Hi. Welcome. This is Stacy. I’ll be your host for this story. The following serial novel is surprisingly true for the most part, and the inaccurate parts are mostly for narrative structure. All of the characters exist, and most of the events have occurred.

This is an important story. It’s about sex and slavery, but it’s also about your life, and my life, and how we get through it all. It’s an experiment, but it’s also a manifesto. This has all happened for a reason. I want to change people for the better, and if I have to enslave some people to do it, well, that’s what I’ve done.

Are you curious about me? Well. I’ll tell you more about myself a little later. But first, I want to tell you about my slaves. I want to show you what they do for me. I’ve let them write their experiences in their own words, but I heavily edited it to suit my own purposes.

Enjoy.

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Part 1-1: Isabella

God, it’s early. It’s way too fucking early for this line of work.

When I became a whore, I figured I’d be a lady of the night. That’s sort of the understanding. This kind of thing happens under twilight. But it’s 8am and I’m waiting for my trick to arrive and all I can think is I haven’t had my coffee. I wonder if he has, or if he’ll offer any to me. Of course, some things would need to happen first.

When my mistress left my apartment–that would be about an hour ago–she made some preparations for the man that paid her to be with me.

First, she laid out the remote control on the couch, just so. Then, she made sure my computer was on a guest account. If he wanted to watch television or surf the internet, he could without any effort. The most recent men’s magazines were stacked in an organic fashion on the coffee table. In the kitchen, several tuperware’d leftovers: steak, ribs, pork. Meat. The microwave is easy to operate.

The apartment is clean, but not so clean he will feel uncomfortable. There are two red blankets draped lazily on the couch, and one more on the chair beside it. And visible, if you were to look into my closet, a hamper full of laundry. My apartment isn’t like a hotel room. That’s the point my mistress made to me early on. Half the job is the setting. I’m just the most important prop in the scene.

Another thing my mistress did before leaving for the day is lock me in my cage.

My cage is a four foot by three foot by three foot dog cage. It’s for a small-to-medium size dog, something that would weigh no more than 140 pounds. I weigh 134 pounds. I’m not shaped like a dog, but I have to be to fit inside the cage. My legs tucked underneath me, my arms tied in front. I can’t really move, but that’s another point for my mistress. I’m a gift package. I’m the mint on the pillow.

It’s entirely up to the man if he wants to unlock me. The key is on the entrance ledge, where the house key goes. About half the men leave me in the cage. About half of those men don’t even touch me. It’s an amazing thing, to be paid more money than a whore to not even be touched sometimes. But that’s the business we’re in, my mistress and me.

Well, that’s the business she’s in. I’m just the really important prop.

The thing to remember about being a whore is that most of the time you’re not a whore. But the thing about being a slave is that you’re always a slave. There’s a really big difference there.

Another thing about being a slave is that sometimes you’re a whore, and you don’t really get a say in the whole matter, on account of you’ve given up your rights as a human being and all.

That’s how my mistress worked. If you wanted to be her slave, you had to be her whore, too. I really, really wanted to be her slave in the worst way. That’s how I ended up in this tiny cage, unable to move more than a few inches, waiting for a man who may or may not even fuck me.

I heard the creak of the lock. My mistress made copies of my door key for any man who paid for it. I was a different kind of whore. The man entered my apartment. That’s what he paid for. Access. He could do whatever he wanted in my apartment for up to two hours. He could watch a movie. He could smoke. He could eat. He could fuck me in any way he wished, for as long as he wished up to the allotted time. Sometimes they stayed longer. That was okay. In business, sometimes you have to stretch the rules.

Here is a list of a few things I’ve been made to do as a whore for my mistress:

Been fucked repeatedly in all three of my holes.

Been pissed on, spat on, and kicked.

Been tied up, forced to swallow cum, to gargle it through my nose, and to lick up any remains.

Been gagged with my own panties, and with the panties belonging to the man’s wife.

Been used as a table, a footstool, and a masseuse.

I hear the man come in, and drop the key. He takes his shoes off. I hear him open up the closet door and deposit his suit jacket. More often than not, the men who visit me wear suits. They generally come before work or during their lunch hours. Sometimes they come in the middle of the day. Nobody comes at night. At night, my mistress tells me, all these men are with their wives.

The man’s footsteps are heavy. Perhaps he is old, and weighted down by age and success. Perhaps he is ugly. I keep waiting for a truly ugly one to show up, but they never do. More than anything, they look perfectly normal. The man’s footsteps grow fainter. He’s walking towards the balcony. Some men can’t wait to see me, naked in the cage. It’s like Christmas. Other men, they want to breathe first, take a good lay of the land. Some men don’t even come into the room.

I’m a little cold, but it’s nothing I haven’t become used to. Ever since becoming my mistress’s slave, I haven’t had the opportunity to wear that many clothes. In fact, there’s really only two pieces of clothing in my closet left. There’s a little black dress, and there’s a belt. The black dress is a size 0, very tight. It has thin straps, and goes mostly down to my knees. It’s a very nice black dress. The belt goes with the dress. Sometimes my hands get tied with the belt. Sometimes it’s my ankles.

The dress is for whenever I have to leave the house.

I miss my clothes. I miss underwear. I miss sweaters. Coats. I miss warmth from something that isn’t a naked man.

The man of the hour steps into the room. He sees me. I hear him chuckle a little. I hope he isn’t too rough.

His hands touch the cage. He’s right above me. I look up.

“Hello,” he says.

I smile as best I can with my mistress’s panties in my mouth.

“Can I help you with that?” He asks. He reaches in. He pulls the panties out. My jaw relaxes. It feels nice.

“Thank you sir,” I say.

“Keep your mouth open,” he says. From that, I can tell what’s coming. I hear him unzip.

It takes him a second to kneel down so his cock is level with my mouth. He inches it into the cage. My lips meet it. I let it in. I still haven’t seen his face.

I suck his cock through the cage as best I can. He likes it. He moans. His hands grip the top of the cage. He’s ramming his crotch harder and harder into my throat. Part of me wants him to cum right there. Part of me hopes this is just the beginning.

You don’t get into this line of work if you don’t like sex a little.

When I think he’s about to cum, he stops. He realized he was about to go, and he wanted to make sure he got his money’s worth. He stood. He left the room. I took a breath. Swallowed. I relaxed.

He came back in a minute with the key in his hand. He knelt down to the lock. My ass was open near it. He could see my ass, and my pussy. It was glistening. 

He reached in with two fingers. I couldn’t hold in my moan. I let out a few key sounds of pleasure. He took out his fingers, and held the key. He inserted it into the lock. He opened the door.

“I’m not letting you out,” he says. “I’m just opening the door so there’s nothing in between me and you.”

Fair enough.

He held his cock with two fingers and inched it into my pussy. He grasped the top of the cage with one hand, and reached in to grab my hair with the other.

He wasn’t kind.

He didn’t have a condom. I could feel his cum in my pussy. I could feel it leak out. A little drop of it fell onto my foot, and I wanted nothing more at that moment to be free from my cage to scratch it.

The man stood, walked away. I could hear him loot around my kitchen. He took something out. I heard a tuperware bowl snap open. I heard him sit. The TV came on. About fifteen minutes later I heard him leave.

I wiggled around. I tried to move, but I found my exit had been resealed. I thought there was maybe a chance he hadn’t properly locked the door to my cage, but I couldn’t get it open with my foot. I was still stuck, still imprisoned in my own apartment. There was nothing I could do until my mistress returned.

I was naked, cold, and hungry. A strange man had entered my apartment. He’d eaten my food, watched my television. He’d fucked me, and released his cum in my pussy. I never left my cage, and I’d never seen his face. It wasn’t the worst client, really, but I hated being caged this long.

I heard the phone ring. I obviously didn’t pick up. The answering machine came on.

“Hi, this is Isabella. I’m a little tied up right now, but I’ll get back to you.”

After the beep, a reassuring voice. My mistress.

“Hi pet. I hope you had fun. I’ll be back after my class to let you out.”

My smile turned sour very quickly when I thought about it for a second. It was Monday. My mistress had a class at two in the afternoon, and it went several hours. I might be stuck in this cage for four or five more hours.

I hate that I love her.