Nick hadn't left the house in days. Every shift of his hips reminded him of the cage—tight, unforgiving, constant. Sleep was restless, mornings were worse. The cage didn't let him forget. Neither did Mistress. Her messages came just often enough to remind him he was owned, but never when he wanted comfort. Just control. This morning, a padded envelope appeared in the mailbox. No name. No return address. Just his first name in soft, handwritten cursive. He carried it inside like it was ticking. Ripped it open on the kitchen counter. Inside: a folded pair of black satin panties with pink lace trim. And beneath them, a note—one simple line, written in the same delicate hand: "You'll wear these when I say. Soon." His throat tightened. The fabric felt soft—almost too soft. He shouldn't have tried them on. But he did. They hugged the cage perfectly, pressing it flat, framing it in silk and humiliation. He didn't take them off. Later that afternoon, the app pinged. New Task Assigned. "Put on the panties. Go to the local pharmacy. Buy condoms, lube, and lipstick. When the cashier asks if you want a bag, smile and say, 'No thanks, I'll carry my sissy supplies with pride.' Record audio. Leave the receipt in the envelope and mail it back to me. Reward: $250." His breath caught. He looked down at the panties already clinging to him. Of course she knew. Mistress always knew. He pulled on sweats and a hoodie over them, but it didn't help. He could still feel everything. The satin. The cage. The ache. The pharmacy was ten minutes away. He parked far from the entrance and sat in the car until the panic dulled into numb obedience. Then he walked inside. The condoms were easy to grab. The lube too. He stared at the lipstick section until his eyes burned, finally picking a cherry red shade called Sinful Kiss. The name made his chest tighten. At the register, the cashier—a woman barely older than him—looked down at the items, then up at his face. "Would you like a bag?" Nick forced a smile. His cheeks burned. "No thanks… I'll carry my sissy supplies with pride." Her expression froze. A blink. A smirk? He didn't stay long enough to know. He left quickly, the receipt trembling in his hand. The app buzzed the moment he sat back in the car. Task Complete. Mistress heard everything. Then another message: Be proud, my little clit. The world should see what I own. $250 appeared in his account. Not life-changing. Not even rent. But it wasn't about the money anymore—and both of them knew it.
