"I don't know, Mistress. I don't think I have anything in the house."

"Yes, I noticed that. Pathetic. Typical man. Not a sign of fresh food in the entire place."

"It's not normally like that, Miss. It's just that you haven't allowed me to eat anything except lettuce for the last four days 3;"

"Oh yes, I'd forgotten that. You must be very hungry?"

"Yes, Miss. I am."

"Well run out to the chip shop on the corner. Bring me back fish and chips with curry sauce and a pickled onion."

Mr Loverman made no attempt to move. I eyed him steadily, trying not to laugh at his little pink apron.

"Am I allowed anything for myself?" he asked eventually.

"The pickled onion is for you." The expression he had worn of vague expectation was immediately trounced by one of despair. He nodded, his eyes rheumy with melting disappointment. Still he made no move, and I could tell he was building up to the big question. I waited, offering no help.

"Miss," he began, his voice cracking with tension. "I can put on some clothes now, can't I?"

"Of course, Mr Loverman," I replied. A smile of relief broke over his face. "Your overcoat will do."

"My over 3;" he began to say, his feet twittering about the room in nervous agitation. "But it's summer, Miss, I can't wear a long overcoat."

"Tell them you're cold."

"And my legs will show at the bottom."

"Tell them you're hot. You're wearing shorts underneath."

"Miss 3;"

"Mr Loverman 3;" I gave him my best voice, the withering 'do as I say, preferably before I even say it' voice which experience had taught him generally presaged something vile and painful. Without another word he turned on his heels, his apron swishing in the air and giving me a glimpse of his metal encased cock, and he fled to the bedroom. A moment later I heard the front door slam and I settled back on the settee once more, flicking my fingers idly across my pussy and relighting some of the residual flames of excitement from my previous servicing by Mr Loverman.

When he returned I was almost asleep and I was aware of a sweep of tiredeness threatening to overcome me. It had been a long and exciting day. After all, it isn't every day that you have your man-property demasculated and shackled, his little cock locked inside a cage for which you have the only key. I'm sure it had been a momentous day for the little man as well, but it was decidely taking its toll on me.

"You'll have to feed me, Mr Loverman. I'm too weary to eat by myself."

Mr Loverman had transferred my meal from its wrapping to a plate and he settled himself beside me, kneeling on the floor to my right.

"Where's your pickled onion?"

He pointed to the edge of the plate.

"Ah yes. Well, pop it in your mouth then." It looked revolting, more than an inch in diameter, grey and slimy. I hadn't touched one since I was a little girl, but I knew they tasted even worse than they looked, and the eater had two options: bite it, thereby invoking the most hideous taste in the world, or suck it, peeling off layer after layer, a route which tasted far less bitter but took literally hours. Mr Loverman would be a sucker, I guessed. He popped the pickled onion into his mouth, an expression of distaste flickering across his eyes, and picked up the fork to begin serving me.

It was delicious. Not so much the fish and chips, which was pretty run of the mill, but the experience of being fed. Mr Loverman lovingly cut my fish into small morsels and waited until I was ready before sliding them into my waiting mouth. He sat patiently, head bowed, while I ate, then prepared my next mouthful. I thought of the boorish man that he had been, the overbearing, cocky Graham who had thought he was more important than me, and reflected on how well I had managed to train him in such a short space of time. I moved my leg and manoeuvred it towards him, resting it on his thigh. Sliding it upwards, I pressed the sole of my foot to his crotch, feeling the lumpy metal beneath his apron. Mr Loverman stared at me helplessly, imploringly, begging me with his eyes not to push.

I pushed.

My foot pressed hard against him, squashing the cock cage against his balls and thighs. He squeaked, literally squeaked, an extraordinary noise which barely sounded human. I lessened the pressure, resting my sole on him, and began to rotate my ankle, causing the cock cage to twist and turn. As it did so the metal cut into Mr Loverman's tender prick, and the pressure began to stimulate him, forcing him again into an unwanted erection. Or at least it would have done if the constricting cage had allowed such a thing. I gave him two minutes of torment, shaking his cock vigorously and delighting in the myriad expressions of pain which floated across his face.

"Hmm," I said, "that was to thank you for serving me my supper so nicely."

I liked that. If that was the reward for serving supper nicely, I knew he would be thinking, what would have happened if his serving manner had let him down? And the unknown, of course, is always more frightening than the known. I left him to ponder.

"Is your little willie sore?" I asked him.

"Yes, Miss. It's agony. When you excite me it tries to get erect and it presses against the metal. It's terrible, Miss."

"Oh dear," I sympathised falsely. "Well, of course, your destiny's in your own hands, Mr Loverman."

He looked at me, somewhat confusedly.

"You know how you can get out of that cage, don't you? You remember Pamela?"

Of course he remembered Pamela. Pamela was the lardy secretary who had professed a desire for Mr Loverman, and whom I had instructed him he would have to service. It was his refusal to agree which had got him into this trouble in the first place.

He nodded.

"All you have to do is service Pamela. Whenever she wants, wherever she wants, whatever she wants. And I think she's quite kinky, actually. But that's not difficult, is it?"

He shook his head in agreement.

"So as soon as you agree to let Pamela fuck you, I will agree to let you out of your cage."

"Yes, Miss. I agree. I agree to let Pamela fuck me. Please let me out of this cage."

"Okay," I said.

I love these moments. I love the instant of delight on his face when he thinks he's won, followed almost instantly by the dread realisation that he never wins, so there must be a catch. He swallowed and waited for the catch.

I delivered it.

"But Pamela has just gone on holiday. Flew out from Gatwick this morning. To Amsterdam. She's been saving her leave for two years to go on the holiday of a lifetime. From Amsterdam she's going to Paris, then Rome, then Madrid, Barcelona 3;"

Mr Loverman stared at me in abject misery.

"She'll be gone for a month, Mr Loverman. So until then it's just you, me and the cage. Run me a bath, sweety."