The Trophy, Segment Six

“Would you please, Maria? Upstairs and caged, Mrs. Grayson and I will be having an aperitif on the porch. It’s a delightful evening,” the Master of the house speaks.

Maid Maria smiles, enthused that she is to be empowered. As Mrs. Grayson returns the well bound Mrs. Casperson to sightlessness, the young Hispanic girl knows to go to the armoire where there rests the leash.

Hood in place, a mocha hand clips on the leash and jostles, pulling as Nurse Grayson helps with the chair. As Mrs. Casperson knows to carefully rise, Arlen Jacobs Casperson smiles, the sound of the rattling hobbling chain bringing glee.

“Is this necessary, Arlen? I can find my way to the bedroom.”

“Yes, I’m sure you can. But moving about on your own would tend to empower. Your role is to be seen... not to think... not even to act unless it is under the tutelage of another. And young Maria is happy to assist.”

Clumsily, Mrs. Casperson turns, obediently subordinating herself to the lowest member of the household. A foot carefully shuffles forth on the carpeting, the hobbling chain restrictive as always.

“And it’s Sir... or Master. You must learn to be respectful, dear.”

Out the dining room to the stairs, maid Maria feels twinges within her loins, sensing great thrill. She leads, taking two steps up, knowing to both shorten and tighten her grip to preclude mishap.

Step, step, step, finally the second floor of the sizable mansion is reached. Down the hallway, to the bedroom, the sleeping quarters massive.

Though Maria is a neophyte to bondage, Mrs. Grayson has taught her how to cage the lady of the house, assuring safety, a degree of physical comfort... yet endless mental and emotional stress.

‘It’s important to her... something you’ll understand in time. Girls of Mrs. Casperson’s ilk have needs... and we are here to assure such are addressed. Any begging and pleading must be ignored. When given the leash you are in charge... complete charge.’

Such a thrill in first hearing the words, the role of a maid normally reporting to and being inferior to all. And the thrill returns each time she is assigned the chore.

To the cage. It is low, waist height. The bars are many, spaced such that a hand can easily be slipped within, the nakedness of Mrs. Casperson to be kneaded, caressed, palpated by anyone at anytime. Ingeniously designed, expensively crafted, the opening at the front locks at the top and for entry lowers to the floor. Hinged, when folded down, a section of the top bars folds away with it. To the carpet it can be propped up on folding legs, forming a convenient seat. Within the cage are stanchions similar to those on the basement cleansing platform with brackets to hold in place the ends of the Martin Rigid Stock.

Yes, Mrs. Casperson spends the night with wrists and neck remaining encumbered. The height to be held is adjustable, the ends of the Rigid Stock to be slid up or down depending on the desired comfort level to be afforded.

Mrs. Casperson has spent many sleepless nights in punishment, lying prone, head, arms and wrists suspended some six to eighteen inches above the cage floor.

Maria releases the lever, the front opening folding down to the carpet.

”Kneel,” commands, pulling downward on the leash.

Mrs. Casperson complies... must comply... and the hobbling chain is removed, the hood slipped away.

“On your back,” smiling in noting the instant obedience.

Ah, to finally lie supine. It’s like a reward, Mrs. Casperson not to resist or complain.

 “And slide...  in you go Mrs. Casperson. Beddy bye time. You know how you are to be positioned for the night.”

She does. Though well rehearsed, being caged is awkward. She lies in the cage supine and to enter Mrs. Casperson must extend her legs inward then slide herself, with Maria’s assistance, feet first. It’s time consuming, the effort slow and ungainly. 

Supine form in place, the Rigid stock is secured right and left. Then for good measure the ankle shackles are secured to the bars, the width of the cage forcing apart the thighs.

Maria folds up and locks the cage opening. Stepping to the bedroom door, she then recalls the final binding, Mrs. Grayson quite specific in explaining its need.

‘She is not to frottage. You can only imagine the nastiness to come about in being able to move  her hips,’ the vaginal and anal inserts disclosed to a tittering young maid.

Thus Maria returns. Short cables hanging in wait at the middle bars are pushed inward and clipped to eyelets on the chastity belt, right hip then left. This brings complete immobility, Mrs. Casperson not to wriggle about her hips and thighs to more fully enjoy the penile replicas of Master Arlen Jacobs Casperson. 
      
It’s a final cruelty, Maria thinks to herself. But it is as Mrs. Grayson explained... women of a certain ilk have needs...
 
“Do you really enjoy this, Mrs. Casperson?” an intrigued maid Maria cannot help asking.

“Would it matter if I did not, Maria?”

“That’s Miss Maria please,” a hand reaching within the bars to firmly pinch the rubber casing of the right nipple.

With a moan and a spasmodic shudder of pain, Maria smiles, noting her message is well received. Dousing the lights, in departing, within her loins she senses moisture.