Doggy

The words come out small and trembling, barely above a whisper.

“Yes, Mommy… I’ll go upstairs.”

You turn toward the staircase, legs still unsteady from the spanking, the fresh lock of the chastity cage shifting uncomfortably between your thighs with every tiny movement. The pink lace panties ride high, the thin straps cutting into your hips; the sheer baby-doll top flutters against your overheated skin like tissue paper. Every step makes the little cage bounce uselessly, a constant, humiliating reminder that your cock is no longer yours to control.

One step up.

Your knees wobble—muscles still jelly from the overstimulation, the burning ache in your ass flaring white-hot with each flex.

Second step.

Your foot slips on the carpeted edge. You pitch forward, hands flying out to catch yourself, but it’s too late. You drop hard onto all fours, palms slapping the stair tread, knees following a heartbeat later.

A soft, throaty laugh drifts down from above you.

Dorothy hasn’t moved. She’s still standing at the bottom landing, one hand resting lightly on the banister, robe gaping open to show the thick, flushed column of her cock jutting forward like it’s pointing straight at you.

“Oh, baby,” she purrs, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Legs giving out already? Poor thing.”

You freeze there on hands and knees, ass still glowing red, the hem of the baby-doll riding up to expose the lace-covered curve of your cheeks and the pink cage dangling between your spread thighs. The position is obscene—back arched, hips tilted, presented like you’re begging without words.

You try to push back to your feet.

Your arms shake. Your ass clenches involuntarily around nothing, sending another sharp sting through the handprints she left. The cage gives a pathetic little tug as your balls try to draw up.

Another soft chuckle.

“No, no,” Dorothy says gently, almost tenderly. “Don’t fight it, sweetheart. Mommy likes you like this.”

She takes one slow step up behind you, bare feet silent, then another. You feel the heat of her body before her hand even touches you—long fingers sliding into your hair, gripping just tight enough to guide.

“Crawl,” she commands, voice low and rich. “Like a good little pet. Show Mommy how badly you want to get to her bedroom.”

She gives your hair the lightest tug—forward, upward.

You move.

One hand forward. One knee. The carpet is soft under your palms but every shift drags the lace across your sensitive, spanked skin. The cage swings with the motion, bumping against your inner thighs, the tiny lock clinking like a bell. Pre-cum has already started leaking again, darkening the front of the pink panties in tiny wet spots that spread with each humiliating shuffle.

Another step—crawl.

Your ass sways side to side as you go, the red handprints flashing in the low hallway light every time the sheer top rides higher. Dorothy keeps pace behind you, one hand still loosely tangled in your hair—not pulling hard, just steering, reminding you who’s in control.

“Look at that,” she murmurs appreciatively, free hand drifting down to trace one blazing cheek with a single fingertip. You flinch at the contact; she laughs again. “Such a pretty shade of pink. And listen to that little cage jingle… like you’re wearing Mommy’s collar already.”

You reach the first landing, panting now, cheeks burning with shame and heat. The hallway stretches ahead—long, shadowed, leading to the double doors of her bedroom. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors line one wall; you catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection: on all fours, stockings clinging to trembling thighs, baby-doll fluttering, ass high and marked, tiny pink cage swinging helplessly beneath you, face flushed and eyes glassy.

Dorothy stops you there with a gentle tug on your hair.

She circles around to stand in front of you, robe falling completely open now. Her cock—thick, veined, glistening at the slit—hovers inches from your face. The head brushes your cheek once, leaving a slick trail of pre-cum across your skin.

“Almost there, puppy,” she whispers, stroking your hair like you’re a favored pet. “But first… give Mommy a kiss.”

She guides your head forward until your lips brush the underside of her shaft—just a soft, trembling press.

“Say thank you for the pretty clothes,” she coos. “And thank you for the cage that’s keeping your useless little clitty safe.”

Her fingers tighten in your hair, not painful, but firm.

“Then keep crawling. Mommy’s bed is waiting… and so is the rest of your summer training.”

She releases you.

Steps aside.

Points down the hall with one elegant finger, pearls shifting against her breasts as she does.

“Go on, baby girl.”

Your caged cock twitches uselessly in its prison.

You lower your head.

And crawl.