Serving

I was on the bed, swallowed nervously when he walked into the bedroom, wearing only a towel around his waist. 

He smiled, his eyes went up my legs, stopped on the tops of my stockings. "Good girl," he said.

"Thank you," I answered, my voice soft, shaking, betraying my nerves. I'd always thought it would be a woman that emasculated me, a woman that feminized me, but here I was in a man's room, dressed for a man, ready to submit to a man.

"Where's the key?" he asked.

I bit my lip, looked behind him at the small key on the dresser. 

He turned, picked it up, examined it, smiled at me. "You won't be seeing this again," he said, "we're clear about that."

"I...I know," I whispered, conscious of the small cage locked around my penis. 

"It will be difficult at first, but you'll come to accept it."

I wasn't sure but couldn't resist; I didn't know if I accepted the cage but I accepted it as a condition of being with him, of serving him.