Get dressed for your walk.

“But this isn’t about romance,” Nightmare tells you, her hug suddenly becoming possessive. She squeezes you tight, smiling down at you as you struggle with discomfort against her muscles. A futile effort, but judging by her hungry smile that was the point. “Today is about power, pet. Mine over you, and exactly where you are in this relationship.” She releases you, and you suck air into your formerly compressed lungs.

You watch as she leaves the kitchen, tossing over her shoulder, “Your clothes for it are on the bed. Be at the door in ten minutes, pet.”

She’s gone, and you’re alone. You lean on the table, your legs feeling like rubber, but your cock is as hard as steel. You smile self-consciously and hobble out of the kitchen and up the stairs, supporting yourself on the railing.

The bedroom’s windows are still drawn, everything dark but what comes through the door, the air heavy with the musk of sex. When you step inside you can practically feel it pouring into you, but quickly forget that as you come upon the bed and see what has been laid out for you.

You reach out in disbelief. “She can’t be serious,” you say, picking up the speedo. A relic from when you swam at the pool to get in shape, it was a tight elastic bit of clothing, barely large enough to contain your bulge under the best of occasions, let alone hide anything down there. You gulp and turn it this way and that, and know that she was serious, and that a part of you thrills at the thought.

Defeated, you step into the shortest of shorts and pull them up. You’ve softened a little, but stuffing your cock and sensitive balls into what amounts to a pouch, rubbing against the smooth fabric has you begin to harden once again.

Time soon runs out, and you’re **** to return downstairs, constantly trying to adjust yourself so you don’t reveal too much to the world at large. Nightmare waits for you at the door. She wears a pair of jogging shorts and a sports bra, both black and blending against her midnight hide; tight so that they show off rather than hide the contours of her muscles and swell of her breast. Her arms are crossed as she turns to you. When she sees you in the fragile garment she grins broadly, a superior smile that makes your early attempts at adjusting your bulge worthless. She runs her eyes over your body, snorts, turns, and approaches you.

“Perfect, pet,” she says, circling you predatorily. You jump as she cups your ass and squeezes. “All set,” she breathes into your ear. “Just one more thing.” You shudder at the feeling of leather against your throat and tense as the collar wraps all the way around. With a click she locks it and pulls it tight, not enough to be uncomfortable, but enough so that you cannot help but be aware of its presence, of her ownership of you.

Her arms reach over you and run across your chest, her breasts pressing against your back. “Perfect,” she purrs, enveloping your smaller frame. She releases you and you gasp as she saunters to the door and opens it wide.

“Come pet,” she calls with a sultry look at your all but naked form. “It’s time for your walk.”

You shudder at the power in her voice, and from deep within you is drawn the reply.

“Yes, Mistress.”