"Enjoying yourself?" I asked rhetorically as I entered the room. The heels of my thigh high boots echoed as I confidently strode along the varnished wooden floor. They matched the rest of my outfit: black, shiny, and tight. Twenty minutes it had taken me to squeeze into my rubber leotard and matching gloves, all for his benefit. That meant I couldn't just change into casual clothes whenever I walked out of the room. I had to concentrate on my work while dressed up like that. It was distracting, to say the least. Sometimes I wonder if he realises just how much effort I put into our relationship.

Every step drew me closer to him. My live-in slave, Chris, that is. Closer to the stench of his precum and sweat. I came to a halt once I was in front of him, careful not to block his view of the TV.

He tried to say something. I hoped it wasn't anything important because I couldn't make out his muffled words and I wasn't about to unlock his head harness any time soon. He probably didn't even know what he really wanted at that point anyway, so there was no reason to let him speak. The contract he'd signed three months beforehand had made it clear what we both could and could not do, and it was all I needed.

He'd told me what he wanted the other week, when he wasn't aroused. That's how I knew he meant it. He said how he'd never seen any of his hour-long BDSM videos all the way through. He always ended up wanking, only a few minutes into one. He has no self control, that's one of his problems. No self restraint. But I can easily control him. Restrain him. Of course, he didn't come right out and ask for my help. He hardly ever does. But I always know what he wants.

Chris was sitting on top of one of my old blankets, on my couch. The white, mental hospital issue straitjacket kept his hands safely away from his dick, which was completely exposed. I looked down at the pathetic figure. He looked back up at me with pleading eyes. He was still squirming around slightly under the jacket, more likely to try to find a way to touch himself than with the intent of escape. His erection betrayed his enjoyment, whether he wanted to admit it or not. How embarrassing it must be for guys, to have such little control over even their own bodies.

His ankles were encased in the gleaming manacles I'd made him polish a few days earlier in preparation. They kept him chained to the floor hook in front of the couch, so that he could move around a bit and stretch his legs without worrying that he might miss any of the video this time.

He hardly ever tugs on that chain for more than a few seconds any more. He always loves to make sure his bonds are secure, but I've chained him to that floor hook many times now. He had always found escape from that hook and those manacles impossible, even on the few occasions when he could use his hands. I have a thing for padlocks, you see. They help to induce that feeling of total helplessness.