Monday

He woke up already leaking. His caged clit pressed hard against the bars, useless and aching, twitching with need. It had started in his dream—her voice, whispering Mistress—and he woke up moaning into his pillow, hole clenching around nothing. The thought of not riding was worse than the shame of doing it. His eyes flicked toward the dresser. Monday waited. The translucent dildo stood upright in its slot—six inches long, firmer than Sunday's, veiny, wider. Over 1.25 inches across. It looked like something real. Something male. Something dominant. Nick whimpered as he got out of bed and grabbed it, like it was part of his morning routine now. In a way, it was. He lubed it slowly. Lowered himself onto it on all fours on the carpet. His hole resisted at first—he was still sore from yesterday—but his body knew what to do. The first inch stretched him open. The second made him gasp. By the time it was halfway in, he was moaning freely, hips rocking, back arching as if he couldn't help it. His caged clit pulsed wildly, leaking across the floor, untouched. "Mistress…" he whispered. Then again. "Mistress…" His hole clenched at the word. His hips moved faster. And then, without thought, he came. Again. No stimulation. No contact. Just the weight of the cage, the stretch of the toy, and the word that broke him. But the worst was what came after. He thought he could relax. Recover. Maybe skip the next trigger. But by noon, he was in a clothing store—trying to buy a basic shirt—when a nearby conversation mentioned the word Mistress. Not even his Mistress. Just the word. And suddenly, he was sweating. Shaking. He rushed to the dressing rooms with his man bag, locked the door, and dropped to his knees. The toy was still slick from that morning. He suctioned it to the bench and rode it like he was on a timer—hard, fast, whimpering behind gritted teeth as he stuffed the hem of the shirt in his mouth to muffle the sound. The toy popped free with a wet smack, and his clit twitched again, so swollen in the cage it hurt. He didn't even try to buy the shirt. He just left. He fucked himself again behind the building—knees in the dirt, pants around his thighs, riding Monday like it was her command. He uploaded the last video just after 11 p.m. The app buzzed. Monday: Complete. You're leaking like a bitch in heat. Tomorrow's toy will stretch you wider. Don't disappoint me. Nick sobbed quietly into his pillow, but his clit never softened. Not once. Tuesday was thicker. And he knew he'd take it.