Thirty three days. That is what the calendar said on Halloween morning, and my boy reported it the way he reports everything now, in a message, with the photograph, the number written on his stomach. Thirty three days locked in the cage I hold the key to, and Halloween, of all nights, was not going to be his release. Halloween was going to be his education. Everyone else in this city was dressing up as something wicked for one night. My boy was going to stay home, locked, and listen to his Mistress describe her costume.
I dressed slowly for him, on the phone, because description is a discipline too. The red dress, tight as a rumor. The little horns, because I enjoy honesty in costuming. Boots that made him go quiet just hearing them cross my floor. I poured myself a drink and told him to kneel wherever he was, cage and all, and picture me exactly as instructed while the rest of the world went out to party.
"Where is the key tonight, boy?" I asked him, because I already knew and rituals matter.
"In the candy bowl, Mistress," he said, and I could hear the ache in it. "By the door. Where you put it."
That is correct. I had him place my key, his only key, in the bowl of candy by his front door, where his hand would hover over it every time he fed the neighborhood children, and where touching it for any other reason would cost him another week. That is what chastity looks like under my management. Not a lock. A whole architecture of almost.
Between his doorbells I worked him the way the holiday deserved. Stroke the cage, never himself. Report the leaking. I sat in my red dress with my legs crossed and described, in complete detail, the party I would be attending later, the dancing, the man who would buy my drink and look at my legs and never know that my real evening was a voice on the phone and a locked boy trembling in a quiet hallway. I described touching myself, too, because cruelty should be thorough. My hand under that red dress, my fingers sliding into my soaked pussy while he stroked cold steel, my orgasm arriving loud and unhurried in his ear while his own body strained against bars that I own. He whimpered at every sound. Music, all of it.
For his treat, because it was a holiday and I am not without seasonal mercy, I allowed him one ruined orgasm before midnight. Milked through the bars on my count, slow, humiliating little squeezes while I timed him, until his body spent itself without release, a dripping, shuddering almost, and he cried out like the house was haunted. Perhaps it was. By him.
"Thirty four tomorrow," I told him, gathering my wrap, horns catching the light. "Be grateful. Some boys do not get a witch who keeps count."
If you read about the night I talked him through day twenty three, you know the calendar is my favorite instrument. The Halloween page has the rest of this year's costumes, for the curious.
Now you. Could you spend Halloween on your knees in an empty house, a key in the candy bowl and my voice describing a party you are not invited to, stroking steel and thanking me for it? Most men say yes in October and beg by November. If the thought already has you hard and a little afraid, that is not a warning, that is a diagnosis, and there is treatment. Find me on PhoneBuckFuck, a dollar a minute for halloween phone sex with a keyholder who celebrates holidays properly. Lock first. Then knock, if you dare.