A Good Day

Morning

You wake up where you belong—in your cage at the edge of my bed, your hands tied, collar secured to the frame. You’ve grown accustomed to this, haven’t you? No, more than that—you’ve come to love it. The restraint, the proximity, the quiet reminder of your place.

As I stir awake, you’re already waiting—silent, patient, positioned on all fours, hands still bound, eyes lowered. I reach out and pet your head, running my hand through your hair, a small acknowledgment of your obedience. Then I spit on you, the droplets marking you as mine before I open your mouth and press myself inside. My piss fills you, and you swallow every drop, your obedience flawless. I let out a satisfied sigh and affirm what you already know: “Good boy.”

I let you out, release your hands and command you to prepare breakfast. While I shower, you dutifully follow through, serving my plate at the table and your meal—if it can be called that—into a dog bowl at my feet. When I return, I tie your hands once more, and I force you to the floor. My boot presses against your head, guiding it to the bowl. You eat, humbled, while I savor the view of your muscled body bent on all fours.

I take my time with breakfast, letting you finish first, because watching you—subdued, focused, humiliated—adds to my satisfaction. Once your bowl is empty, I order you to lick my boots clean. As your tongue polishes the leather, I spit on you again, reminding you of your purpose: “You’re nothing but a locked animal, here to serve and obey Me.”

When my boots gleam, I grab your head, pressing it into my crotch. The scent of me floods your senses, and I hear your sigh of pleasure. It’s instinctive, isn’t it? I let you bask in it before ordering you to take me in your mouth. As you suck, I sip my coffee and enjoy the perfect start to the day.

When I finish, I reward your devotion. I cum in your mouth, watching as you swallow every drop and smile. “Good boy,” I say. “Thank you, Sir,” you reply, eager, sincere.

I attach your leash and lead you to the desk, ordering you to remain on all fours under it as I begin my work. You settle around my boots, sighing in quiet contentment, knowing you’re exactly where you belong—at my feet, waiting, ready to serve.

Lunch

As I work, you are ordered to go to the gym, a locked cage of chastity beneath your clothes. Before you begin, you send me a video from the locker room, displaying your obedience and submission. I see the chastity, your silent declaration of who owns you.

When you return from the gym, I decide we’ll have lunch out together. Even outside, the hierarchy between us remains unmistakable. You walk slightly behind me, a silent symbol of your deference. Once seated, I enjoy my meal while you, grateful for the privilege of having lunch with your Master, eat yours carefully. As you eat, I question you about your workout, your effort, and your progress. You respond attentively, each answer measured and respectful, knowing your place.

At a certain point, I take your drink, spit into it, and hand it back to you. Without hesitation, you take it and sip, understanding that even in this small act, your submission is reinforced. I watch you closely, enjoying the balance of control and gratitude in your demeanor.

Afternoon

We head back home, and I order you to serve me coffee . I take my coffee to the sofa, a moment of calm as I read. But you are never far from my thoughts—or my control. I summon you to kneel at my feet. With your back bent under my boots and my coffee cup balanced on your exposed butt, you are reminded of your purpose: to serve and to endure. I finish my coffee, spit on you twice, and deliver a soft slap to your cheek. “Good boy,” I say, a mark of approval.

Then comes your training. I place you on all fours, hooded and restrained in leather. Your tongue works eagerly over my 14-hole boots, cleaning every inch, including the soles. I spit on you, slap you, and spank your ass to remind you of your place in the male hierarchy. “You are a fag,” I tell you firmly. “I am the Alpha Male.” The boots shine when you’re done, and I reward your efforts with a slap, spit in your mouth, and a sharp compliment for your tongue.

It’s time to test your gag reflex. My cock fills your mouth as I thrust hard, pushing you to the brink. You gag, nearly losing control, but you manage to swallow everything. Still, I see room for improvement. You need discipline, and I need the satisfaction of reinforcing the hierarchy.

Your hands are tied in front, and a gag ensures no one will hear your screams. I begin with the flogger, light at first, but gradually increasing the intensity. You moan in pain and twist beneath my control, restrained by your collar and leash. I slide the whip over your back, savoring your fear. Leaning in close, I whisper, “You’re in for 12 whip strikes. This will hurt, boy.”

Your breathing deepens, a mixture of dread and anticipation. I begin:

“12!… Thank you, Master!”
“11!… Thank you, Master!”
“10!… Thank you, Master!”

With each strike, I increase the harshness. By the final two, your body trembles, and I hear the growl I’ve been waiting for—the animal within is surfacing. I lean close and remind you of your reality: “You are a mindless animal. No will, no thought. You exist only to serve Me. You are mine.”

You shudder under my words, unable to resist. Your mind is mine, vulnerable and ready for reprogramming. I offer you encouragement: “You’re doing great, good boy. Just two more.”

The last strikes are delivered with deliberate force. Your body jolts under the whip, your gag muffling your screams. You shake violently but remain obedient. I grab your collar and command you to adopt the posture once more. My whip grazes your back, a reminder of my power. As I lean in, I force you to inhale my scent, hearing your moans of pleasure and surrender.

The final strike lands with brutal precision, leaving a crimson mark that blooms on your back. You collapse onto your knees, trembling and moaning. I sit before you, pulling you into position on all fours, your head resting between my legs. My hands calm you as I gaze into your eyes and see the animal—raw, obedient, and utterly mine.

“You are mine,” I whisper.
“I am yours,” you reply, your voice laced with submission.

I let you know how proud I am, how well you’ve served. Relief and satisfaction wash over you as you realize the punishment is over, and you’re exactly where you belong—at the feet of your Master.

Evening

After dinner, we settle in the living room. I’ve just returned from the gym, muscles warm and satisfied, and now I’m relaxing on the sofa. You are, as always, at my feet, content in your rightful place. Tonight, I decide we’ll enjoy a movie together—a quiet way to end a day of service and discipline.

Halfway through the film, I issue my command. You remove my boots with care and begin massaging my feet. Your hands work diligently, kneading the tension away, but I’m not finished with you yet. I order you to use your tongue, and you obey eagerly. You lick every inch, running your tongue between my toes, ensuring my satisfaction. It’s not just a massage—it’s an act of devotion, and I relish every moment of it.

As your tongue works, my arousal builds. I tell you to bring the leather restraints and the hood—the one with no eyeholes. You fetch them quickly, knowing what’s to come. I order you to clean yourself thoroughly and insert the plug. Tonight, I plan to use you hard.

When you return, I pause the film. On my command, you drop to all fours and take my cock in your mouth. Your tongue moves with practiced precision, and I spank your exposed ass, eliciting moans of satisfaction. With every strike, you respond: “Thank you, Sir,” as a good boy should.

But I want more. Grabbing the collar around your neck, I pull you onto the sofa and position you on all fours. I remove the plug, gag your mouth with my hand, and take you. Your muffled groans fuel my dominance, each sound driving me to fuck you harder. The rhythm is raw, primal, and relentless.

When I’m done, I fill you with my cum. I return you to the ground on all fours and reinsert the plug, locking my fluids inside you. “You’re lucky,” I remind you, “to be used by Me, to host what belongs to Me.” You respond with devotion: “Thank you, Master.”

I remove your hood but leave you restrained at my feet as we finish the film. Your caged dick reminds you of your place, even as I reward your service with gentle affection. I cuddle you, stroking your head, letting you know you’ve been a good boy. Your contented sigh tells me everything I need to hear.

When the movie ends, I lead you to your dog cage. It’s warm, familiar, and comforting—a place where you belong. I secure the door, watching as you roll onto your side, settling in for the night. “Good night, boy,” I say.

“Good night, Master. Thank you,” you reply softly.

As I switch off the lights and climb into bed, I reflect on the day. You’ve served well, been used well, and tonight you rest exactly as you should. It’s been a good day.