Mistress Bonnie demanded Obedience

Oz didn’t sleep.

He lay on the floor beside Mistress Bonnie’s bed, as he always did, his cock still achingly hard, his mind a storm of need and shame and devotion. Every breath brought a reminder of how close he’d come to breaking the night before. Every shift of his body rubbed against his own restraint.

And by morning, he couldn’t bear it anymore.

The sun filtered softly through the curtains as Bonnie stretched atop her bed, the silk of her nightgown clinging to her like water. She hadn’t yet acknowledged him. That was part of the game—denial didn’t end with the act. It carried into the very air between them.

But Oz… had reached his limit.

He heard the voice in his head screaming don’t, but his hand moved before thought could stop it. He crawled forward and—gently, carefully—reached out, fingertips brushing her thigh, desperate to feel her warmth. Not for release. Not even for pleasure.

Just contact.

The silence that followed was colder than any scream.

She turned her head and stared at him. Her eyes weren’t angry. They were disappointed.

That was worse.

“You touched me without permission,” she said, her voice calm and low—too calm.

He knelt instantly, head bowed in horror. “Mistress—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to disobey, I just—”

“You meant to touch me,” she interrupted, rising from the bed. “You meant to take, even if it was just a second.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he whispered, shame burning in his chest. “Please forgive me.”

“I don’t forgive without punishment,” she said. “You know that.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, fingers tapping her thigh.

“Over my knee.”

His heart dropped—and his cock twitched.

He moved without hesitation, crawling forward and draping himself over her lap, his skin electric with shame, arousal, anticipation. This wasn’t play. This was correction.

“You’ve done so well, Oz,” she said, stroking his back slowly. “But submission must be absolute. Without obedience, devotion is just desperation.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he whispered.

The first slap came down hard—a sharp crack echoing through the room. He gasped, not just from the pain, but from the intimacy of it. Her hand was firm, her palm practiced.

Another slap. Then another.

She alternated cheeks with rhythm and precision, her hand never hesitating, never cruel—but undeniably dominant. He whimpered, his thighs tensing as the heat bloomed under his skin.

“You wanted to take without earning it,” SMACK.

“You disrespected my rules,” SMACK.

“You let your desire become more important than your discipline.” SMACK.

His body bucked slightly with each blow, but he didn’t resist. He took it—because he needed it. Needed the structure. Needed the pain as penance.

“Count the next ten.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

SMACK. “One.”

SMACK. “Two.”

Each strike made him harder, humbler. By six, he was moaning. By ten, he was shaking.

When the last blow landed, she let her hand rest on the heat of his skin, gently rubbing the tender flesh.

“You’ll learn, Oz,” she whispered, her voice suddenly softer, yet no less firm. “Pleasure is not yours to take. Not even my touch is yours to seek. Everything you receive must be given. Understand?”

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes—not from pain, but from emotion. From devotion.

“Yes, Mistress. I understand.”

“Good,” she said, helping him to his knees before her. “Then you’ve earned your place again.”

She kissed his forehead—not as reward, but as recognition.

And in that moment, sore and aching and humbled, Oz had never felt more owned… or more whole.

Continuation: “Obedience Learned”

Days passed. Mistress Bonnie offered no release, no further punishment, and no affection beyond command.

But Oz had learned.

He rose before her each morning, naked, kneeling silently at the foot of her bed until she stirred. When she did, he did not speak—only moved into action: fetching her robe, warming her tea, preparing her bath with oils she liked stirred exactly seven times clockwise. The smallest mistake—a teaspoon too much honey, a towel folded unevenly—earned a sharp look, and that was more crushing than pain.

She stripped his pleasures away, one by one. No more sleeping beside her bed—now he curled up at the foot of the stairs. No more eye contact unless invited. No speaking unless spoken to. Even his meals were changed: plain, functional, often served from a dish on the floor while she watched in silence.

And yet… his devotion only deepened.

One morning, after folding her lingerie with perfect precision, Bonnie stood before him with a soft smile.

“You’ve been quiet,” she observed.

“Yes, Mistress. I’m learning.”

“Learning what?”

“To listen more than I speak. To serve without needing praise. To obey… without hoping for reward.”

She stepped closer, brushing her gloved fingertips along his jaw. “You’re becoming useful.”

His chest swelled. Not with pride. With purpose.

“Today,” she said, “you will clean the playroom. Strip it bare. Dust every corner. Polish the implements. Arrange the cuffs, the canes, the paddles… you know how I like them sorted.”

He bowed his head. “Yes, Mistress.”

“You will do this with your cock locked.”

He inhaled sharply. The cage. A cruel little device she used rarely—but only when she wanted him in a state of total focus.

“Of course, Mistress.”

She retrieved the metal device from her drawer, and he knelt still as a statue while she locked him in. The pressure was immediate—his arousal hadn’t faded in days—but now it had nowhere to go.

“There,” she said with a smile, clicking the lock shut. “Now you’re mine in body as well as will.”

She handed him a bucket of water and a cloth. “Start from the corners. I want to smell lemon oil in the grain of the wood.”

The playroom was sacred.

Dark floors, leather furniture, tools of discipline gleaming on the wall. Every item had a place. Every inch bore the memory of his submission.

And now he scrubbed it on his knees, in silence, sweat running down his back, the cage pulsing with the cruel ache of denied need.

Every so often, Bonnie entered to inspect. She offered no compliments—only corrections.

“Too much polish on the stocks.”
“You left streaks on the Saint Andrew’s Cross.”
“Straighten the straps. They should look like they want to be buckled.”

He obeyed without question.

When he finished, he knelt before her once more, panting, raw, exhausted, his cock pulsing helplessly against the steel restraint.

She walked around him slowly, savoring the sight. “You’ve given me a clean space to dominate you in. That’s real devotion. Mundane. Unsexy. And absolutely essential.”

He shuddered, her words hitting deeper than any paddle.

She leaned down, fingers under his chin. “Do you want release?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he whispered. “Desperately.”

“Then serve harder.”

He closed his eyes. “Yes, Mistress.”

She stood tall again, turning away.

“Tomorrow,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, “you’ll clean me. Head to toe. Slowly. With only your mouth.”

Then she left him—aching, throbbing, mind blank but for one truth:

He belonged to her.

And if she made him wait forever, he’d suffer every moment with devotion.