Seven Days of Shame

The package was waiting when Nick got home. Black box. Pink ribbon. No return address—just a tag that read: "For My Sissy's Training." His hands trembled as he opened it. Inside: foam-lined compartments holding seven glossy dildos, each labeled with a day of the week in elegant cursive. They weren't random. They were a system. A ritual. A schedule of degradation. Sunday's was small and smooth—light pink, five inches long, barely over an inch wide. It looked harmless. Soft. Beginner-sized. Perfect for a nervous little sissy with a tight, unused hole. Monday's was firmer, translucent, six inches long with a little more girth—1.25 inches wide—clear and veiny. The kind of toy that made you feel filled, but still manageable. Tuesday came in hot pink, six and a half inches, 1.5 inches thick, with a defined head and textured shaft. It looked real now. Not soft, not gentle. A toy that made Nick's cage twitch in panic and shame. Wednesday's was darker—deep purple, seven inches, 1.75 inches wide, with a thick, flared head and subtle ridges along the sides. The kind of toy that made you moan before it was even halfway in. Thursday's was a rich cherry red, seven and a half inches, nearly two inches wide. Thick veins, a fat head, and a flexible shaft that still offered no mercy. Friday's was cruel. A dark brown beast, eight inches long, two inches thick, with heavy textures, throbbing detail, and a suction base that meant Mistress expected him to ride it properly—hands-free, bouncing, back arched. And Saturday? Saturday was black. Glossy. Heavy. Nine full inches. Two and a quarter inches wide at its thickest. Ribbed from base to tip. No curve. No give. Just a blunt instrument of ownership. The kind of dildo designed not for pleasure, but for punishment. At the bottom of the box was a card. "Every day, you'll use the toy marked for that day. When you think of me—which I know you will—you'll get on your knees, lubed and ready, and take what you're given. Your mind belongs to me. Your hole will learn to follow. Record every ride. I want to see the progress. No skipping. No whining. If I find out you avoided a day… I'll double your time on Saturday." The reward was listed in small print: $500 total for the week. He barely noticed it. Mistress knew—this wasn't about money anymore. It was about ritual. Rewiring. Claiming him from the inside out. He picked up Sunday's toy. It felt light in his hand. Silky. Manageable. But all he could do was stare at the rest—lined up like a countdown to something darker. Something final. He set Sunday's toy on the floor, pressed the suction base flat to the tile, and got on all fours. The cage throbbed against his panties. His hole twitched. He hit record. And slid down onto it. The app buzzed before he even finished moaning: "Good girl. Start slow. Saturday's coming."