James stared at the pink Fitbit watch on his wrist, a gift from his keyholder, Michelle. It was a kind gesture, he supposed, but the colour made him cringe. Pink wasn’t exactly his style, especially when he had to wear it in front of clients or friends. He knew Michelle’s intentions were twofold: to track his movements and to encourage him to be more active. But the thought of explaining this obviously female pink watch to anyone who noticed it made his stomach twist.
For the past couple of days, James had avoided wearing the watch altogether. He’d also neglected to follow Michelle’s other orders, including the one to shave his body hair. It wasn’t that he was deliberately defiant; he was just… embarrassed. He didn’t want to be seen as some submissive guy parading around in a pink watch. But Michelle wasn’t one to let his disobedience slide, the very locked chastity belt around his waist and privates being a constant reminder of her control over him.
When she found out, her response was swift and unforgiving. “James,” she said, her voice cool and authoritative, “you’ve disappointed me. You know the rules. No excuses.” She knew he'd been gifted a tight black body control catsuit, the kind that squeezed every inch of his body like a second skin. “Put on your catsuit, now. You’re going for a walk. 25,000 steps, roughly ten miles. And you’ll do the same tomorrow, and every day for the next week unless I take pity on you. Oh, and stop by the hotel bar on your way around the lake. Order a glass of white wine. Something girly.”
James’s heart sank. The catsuit was humiliating enough, but walking ten miles in it? And ordering a girly drink at a bar? He couldn’t imagine anything worse. But he knew better than to argue. “Yes, Miss,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.
Without delay, James slipped into the catsuit, feeling the fabric compress his muscles. It was tight, almost uncomfortably so, and it left no room for modesty. He glanced at the pink Fitbit on his wrist, a stark contrast against the black ribbed lycra of the catsuit. He put on a light jacket to cover his chest, and with a sigh, he stepped out of his modest flat and into the cool evening air.
The walk was grueling. The catsuit made him sweat, and the constant pressure on his body was a reminder of his disobedience. Every step felt like a punishment, but he kept going, knowing Michelle was watching his progress through the Fitbit. By the time he reached the hotel bar, at roughly 13,000 steps, he was exhausted and self-conscious.
The bar was dimly lit, with a handful of patrons scattered around. James hesitated at the entrance, his heart pounding. He felt ridiculous—a middle-aged man in a skin-tight catsuit, with his legs on show, about to order a girly drink. But Michelle’s orders were clear. He approached the bar, his steps hesitant.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked, eyeing him curiously.
With a sense of defeat, James said “A glass of dry white wine,” , his voice barely audible.
The bartender raised an eyebrow but nodded and poured the wine. James took the glass, the stem feeling foreign in his hand. He sipped it slowly, trying to blend in, but he knew he stood out like a sore thumb. He wanted a pint of lager, but that wasn't what he'd been told to do.
That’s when he noticed them—three women sitting at a corner table well out of the way of the main bar, their eyes fixed on him. One of them smirked, and James’s stomach dropped. He recognised her - it was one of Michelle’s friends. His mind raced. What is Jenna doing here? And who are the other two women?
Before he could process it, Jenna stood up and approached him. “James, isn’t it?” she said, her tone playful. “Michelle told us you’d be here. She said you’d be wearing something… interesting.”
James’s face flushed with embarrassment. “I… yes, Miss Michelle,” he stammered.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” she said, her voice firm. “Come and join us.”
James followed her to the table, his heart pounding. The other two women were already smirking, their eyes scanning his body. He felt exposed, vulnerable. They introduced themselves as Miss V, and Lynn.
“Michelle said you’re here to serve us,” Jenna continued. “Let’s see how good you are.”
James’s mind went blank. Serve them? What did that mean? Before he could ask, Miss V pulled out a pair of handcuffs and snapped them around his left wrist, attaching him to the table leg. He was trapped.
“On your knees,” Jenna commanded.
James hesitated, but the look in her eyes left no room for refusal. He knelt, his heart racing.
“You like giving oral, don’t you, James?” she asked, her voice dripping with amusement.
He nodded, too ashamed to speak.
“Good,” she said. “Then let’s see what you can do.”. Miss V carefully covered James with the tablecloth so that he couldn't be seen by anyone as he worked underneath the table.
The women took turns, each one demanding his attention. They teased him, humiliated him, made him beg. James did as he was told, his mind foggy with shame and arousal. The pink Fitbit on his wrist felt like a symbol of his submission, a constant reminder of Michelle’s control.
By the time they were done with him, and each of the ladies had orgasmed, James was a mess. His body ached, his mind was reeling, and the catsuit was drenched in sweat. But the women seemed satisfied, their laughter echoing in his ears as they left the bar.
James sat there, handcuffed to the table, his thoughts a jumble. He knew this was just the beginning. Michelle had made it clear: ten miles a day for the next week, and who knew what other humiliations awaited him. But as he sat there, he couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of dread and excitement. He was hers, completely and utterly hers, and there was no escaping it, and no way of cheating. If he didn't obey her orders fully, he knew that she would never unlock his chastity belt.
With a deep breath, James saw that the women had left him with two things - the key to the handcuffs, and the bill for their drinks. James began to uncuff himself, his fingers trembling. The pink Fitbit glowed softly on his wrist, a silent witness to his submission. He didn't know how he'd afford to pay the bill, and so he left the bar through the back door hoping that the bartender didn't notice and wouldn't remember him next time. He still had 12,000 steps back to his flat, and he had a long week ahead of him. He knew it would only get worse. But for now, he had to focus on one thing: surviving Michelle’s punishment, one step at a time.