She blinked in and out of consciousness; the lights were bright, too bright, when her eyes opened, but the dark scared her. Still… she drifted. Once, when she half-woke, he and the doctor were standing over her prone body, discussing her recovery process. The conversation floated in and out of her ears, with snippets of words here or there, words like “weak” and “dangerous” and “caution;” Words that served to do little more than frighten her back into the blackness of unconsciousness. Once, she thought she felt his hand against her cheek, though it might have been a dream.
When she was well enough to leave the hospital, she spent six weeks on pseudo-bedrest, flitting between the bed, the sofa, physical therapy appointments, and long, steamy baths that left her feeling better each time she stepped out of them. He was attentive and concerned, but quiet, and she hoped he wasn’t having second thoughts about the operation. He washed her hair during her baths, and escorted her to physical therapy. He cooked her meals for her, and snuggled close, but not too close or hard, to her in the evenings. They watched television shows together, though nothing too funny, or she would laugh and upset the stitches. He read her to sleep some nights, and others, she would drift quickly in the early evenings and be out until well past dawn the next day. Time passed, quick and slow and all at once.
The day the doctor gave her a clean bill of health, she felt the weight of the thing, of the situation, of the stress of recovery and the fear of surgery, and the trepidation all melt away from where it had been perched on her shoulders for what seemed like months. When they first heard of the experimental surgery seeking volunteers, seeking applicants for testing, they had both fantasized and laughed about it. But when the surgery left its developmental and test phase, when it became available to the general public, they had begun to talk seriously about it. The surgery would be more of a commitment than either of them had chosen to make this far, more than her collar, more than the whispered words of “my girl” meant. It would mean giving up control, real and actual control, with no hope of saying no. It would make her submission total and complete, and would put him in the driver’s seat for now and all time. It was a permanent change; not in the way of branding or tattoos, or of scars that fade over time, but medically speaking, it would change her inside, and in other ways too, maybe.
On graduation day from bedrest, the doctor pronounced her fit and capable. He gave them both warnings about easing into the situation, and how they shouldn’t overdo it at first, or even for some months. The doctor explained how they would know if something was wrong, and checked again that they had all the proper pamphlets and flyers, or at least, what little had been circulated about the relatively new procedure. She would need to come in for a checkup once a month for the first six months, and twice a year for calibration after that.
She walked to the door and paused there while the doctor had another moment of conversation with him, and handed over a polished box. They shook hands, and then his free hand was on the small of her back, just to the right of her newly forming scar, directing her out of the small office.
The first few days, he was so careful, so tentative around her. He still handled her with kid gloves, like she was still on bedrest. She began to help him with the cooking and some light housekeeping again. She made him breakfast in the mornings as he started heading back to work. His job had been very kind and understanding when he explained that he needed the time off to take care of her, and luckily he had vacation saved up. The first night he touched her again, she was shocked at the delicacy with which he handled her. Her body sang beneath him, so glad to feel him moving against her. She hadn’t felt herself in over six weeks, and she hadn’t felt like a woman: desirable, wanton, needed, in just as long. His fingers and lips brushed over the scar tissue that was just beginning, and it sent fingers of heat spiraling to all the corners and edges of her body. She wanted more, and soon.
The morning it all changed, she knew he was ready the moment she woke up. He was gone from the bed, and in his place, was the box that the doctor had handed him. She opened it to peek inside, to take a long hard look at what inhabited the box. Beside it was a note in his scrawl: “Bring it to me when you are ready” it read, and to her surprise, was signed with the honorific she hadn’t murmured softly in almost two months: “Sir.”
She leapt out of bed, her heart was already racing. She perched on the edge of the seat at her dressing table, excitedly running a brush through her messy bed head hair. Her hands shook around the handle of the brush and she chewed the inside of her lip thoughtfully. She wore a short, cozy night-gown, nothing sexy or special, and she wondered briefly if she should change. He hadn’t specified any other instructions, and her indecision gnawed at her. She normally would know instinctively how to act, what he would expect of her, but she found herself unsure, and a little afraid.
Another box rested on her dressing table, untouched by the clutter. She opened it and carefully put on her collar, buckling it without the lock, just in case. An indescribable joy rose up from her toes to her throat and rested there, hot and suffocating, making her eyes sting and burn with the threat of tears; just wearing her collar made her feel like the pieces that had been missing were slowly falling back into place. She never understood how much her submission was not just a part of her, but was integral to her identity, until she could not act on it.
She decided not to change, but to come to him as she was, so he would know how much she wanted this, so he would know that she wasted no time in coming to him.
She took the box and stepped into the belly of the house. He was not in the kitchen, but she could smell the faint scent of coffee that must’ve been brewed hours before. She wondered how long he’d been up, if the anticipation of this moment had ridden him as hard as it had her. She wondered if he expected her to bring him the box now, she wondered if she was really ready for this.
She found him in the living room, reclining in his easy chair. He looked calm and relaxed, but she could read him better than that; his teeth were clenched, his jaw taut, his fingers resting on his knees were digging into them, and his posture was stiff. She wondered if he had sat here in trepidation all morning, worrying that she wouldn’t come to him, or if he had scared her.
His eyes flitted to her and he nodded, but said nothing. She watched him take note of the box in her hands, and the collar on her neck, and saw him both relax and grow more tense, all at once. She crossed the room with slow strides, on unsteady legs. Her whole body was trembling, and by the time she reached him, she fell into a kneel before him that was only half voluntary. He pitched forward and touched her shoulder, concern in his eyes.
“You don’t have to-“
“I want to,” she mumbled softly. “I need to,” she said even softer.
His fingers stroked the edges of her collar, tugged lightly at the O-ring, felt around the back to the buckle and the lack of a lock, moved up into her thick tresses and massaged her scalp gently. His eyes were a mix of lust and uncertainty–something she was not used to in him, and at that moment, she wished she could hear his thoughts.
“Would you like me to have the box?” he asked softly.
She raised her hands and set the box in his lap, unopened once more.
“Very good, Pooh. Do you feel well enough for this?”
“I am more than ready to try this.”
“That wasn’t the question, Pooh,” he said sternly.
She closed her eyes momentarily, evaluating herself, reading her body, feeling her heart thunder in her chest, her breathing coming shallow and slow.
“I’m well enough if we… go slow, at first.”
He sat back in his seat, and flipped the lid of the box, so that its contents were facing him. She watched as his fingers stroked and caressed the device that it contained.
“With this box, you’ve given up complete control,” he murmured. “I will always have my finger on the button, you will always be at my mercy, and only my mercy,” he said clearly.
The full weight of the situation rested on her shoulders. Her breath caught in her throat at the realization that this was truly a complete exchange, a complete surrender of her power, of her agency, of her control over her body. She had altered herself for their dynamic, and given him the key to the kingdom.
“The device that the doctor placed inside of you is the sister to this device.”
He held up the small, but complex looking piece of metal. It was shaped like a circle, and she could almost make out the tiny controls, the buttons; the screen flashed at her as he turned it on. She swore she could feel something come alive inside of her.
“The device inside of you is hardwired to your nervous system. My remote controls your device,” he locked gazes with her. She knew all of this information already, of course, but his repetition, his confirmation of these facts, was his way of asking her one final time, if she understood and accepted what was happening to her. “At the touch of a button, from now on, I can force your orgasm,” he said quietly. “At the touch of a button, I could force several orgasms. I can schedule them throughout the day. I decide how many you have, and when you have them. I can control the intensity of them. There is no wiggling out of an orgasm because you’re at work, or at the market, or with friends. If I schedule your orgasm on this remote, you will have it. I won’t always tell you when I have scheduled them… and I will still… delight in giving you orgasms myself… but this will insure that when I want my girl to come… she will.”
She knew it was true. The surgery and the device were originally in trial for women who were unable to have an orgasm by themselves or with their partners. The way it was hardwired stimulated the right nerves and sent the right messages, it brought about both the mental and physical reaction of an orgasm, guaranteed. She allowed her mind to race with the possibilities of what it could mean to let him have such control. There would be no more begging off another orgasm because she was too exhausted. There would be no more wiggling out of her tasks because of her surroundings, as he said. If he scheduled an orgasm for her during lunch with her boss, or while she was shopping for dinner, she would be at the mercy of the device. She could envision herself at the market, a bag of oranges in her hands, her thighs and teeth clenched, eyes squeezed tight in pleasure and the agony of embarrassment as an orgasm rocketed through her body. She could see the other shoppers staring at her, wondering at her posture, and the way her body quaked.
She shuddered and nodded slightly.
“I need a yes, Pooh. I need you to say it.”
“Yes, Sir,” she said clearly.
He set the box on the side table and patted his lap. She gingerly climbed to her feet and into his lap, her knees on either side of his thighs. He wrapped his arms around her and she nuzzled in against him. She felt his thumb stroke the still healing incision and shuddered slightly. The device was so small, the surgery minimal, but every time he touched the fresh skin, she swore she could feel it inside of her, like something living, breathing.
“Would you like to try it out, baby?” he asked.
“J-just… a small one at first, please.”
“I’ll put it on the lowest intensity, okay?”
His thumb kept stroking around her wound, beneath her night-gown, and his free hand fiddled with the remote. He gazed up at her as he pressed the last button. She convulsed in his lap, a shudder crawled up her spine as she was hit with a wave of euphoria. She could feel the tight ring of muscles in her sex gripping and tightening, reaching for a phantom cock. Her cervix ached. She grew wetter and couldn’t help the yelps and moans that escaped her lips. Her hips ground against him, once, twice, before the feelings subsided.
She put her face into the crook of his shoulder and tried to breathe normally.
“How did it feel, baby?”
“That was low?” she asked quietly.
He chuckled darkly and stroked his fingertips up her spine, all the way to her nape, and into her hair.
“That was low.”
“I mean… they’ve got something here… they’ve got it figured out for sure,” she chuckled softly and shivered.
“Oh? should I be worried I’ll be replaced?”
She could tell he was joking, and was tempted to tease him, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so, not after not having his attention, in this way, for so long.
“It’s good, Sir,” she murmured. “But it’s nothing… it’s not comparable to the real thing… to being touched… to being stroked and rubbed… and… fucked,” she breathed the last word so softly, it was barely audible. Her cheeks burned with a blush and she pressed her face deeper into the crook of his shoulder.
“I’m glad,” he growled in her ear.
She could feel him growing harder against her body and she wiggled her hips in response.
“Don’t tease me, Pooh.”
His voice was strained, and she knew the control he held over himself was immense, but she knew it was a thinly veiled threat, one that, if not to be carried out now, would be paid to her in spades when she was fully well again.
“I’m not teasing… Daddy,” she whispered into his skin.
He groaned quietly and she rocked her hips in small circles against him.
“What do you want, baby?”
“I want you… inside of me, please…”
He stroked her wound tentatively and murmured, “Go to the bedroom.”
She climbed out of his lap and when she turned, he gave her ass a light smack. It stung but didn’t hurt; it was enough to make her clench her thighs.
“You better be ready when I come in there,” he warned.
When he swept into the room, after what seemed like aeons to her, she was on her hands and knees on the bed, naked, save for her collar. The sound of his belt clicked through the room like the hammer of a gun, and she jumped, only slightly. When she felt the weight of him depress the bed, she crawled forward till she could reach the pillows and then stopped.
“Very good,” he said, running a hand over the curve of her bare ass.
He leaned down, and she felt his hot breath, just before she felt his lips, against the dimples in her lower back, caressing the tattoo there gently. They moved briefly to the left, to touch upon her wound, before tracing a path up her spine, to her nape, across her shoulders. He grazed his teeth against her ink there, suckling gently at the skin. He laid a kiss just between her hair-line and the collar, and raked his hand into her hair.
She moaned softly as he tugged her head back until his lips could find her ear.
“Tell me again what you want.”
“You… inside of me… please,” she whimpered.
With a thrust of his hips, their bodies joined, and she mewled and wiggled beneath him.
“Should I fuck you slowly… gently, Pooh?”
His hips moved against hers tentatively, his free hand rested at the high curve of her ass. He tilted his head and kissed her skin, just beneath the ear, just above her collar. His hand on her ass slid forward, around her hip, against her pelvic bone, and he slowly stroked her clit in time with the movements of his hips. She all but melted in his hands, enjoying the sensations radiating throughout her body, the feel of him surrounding her, holding her tight beneath him.
“Or does my girl want something more… something rougher?”
His hips punctuated the word, slamming into hers, making her aware of every inch of him, of the full girth and the full power of him. He continued like that, with measured, powerful thrusts, eliciting a groan from her with each one. Her hands reached for the pillows, and unable to grasp them, her fingers dug into her thighs, rending her skin. His hand at her clit moved up her body, fingers stopping momentarily to slap her breasts, to pinch her nipples cruelly, before his palm pressed against her throat, his thumb hooked into the O-ring of her collar. He applied pressure, just enough to make her gasp for her breath, just enough to make her heart race and blood burn.
“Speak up,” he growled, biting viciously at the crook of her shoulder.
“Like this, just like this,” she cried.
He rode her body roughly; one hand stayed wrapped around her delicate throat, the other left her hair to press against her pelvic bone, to stroke her gently, a stark contrast to the movement of his hips. Over and over she shouted that she was going to come and he groaned in response.
“Please?” she whimpered.
“Go on, baby, do it, come on my cock.”
Reflex memory: when he gave his permission, her body obeyed, forcing her back to bow and press against him. She was sobbing with the unadulterated joy of the experience, of feeling like herself again, and the pleasure rocketing through her body. His name passed over her lips like water as she rocked back against him.
“You’re going to come again,” he ground the words out between his teeth.
The realization of what he meant didn’t quite sink in until she heard him fiddling with something, and felt her body pierced by another wave of intense pleasure.
“Oh my god,” she panted.
He held her body tight to his and kept thrusting, kept pumping, in and out, in fast, hard strokes. When he came, he roared out a groan and dug his teeth into her shoulder sharply, hand closing tightly about her throat, thumb tugging at the O-ring on her collar. With his teeth came another orgasm.
She leaned heavily on him, her mind felt dizzy with pleasure and she had to close her eyes. She felt like she wasn’t breathing. She felt like she might not breathe again.
“No more, please,” she croaked out, her voice was raspy with the effort and she felt like she would collapse beneath him.
He kissed the bite mark on gently and whispered: “One more, baby.”
He tugged her collar and pulled her down to the mattress; he laid his body over hers, his cock still nestled inside of her cunt, and she writhed beneath him as she came once more. She clawed at the bed, and yelped and cried. He held her still beneath him with the weight of his body. He cooed in her ear as the pleasure ravaged her once more. She curled into a ball beneath him. He maneuvered onto his side and took her in his arms. He held her tight and stroked her hair. He whispered praise and thanks in her ears and let her shiver and shake against him.
When she finally stilled, her eyes felt too heavy to open, her body felt too sluggish to move, but she tried anyway.
“No, Pooh. Don’t move… you’ve been such a good girl, just rest.”
She melted against him, and felt her mind growing dark and blank and staticky. Sleep was overtaking her quickly, and could do nothing to stop it. As her breathing slowed, he held her tighter and shifted so that she was completely enveloped in the circle of his arms. She felt warm, and safe; she had surrendered completely, and nothing bad had happened.
She felt well and truly owned.
THIS is where the inspiration sprang from.