Afternoon Nap and the Plug

The plush pink pet bed is softer than you expected—almost comforting in its humiliation. You curl onto your side, knees drawn up, the short pleated skirt bunched around your waist, open-crotch lace doing nothing to conceal the inverted cage or the constant, slow drip from the beaded catheter. Every shallow breath makes the silicone beads shift inside your urethra; every tiny clench forces another clear bead to escape and soak into the embroidered hearts beneath you. The rhinestone-studded collar presses lightly against your throat with each swallow, a permanent reminder that even resting belongs to her.

The house is quiet.

Sunlight slants through the living-room windows in warm golden bars. Somewhere distant, a clock ticks. Your body—full from lunch, raw from throat training, sore from yesterday’s spanking—finally gives in to exhaustion. Your eyelids grow heavy. The steady drip-drip-drip becomes almost rhythmic, like a metronome lulling you under.

You drift.

Dreams come in fragments: Dorothy’s voice purring commands, the taste of her on your tongue, the cold click of locks, endless hallways where you crawl forever with a leash pulling taut. In the dream your cage is gone, but when you reach down there’s only smooth skin—no clitty at all—just a smooth, empty mound that leaks endlessly anyway.

A soft foot nudges your hip.

You startle awake.

Dorothy stands over you—still in the white linen sundress, hair loosely pinned, pearls gleaming. She holds something in her hand: a thick, black silicone plug, flared base wide enough to lock it in place, surface ridged and slightly curved. A small pink jewel glints at the base—the same shade as your cage and collar.

“Nap’s over, puppy,” she says quietly. “Time to keep that greedy little hole ready for dinner.”

She kneels beside the pet bed.

“On your back. Knees to chest. Hold yourself open.”

You obey—rolling over, drawing your knees up and apart, hands reaching down to spread your cheeks. The skirt falls away completely; the open lace frames everything. The catheter drips faster now, a thin silver thread stretching and snapping onto your stomach.

Dorothy squirts clear lube onto her fingers—cool, slick—then circles your rim slowly.

“You took Mommy’s cock so well yesterday,” she murmurs. “But we need to train you to stay open. All day. All night. So when I want to slide in, there’s no resistance. Just warm, welcoming heat.”

She presses one finger in—easy, thanks to yesterday’s use and the lingering slickness. You gasp softly. She adds a second, scissoring gently, stretching you with patient twists.

“Good girl… feel how easily you open now? That’s progress.”

She withdraws her fingers.

Positions the plug at your entrance.

The tip is blunt, wider than two fingers already.

“Breathe out slow.”

You do.

She pushes.

The first ridge pops past your rim with a soft, wet sound. You whimper—stretch burning bright but not painful. Another ridge. Another. She feeds it steadily until the widest part breaches you; your body clenches instinctively around the taper, pulling it deeper on its own.

She presses the flared base flush.

The pink jewel sits pretty against your skin, visible even with the skirt down.

She pats the base once—firm, possessive.

“There. Locked in until dinner. You’ll feel it every time you move, every time you leak, every time you breathe. A constant little reminder that this hole is Mommy’s now.”

She helps you sit up—slowly—so the plug shifts deeper, pressing against that sensitive spot inside. You gasp; your caged clitty twitches uselessly, forcing another thick drip through the catheter that lands on the pet bed.

Dorothy smiles.

“Look at that. Leaking even harder with something stretching you. Perfect.”

She clips the leash back on.

“Tug test.”

A gentle pull has you stumbling forward onto your hands and knees—the plug shifting with every motion, rubbing insistently, making your thighs tremble.

She leads you to the full-length mirror near the entryway.

“Stand. Look.”

You rise shakily.

In the reflection: pink collar glittering, sheer baby-doll clinging to your sweat-damp skin, short skirt barely covering anything, white thigh-highs slipping slightly, and between your legs the inverted cage tucked flat, only the pink catheter protruding like a tiny, dripping spout. Behind you, the jewel of the plug catches the light every time you shift.

Dorothy steps behind you—breasts pressing into your back, one hand sliding under the skirt to cup the cage, the other resting over the plug base.

“See this?” she whispers against your ear. “This is what you are now. Locked. Plugged. Leaking. Collared. Ready to serve at a moment’s notice.”

She gives the plug a gentle twist.

You moan—high, broken.

Another drip falls.

She laughs softly.

“Dinner prep starts soon. Mommy’s having steak tonight—rare, with red wine and garlic butter. You’ll eat the scraps from my plate… and then you’ll crawl under the table again. But this time…” Her fingers tighten on the plug base. “…you’ll be plugged the whole time you serve. And if you’re very good—swallow every bite, clean me perfectly—Mommy might let you hump her leg while I finish my wine. No coming, of course. Just leaking. Ruined. ****.”

She tugs the leash.

“Crawl to the dining room. Wait under the table like a good puppy. Dinner won’t be long.”

You drop to all fours.

The plug shifts with every crawl—rubbing, pressing, making you drip faster.

By the time you settle under the table—knees on the cool floor, ass up, jewel glinting—the scent of searing steak already drifts from the kitchen.

Dorothy’s heels click closer.

She sits.

Parts her thighs under the tablecloth.

Snaps once.

“Closer, puppy. Open that mouth. Mommy’s ready to feed you.”

The first cut of steak—warm, bloody, butter-slick—drops onto your waiting tongue.

And the plug keeps pressing.

And the cage keeps dripping.

And the night is only beginning.

What happens during dinner service tonight, leaking puppy?

Do you earn that ruined hump?

Or does Mommy decide the plug isn’t enough—and slides something bigger in while you’re still under the table?