Mister Jones

The performance room is empty when I enter. The polished floor reflects the cool light from the ceiling lights, and my high heels tap out a crisp rhythm that bounces off the walls. I feel the weight of the chastity cage tightening around my penis, that constant metal bite that never lets go, and the plug filling my ass with every step. Marcus is already there, standing next to the full-length mirror, a cardboard box in his hands.

"Come here," he says. His voice is low, his usual Southern accent cutting through his words.

I walk toward him. My black lace apron barely covers my ass, the laces at the sides revealing bare skin. My black stockings rise to mid-thigh, and my heels make my hips sway without me having to think about it. It all feels so natural now. So right.

Marcus opens the box. Inside is a long, straight blonde wig that glistens in the light. He carefully pulls it out, as if it were something precious, and I lower my head to let him do it.

"The catalog came out tonight," he says, as he arranges my wig on my head. His fingers are large and warm, and they brush the nape of my neck, sending shivers down my spine. "We've already had a lot of requests."

I don't say anything. His hands arrange my fake hair, comb it with his fingers, arrange it on my shoulders. In the mirror's reflection, I see a blonde girl with red lips and black eyes. A girl who isn't me. Or maybe I am. I can't tell the difference anymore.

"Mister Jones," Marcus says, and his voice changes. It becomes slower, more measured. "He wants a trial weekend. He wants total submissiveness."

He runs a finger across my lip, correcting my lipstick. The touch is light, almost tender, and I feel my heart beating faster. I don't know why. I shouldn't. I'm just an object, something to be used, and Marcus is just one of the instructors.

"There are others too," she continues. "Owners who own clubs. Clubs. They want you to work for them. To stand behind the bar in your lingerie while they serve drinks, or to be used by men passing by."

He looks at me. His dark eyes are fixed on mine, and I can't read what's in them.

"But Mister Jones is different," she says. "He asked about you first. He said he liked what he saw in the photos."

I look down. My hands are at my sides, as I've been taught. The weight of the wig on my head is strange, new, but not unpleasant. The sweet perfume Marcus has sprayed on my neck fills the air around me, mingling with the scent of my heavy makeup.

“You have to be perfect,” Marcus says. “Every detail. Every fold. Every movement.”

He takes my chin and lifts it. His fingers are rough, calloused, and they grip my jaw with a pressure that isn't a command but a promise.

"When they see you, they have to want you," he says. "They have to think they can't live without you. That you're only useful to them."

“Yes, master,” I whisper.

Marcus nods. He lets go of my chin and steps back, looking me up and down. His eyes roam over my body as if assessing an object. As if checking to make sure everything is in its place.

“The wig is perfect,” she says. “The makeup is perfect. The body is perfect.”

He pauses.

"But the ass is too empty."

I don't understand. I look at my reflection in the mirror, the black lingerie barely covering me, the stockings squeezing my legs.

"The plug," says Marcus. "What's inside you isn't enough. For Mister Jones, for the other masters, you have to be ready for anything. Always."

He bends down and opens a second box I hadn't seen, sitting on the floor. Inside is a larger, shiny black rubber plug with a wide base that glistens in the light. He pulls it out and shows it to me.

“This,” he says. “This will keep you open. Ready.”

My heart beats faster. The plug inside me is already filling me, already making me feel the weight of something that shouldn't be there. But the new one is bigger. Much bigger.

“Turn around,” Marcus orders.

I turn around. I feel his hands on the laces of my apron, undoing them and letting the fabric fall. I feel the cold air on the bare skin of my ass, and then his fingers grasp the plug inside me and pull it out with a slow, decisive movement.

The emptiness it leaves is almost worse than the filling. I feel open, exposed, waiting.

"Open it," says Marcus.

My hands wander to my ass, spreading my cheeks. The reflection in the mirror shows me the scene: a blonde girl bent over, her ass in the air, and a huge black man behind her preparing the new plug.

“That’s it,” says Marcus. “That’s it, good.”

I feel the rubber tip pressing against my hole. I feel it enter, slowly, pushing past my sphincter with constant, inexorable pressure. My breathing becomes shallow. My hands squeeze my ass cheeks tighter.

"Breathe," Marcus says. "Relax. April."

I inhale. I exhale. I feel the plug advancing, filling me, stretching something I thought couldn't get any wider. The rubber slides inside me with a wet sound, and I feel every inch, every curve, every millimeter of what's entering my ass.

Once he's fully inside, Marcus pats my ass. "Double penetrations are a must," he says. The sound echoes in the empty room.

“Perfect,” he says.

I straighten up. The weight of the new plug is different, more present, deeper. Every movement I make I feel it moving inside me, reminding me that it's there, that I can't forget it.

Marcus straightens my apron, tying the laces with quick, matter-of-fact gestures. Then he takes my hand and turns me toward the mirror.

“Look,” he says.

I look. The blonde girl in the mirror looks back at me. She has red lips, black eyes, and a long, straight wig framing her face. She's wearing black lace lingerie that exposes her ass, and a red collar around her neck that says "Available."

“You’re perfect,” Marcus says. “When they see you, they’ll want you.”

My reflection is smiling. I don't know if it's me smiling or if it's the girl in the mirror smiling back at me.

"Mister Jones," Marcus says, his voice lowering. "He's different from the others. He doesn't just want a one-night stand. He wants something more."

I look at him. His eyes are fixed on mine, and for the first time I see something I can't read. A shadow. A worry. Or maybe excitement.

“Do you know him?” I ask.

Marcus doesn't answer right away. He takes my chin between his fingers and lifts it, looking me straight in the eye.

"It doesn't matter," he says. "What matters is that you're ready. That you're perfect. That you do what they tell you."

“Yes, master,” I whisper.

"Good, boy," Marcus says. He lets go of my chin and steps back. "Now wait. The owners will be here soon."

I get on my knees. The floor feels cold beneath my knees, and the new plug moves inside me with the movement. I feel the weight of the chastity cage, the bite of the metal, the constant pressure that never leaves me.

Marcus walks away, heading toward the performance room door. He pauses in the doorway and turns to look at me.

"Remember," he says. "When they come in, you're already them. You don't have to do anything. You don't have to say anything. Just be."

“Yes, master,” I say.

Marcus nods. Then he leaves, closing the door behind him.

I'm left alone in the performance room, kneeling on the cold floor, the plug filling my ass and the collar tightening around my neck. The scent of heavy makeup and sweet perfume fills the air. My blonde wig covers my shoulders, my bare chest with bells on my nipples.

The clicking of my high heels is the only sound in the room, and it's not mine. It's the sound of my heart beating, or maybe it's the sound of something about to happen.

The door opens.

I don't look up. I hear footsteps approaching, slow, heavy, the sound of expensive shoes on the polished floor. I feel the silence falling, dense, total, as if the air itself were holding its breath.

A hand rests on my head. It's large, warm, and it strokes my wig with a slow, almost possessive gesture.

The warm breath of an unknown man touches the back of my neck.

“Here’s your first master,” Marcus whispers from the door.

And I keep my head down, and I feel the weight of that hand on my head, and I know that from this moment on nothing will ever be the same again.

The hand on my head moves slowly, and the fingers dig into my wig as if searching for something. Or someone. His warm breath on the back of my neck grows closer, and I smell his perfume, something expensive and masculine, mingling with the sweet one Marcus has sprayed on my neck.

“Raise your head,” says the man.

The voice is low, deep, with an accent I don't recognize. It's not Marcus's Southern French, it's not Madame's French. It's something different, harder, colder.

I raise my head.

The man is tall. Much taller than me. He has dark skin, almost black, and eyes that shine under the ceiling lights as if they were made of glass. He wears a black shirt open at the chest, and a gold chain that glistens against his skin. His eyes roam over my body as if he were evaluating an object, a piece of meat, something to buy.

"Mister Jones," Marcus says from the doorway. His voice is tense, different from before. "This is Lorenzo. The sissy slave you saw in the catalog."

"Lorenzo," the man repeats. My name sounds strange in his mouth, as if it weren't a name but a label. "Lorenzo. The boy who counted to thirty-eight."

My heart beats faster. He knows. He knows what I've done. He knows how much I've been used, how much I've counted, how much I've obeyed.

“Yes, master,” I whisper.

The man smiles. It's not a polite smile. It's the smile of someone who already knows what he wants to do, and knows he'll do it.

“They told me you were a good girl,” she says. “They told me you could open your mouth, you could spread your legs, you could count. Is that true?”

“Yes, master,” I say.

“Then prove it to me,” he says.

My body reacts before my mind understands. I lean forward, my hands on the cold floor, my ass in the air as I was taught. The plug moves inside me with the movement, and I feel the rubber stretching me, filling me, reminding me that I'm open, ready, available.

The man takes a step forward. I hear his expensive shoes on the polished floor, the click of his heels approaching. Then I feel his hand on my wig, caressing it slowly, almost possessively.

“Beautiful,” he says. “Very beautiful.”

His hand slides over the nape of my neck, then down my back, following the curve of my spine. His fingers are large, warm, and send shivers down my spine. I feel his gaze on me, assessing me, judging me, deciding if I'm worth anything.

“The catalog says you’re available,” she says. “It says you’re trained. It says you can do everything. Is that true?”

“Yes, master,” I whisper.

"All?"

His voice grows lower, more intimate. I feel his warm breath on the back of my neck, and then his hand slides over my apron, lifting it, revealing my bare ass.

“Yes, master,” I say. “Everything.”

The man pauses. I feel his gaze on my ass, on the plug filling me, on the bare skin glistening under the light. Then I feel his hand grasp the plug and pull it out with a slow, decisive movement.

The emptiness it leaves is almost worse than the filling. I feel open, exposed, waiting. My hole contracts, relaxes, contracts again, as if searching for something to hold.

"Perfect," says the man. "You're already open. You're ready."

“Yes, master,” I whisper.

“Then prove it to me,” he says.

I don't wait another second. I turn, remaining on my knees, and open my mouth. My tongue comes out, pink and shiny with already smudged lipstick, and my eyes lift to him without permission, but he doesn't scold me. He looks at me. He studies me. And then I feel his hand closing on the back of my neck, guiding me toward him, pushing me against the zipper of his pants.

“Open up,” he says. “More than that.”

My mouth drops open. I feel his hand holding me still, not letting me back away, and then I feel the weight of his cock coming out, hitting my tongue, filling my mouth before I even realize what's happening. It's hot. It's hard. It's huge, and my throat opens on its own, as if it's learned to do it without me having to think about it.

“That’s right,” says Mr. Jones. “That’s right, good girl.”

His hand guides me up and down, slowly at first, as if he wants to savor every inch of my mouth. I feel his cock slide across my tongue, touching the back of my throat, and I can't resist. I don't close my eyes. I look at him, as I was taught, and I see his dark eyes shining in the light, watching me as I take him, as I serve him.

“Feel how it fills you,” she says. “Feel how it opens your throat. That’s what you want, right? To be filled with a man. To be used.”

I can't answer. His hand is in my wig, holding me down, and his cock is in my mouth, suffocating me, filling me. But my eyes say yes. I see it. I feel it. And he knows it.

“Good,” he says. “Very good.”

His hand accelerates. His cock pushes me deeper, faster, and I feel saliva dripping from my chin, staining my black lace apron. I feel my nose pressed against his belly, and his scent, that expensive, masculine perfume, filling my nostrils as he uses my mouth as if it were just a hole to be filled.

"Look how he opens it for you," Marcus says from the door. His voice is tense, but there's something proud in it. "Look how you take it. How you use it."

Mister Jones doesn't respond. I only feel his hand holding me still, guiding me, making me take it all in. I feel his cock throbbing in my mouth, swelling, warning me of what's about to happen. And I don't pull away. I don't close my eyes. I open my throat, as I was taught, and wait.

“Suck,” he orders.

I suck. I feel his cock twitch, exploding in my mouth, filling me with warm, salty flavor. I hear his low, deep moan echoing in the empty room. And I swallow. All of it. Without hesitation. As I was taught.

When he withdraws, my mouth is empty and full at the same time. I taste him on my tongue, I feel the saliva dripping from my chin, and I feel my heart beating so hard, so hard, as if it were trying to burst out of my chest.

“Perfect,” says Mr. Jones. “They said you were a good girl. They weren’t lying.”

He wipes my mouth with his thumb, a slow, almost tender gesture, and I feel his gaze on me, evaluating me, judging me, deciding if I'm worth anything.

"But your mouth isn't enough," she says. "The catalog says you're trained. That you can do everything. Is that true?"

“Yes, master,” I whisper.

"All?"

“Yes, master,” I say. “Everything.”

“Open up,” he says. “More than that.”