Trent's duties keep him fairly occupied throughout the day, but I still expect communication. After all, communication is the foundation of any good relationship. I get little texts and pictures as he accomplishes his daily tasks- in the morning, I hear about how our animals are doing, a small update on the yard work and progress of our gardens. Through the afternoon I'm made aware of various meetings and projects he completes for his remote position at an engineering firm. And as I'm readying myself to drive back to our cozy abode, I receive a confirmation that his housework is completed and dinner is started, as well as a summary of his daily workout- a long high-intensity interval session on his stationary bicycle, followed by heavy squats, hip thrusts, and thigh abduction (for a big, round ass), followed by a rigorous shoulder regimen including overhead press, and bench press. He sends a selfie, flexing for me in an Arnold-style pose, and I admire his slutty ivory-colored body, the result of his hard work and my guidance.
In the selfie, he wore his daily outfit- a thin black leather collar with three O-rings placed at 90 degree angles, locked around his thick neck with a tiny padlock. The padlock is more symbolic than functional- I know he'd never dream of removing this precious symbol of his status as an owned piece of property. My eyes drift down to his chest, which sports another symbol of his slavery- two thick, low-gauged rings decorate his nipples, dragging them down from their place at the summits of his large pecs. He actually cried when I first told him he'd be getting some slave rings. Now, he literally begs me to continue to thicken them. Granted, often the alternatives to thickening I provide are much less preferable, but I always remind him how little he wanted his slave rings initially, and how much he loves them now.
Further down I feast my gaze on his six-pack and meaty obliques, which narrow and bulge over his hips, giving him fetching "cum gutter" lines, forming an arrow which points directly at yet another of my modifications- the slut's locked up, denied cock. Unlocked it's rather large, but I've managed to accommodate it's thick seven inches into a two-inch solid, brushed steel tube, secured in place with a prince albert and guiche piercing. The weight of the apparatus around his swollen blue balls gives his package a heavy, pendulous swing, which I don't intend to correct- it incentivizes soft, small, submissive steps. There's something so fucking satisfying about seeing a man of his size and stature padding around our home, gingerly avoiding any sudden or uncontrolled movement. When we go out or meet up with friends I let him support it with a tight jockstrap, as well as some adhesive pasties to obscure the telltale lines of his nipple rings under the tight button up shirts I set out for him to wear.
He hasn't cum using his cock in ages. I used some long-term conditioning and a few key phrases to ensure that he botched his last attempt to cum from a paid dominatrix's handjob. At this point, his subconscious won't let him blow his load without a strong whiff of my sweaty socks or ass and my express vocal permission after a countdown. Since he spurted at the mere smell of my shoe, the slut's been asking a little more persistently to be allowed to jerk his locked-up dick. I guess the memory makes him pretty horny. Initially I tried to remind him that he doesn't need his dick if he can cum from smell alone. The tenacious slut kept asking, so I finally had to set and enforce some long-term boundaries- now, he doesn't get to cum unless I say, and he doesn't get to ask to cum. Some of the bruises from that session are still healing. Bimbos like him are hard to teach.
It's not that I don't like his cock- I actually love it. I just need to make sure that he's not thinking of himself as a real man at any stage in our relationship. With our wedding coming up I've given some thought to letting him fuck something on our wedding night- a hole in a watermelon, for example, or a blow-up doll. But until then, his nub is staying trapped in it's custom-made prison.
Since it's a Friday, I know on my drive home that my fiance is scampering around my house, ensuring that no single speck of dust remains on any horizontal surface. He's cleaned out his ass by now with our gallon enema, no doubt, and applied a strong depilatory to his crotch and balls, as well as around his asshole. His face should be shaved to ensure a smooth ride for me. As I head up our driveway to the door, I imagine him hustling to inject a large volume of silicone lube up his ass with a lube-launcher and plug his hole up with a large, double-bulbed butt plug. We started small with the butt plugs, all those years ago, but with a regimen of stretching through my cock, my fists, various oversized dildos (including "Jumbo," his favorite toy these days), we've needed to up the caliber of plug required to hold any lube in his used-up hole. Obviously he can tighten it around any size of rod, including my average-sized one, but I like him starting nice and wide.
And sure enough, as I walk in the door, there he is- servile and submissive as ever. Maybe even more so these days, as he's so deep into orgasm denial and the humiliating high of planning a duo of weddings- one a normal marriage between a man and his groom, the other a kinky acknowledgement of his status as my permanent straight underling to manipulate and mold in sickness and health. The community thinks of him as a done-up, proper, out-and-proud homosexual man in a loving relationship with his long-term partner. Very few know the truth about his sexuality and our arrangement. Probably not how he imagined his life turning out when he first started noticing girls and discovered his tendency for submission.
The routine we've worked out over the years includes his greeting me at the door like a loyal dog. He doesn't get to make eye contact until I address him. He's squatting on the rug in our mudroom next to the shoes and coats, straining his massive quads, knees spread, and arms crossed behind his back, proudly displaying his pumped up, pierced chest. I happen to know that his hole is tightening around his plug- early in his training for this routine, he accidentally dropped the plug after flexing his abs or pelvis to stay balanced in this position. He couldn't sit for a week after I punished him for that transgression.
That beautiful cleft chin maintains a docile posture, pointed downward, and I see his liquid-blue eyes and their long blond lashes follow my feet as I walk around the room. As usual, the position of utter humiliation and dependence causes him some confusing horniness- I notice his dick twitching in it's restraints. I love this moment, and choose to ignore him for the first few seconds. I sit down and take off my shoes and socks, and finally break the silence.
"Hey, dummy. Clean my feet."
He eagerly crawls forward and starts to lick and suckle on my toes like a hungry piglet. When we started this routine he would express some disgust, occasionally gagging, or worse would express shame- blushing as he tentatively licked my toes. His dick was of course hard as a rock from the beginning. Through conditioning and repetition, over the years my sub has come to relish in this task, his behavior now matches his true nature- eager and submissive. Ritual has been an important part of his training. Every weekday since we've moved in, without fail, my sub cleans my feet after my day at work. At this point it's just another part of his day. What's not a regular part of his day, though, is what I decide to do next.
"Guess what bitch. I've got to piss. Toilet."
He looks at me with some apprehension and shock in his eyes, but proceeds with his protocol. I unbuckle my belt in front of his face and pull down my pants and underwear, and his thick, pillowy pink lips suction around my soft cock. I always start to get hard at this part. Then, I release my bladder. The sub chugs my piss like a beer bong, applying constant suction and never releasing the seal of his lips around my shaft. While I shoot my piss down his throat, I passively pinch and rub his his pierced nipples. I know it drives his whole ego and sense of self into a tiny, humiliated part of his brain, and that he's ashamed and horny about his deep love of doing these filthy tasks for me, hardening in his tiny cage at the feeling of his master absent-mindedly torturing his modified chest while he serves as a human toilet.
It pleases me to know that my sub hasn't pissed standing up in several years of his life, forced to sit by the apparatus which constrains his manhood, and yet he occasionally must serve as a urinal for me. And damn, he's good at it. It feels like he's sucking the piss directly from my bladder, like he wants it, a parched traveler at an oasis. After I finish, and his stomach is full of my piss, I instruct him to continue sucking and clean my cock off while I use his tits as stress balls. He dutifully takes me, still only partially hard, deep into his throat, and follows this expert move with a swishing motion of his long tongue around my shaft. He knows I love to harden in his throat. He continues to swallow and suck, and swishes his tongue around the base of my dick. He even pushes his nose into my pubic bone so he can lick my balls with the tip of his tongue, when I get hard enough to finally push his limits- with a final pulse, I expand in his larynx and cause him to gag slightly. I pull out of his mouth, but he keeps it open, a string of drool dropping from his pouty bottom lip. He knows better than to close his mouth at this stage.
"You must be really horny to push yourself like that. Good boy."
"Thank you sir."
The mouth remains open after this statement. He does not move. He speaks with a soft bass California-style himbo surfer boy inflection, which he had when I first met him. I've heard him on his work calls and been around him with vanilla company- he actually speaks like a fairly normal, intelligent person when he's required to. But around me, he's a dumb jock. I don't think he has control of this switch in personality. I make a habit of insulting his intelligence and removing choices from his hands, so I forget sometimes that he's actually pretty smart. I sure as fuck don't understand some of the diagrams I see him analyzing in his work room. I make a mental note to ask for an update on one of his notably difficult ongoing work projects later.
"Meet me in the living room. I've had a long day."
I take off my pants and underwear and drape them on his head with flourish, heading to the living room, past the kitchen, where I see he's started dinner. He knows to do sous-chef duties before I get home so he has a break to please me before finishing our meal- vegetables are pre-chopped, and a lamb roast marinades in a tupperware. After he's finished placing my clothing in the laundry hamper, he follows me to the living room on his hands and knees. I've collapsed into one of our black leather sofas.
"Did you plan a roast for this evening?"
