The next morning arrived with silence.
No bell. No summons.
And yet Oz waited on his knees beside Mistress Bonnie’s bed, nude but for the cold steel of his cage. The ache was constant now—no longer a sharp need, but a dull, steady reminder of his submission. The cage didn’t just deny him pleasure. It focused him. Purified him.
When Bonnie finally stirred, she said nothing. She stretched, rose from bed in her satin robe, and walked past him without a glance.
He followed her silently, crawling behind her bare feet as she glided down the hall toward her private bathing chamber. Steam clung to the air, and a clawfoot tub waited, half-filled, scented with oils he had prepared the night before: lavender, eucalyptus, and just a hint of bergamot—her favorite combination.
She disrobed in one fluid motion, letting the silk slide from her body. The sight of her—nude, regal, and utterly in control—stole the breath from his lungs.
“Kneel.”
He obeyed instantly.
She stepped into the tub, the water rippling around her calves as she settled in with a satisfied sigh. Her eyes closed, head tilted back, arms resting along the rim like a goddess on her throne.
“Begin.”
Oz moved closer, head bowed. There were no tools. No cloth. No sponge. Only his lips, tongue, and breath.
He began at her feet.
Each toe was worshipped with a kiss. Each arch adored with a reverent lick. He massaged the tension from her soles with his mouth alone, pausing only when her sharp inhale signaled pleasure.
“Slower,” she murmured.
He obeyed, letting his tongue trail languidly up her ankle, past her calf, to the crease of her knee. There, he lingered—kissing gently, reverently, before moving higher.
He did not touch her with his hands. His palms remained flat on his thighs, his body positioned just below the rim of the tub. He was offering, not seeking. Serving, not desiring.
His tongue found the line of her thigh, tracing upward, pausing just beneath the swell of her hip. He could smell her arousal now—faint, like heat in the air—but he did not move toward it.
That would be presumptuous.
“You’re learning restraint,” she said, her voice a low purr. “Even with your mouth so close to where you ache to be.”
He moaned softly, his cage pulsing painfully. “Yes, Mistress.”
“Do you know what separates a submissive from a servant?”
He paused, breathless. “No, Mistress.”
“A servant does what he’s told. A submissive anticipates what pleases me… and sacrifices what pleases him.”
He trembled. “I want to be yours in both, Mistress.”
“Then continue. Slowly.”
He worked up her torso next—trailing his tongue between her ribs, over her belly, circling her navel with slow reverence. Each kiss was offered like prayer. When he reached the underside of her breast, he paused, trembling.
“You may worship.”
Relief and reverence surged through him. He kissed her breast softly, tongue flicking along the curve, careful not to rush. He suckled gently when she allowed, moaned low in his throat when her fingers tangled in his hair to guide him.
“You’re beginning to understand,” she whispered. “This is not sex. This is service. This is sacrifice.”
“Yes, Mistress,” he breathed.
She let him continue, working up to her shoulders, licking the salt from her skin, cleaning and praising with every slow movement. When he finally reached her neck, she exhaled into his ear.
“You’ve made me feel divine.”
He shivered. “That is all I want, Mistress.”
She leaned back. “Then rinse me.”
He cupped water in his mouth, pouring it gently over her skin, again and again, mouth to body, never using his hands. It was grueling. Intimate. Humbling. Perfect.
When she finally rose from the tub, glistening and clean, she stepped out slowly and took a towel from the side table. She handed it to him.
“Dry me. Mouth only.”
His knees ached, his back screamed—but none of it mattered.
He obeyed.
He kissed each droplet from her calves, her thighs, her stomach. He dried the soft skin beneath her breasts, the hollow of her throat, the curves of her arms. When she was dry, he remained kneeling, soaked in sweat and steam and longing.
She dressed in silence.
Then, before she left the room, she turned and looked down at him.
“Wipe yoursef down with that towel. You may sleep at my feet tonight,” she said.
Not on the floor.
Not in the hall.
At her feet.
The reward wasn’t release.
It was closeness.
And to Oz, that was more sacred than any orgasm.
So, she said, “a submissive… and mine.”
It’s the second time i have read this story. It was interesting to read ,but more important it was a great learning experience. Definitely worth the time it took to read. Thanks Ms. Bonnie !
You are most welcome Aero glad you enjoyed it ♥. I have a load more I really should get around to posting