So I had a month to play with him. And what a month it promised to be. I had firmly established myself in his house, assuming control of the bedroom and relegating him to a dog basket at the foot of the bed. While at home he was permitted to wear nothing but a pink, frilly apron which barely covered his metal cock cage and made him look thoroughly ridiculous. He had become accustomed to eating either from the floor or, when I was feeling magnanimous, from a dog bowl. Since he ate little but lettuce in any case it was largely academic. When I needed pleasuring I needed only to call on him and he would trot to my side, awaiting my bidding. I was particularly fond of having my feet pampered, especially lying in the bed with him crouched in his dog basket below, lapping at my toes and sucking them into his mouth. The fact that serving his Mistress in this fashion excited him intensely, causing his penis to react in typical fashion, only to be denied by the excruciating confines of his cage, made my pleasure all the more complete. Indeed, it was a wonderful time.

And Mr Loverman, poor wretch, grew to love it too. At first he reacted against it and required punishment: his bottom was soundly spanked on several consecutive evenings, which finally made him appreciate the good fortune which had befallen him in meeting his Mistress. Gradually, his mood changed and his relationship with me altered. At first, of course, it had been a game for both of us. Increasingly, though, my need to control him grew and I was always ahead of him, pushing the game to its limits. He always caught up, however, and no matter how much he fought against any of my impositions, in time he invariably came to cherish them as much as me.

The one thing he had consistently rebelled over, however, was the involvement of a third party. The ongoing refusal to service Pamela, which had resulted in the dramatic punishment of the cock cage, was a case in point, but there was also Helen, the work cleaner, who had caught us in flagrante early in our relationship. Mr Loverman was petulant to the point of disobedience whenever I raised the subject of involving her again. He found the prospect too humiliating. Which was why, of course, I resolved to make it happen.

The doorbell rang while Mr Loverman was licking my arse. I made him do that at least twice every day, as a way of demonstrating his devotion. I was stretched on the bed, face down, my buttocks raised slightly and cheeks parted, allowing his face access to my nether regions. I was reluctant to stop as his tongue was illiciting some delightful sensations in the depths of my body, but, I reflected, needs must.

"Answer the door, Mr Loverman."

He made no move, his tongue remaining embedded in my crack. When we were together we never answered the door. Of course, he was dressed in his little apron and nothing else so his reluctance to open the door to the world outside was perhaps understandable. Understandable, but not, alas, acceptable. The doorbell rang again, this time longer, a shrill, impatient sound.

"I said answer the door." My voice was testy.

"I can't, Miss."

"Unless you want your arse to look like a fillet steak I suggest you can."

"But Miss, how I'm dressed..." I lost patience, I admit it. His wheedling little voice did it. It's not very professional for a domme to lose her cool, but I'm still learning: we all make mistakes, after all. I turned round, settled my foot on his cage and rattled it with the vigour of a town crier with his bell. Mr Loverman's fluted, anquished yell was a pretty passable impersonation of a town crier's bell also. Unprofessional or not, my actions served their purpose, and with one bound he was off the bed and running towards the front door.

Of course, I knew who it was. I had arranged with Helen the night before for her to come over, but Mr Loverman didn't know that, and I can only imagine his trepidation as he opened the door in his little, pink apron, imagining who it might be. I heard a hoot of derision from the hallway and a peal of shrill laughter, clearly indicating the moment when Mr Loverman opened the door to the waiting Helen. I slipped on my dressing gown and went through to the living room.

"Evening Helen," I said casually.

"My God, you weren't joking," she replied, her voice displaying a mixture of amazement and respect. "You really have got him trained." Mr Loverman stood in the doorway, his face bright red, the pink apron struggling to conceal his body. "He's lost weight hasn't he?"

"Yes, he's been on a lettuce diet for a fortnight. Lost about a stone, I think. Isn't that right, Mr Loverman?"

"Yes, Miss," he whispered, head bowed.

"Hmm, he needed it. He was too lardy for my liking. We need to build up his muscles as well now, don't you think?" Helen replied.

"Good idea. I'll get an exercise regime sorted out."

"A strict one."

"Naturally."

"Let's see how much we have to do. Can you get him to take his apron off, let me see his body, see how far away from having a six pack he is."

"Oh, I fear his is about a nought point six pack. Blubber, nothing more. Mr Loverman, take off your apron."

This was going to be good. Mr Loverman looked beseechingly at me, but my resolute expression told him there was little point. He reached behind and untied his apron strings. Sliding the ridiculous garment over his head, he pulled it from him and stood naked before us.

Naked, that is, except for his cock cage.

Helen looked at it in amazement. "What in the name of christ is that?" she exclaimed.