He lived in the glass-walled display room. Every morning she dressed him in a fresh, even thicker suit, 4 mm now, shiny enough to blind under the spotlights. The chastity cage stayed locked; the rectal toy stayed inside, its remote always within her reach.

The daily poses became ritual:

• 9 a.m.: coat rack. Arms outstretched, back straight while she hung her coat and bag on him for hours.

• 2 p.m.: side table. On all fours, spine perfectly level, holding her wine glass or ashtray.

• 10 p.m.: footrest. Kneeling at the end of her couch, forehead to the floor, while she rested her latex-booted feet on his back and scrolled through her phone.

On day four she added two more piercings: a Prince Albert through the head of his caged cock (she did it while he was strapped to the piercing bench, eyes wide behind the hood) and a guiche ring behind his balls. She tugged each ring once, clinically, then locked the heavy latex suit over them.

That night she invited two friends, both women in identical thick latex. They treated him like furniture. One sat on his back as a stool while the other flicked the remote. The toy buzzed, then delivered a sharp electric jolt that made his knees buckle. They laughed softly, cold and amused, while he fought to stay motionless.

By the end of the week he no longer wanted the hood removed. When she finally unzipped the mouth slit to feed him, he whispered, “Thank you, Mistress,” and meant it with something dangerously close to worship.