mothah Fuckah!  except punctuated with blubs.

 My short time on the farm made me an old hand about fire ants.  They were my initiation to the dangers of living on a farm.  Next were hornets, wasps, and black widow spiders, followed by copperhead snakes, then bears.

 Let’s be farmers!  Farming is fun!

 You quickly learn a stick is your friend to give the wildlife a half second to run away when moving a pail, or lifting a sheet of metal.

 Moundless fire ants, however; give no warning.  You’re just there, and suddenly your leg is on fire.

 Water didn’t kill the fire ants right away, but it would slow them down long enough for me to scrape them off.  It also broke the connection as reinforcement ants were now looking for her.

 The attackers had already done their duty, however; and her legs were already beginning to show the hits.  The neurotoxin was now taking effect and setting her legs ablaze.

 Now, close to her, my hands on her skin, my work gloves soaked, I discovered she wasn’t actually, exactly naked.

 I helped her out of the trough, which was compounded by the fact her legs were shackled together.  Heavy, shiny cuffs, two inches high and a quarter inch thick connected by a heavy tow chain commonly used to pull tree stumps out of the ground.

 The tow chain had a thin, delicate chain connected to it at the halfway point, that traveled up and looped around her waist.  The purpose of this was to keep the heavy chain from dragging on the ground as she walked.

 I might of mumbled, ‘what the fuck’, but I had to get her inside as the ant bites would feel like lava.  “Come on!”  I did say, and she quickly waddled as fast as her chain would allow, giving the ant’s nest a wide berth.

 Once inside, I guided her through the ocean of unpacked moving boxes, and into the kitchen.  She was mewing from the pain and struggling to keep calm.  I sat her in a chair.  

 “Whatever you do,”  I warned her.  “don’t touch it.  It will hurt ten times worse!”  I ducked into the bathroom and grabbed our large bottle of antihistamine spray.  

 As I returned, she was shaking from the pain.

 I quickly patted her legs dry with a dish towel, then coated her legs in spray.

 “You have to focus past the pain.  And don’t scratch!  Don’t rub it, or touch it!”  I ordered.  “If you touch it, it will only make the hurt last longer.”

 She just mewed.

 “Life is going to suck while this spray does its thing.  It won’t hurt less, you just won’t mind as much.”  I looked at her leg shackles, making sure to spray down inside them.  I shifted them enough to chase out a couple half drowned ants and sprayed more, until she dripped onto the floor.

 “How do I take these off?”  I asked.  “Where is the key?”

 She only grimaced from the horrible pain, mewing.

 The shackles were continuous bands of metal, without seams or locks.  It was as if they had been welded on.  I concluded the key was magnetic, or possibly magic.

 I took further survey.  She had thick rings through her nipples, ears and nose.  She had no eyebrows, or any body hair.

 At her neather, was a triangle steel cage, I wasn’t quite sure how it stayed on.

 She was in her thirties, and beautiful like a fashion model.  She had full, puffy lips, and exotic, almond shaped polar blue eyes.  She had a bit of a pug nose, and a delicate cleft chin.

 She wore no make up, but she didn’t need it.

 She managed to smile through the pain.

 “I’m Corra.”  I said, trying to be friendly and distract her from the boiling of her legs.

 “Mmm.”  She said.

 I looked at her, trying not to give her that askance expression.  “And you are…?”  I didn’t ask why she was naked and barefoot and why her ankles were cuffed together with anchor chain.

 “Mmm.”  She was trying to be pleasant, and ignore the rage ravaging her feet and calves.

 “Do you…”  I moved my hands like I knew sign-language, even though I didn’t.  “talk, at all?”

 “Mmm.”  Was all she said, and tightened her face from pain.

 How do you respond to that?  

 I heard Zack come up behind me and I celebrated in the distraction.

 He was in a suit and tie and shorts.  He looked right at the naked woman and knew instantly what had happened.  “Okay!  New rule!”  He announced.  “No going outside naked.”  He declared.  “And you must wear shoes and a hat,”  he nodded to his logic.  “and sunblock!”  He jutted his chin, then looked at me with an expression, ‘I see you have this handled, I’ll get out of your way’, then turned and left.

 I looked to the woman.  “Uh, wait here.  Don’t do anything and whatever you do, don’t scratch, rub, or touch your legs.”

 I went after Zack.  

 He was pulling his office door closed and I grabbed it and pulled it back open.  “Do you mind telling me what is going on and who is…”

 His silent, stoney face spoke volumes.

 With the corner of my vision I looked to his desk.  The screen was on and filled with twenty or thirty faces on the video call; all white males in their sixties, wearing suits and ties.

 He had been in a video conference, heard the doors slamming, the scrape of chain on the hard wood floor, my harsh voice saying FIRE mumble, and interrupted the meeting to check on the potential emergency.

 He didn’t mute his microphone, or switch off his camera.  

 I was in a white paint suit, splattered with green algae and grey goo, and looked more like a forensic expert at a murder scene than a farmer.

 I said nothing.  I only left and closed the door, leaving him to make up something to explain the meeting’s interruption.

 Back in the kitchen, mystery naked woman was unpacking things.

 Zack and I had just moved in, hitting the ground running.  He was in his mad work season which left me to deal with a long list of projects to get the house livable.  Unpacking got lowered on the list as I had to figure out how to kill the black widow spider’s nest in the shower, then lowered again when I had to deal with the large snake in the chicken coop, and lowered again when the outside faucet sheared off in my hand and water gushed out like a rooster tail.

 Lowered again and again and again.

 Now she was doing it.

 I wanted to insist she stop, that she was a guest and I should make her tea and cookies and be a host, but I didn’t.  I wanted to explain why the house was shit, and Zack was very busy, and I could handle everything, but I didn’t do that either.  I wanted to demand to know who she was and did she just escape a prison chain gang and why she was naked.

 I watched her open a box and unwrap brown paper from a coffee mug, then look at the empty cupboards for where coffee mugs should go and decide above the outlet where the coffee maker would be placed when she finally unpacked it.

 The goo to spray the roof was gelling, and if it cured inside the sprayer there would be a one hundred and thirty-two dollar fee to clean it.

 She was in agony, and anything, like the mindless task of unpacking, would distract her from it.

 Zack was in the other room, and when his video call was done, he would come deal with it.

 This was my rational.

 I went back outside and the sun punched me in the face, but I shrugged it off, got back up on the roof, and started spraying.

 I was a little mad.  Here was this naked woman doing my job in my kitchen in my house.  I was a little embarrassed because I was failing as a farmer and farming; tasks I should have somehow magically done.  I was disappointed in myself as a feminist because I had woman power and should be able to build a log cabin with only a multi-tool and grit, but couldn’t.

 And this naked woman… what the fuck?

 Did Zack hire a naked woman?  Zack knows I’m a feminist and wouldn’t stand for that, but his only concern was wearing sunblock?  Hello?  She’s naked and in chains?

 Like… like a slave?


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The Dominant Submissive

By DX

Copyrighted, 12/2025, all rights reserved.

 Claire stepped back from her front door with a look of trepidation and excitement.  She carefully eyed her work as she hyper-scrutinized the details of the moulding, the contours, the paint, to ensure all the joint work was flush, seamless, and invisible.

 She twirled the screwdriver in her hand like gunslinger, then stuffed it into her tool belt with a satisfied air.  “Three thousand, nine hundred and twelve time’s the charm.”  She whispered excitedly as she pulled off her belt and retrieved her backpack from the couch.

 The backpack was gleaming polished patent leather with shiny silver buckles.  It was perfectly rectangle when viewed from the back, but contoured along her spine.  It had padded shoulder straps and waist belt so she could easily wear it for hours on end.

 She put it on, and buckled it up.  It sat neatly at the bottom of her neck line, in-between her shoulder blades, and ended at the top of her butt.  She left the straps a little slack.

 As she slowly, tentatively, approached the door, she pulled her arms back and snaked her hands into a hole in the lower sides of the backpack, through and through, until she could touch her opposing elbows.

 She paused and looked down at a non-existent line on the floor, then stepped over it.

 Nothing happened.

 Her face flashed with askance as she ran through her checklist, then winced as she remembered.  She pulled her arms free of the backpack and ran into her bedroom and grabbed her gag.

 It was a large, red ball with a spider’s web of gleaming straps.  Stretching her jaw as wide as she could, she held the gag up to her mouth.

 It was too big.

 Claire paused, took a breath, and pushed.  She felt her jaw muscles stretch as she pushed a little more, and then a little more.

 The ball sank into her mouth with a soft pop.  Although the ball’s size kept her from just spitting it out, she pulled on the straps anyway; around her head, over her head, under her chin, and over her nose, making a lattice work of shinning leather across her face.

 She ran her fingers over the straps, then across her stretched, full lips.  She told herself she was checking for proper fit, but in truth she liked the feel of her head in its own bondage.

 She looked back to the door.

 Nodding to herself, she pushed her arms through the holes in her pack, took a breath, and approached the door.

 There was a faint beep, and she felt the micro-servomotors in the buckles of her pack swivel to lock, and the straps and belt retracted tightly.  Air bladders lining the hole inside the backpack filled and gently, but firmly gripped her forearms.  All around her head, the straps of her gag snugged up, and pulled the massive ball that much deeper into her mouth.

 Claire struggled against her restraints, but nothing budged in the slightest.

 With her breath light in her lungs, she took a small step forward.  

 As if by magic, the front door unlocked, and silently swung open.

 She peered into the hallway landing of her apartment.  On the floor before her was a one yard square, highlighted in yellow and black stripes.  Although she was bound and gagged, she was unescorted, and subject to heavy penalties if she stepped beyond that little island of safety.

 Claire was a registered Submissive.

 By law, a Submissive needed to be bound and gagged in public, and be in the company of her Dom or designated chaperone.

 Instead, she stepped back.  In response, the door closed and locked.  She took another step back and her gag lessened and her backpack unlocked.  She repeated the process several times, adjusting the hidden door mechanics down to the slightest degree until it worked perfectly.  She then did it many more times just for fun.

 Elated, she did it again.  She tried to sneak up on it, or with only one arm inserted into the backpack, and each time the door functioned as it should.  It would not let her out of her apartment unless she was properly bound and gagged.  Once outside, she could not be unlocked until she returned home.

 As per the law.

 “Tomorrow,”  She said to herself.  “all that changes.”

 Exhausted, she made herself a light supper, then went on the Net to finalize her appointment, and submitted her final paperwork.  Lastly, she sent a gentle reminder to her Escort.  

 Within seconds he confirmed the appointment reminder.

 Everything was done.  She only had to sit and catastrophize.  What if something failed?  What if they said no?  What if he rejected her? 

 She dispersed the swirling shadows with a shake of her head.  “No need to fear a black eye before the fight’s even started.”  She whispered with a determined sigh as she set the alarm on her cage and crawled in.  She then set a second alarm on her data-watch for no real reason other than if the impossible happened and her cage alarm failed, she had a backup.  She then pulled the cage door shut with a hard, sharp clang to make sure it locked, before she settled down for a good, night’s rest.

 She didn’t sleep a wink.

 She watched her room fill with dawn, no longer pretending to sleep, and waited for the cage to unlock.  When it did, Claire dragged herself out and performed her morning ablutions.  Drying off from the shower, she paused and looked at herself in the mirror.  She was curvy, with lovely legs and callipygous hips.  She had melonous and inviting breasts, properly housed in an indestructible titanium bra which accentuated her long swan neck.  She had soft, full lips, and a slightly puggish nose.  

 Her eyes were pools of melted chocolate, large and expressive.

 Most of the time, they were how she talked.

 Finally, forlornly, she looked down to her womanly charm.

 It was locked.

 It was a brutal thing, hard and cold, and designed to not only protect her from the World’s Sin, but keep her in a state of constant sexual arousal; to encourage blood flow and good health.  Although it was inescapable, she had spent many, many hours, and earned many, many demerits trying to defeat it.  Now as she looked at it, she suppressed the want to try again.  She currently had zero demerits, and wanted to keep it that way. 

 Still, she was monstrously horny.

 Although she didn’t want too, she checked her data-watch for the third time that morning and confirmed what she already knew.  With her estimated accrual of merits, she would be eligible to apply for a forty-five minute unlock in eight months, twelve days, and four hours.  Out of those precious minutes, ten would be spent in a mandatory self health check up.  The remaining thirty-five minutes was her’s to use as she saw fit; although sex or self stimulation was discouraged as a waste of caloric energy.  She could, if she wished, spend her merits on something more productive and just as pleasant as sex, like a ticket upgrade at the local museum.

 Claire had no intention of going to a local museum in eight months, twelve days and four hours.

 What she would likely do was lock herself in her cage and try out one of her handcrafted sex toys for thirty-five minutes.

 She felt a low rumble through her body as she envisioned rolling around the small space of her cage screaming like a banshee, but that was eight months, twelve days, three hours and fifty-nine minutes away.

 As long as she didn’t earn any demerits.

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