The Bath and the New Cage

Morning light filters through the gauzy curtains in soft gold bands across the bed. You wake slowly—body heavy, ass still tender, the silver collar a constant cool weight around your throat. The pink chastity cage feels sticky against your thigh; overnight leaks have dried in crusty patches on the lace and your skin. Dorothy is already awake, propped on one elbow, watching you with that calm, possessive gaze. The small silver key still dangles between her breasts like jewelry.

She doesn’t say good morning.

She simply strokes your cheek with the back of her knuckles.

“Time to get clean, princess. Mommy can’t have her toy all crusty and pathetic first thing.”

She slides out of bed—naked, unhurried, curves catching the light like polished marble—and extends one hand. You take it. Legs still shaky, you let her lead you across the cool hardwood to the en-suite bathroom.

The bathroom is enormous: white marble, gold fixtures, a deep soaking tub already filling with steaming water scented with gardenia and something faintly medicinal. A full-length mirror covers one wall. Another smaller one is mounted above the double vanity. Everywhere you look, you see yourself: collared, caged, marked, small.

Dorothy turns off the tap.

“Strip,” she says simply.

The baby-doll flutters to the floor. The lace panties follow. You stand naked except for the collar and the old pink cage—tiny, swollen, leaking a fresh bead even now.

She kneels gracefully in front of you.

Her fingers work the lock on the chastity cage with practiced ease. The key turns. Click. The ring pops open. The tube slides free. Your poor clitty springs forward—reddened, sensitive, barely more than an inch even semi-hard from the overnight confinement. A thin string of pre-cum stretches and snaps.

Dorothy inspects it like a jeweler examining a flawed gem.

“So small,” she murmurs, almost fondly. “Even freer it looks… trapped.”

She doesn’t let you enjoy the brief freedom.

From a velvet-lined drawer beside the tub she produces the new device.

It’s worse.

Pink, of course—translucent rose plastic—but inverted. The tube curves sharply downward and inward, forcing the entire shaft to fold back on itself, pressing the head tightly against the base in a humiliating tuck. A thicker silicone urethral sounding catheter protrudes from the tip: smooth, beaded along its length like tiny pearls, designed to slide deep into the urethra. The end flares into a wider opening—big enough to allow urine and cum to drip freely, but nothing more. No erection possible. No stroking. Just constant, slow leakage—like a broken faucet that never quite shuts off.

She holds it up so you can see.

“This is an inverted micro cage with open-ended sounding,” she explains calmly, as though describing a new pair of shoes. “The beads will keep you stretched inside. The bigger hole means you’ll drip everything—pee, pre-cum, ruined orgasms—without ever being able to hold back or pretend you have control. Perfect for a little toy who already proved she can’t be trusted.”

Your stomach drops.

She doesn’t wait for protest.

First the sounding rod—lubed generously with clear gel. She guides the beaded silicone tip to your slit.

“Breathe out slow.”

You do.

She pushes.

The first bead pops past the opening with a soft, wet sound. You gasp—sharp stretch, strange fullness traveling inward. Another bead. Another. She feeds it steadily until five or six beads are seated deep inside your urethra, the flared opening sitting flush against your tip like a permanent, humiliating spout.

Then the cage itself.

The inverted tube forces your softened shaft backward, tucking it cruelly against your balls. The ring locks around the base. The front plate presses everything flat and hidden. Only the beaded catheter protrudes—an obscene pink straw ready to drip.

Click.

Locked.

She reaches behind your neck and unfastens the silver collar for just a moment.

Replaces it with a new one: thicker pink leather, studded with tiny rhinestones, a large chrome O-ring at the front, and another heart-shaped lock. A proper dog collar—pink, glittering, unmistakable.

She buckles it snug.

Locks it.

Then she stands, takes both keys—the old one and the new one—between thumb and forefinger.

Walks to the toilet.

Drops them in.

Flushes.

The water swirls. The keys vanish.

She turns back to you, smiling sweetly.

“No spares, baby. Mommy flushed your last chance at freedom. This cage stays on until I say otherwise—or until the lock rusts in twenty years. Whichever comes first.”

She helps you into the tub.

The hot water stings your spanked skin at first, then soothes. She climbs in behind you—long legs bracketing yours, heavy breasts pressing against your back, her thick cock resting soft and warm along the cleft of your ass.

She washes you.

Slowly. Thoroughly.

Shampoo in your hair. Soap across your chest. Between your legs she lingers—fingers circling the new cage, tugging lightly on the catheter so the beads shift inside you. You whimper; a bead of cum immediately wells up and drips into the bathwater, cloudy and pathetic.

“Look at that,” she coos against your ear. “Already leaking like a broken little faucet. Just like Mommy designed.”

She rinses you. Dries you with thick towels. Leads you—still naked except for the new collar and cage—back to the bedroom.

On the bed she’s laid out today’s outfit: another sheer baby-doll (pink this time), matching lace panties with an open crotch, white thigh-highs, and a short pleated skirt barely long enough to cover the cage.

She dresses you piece by piece.

When the skirt is in place, she steps back.

Admires.

The inverted cage keeps everything tucked and flat—no bulge at all. Only the pink catheter peeks out beneath the hem, glistening already with fresh drips.

She clips a thin pink leash to the O-ring on your collar.

“Tug test,” she says, giving it a gentle pull.

You stumble forward onto your knees.

She laughs—soft, delighted.

“Perfect.”

She leads you downstairs like that—leash in hand, skirt swaying, cage dripping tiny clear beads onto the hardwood with every step.

Breakfast waits on the kitchen island: fresh fruit, yogurt, coffee.

She sits on a high stool.

You kneel between her thighs on the cool tile.

She feeds you bites from her fingers.

Every time you swallow, another involuntary drip falls from the catheter onto the floor.

She notices.

Smiles.

“Clean it up, puppy. Tongue only.”

You lower your head.

Lick your own ruined cum from the tile while she sips coffee and strokes your hair.

The summer sun is already climbing.

And you’re already dripping.

Again.

Always.

What comes after breakfast, princess?

Training?

A walk in the backyard on your leash?

Or does Mommy decide it’s time to test how much you can leak before lunch?2sFast