Mocha Step-mommy gets home from the club, and the thing in the cage still hasn't earned its way out.

She doesn't hurry. Why would She. She unlatches the door and clips the chain to its collar and drags it out onto the floor, and it comes the way it always comes, on its knees, because that's the only height it's allowed. It doesn't stand. It doesn't look up. It waits for permission to exist. She tells it to take Her robe off and it does that too, carefully, with the kind of shaking attention a creature gives something it knows it isn't good enough to touch.

Underneath, She's still in what She wore out. Black lace stockings worn all night long, patterned up the whole leg, damp at the arch, warm through to the toes. The thing on the floor has been locked in steel for days. She checks the cage the way you'd check a parking meter, bored, already looking past it.

It crawls to the sofa and gets Her boots off, and the second the leather clears Her heel She puts a foot straight into its face. No warning. Nylon still holding the shape of the boot. She presses the sole flat across its mouth and its nose and leaves it there, watching the eyes go stupid and wet, and only when it starts to buck does She lift off and drop the other one down so it never gets a clean breath. She grinds Her toes into its nostrils. Makes it breathe in on command. Makes it thank Her for the air.

Then She hands the boots back and keeps Her feet right where they are, across its face, so it has to wipe them down blind. It can't see what it's doing. It doesn't get to. It works by feel with both hands while Her soles stay pressed over its mouth and nose, and every time it slows down to breathe She reminds it which of the two jobs actually matters.

On the carpet She lays it flat and folds its knees up like She's arranging furniture, sits down on its stomach, and goes to work on its face with both feet. Lace dragged across its mouth. Toes pushed past its lips one at a time until it takes the whole foot and gags, and She doesn't stop for the gagging, She stops for nothing, the gagging is the entire point. The second foot goes in before it's finished choking on the first.

The spider gag comes out next. It cranks the jaw wide and locks it open, and it's chained straight to a pair of clamps She bites onto its nipples with Her own hands. She pulls the chain just to watch the jaw strain. She squats over the open mouth, close enough that it understands exactly what She could do down there and exactly how little say it would have, and tells it that if She's still bored later it can be Her toilet. Then She takes the clamps off slow. Slow is worse and She knows it.

She has it rub Her down while She lies back, and that's when She notices the cage is leaking. Filthy beast She wipes the mess off it with the bottom of Her foot, holds the stocking up to its mouth, and waits while it licks its own shame back off Her. Some of it hit the rug on the way down. She points at the rug. She doesn't say anything. It knows.

Back at the sofa She turns around and kneels up and puts Her ass in its face and Her feet in its mouth at the same time, and shakes it while the thing underneath sucks and swallows and makes noise like it's being given something. It doesn't get to touch Her. It doesn't get out of the cage. It gets whatever She decides it is today, and it thanks Her for that too

Mocha Step-mommy gets home from the club, and the thing in the cage still hasn't earned its way out.

She doesn't hurry. Why would She. She unlatches the door and clips the chain to its collar and drags it out onto the floor, and it comes the way it always comes, on its knees, because that's the only height it's allowed. It doesn't stand. It doesn't look up. It waits for permission to exist. She tells it to take Her robe off and it does that too, carefully, with the kind of shaking attention a creature gives something it knows it isn't good enough to touch.

Underneath, She's still in what She wore out. Black lace stockings worn all night long, patterned up the whole leg, damp at the arch, warm through to the toes. The thing on the floor has been locked in steel for days. She checks the cage the way you'd check a parking meter, bored, already looking past it.

It crawls to the sofa and gets Her boots off, and the second the leather clears Her heel She puts a foot straight into its face. No warning. Nylon still holding the shape of the boot. She presses the sole flat across its mouth and its nose and leaves it there, watching the eyes go stupid and wet, and only when it starts to buck does She lift off and drop the other one down so it never gets a clean breath. She grinds Her toes into its nostrils. Makes it breathe in on command. Makes it thank Her for the air.

Then She hands the boots back and keeps Her feet right where they are, across its face, so it has to wipe them down blind. It can't see what it's doing. It doesn't get to. It works by feel with both hands while Her soles stay pressed over its mouth and nose, and every time it slows down to breathe She reminds it which of the two jobs actually matters.

On the carpet She lays it flat and folds its knees up like She's arranging furniture, sits down on its stomach, and goes to work on its face with both feet. Lace dragged across its mouth. Toes pushed past its lips one at a time until it takes the whole foot and gags, and She doesn't stop for the gagging, She stops for nothing, the gagging is the entire point. The second foot goes in before it's finished choking on the first.

The spider gag comes out next. It cranks the jaw wide and locks it open, and it's chained straight to a pair of clamps She bites onto its nipples with Her own hands. She pulls the chain just to watch the jaw strain. She squats over the open mouth, close enough that it understands exactly what She could do down there and exactly how little say it would have, and tells it that if She's still bored later it can be Her toilet. Then She takes the clamps off slow. Slow is worse and She knows it.

She has it rub Her down while She lies back, and that's when She notices the cage is leaking. Filthy beast She wipes the mess off it with the bottom of Her foot, holds the stocking up to its mouth, and waits while it licks its own shame back off Her. Some of it hit the rug on the way down. She points at the rug. She doesn't say anything. It knows.

Back at the sofa She turns around and kneels up and puts Her ass in its face and Her feet in its mouth at the same time, and shakes it while the thing underneath sucks and swallows and makes noise like it's being given something. It doesn't get to touch Her. It doesn't get out of the cage. It gets whatever She decides it is today, and it thanks Her for that too