The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

To say that Cynthia is a bit anxious about her dreams tonight would be a understatement. She lies down as a supplicant on her own bedroom floor twice. The first time she never really makes it to sleep, eventually getting up to get a glass of water. Then she has to psych herself into going back to “bed”. The second time she does fall half asleep, but before she begins to dream she feels the call of nature, gets up, pees, then fails to pep talk herself into sleeping again. But Cynthia is nothing if not a creature of habit, the last several days of “hooky from heroing” notwithstanding. So as she sits in her living room, on her couch, hours after her bedtime, trying to convince herself that she needs to go back to “bed”, she manages to drift off to sleep right there.

It takes over an hour before she begins to dream. And tonight’s dreams are particularly jittery and fragmented. It’s almost as if her subconscious mind doesn’t want to give me an opening in which to swap her out. That would be a first. But eventually it comes. She is hacking her way through a dense jungle with a machete, when a giant translucent pink python attacks her, wrapping coil after giant coil over her helpless body. Now seems like as good a time to swap her as any. And so I do.

Lying prostate before me she feels like a straight-A student who couldn’t finish her assignments, dreading that moment when her teacher calls for them. But I’m “noticing” none of that, on the couch watching the baseball game. “...Swing and a miss, strike 2...”

Finally she screws up her courage and begs to serve her Lord.

“Beer me, baby bitch.”

She hurries to comply. After presenting the beer to me on her knees she remains there looking at me with equal parts fear and longing. Soon the longing is beginning to win out. The delicious smell of her Lord is everywhere, and the feeling of emptiness, of lack, of “something missing” between her legs is beginning to prey on her mind.

“Can you cook?”

She is ripped suddenly from her thoughts of yearning. «I’m a world-class gourmet chef! NO! No! Humbly!» “I, I like to cook, My Lord. Would you like me to cook for you?“

“You should find everything you could possibly need in the refrigerator, the freezer, the cabinets. I expect dinner promptly at 6:30.” I point at the clock on the entertainment center, which currently reads “3:14”.

“Don’t disappoint me.”

Of course, disappointing me is now the last thing on her mind. She started this “dream” certain that I would order her to do something she can’t do. Instead I am ordering her to do something she can do blindfolded. She’s literally jumping to comply.

In the fridge she finds two thawed filets mignon and a large selection of veggies, fruits, other staples. The cabinets are well-stocked with baking supplies, oils, spices. She has time to make her own sauces. She has time to make soup from scratch. She has time to bake freaking bread.

She sees a chef’s apron hanging from a hook and debates herself over whether or not she is implicitly allowed to wear it. Ultimately she decides that her Lord would not want his property ruined by ugly burn scars and puts it on. In 20 minutes she has the beginnings of a creamy butternut squash soup simmering. She’s pounding out the bread dough and thinking about sauces, salad dressings, condiments, and, of course, sex.

Well, romance that is. In her mind she sees our dinner together, and the vision is making her warm and drippy between her legs. She sees my heart soften now that I have experienced what she really has to offer. Over a taper-lit table, looking out into the city skyline, enjoying the fruits of her labor, we hold hands, we smile, we talk. Clearly her Lord will always be in charge; she wouldn’t have it any other way. But tonight I would begin to see her as a person to be respected, not just a slave, a pet, a fuckdoll.

I can work with that. In the midst of her reverie, her daydream-within-a-dream, she notices me walking into the kitchen. As she starts to turn and drop to her knees. I bark, “As you were.”

She turns her attention back to the dough, kneading it somehow more coquettishly. Standing behind her, I reach up under her apron and cup her breasts. I begin squeezing them in time with her own squeezes on the bread dough. She moans and leans back into me. I bend down and begin nibbling her neck. She moans again, louder and begins to lose her rhythm.

“Something smells amazing in here,” I whisper in her ear.

“I NNNNNGGGHH I love to cook...My Lord!“

“Yeah,” I breathe, “I guess the food smells okay too. Bend over.”

She has just enough presence of mind to sweep the dough out of the way, but there’s nothing she can do about the thick coating of flour all over the counter in front of her. Arms, hair, apron, and side of face all are painted with fine white powder as I slide into her warm wet pussy.

Slowly, gently, I push my cock all the way to the base and say “cum”. She does, loudly and vigorously. Slowly I withdraw until only the tip is still inside. Her moan causes a small cloud of flour to swirl atop the counter.

Slowly back in until scrotum meets pelvic bone. “Cum.” New orgasm washes over still-twitching old.

Slowly out. Slowly in. “Cum.”

And so on and so on. For next 12 minutes and 43 seconds, Cynthia’s universe explodes over and over and over again, until finally I grunt “Cum” for the last time and add my explosion to her own.

“Well, I guess you better get back to work.”

Through loud ragged breaths and a long groan she finally gets out a coherent “Yes, My Lord.”

“I hope I didn’t ruin the bread.”

“No, ha, WHEEZ, hah My Lord. It nnnnnnneeded to sit hah and rise for hah a while anyway.“

“Okay.” And I’m gone. Back to the game. I’ve knocked her world off its axis, but clearly to me it was just a pleasant distraction.

Now it’s 6:15, and Cynthia is in the home stretch. It had taken her a few minutes to recover from my sneak attack, but, truth to tell, she had plenty of time. Soup and salad and bread are ready; asparagus and shallots are back down to a low simmer; salad dressings: raspberry vinaigrette and catalina, are prepared; the burner under the dijon bearnaise is off to prevent accidentally scalding it, but the lid on the pan should keep it warm. Then there is the meat. The most critical detail in cooking tenderloin is the fat that it is cooked with, so these filets are each wrapped in two slices of bacon with a good-sized dollop of butter on top as well, all sitting at room temperature. «Paula Deen, you amateur, eat your heart out,» she thinks to herself, grinning. Filets will go in after the soup and salad go to the table. «Gotta have some quality time with my man, er, Lord!»

She has already set the places, lit the candles, brought out the salad dressings and a large carafe of ice water, selected a cabernet sauvignon from the wine rack. Now she’s going back for the soup and salad. She and I arrive back at the table at the same time.

“Well, this is all very nice,” I say, “but these dishes are not for you. I have a special dish for you. You can find it in the lower cabinet, under the sink. You’ll know it when you see it.”

“Um. Yes. My Lord.” Cynthia is confused. «“Special dish”? What kind of special dish?» After putting the filets into the oven and setting the timer, she begins rummaging around under the sink. She can’t imagine what I mean. And then she finds it. Her “dish” is a metal double-bowl doggy dish. Tears begin to flow. Her dreams of a romantic dinner crumble. «“I’m a horny bitch, a perverted cunt, a needy, whining animal”», she hears herself saying in her head. «”“I’m your slave, your toy, your plaything.” “I’ve been bad...Please punish me...Teach me how to be pleasing to you! I want to be a good girl again!“»

She brings her dish back to the table. She has wiped away her tears and is wearing a forced smile, but her sniffles and wet, red eyes give her away. Even so her nipples are hard rubber; her humiliation is fueling her arousal, but it’s still difficult to swallow this demeaning symbol of her true status. She kneels and sits back beside his chair at the head of the table. She holds the doggy dish in her lap and looks down at it. Even with her plastic grin she cannot look up at me.

“Where snif should I put my d-dish, snif M-my Lord?“

“Right there beside the table is fine,” I say, pointing to a spot on the floor off my left. “And keep yourself here alongside me where I can reach you.”

Warmth washes over her at the thought of me “reaching” her. “Yes, My Lord.” She lays down the dish, then another thought strikes her. “My Lord, may I braid my hair? I can do it quickly!”

“Because?”

“I want to stay clean for you. I don’t want to get hair in my food or food in my hair.”

“Yes. But if you prefer there are some rubber bands in the kitchen junk drawer.”

“Yes, My Lord. Thank you, My Lord.” She’s up and moving.

Talking to her back I ask her if she wants some water and some soup.

“Yes to both, please, My Lord.”

“Oh, and bring a corkscrew.”

I pour some water into the right depression, then ladle some soup into the left. She is back in less than a minute, unruly tangle of a low but tight pony tail draped down her back. She kneels and presents the corkscrew, then turns toward the first course of her meal, kneeling, sitting back, hands on knees, waiting.

“You may begin.”

She bends down to the dish, knees down, ass up, supported by her elbows with her head above the dish. Slowly I begin to stroke her lower back and buttocks, petting her. As she slurps and laps at her soup and her water, she snuggles closer to me, her thigh and hip now pressed against the side of my chair. With every movement of her head she feels an electric thrill of her hard nipples scratching against the parquet floor. With that and with the thrill of the humiliation, my gentle touches and strokes have her as aroused and ready as she has ever been.

“This soup is excellent, creamy, spicy. What is it?”

Rising up a bit from her noisy meal, she responds, “It’s a sort of butternut squash bisque, My Lord. It’s my own recipe.”

“Well, it’s delicious. If the rest of the meal is this good I will be impressed.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” she says, returning to slurping and smacking in the bowls.

I’m taking my time, I want her to finish before I do, and she does. She sits back. My hand on her ass trails up her side, her shoulder, finally to her messy, soup-covered cheek.

“I’m sorry, My Lord!”

“It’s okay, just clean it up.”

She first uses her hands and mouth to clean her own face. Then she turns to my hand, licking the palm, sucking each finger clean. My thumb, it seems, inspires her somehow. She begins sucking and suckling my thumb suggestively, even though she is still afraid that I will be displeased with her actual fellatio.

“Would you like some salad?”

pop “Um, ah, yes, My Lord.“

“Which dressing?”

“The vinaigrette please, My Lord. Just a little.”

“More water?”

“Yes please, My Lord.”

She goes back to elbows and knees and noisily munches her salad. I go back to my soup and my stroking. The backs and insides of her thighs are sizzling hot. Reaching further up under I can feel her wetness, her readiness. She moans as I lightly stroke her engorged sex, but resumes eating. I am finishing my soup as she is licking up the last slice of radish from the bottom of her dish.

I stand up, drop trou, and sit back down again. “Whatever will you do until the next course is ready?”

There’s really no need for even that bit of faux subtlety. She is, after all, my property. Still she struggles. “My Lord, m-m-may I give you...may I...”

“Give me a blow job?”

“Y-yes, My Lord.”

“You’ve worked on it?”

“Not entirely...successfully, My Lord.”

“Well then, let’s see what you’ve got.”

As I dish out my salad, she crawls under the table and grasps my semi-erect cock. «It’s huge, but thank the Gods it’s not as big and thick as the Monster» She kisses the tip. She fondles my balls, eliciting a grunt from me. She licks and kisses all up and down the shaft, flicking her tongue all around my glans, kissing and sucking the slit as the first drops of my pre-cum emerge. She savors the taste, knowing that this flavor will be a significant part of her life from now on.

Now she goes down in earnest. She has decided on a strategy, a “plan of attack” as it were, and I must say I’m enjoying it. As she goes down, pushing my cock further into her hot wetness, she pushes the glans up against the rough roof of her mouth, while slathering the soft underside of my member with her tongue. When it reaches her tonsils she pulls back. Her lips, which up to this point have been perfect pillowy pads, now become a tight vacuum seal as she sucks in as hard as she can, pulling away from my cock. It’s...effective. After several cycles I am hard as a rock. But I want more. As my member reaches the back of her throat one more time I grab the back of her head and grunt, “Further, all the way.”

She prepares for the worst. She shudders, but pushes further, trying in vain to suppress her relentless gag reflex, and...succeeds! My cock slides down her esophagus. Her nose is soon buried in the thatch of my pubic hair. I can feel rather than see her lips try to stretch into a satisfied grin. She enthusiastically begins to explore my scrotum with her tongue. After more than a minute, she finally surfaces from her dick-diving expedition, not forgetting to maintain suction throughout the up stroke.

“I did it, My Lord! I did it! I did it! When I practiced I couldn’t deep-throat at all. I was so scared that I was going to fail and make you mad, but...but I DID IT!”

“That’s nice, baby bitch, and I’m happy for you, really. But right at the moment I’m annoyed that you stopped sucking my cock!”

“OH! Oh, I’m sorry, My Lord. I’ll MMFFT.” The last is a bit muffled by my prick as I force her face back on top of it again. Soon she is slurping, moaning, humming, as she goes about her happy work.

But she only gets five or six long, deep strokes in before the kitchen timer begins to buzz. She looks up at me and whines, cock head still in her mouth, eyes pleading to be allowed to finish what she started.

“Little fucktoy, if you ruin this perfect dinner just because you can’t get enough cock, I will thrash you until all you CAN do is whimper and whine. GO!”

Actually, she started moving as I was saying “perfect dinner”. She was already tossing on her apron by the time I finished. Pride trumping lust? A little bit. Fear trumping both? A little bit of that too. But mostly it’s the realization that she isn’t doing my bidding. She suddenly sees herself as a bad, selfish slave—while sucking my cock, no less!—and she needs to finish that “perfect dinner” in order to truly be my “good girl”.

So now she’s in the kitchen and not sure how to present the main course. Before, she had planned to bring out loaded plates for both of us. Now she knows that she will NOT be eating her portion from a plate, so she is at a loss. She doesn’t want to overreach again. She decides that she will put one filet and one portion of shallots and asparagus in a small bowl instead. Balancing a plate, a bowl, and a gravy boat full of dijon bearnaise sauce, she returns. Kneeling she presents everything to me individually, trying but not succeeding in hiding her pride. She presents the bowl as “extra portions”, careful not to presume that it is hers at all.

Well, let’s deal with that right now. “Would you like some meat, little cocksucker?”

“Yes, please, My Lord.” She blushes at her well-earned appellation.

I cut up about a third of the filet on a bread plate and scrape it into her dog dish. “Some veggies?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

Again cutting into bite-size pieces and scraping into the bowl. “Some sauce?”

“Just a little, please, My Lord.”

“Bread?”

She thinks a second. “No, thank you, My Lord.”

“You may eat.”

Soon I can feel her warm, smooth, up-raised hip against my bare thigh. I idly pet her ass, back, and thighs while I eat, liberally praising the flavor and quality of the meal. Every happy noise out of my mouth sounds like “good girl” to her. She shivers with joy and arousal, all the more so with her erect nipples again pressing and rubbing against the floor as she eats. She is now more ready than ever to get back to her unfinished work between my legs, but still takes some time to enjoy the fruits of her work in the kitchen.

Again she is done much sooner than I am. Looking at me with bright eyes she begs—yes, begs—to continue her oral ministrations. I consent, of course. I’m gracious that way.

It’s good to be “Lord”. I’m enjoying a lovingly crafted gourmet meal and a well-chosen wine while the chef/butler eagerly sucks me off under the table. Cynthia is a happy camper too, playing with her newfound toy, cheerfully waiting for and working toward the moment I cum in her mouth. As I finish the last bite of beef, I give her what she wants, with fine control of the male orgasm that only comes from literal millennia of my male slavebody breeding program. As she swallows my seed, I then tell her to cum, which she does, with her fine deferred control of and internal abandon of a mind-blowing female orgasm. This too comes from millennia of my female slavebody breeding program.

After almost a minute of orgasm and several more minutes of mindless afterglow, the fog in her mind begins to lift. She feels the head of my cock still in her mouth. She knows she still has responsibilities. Immediately she begins briskly washing my genitals with her mouth, not to arouse (although it does a bit), but to clean.

Having seen to my cleanliness, she now surveys the aftermath of dinner. She rises to put away leftovers. She cleans silver, china, crystal, pots, pans, utensils. I’ve taken off all my clothes for comfort and am lying au naturel on the couch with one last goblet of the cabernet, fully sated in more ways than one. She is wiping down and drying stovetops and countertops and sinks. “Her” dish is clean and back under the sink. The table is cleared and cleaned. She has hung up her apron and removed the rubber band holding her pony tail; once more her hair hangs free.

Now she is prostrate before me just like many times before, but her plea is not the standard one. “My Lord, please don’t send me back!”

“What?”

“Please, I beg you, My Lord. I have nothing to offer, no way to bargain. Everything I am and have to give is already yours. But please, please let me stay with you!“

“What makes you think I control your comings and goings?”

“My Lord...” She struggles to find the words, or even the thoughts. “My Lord and Master, you control everything about me.“

“Is that so?”

Her head on the floor looks up worshipfully and nods, whispering, “everything”.

“Very well. You may stay for the evening. Come with me.”

I take her hand. In her mind I can feel it tingling at my touch, so attuned is she to me. We walk back down the hallway to my bedroom, the one room in the apartment that she has never seen. The bed is a full king size and of course luxurious. She expected that. What she did not expect was the Great-Dane-sized dog bed at the foot of my bed. Her eyes are locked onto it. Slowly she tears her eyes away and looks at me.

“F-f-for me, My Lord?”

“Yes, baby bitch, but later, much later.”

Mutely she nods her head. Her nipples grow even harder and tighter. Her sex begins to drip in earnest.

“Yes, My Lord. Th-thank you, My Lord.”

“Oh,” I say, opening a drawer and pulling out something she can’t see, “I have a present for you. I have decided to give you a name.” I hold out her gift. It is a soft leather dog collar with a heart-shaped nametag dangling from it. I put my hand under the nametag, presenting it for her to see clearly: “Cindi Cumdump”

Her voice takes on a chill. “You, you know exactly who I am, don’t you?”

“’DON’T YOU’ WHAT?” I shout.

“M-my Lord! Don’t you, My Lord!?”

“Cynthia Royal? Yes, I know exactly who you were.“

“I...I mean, you know everything...MY LORD!“

I turn the nametag over. On the reverse side it reads “Majesticunt”.

Her tears flow silently, but her arousal at this latest humiliation is overpowering her.

“This...this isn’t a dream at all, My Lord, is it?”

“No Cindi. This is all real. This is all really happening.”

“I think...somewhere inside, I always knew. It felt so real; YOU felt so real, My Lord, that it seemed more like my waking life was a dream. But I wanted this to be a dream to save my pride. My stupid, overbearing pride. I...I-I always hated to be called ‘Cindy’. It just didn’t seem...dignified...M-my Lord. It offended my pride,” she says, spitting the last word.

“And now?”

“Now...I think that the first time I hear you call me ‘Cindi Cumdump’...I’ll cum like a freight train.”

“Kneel.”

She kneels and without prompting lifts her hair from the back of her neck. I put on her collar, tight enough that she will always feel it, loose enough that she can slide her hand under it up to mid-palm. She is Cindi Cumdump, my slave, my pet, my fucktoy. And she couldn’t be happier about it.

I pull back the covers on my bed. Then I push her backward back onto the sheets. I hold her arms together and kiss her hands. I push them back and pin them down to the bed over her head. “Whose arms are these?”

“They are Cindi Cumdump’s arms, My Lord.”

“How can that be? She is my property; how could property have property?”

“They are your arms, My Lord?“

“I don’t think so,” I say, exaggeratedly holding up and looking at my free arm, “My arms are hard and strong. These arms are thin and soft and weak. Try again.”

She is struggling and doesn’t know what to do or say to please me. It doesn’t help that her arousal and confusion is making it hard for her to think. So I seed her with the answer. “They are your slut arms, My Lord!” she offers.

“Mmmmm, I see,” I say, moving, kissing down the length of an arm until I reach her hair. With my free hand I grab a hand-full of it and lift it to my face, inhaling her scent. “And whose hair is this?”

“It’s your slut hair, My Lord!”

Kissing and blowing into her ear, I whisper, “And these ears?”

“Your slut ears, My Lord!”

And on I go, laying claim to my slut eyes, my slut nose, my slut cheeks, my slut mouth—although she cannot name it until I have finished a long, deep, and penetrating kiss—on to my slut throat, my slut shoulders, my breasts, tits, boobs, jugs.

She insists on trying on all those names and more for size, which suits me as I intend to linger over them, squeezing, tweaking, sucking, playing, as long as she is talking about them. She waxes eloquent, reasoning that since they are a female-only anatomical feature that she can and should drop the “slut” prefix. I nod in agreement. I slurp and suckle, cup, squeeze, and tease as she continues to come up with new names for my latest acquisition.

Eventually I place a finger to her lips and move on. I scrape my fingers down my slut back, kiss my slut tummy, squeeze and spank my slut ass. Then I lift my slut legs up onto my shoulders, press my chest into the back of my slut thighs, and begin thrusting my cock into my hot, wet, swollen cunt.

She was ready to cum from before my first kiss, from the first moment she released ownership of her own arms. Now her submission, her arousal, her lust, her crying need to cum are all she can think of.

“Please, My Lord, your cunt is ready to come. I am your cunt. Cindi Cumdump is your cunt. Cindi Cumdump is ready to cum! Please let Cindi cum, Lord! Please dump your cum in Cindi the cunt! Please, Lord! Ohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseoh...”

She is beginning to squirt cunt juice around my pistoning member, but I’m still not ready to let her cum.

I reach my free hand up and close it around her throat. “Whose breath are you breathing, bitch?”

Raggedly, hoarsely, eyes wide with terror, she shouts, “Yours! My Lord! I hack I’M BREATHING YOUR SLUT BREATHS! BREATHING YOUR...AIR INTO YOUR SLUT LUNGS!“

“Everything you are, everything you have, everything you think, everything you feel, your very life, it all belongs to me.”

“YES, MY LORD! gah I’M LIVING YOUR SLUT LIFE.“

“Every breath, every morsel of food, every drop of water all given to you for my purposes, so that you can serve me.”

“I LIVE TO SERVE YOU, MY LORD! ALL YOURS, MY LORD!” Her breathing is a thin whistle, fighting to force air past the gripping constriction of my hand.

“Every groan, every grunt, every squeal, every crying tear, every slutty flirty smile, MINE!”

“I MOAN, SCREAM, BEG, LAUGH, CRY JUST TO PLEASE YOU, MY LORD!”

“Cum for me, Cindi Cumdump.”

“GROOOOOOOAAOAAAOOOOAAANNNNNNNN!” Involuntarily she begins bucking back against me, the fear adding to the humiliation adding to the raw chemical lust as she explodes. But I am still pinning down her arms—my slut arms—with one hand, gripping her throat—my slut throat—with the other, and resting my weight on her thighs—my slut thighs—which are still folding her in half. And I am still, relentlessly, thrusting, thrusting, thrusting into her/my cunt.

As the orgasm tails off I trigger her again. She explodes again. This is draining her and it’s hard to get enough air with my choking hold on her. “My slut face” is beet red and “my slut eyes” reflect the honest fear for “my slut life” that I see in “my slut mind”. Just a bit more...

Now I cum, and command her to cum again. I release arms and throat. I shift my weight down onto “my cunt”—shoving and holding my cock as far as it will go, pubis to pubis—relieving the pressure on “my slut thighs” and on “my slut chest”.

Now she adds thrashing to her moaning and panting, but ultimately she relaxes, though heaving and shivering. She looks up at her Lord, her Master, her Owner with eyes of worship, wholly submitted to my Lordship, wholly cowed by my swift discipline enforcing exacting standards, wholly committed to the rewards of utter perfect servile surrender. I am her world, her Alpha and Omega. Just to drive one more nail in the coffin of her old life, I whisper, “Cum, Majesticunt.”

She groans again, louder than the first time, thinking back on the fool that she has been while I played her like a fine violin. Into this orgasm she pours all the shame, all the frustration, all the futile resistance, all the fear of discipline, all the vain hope that this was a dream, all the myriad of ways in which I have utterly and irrevocably changed her in less than a week. Then follows all the lust and need and submission and resultant joy that comes from being my “good girl”. “Majesticunt” cums like she never has before. The aftershocks of this orgasm go on for minutes that seem to her like hours.

At the end “my slut eyelids” are fluttering. She can’t keep eye contact although she wants to give her soul to me with those eyes. She can’t speak although she wants to sing Homeric epics about the currents of submissive joy coursing through mind and body. She can’t move although she wants to find new ways to serve me, to prove her loyalty anew to me, to herself, to the world. She cannot even maintain consciousness although she doesn’t want to miss a moment of the most transformative experience of her life.

As “my slut eyes” close, I pick her up and carry my pet to my pet bed. She curls up and snuggles into the cushiony oval, smiling broadly.

I murmur, “Good night, Cindi Cumdump.”

Half-consciously she replies, “G’night, M’Lord.”

Swapped back into her well-rested body, home in Portal City, she suddenly awakens. She is still on the couch where she fell asleep, but now posed in her prostrate slave position, head down, ass up, arms outstretched. She rises and looks up at the grandfather clock in the hallway. She sees that the morning is almost gone; it’s after 11. Now she knows what has happened, and it all feels so wrong! She shouts to me, wherever I am, “NO, MY LORD! TAKE ME BACK! PLEASE!” She barely restrains herself from beating (and hence destroying) the couch in her frenzy.

Nothing in her actual body feels a vivid, as arousing, as sexy, as it does in her “dream” body. «His slut body,» she corrects herself. «It’s not a dream, and I don’t...don’t own myself there. He owns me. Everything I am is His.» She wants Him to own her here too. To possess her, to discipline her, to reward her. And then she sees something on the coffee table.

It’s a stainless steel collar with a sort of padded velvet backing and a thick D-ring. «ah, to attach the leash» she thinks warmly and smiles. Along with it, there is a smooth stainless steel heart-shaped padlock and key. The lock may look cute, but she can tell it’s a serious lock «serious for powerless mortals, that is». Examining the lock more closely she finds that the key not only releases the shackle, but also opens a hidden locket door. The inside of the locket is textured and painted red, with silver embossed letters for the words on each side of the open locket. On the left: “Cindi Cumdump”; on the right: “Majesticunt”. Somehow her Lord is still with her, even in this dull hero’s life that she is forced to lead without him.

She puts on the collar and attaches the lock. The shackle won’t latch unless she closes the locket first, so she does. All closed up and secure now; it’s light; it’s comfortable; it’s a perfect fit. It’s more than a little eccentric. Really it’s over the top. But then so is the rest of her Majestic Woman «Majesticunt» uniform. Now she is collared for her Lord, albeit somewhat more secretively than she is in his presence. She is still sad that she has to be away from him, but happy for this link to him, this reminder of who really is in charge of her life.