Fiction: Sunday Morning

This is a work of fiction written by my close friend W. We sometimes do this thing where I will masturbate while he describes a scenario I give him. On this particular day, I asked to him to imagine that he was my owned slave, with pierced nipples and penis, waking up early on Sunday morning to begin chores while my wife and I are sleeping in. I’ve chosen to share it not only because it’s a unique piece of carefully thought out fiction, but because it’s also a detailed snapshot of what I’m hoping to find as a regular part of my life. - Mr Meany Pants

At 5AM I'm awoken to the odd electric buzz of the electric bolt of the cage door going off. It's a good way to start the morning because I've got 30 seconds to get out before the cage door relocks and if it does I am in deep trouble. I'm a bit groggy but I get out of the cage and immediately turn around to set my bed in order, such as it is. Since I'm in a spare room that night, this consists of putting the cage up on its side where it takes up way less room after taking out the thin mat  pillow and blanket I'm allotted, folding these up and putting them in the closet. I open the door and am immediately hit by a blast of cold air which causes my nipples to harden; this in turn sends a jolt through me as the sensation resonates through the rings that have been put through them, and that causes a sympathetic nod towards the one through my penis, reminding me in turn of the cage locked around it and, more importantly, of the fact that my body was modified to please my owner, which is a good thought to start the day. I wander down to the kitchen, turning up the heat on my way so the house will be warm and toasty - but only in my owner's bedroom and the living room. The kitchen will remain cold since it'd be a waste of power anyway when I'll be cooking in a few hours.

I check the fridge door first - on it there may or may not be instructions, modifications to my protocol, or other bits of pertinent information for me. Since it's Sunday, the list is kept shorter because I'm probably going to be subject to random use throughout the day given the fact that my owner is home and has some free time. The first few things - enough to keep me occupied until I wake them up at 11 - are fairly usual chores, chosen to be completed quietly on a weekend morning - prepare some lunches and freezer dinners for the week, including a supply of my own food, clean that up, wash and wax the kitchen floor silently, dust in all the rooms not currently slept in, start some laundry and then wake up my owners with eggs, apple cinnamon pancakes and tea, to be served to them in bed. moving quickly, I go down and start a load of laundry first. There's a note there saying simply 'Good boy,' but unfortunately for me that reference is coded and means I had best be on all fours unless the task requires otherwise. To help me with that there's also a pair of ankle shackles with a very short chain - I'll get around faster on all fours but they let me stand to cook or dust a high shelf. With those on I quietly shamble upstairs and into the kitchen where I gather the ingredients for a bean casserole, a veggie lasagna, the pancakes and eggs, and the miscellaneous nasty stuff that forms my delicious prison (slave?) loaf. [Author’s Note: The stuff is served to prisoners in some countries, or was, mostly as punishment. It's a poorly-textured but nutritionally-adequate loaf built on a bran and greens puree.] I do all the prep first which is mostly again a labour-saving ploy - I can't use the blender for the loaf due to noise so that will take some time to do manually, but this way while stuff is stewing or baking or boiling I can wax and clean all the floor that isn't stove-adjacent.

With that out of the way and the prison loaf baking away, I leave the now-warm kitchen to do the dusting, change the loads and in general be in the colder parts of the house, the only noise being a periodic jingling of my shackles or, periodically, the barely-audible clicking of my pa ring against the assembly of the chastity device it keeps secure. I haven't been asked, but I wax and wash the foyer floor as well and reorganize the boxes and shoes there, including the locked box that contains the clothes my owner has put aside for me for work, where inside I can softly hear my cell phone beeping periodically from a received message I might get to hear tomorrow.At this point I've got about 60 minutes left so I go up to the bathroom and begin working on the bathroom, scrubbing the fixtures other than the shower and also putting away laundered towels. At the side and back of the cupboard there's my toiletries - they're kept in a nondescript box labelled 'cleaning' (technically true) and include three very thin, threadbare towels and a set of washcloths along with some single ply TP, generic shampoo, mouthwash, soap and toothpaste and a cup, so I also make sure that stuff is stocked up. If it isn't, I'll add it to the now-updated grocery list on the fridge downstairs.

I consider showering but decide against it - while strictly allowed, some Sundays it is frowned upon and the water in the pipes plus the clanking of my shackles on the edge inadvertently might awake the others. I check that everything's spick and span before closing the door, eyes briefly lingering on the subtle mods to the room - hidden against the flush metal of the sliding shower door and the rod that connects it to the wall opposite the tub there are two D-rings to which I might be secured, and there are similarly one in the wall near the toilet floor if I need incentive to do chores there properly or to meditate over a job that needs to be redone (and this is much worse). Wandering back to the kitchen I start the pancakes and eggs off and begin boiling the water for tea while also prepping my own breakfast, which consists of dropping a half-defrosted chunk of loaf into the bowl and pouring some tea over it to finish the thaw. The bowl goes on into a cupboard until I'm told otherwise. I put the pancakes et al on the trays and double check that I've done everything on the list, then make sure my collar and tail plug are straight and begin carrying the trays down the hall, moving along very quietly and very slowly owing to the hobbler, which I quiet by wrapping a towel over it.

I bring in the trays and set them down over laps and then very gently jostle my owner awake, enjoying the chance to make contact as I settle down on my knees. When he is awake, I shuffle backwards and enter a waiting position, spreading my legs and keeping my arms locked behind my back until he motions me over, at which point I lick his hand and nuzzle it as I'm patted. After this I take the plates back to the kitchen as he hauls himself out of bed. A soft clicking noise calls me back and I return with more tea, but my owner stops me in the hallway. He takes me downstairs and pulls out my bowl of food and lays it on the floor, then gestures at the dishes before sitting at the table to read a paper. Before I can clean the last one, he scrapes a few apple pieces from the pancakes into the bowl on the floor and pats my head as I clean that last plate. With a nod, I'm permitted to dig into what's on the floor, which I accomplish by pushing the bowl against the wall into the corner with my nose so it cant get away from me and then using the leverage to wolf down what's in my bowl. After I wash that bowl and put it back under the sink where it belongs, I feel a gentle tug on my one nipple ring and gasp, though I don't pull back - instead I freeze and then follow as I'm gently pulled along by it until we reach the washroom, where I'm pushed into the shower.

The motion is firm, but care is given that I don't trip. With one of his fingers looped through the nipple ring, my arms are gently raised to the ceiling and a loop of chain is passed between the d-rings in the stall and then connected to shackles locked around my wrists. A ratcheting clip is attached to the chains such that the tension on them can be adjusted, anything from forcing my arms up and out to letting them hang down to my sides easily. The chain stays limp for the moment. The cold water hits me suddenly but I avoid doing more than skipping and yelping in shock as it quickly begins to warm up; a hand running down my back helps take my mind off it as I begin to soap and wash myself, and my owner leaves for a moment. When I'm done, I reach out and knock on the door then sink to my knees and wait, fingers locked behind my head,just above my collar. Moments later he ratchets the chains tight, forcing my arms to stretch out well above and away from my head as I am pulled to a standing position. After that a key begins to work the two locks holding my belt on. I step out of it and look down between my legs as the belt is pelted with soap and then the shower head's taken to it, quickly cleansing it of a week's grime. That taken care of, the tube on my penis is removed and I'm cleaned there, two fingers gripping my PA ring and pulling it just short of taught to keep me very, very still, contact with my penis otherwise being limited to a few very cruel, very subtle, nearly accidental strokes, each of which draws a soft whine from me. The whine wins his approval and I don't need (and wouldn't be rude) to look to see my owner's grin. I yelp loudly as the water becomes chillingly cold, signalling the end of my cleaning; a moment later the water is off and my crotch is dried roughly.

My penis disappears back into its confines but before the belt is closed. A thick, well-lubed plug is slipped inside me, ensuring that for the remainder of the day my mind will be very thoroughly focused on my groin despite my duties. The chains around my wrists go slack and I'm tossed a towel, dropping back down to all fours on the mat outside the shower to dry myself before spreading my legs and arms to allow for a quick inspection (an insufficiently dry leg gets me four strokes of the cane). I put the towel away and wash up alongside the tub, nuzzling against my owner and thanking him quietly for keeping me clean, safe, fulfilled and obedient. This earns me a few gentle strokes down the back, but as soon as it's begun it's over, and he walks out of the room, gesturing me to follow.

He leads me back to the spare room. The room can pass, if it needs to, for a legitimate guest room. In the closet there's a folding frame for a bed, and a high-end air-mattress which is kept deflated. That goes over the corner of the far wall, where it handily hides the large d-ring which has been set directly into the jointing studs of the house. In the same closet there's a card table and a doily that goes over it, some knicknacks and art that goes on the walls; when it's all put up, which takes less than 10 minutes, the room looks cheerful if a bit unused. There's also a desk in the corner under the window, with a very basic wooden chair. It's here I'm permitted to do schoolwork; "my" laptop is locked in the desk's one drawer. The room is otherwise deliberately kept bare. There's a bare bulb overhead that throws off 60 watts of sterile white light, and the window across from the door has a fan on it as well as blackout blinds. My cage is already laying on the floor with my mat inside, and with a gesture I crawl inside. As I pass through the door, a hand swats the plug and sends a wave of pleasure through me, making my dick twitch painfully within the metal tube it's locked in. I freeze for a moment and pay for it in spades as master's fingers snake through the straps that incorporate the plug into my belt and begin gently pushing the plug deeper inside me and pulling it back out, an agonizing treatment that goes on for the better part of five minutes until my soft whining is the only sound in the room other than the very soft sound of wet silicone moving frictionless. In this situation, my whining seems to suffice, and the treatment halts with an approving "good boy". I am forbidden to hold in any sound as a matter of course, irregardless: my master will gag me if he wants me silent, otherwise he says my cries serve as a beautiful reminder of the state I'm kept in... a friend of his once told me that I sound more like a bloodhound than a man when I moan or cry out.

The cage door slams shut and the lock on it makes a soft buzz as the thick bolt slides into the reinforced iron of the cage's corner post. My owner smiles down at me and slips a bottle of warm water through the bars of the cage, explaining to me that after all the work he got done this morning he and his wife will be spending the day out, revelling in their accomplishment. I lick the fingers he slips through the bars to pat me. A cell phone is placed on the floor just outside the cage. The phone hosts an app that uses the accelerometers to tell if it's been moved more than an inch or is flipped from its upside-down state. My owner values his property a great deal... the app the phone hosts has a single red button, which when pressed will dial my owner, a kink-friendly neighbour, and one of my owner's friends. It's for emergency use only, though I think he also does it to fuck with me privately...a phone is more of a symbol of independence than most people realize, and a clock is a luxury I am almost never privately allowed as part of my owner's philosophy. Sometime later on the cage door will unlock, and I will be "free" to go downstairs and begin preparing their dinner. He draws the blinds, leaving me no sun to tell the daytime with. As the door closes, I lay back and stare up at the grey metal of my cage's ceiling. Missing my owner already, I whimper beastially and toss onto my side as the hours begin to count.