Sunday

The cage hadn't stopped pulsing since the box arrived. Every glance at the dildos lined up on his dresser made Nick's locked clit throb against the steel. It was like his body knew what was coming before his mind had fully accepted it. Sunday's toy looked almost innocent—five inches long, soft pink, smooth, just over an inch thick. Barely more than a plug. But that wasn't the point. Mistress didn't care about size. She cared about control. Every time you think of me, you ride. That's what the card said. That was the rule. And Nick couldn't stop thinking of her. The second his mind whispered Mistress, his body reacted—knees weakening, hole clenching, breath catching. It happened first thing in the morning. He was brushing his teeth when her name flickered through his brain, and without thinking, he dropped to his knees on the bathroom floor, pulled Sunday's toy from the drawer, suctioned it to the tile, lubed up, and mounted it. Still in his pajama top, face half-lathered, moaning into the toothpaste foam. He came—hard. No touch. No warning. His clit twitched uselessly inside the cage as his hole fluttered around the toy, desperate for approval he knew she wouldn't give. But the shame only made him harder. He cleaned up. Showered. Thought he was done. But he wasn't. Not even close. That afternoon, the trigger hit him in the produce aisle. Someone said the word mistress—a mom telling her kid to say thank you to a teacher—and Nick's knees nearly gave out. He rushed to the back of the store, clutching the man bag Mistress told him to carry. Inside: lube. Wipes. That day's toy. He found the family restroom, locked the door, yanked down his sweats, suctioned the dildo to the floor, and fucked himself over the changing table. Quiet. Fast. Dirty. When the toy popped out of him with a wet sound and his caged clit throbbed wildly without release, he collapsed on the cold tile and whispered, "Thank you, Mistress." By evening, he'd ridden the Sunday toy four times—once in the bathroom, once in the store, once in the backseat of his car behind a gas station, and once bent over in his bedroom, watching himself in the mirror, chanting, "Mistress. Mistress. Mistress." He uploaded the final video at 11:57 p.m. The app buzzed. Sunday: Complete. Mistress is watching. You were a good little starter hole. Let's see how you take Monday. Nick whimpered. His clit twitched. And his eyes glanced, helplessly, toward the next dildo—translucent, six inches, thicker, harder. Monday waited. And Mistress was always in his head.