Impostor Syndrome, A worm On A String, and A Safe Place To Let Go - Part 1
My sub and I have our first public outing
Content note: sex, kink, degradation, piss play.
~
The longest stretch my service sub, worm, has worn a cock cage is 18 days.
They gave me the key to their lock nearly a year ago, an occasion that marked the shift in our relationship from kinda-kinky fuck buddies to Dominant and submissive, a proper power exchange dynamic. When they’re locked up I wear the key around my neck where it rests between my breasts, so we both have a constant physical reminder of our bond, of who is in charge. (Me).
Usually, they clean my apartment wearing nothing but the cage and maybe a jockstrap or chest harness. They do the dishes, sweep and mop, scrub the tub and toilet, wash and fold my laundry, and take out the trash. If I have to pee while they’re over, I make them drink it in their designated piss cup. If they do a good job cleaning, I might let them lick my armpits or smell my cunt through my underwear before I step on their caged cock and kick them in the balls. I love to watch the worm squirm beneath my foot.
That’s my favourite part, really, aside from the locking ritual.
During the ritual, I stare at them in disgust as they masturbate on my bed. I don’t touch them until it’s time to cum, when I place my mouth over their mushroom tip and accept it all before spitting it back into their mouth for them to swallow. They beg to be degraded.
“You’re fucking pathetic, swallowing your own cum like a disgusting little thing,” I say to their twitching body. “What do you say to M for letting you jerk off and cum? It was very generous of me.”
“Yes, yes, thank you M, thank you Daddy.,” they whimper. “You’re so good to me.”
“I know. Now, as soon as your cock is back to its sad, soft state, I’m locking you up.”
They nod profusely.
I wait for their chub to subside.
I ease their junk through the silver ring of the cock cage one ball at a time, pushing gently from the top to help them through. Then I pull the scrotum tight and squish the flaccid cock through the loop. The top of the cage slides together and clicks into place. With a quick turn of the key, I imprison them for who knows how long. I put the key and gold chain around my neck, letting it settle over one of Medusa’s snakes.
“There. Right where you belong,” I give them praise.
“Thank you, Daddy,” the post-nut glow wans, and the reality of being cock-locked for the foreseeable future dawns.
Tonight, however, they’re not here to clean. And there is no ritual.
They’ve been locked up for seven days already, since the beginning of Subtember, because I knew it would have them acquiescing in my hand and squirming under my foot.
Tonight, I’m taking my pet to the Playground.
~
About a month ago, I sent the worm a text:
“Summer is coming to an end, Subtember is about to start 😏
If you haven’t gotten us tickets to Playground Kink yet and it’s sold out, I want you to find another event for us to go to that month.”
“OK THAT’S A DEAL,” they reply eighteen minutes later.
I wait four hours to reply.
“Excellent! Keep me posted please. Looks like there’s still some tickets 👀” I follow up with the event link to the upcoming fetish play party and rave.
Within two minutes they send me a screenshot confirmation of two tickets. Happy Subtember to us.
I’ve been to fetish events and sex clubs, but generally with friends or an anchor partner - or both - and never with a clear kinky power dynamic where I am the Dominant. This is a new experience for both of us and the novelty, nudity, and anonymity add to the fervor of the evening.
Over the month between getting the tickets and hitting the event, we discuss what we’re gonna wear (Playground has a strict fetishwear-only dress code), we share excitement about taking our dynamic public and whether we’ll just scope it out first or spend the entire time in scene. We check in about hard and soft limits and boundaries and offer each other support and gentleness.
On the day of the event, I spent the afternoon with one of my life partners who helped me choose an option that felt powerful, badass, and genderless. but not my typical boobs-out fare. A dear friend who crafts kinky leather texts to let me know they’ll see me at the event tonight.
I knew there was a possibility I’d run into people I know, this was not my first kinky party. But for some reason knowing that one of my oldest friends - who I often go to these parties with - would see me for the first time as a Dom only made me more nervous.
The worm and I get together beforehand to finalize all the details (as much as they can be), have a drink, finalize our looks.
As soon as they arrive we both start trying on different things and suddenly, with the event approaching and the anticipation building, I feel my confidence growing unsteady, butterflies flutter in my gut.
I’m torn between expressing this insecurity and wanting to be The Best Dom I Can Be and not showing vulnerability at all as we strip naked in my apartment and try on various mesh and leather things.
We agree to arrive as our most natural Dom-and-subby-selves and to scope out the place before diving into any serious protocol. Leading them around on a leash, allowing them to speak only when spoken to, and bringing them with me to the washroom will be our basic protocol as we familiarize ourselves with the space and the vibe. Oh, and I have free reign of their credit card. Within reason.
They show me the things they brought to wear, all of which I deny them.
I dress them first as a distraction because I’m having classic ADHD decision paralysis, pacing around my apartment in various stages of undress and outfit changes.
I use my closet and build their worm look around a black submission hood with only mouth and eye holes and a literal dog collar and leash they’d purchased and sent to me after their last cleaning session.
They try various harnesses and jockstraps over their caged cock and I settle on an outfit entirely from my closet: A fishnet racerback tank top, black leather shorts, and my old Doc Martens that are two sizes too small for them (ouch 😈).
Okay.
Finalizing theirs means it’s time for me to make a decision. The flutters intensify.
But first, the combination of beer and butterflies ignite my bladder and suddenly it’s a peemergency. Ever since my hysterectomy when I gotta go, I gotta go. I retrieve the piss cup from the cupboard and make eye contact with them. Without a word, they follow me into the bathroom and kneel beside the toilet as I sit down.
“Is this okay?” They ask.
It is.
I’m topless and my thigh-high black patent stiletto boots shine in the fluorescent light of my bathroom as I sit on the porcelain throne. A black thong straddles the top of my boots between my thighs like the rubber band of a slingshot, ready to propel the worm into subspace.
My mind wanders briefly to the notion that these boots would make a decent squatty potty replacement in a pinch. File that one away for later.
I position the cup beneath my labia and wait for the first jet of pee when they interrupt me.
“Can I … hold it?” They ask. “The cup.”
Yes.
They reach their hand between my thighs into the toilet they’ve scrubbed so many times before and grasp the cup as a steady stream flows from me, over their hand, into the cup.
My bodily impulse is to stop, that this is wrong, but I don’t. I let go. And I feel held. Safe.
They gasp and close their eyes, taking a deep breath and letting the warmth wash over them. I take a deep breath along with them, our nervous systems working in synchronicity to both electrify and soothe the moment.
This is okay.
When my bladder is empty, I lean back so they can pull the cup up from below.
It’s more full than I anticipated, but greedily they bring it to their lips and gulp it down like the first sip of Gatorade on a hungover morning.
“Good worm,” I whisper.
They stand up, smile, wash their hands, and put a hand out to help me rise.
“Thank you, Daddy.”
I’m starting to drift toward the edges of my Dom space, and the familiar trickle of confidence creeps up my spine, making me stand a little taller. The contrast of impostor syndrome and comfort pulls at my chest in a familiar way.
Today marks one month of not smoking cigarettes, and I still feel like I would crawl out of my skin for one at this moment. I’m desperate to dull the familiar chest-crush of anxiety with nicotine and tobacco.
The worm and I used to smoke together, they would often kneel at my feet while we did, but they moved on to vaping and I decided to quit cold turkey. But here we are, supporting each other in abstention. I didn’t even hit their vape, just took bong rips to ease my nerves.
I’m on my third bowl, second beer, and seventh outfit change when I realize something.
I’ve been pacing around, feeling unsure, looking for their reaction. Was it a deeply ingrained habit of seeking validation from the male gaze? All night, as I try on deep-V bodysuits and fishnets and bustiers and ball-busting, sky-high heels; I bounce looks between femme and masc. Should I have cleavage and tits out? Or stray more masc with my chest taped? The more outfits I try on, the more I seek external validation and the more I realize what truly feels the most Mx. Maia – the same genderfuckery outfit I had picked out earlier that day: a smooth, sheer bodysuit that makes my body look and feel like a sexy oil slick, my lace-up, buckled-in, thigh-high, ball-busting boots that will surely kill my feet, and a fucking attitude.
The key to their cage hangs between my breasts, where it belongs.
Standing in front of the mirror, I add my giant o-ring collar that my leatherworking bestie made me, swipe on a swathe of black eye shadow from temple to temple, and run my hands over my freshly shaved head.
This is Mx Maia.
I stand taller in my boots, and holding on to the chain with the worm collared at my feet, I feel good. Strong. Dominant.
I add my ankle-length black faux fur coat because it’s the end of the first week of September and there’s that early nip of fall in the air. Plus it makes me feel like Jon Snow at the Night’s Watch and that makes my dick wet.
I step in front of the worm and pull on the chain, bringing them close to my face. I stare deep into their eyes within the hood and see the familiar comfort I’ve known for over two years. I feel the hot flush of vulnerability and arousal knowing we’re about to do something we’ve never done before.
“Let’s go play.” I command.
To be continued.