The inheritance

 Story by crash144019

You remember the day I first stepped into this creaky Victorian house in Wetherby, the kind of place where the floorboards groan like they're protesting the weight of all those stern Catholic portraits on the walls. Your parents—God rest their judgmental souls—had just been snuffed out in that senseless car crash on the A1, leaving you rattling around this sturdy old pile like a lost coin in a beggar's cup. Not filthy rich, mind you, but well enough off from your father's engineering gigs and your mother's endless church fundraisers. The will was ironclad: everything held in trust until you hit twenty-one, and me, your aunt Margaret, the sharp-tongued widow from Leeds, drafted in to keep the roof from caving in on you. "Someone's got to whip this boy into shape," I'd told the solicitor, my voice like a whipcrack already.

I arrived with two suitcases and a glare that could curdle milk. You were nineteen then, all gangly limbs and wide eyes, schooled in that suffocating piety your folks drilled into you—prayers before meals, no dancing, and certainly no filthy thoughts about the body God gave you. Sex? Ha, you'd probably blush at the sight of a woman's ankle. I saw it right away, the way you fidgeted when I unpacked in the guest room, my dresses spilling out like invitations you didn't know how to decline. The house smelled of polished oak and regret, the gardens outside tangled with roses that nobody had bothered to prune since the accident. I started small, teasing you with glimpses—bending low to pick up a fallen book, my blouse dipping just enough to show the lace edge of my bra. "Eyes up here, Robert," I'd say with a smirk, watching your cheeks flame. You'd stammer excuses and bolt to your room, the door clicking shut like a guilty verdict.

Nights were the worst for you, weren't they? I'd hear the floorboards creak under your pacing, the house's bones whispering secrets. One evening, after a dinner of overcooked shepherd's pie—my way of asserting domestic tyranny—I decided to test the waters. I knocked on your door, my silk robe loosely tied, the fabric whispering against my skin. "Robert? You awake?" No answer, but a muffled rustle. I pushed the door open without waiting, and there you were, sprawled on your bed, trousers around your ankles, your hand frozen mid-stroke on that eager cock of yours. The room was stuffy, lit by a single lamp that cast shadows like accusing fingers. Your face crumpled in horror, but I didn't scream. Oh no. I feigned shock first—hand to my chest, eyes wide—then let the anger flood in, hot and righteous.

"You filthy animal," I hissed, slamming the door behind me. "Look at you, pawing at yourself like some rabid dog in heat. Is this what your parents raised? A pervert defiling their home?" You scrambled to cover up, babbling apologies, but I was already in motion, towering over you with my arms crossed. "On your knees, boy. Now." The words hung in the air, thick as the shame on your face. You dropped, trembling, and that's when I saw it—the spark of something broken in you, something that craved the leash I was about to snap on. I didn't touch you that night, not yet. I just made you kneel there, lecturing you on sin and control while your cock twitched, denied and desperate. "From now on, you don't touch what's mine," I said, my voice low and venomous. "And everything about you? It's mine."

The next morning, I drove into town, the Yorkshire wind whipping through the car windows as I hit up that discreet little shop on the edge of Wetherby. Leather goods, they called it—collars, cages, plugs that gleamed like forbidden fruit. By evening, you were stripped bare in the drawing room, the heavy leather collar buckled around your neck, its weight a constant reminder. The chastity cage came next, cold metal locking around your balls and shaft, the key dangling from a chain between my breasts. "There," I purred, stepping back to admire my work. "My little dog, all penned up. No more filthy habits unless I say so." You whimpered, but your cock strained against the bars, betraying you. I laughed, a sharp bark that echoed off the paneled walls. "Pathetic. Crawl for me, Robert. Show me what a good pet you can be."

Life in the house shifted after that, the air thick with my authority and your submission. I'd appointed myself your deputy through some slick legal maneuvering—papers signed in the solicitor's office while you waited in the car, oblivious. "It's for your own good," I'd told the man, my smile all honey over steel. Full control: the trust fund, the property, your welfare forever. No more handouts at twenty-one; I'd siphoned it all into my oversight, ensuring you'd never wriggle free. The house became my domain, its Victorian solidity a perfect cage for you. You slept in the bare room off the kitchen—a converted pantry with stone floors and a metal dog cage bolted to the wall. No blankets, just a thin mat, your naked body curling inside as I locked the door each night.

But the teasing? That evolved into something sharper, laced with my deep-seated loathing for your kind—men, always so entitled, so weak. I'd make you follow me on all fours through the house, the locking butt plug I'd forced into you that first week bobbing with its tall, feathered tail like a bitch in estrus. "Fetch, dog," I'd command, tossing a slipper across the Persian rug in the parlor. You'd scramble, ass high, the plug stretching you wide, and I'd watch with a curl of my lip. One afternoon, sunlight slanting through the leaded windows, I had you eat from a bowl on the floor—scraps of my lunch, while I lounged in the armchair, legs crossed, my skirt hiked just enough to flash the shadow between my thighs. "Lick it clean," I ordered, my foot pressing on the back of your neck. You obeyed, tongue lapping at the porcelain, your caged dick leaking pre-cum onto the rug. "Disgusting," I spat. "Men like you deserve nothing but scraps and shame."

The abuse escalated, my misandry a fire that burned hotter with each passing day. I'd wake you at dawn by dragging the cage key across the bars, then haul you out to the garden—our private acre of overgrown hedges and wildflowers, shielded from nosy neighbors by high stone walls. Naked, collared, plugged, you'd kneel in the dew-kissed grass while I sipped tea on the terrace. "Piss like the animal you are," I'd say, pointing to a patch of earth. You'd hesitate, humiliation burning your cheeks, but the pressure built until you let go, stream arcing from your uncaged slit—wait, no, even that I controlled now, a little tube attachment for when I felt merciful. Once, I made you hold it until you begged, tears streaming, before unlocking just enough for relief. "Please, Margaret," you'd whine. "Auntie, I can't—" I'd slap your face, the sting sharp in the morning air. "Don't you dare call me that, you worm. I'm your owner."

Nights were for the real games, the ones that left marks. I'd lead you upstairs on your leash, the tail plug swaying, to my bedroom—the master suite your parents once shared, now mine with its four-poster bed and velvet drapes. I'd strip slowly, letting you watch from your knees, my body a taunt: full breasts spilling from my corset, hips curving into thighs that could crush a man's will. "You want this, don't you, dog?" I'd murmur, trailing a finger along my slit, already slick with my own arousal. Your eyes would glaze, cock throbbing uselessly in its prison. I'd unlock the cage only when I wanted a show—making you stroke yourself to the edge, then stopping you cold. "No coming for filthy boys," I'd sneer, before bending you over the bed and yanking out the plug. Your hole gaped, pink and needy, and I'd lube up a thicker one, ridged and unyielding, forcing it in with a twist. "Take it like the bitch you are."

One stormy evening, thunder rattling the windows like God's own tantrum, I decided to push further. The house was alive with the scent of rain-soaked earth drifting in from the open casement. I chained you to the bedpost, wrists bound in soft leather cuffs I'd bought online—discreet delivery to Wetherby, wrapped like a birthday gift from hell. Naked and exposed, tail plug still in place, you trembled as I circled you, my riding crop—another acquisition—trailing lightly over your skin. "Your parents would be so ashamed," I whispered, cracking it against your thigh. Red welts bloomed, and you yelped, but your cock hardened, dripping. I laughed, low and cruel. "See? Deep down, you're just a pain-slut, aren't you? Beg for more." You did, voice breaking: "Please, Margaret... hurt me." I obliged, stripes blooming across your ass, each snap making you buck. Then I straddled your face, grinding my wet pussy against your mouth. "Eat it, dog. Worship what you'll never have."

Your tongue delved in, sloppy and desperate, lapping at my folds as I rode you, my fingers tangled in your hair. I came hard, juices flooding your face, but I didn't let you stop—edging you with my hand on your freed cock, bringing you to the brink over and over. "Not yet, you worthless prick," I'd growl, pinching your balls until you sobbed. Finally, I flipped you onto your stomach, the tail plug discarded, and lubed my strap-on—the thick black one that made you feel split open. I thrust in slow at first, savoring your gasps, then harder, pounding your ass while I reached around to jerk you roughly. "This is all you're good for," I panted, my own clit grinding against the harness. "A hole for me to fuck." You came with a howl, spurting onto the sheets, and I followed, the vibrations sending me over. But release was punishment too—I locked you back up immediately, wiping you clean with a damp cloth like spilled milk.

Days blurred into a haze of control. I'd make you clean the house naked, plug in, collar tight, while I watched from the sofa, occasionally beckoning you over for a foot massage—your hands kneading my soles as I read the paper, my toes occasionally brushing your caged dick. "Hard already? Pathetic." Financially, I tightened the screws: the trust fund invested under my name, your allowance doled out in pennies for chores. I'd parade you in the basement, a windowless vault with stone walls, binding you spread-eagle to a homemade St. Andrew's cross. There, I'd tease your nipples with clamps, ice cubes trailing down your chest to your locked cock, then hot wax dripping from a candle onto your thighs. "Scream for me," I'd command, and you would, the sound echoing like a confessional gone wrong.

My sadism deepened, fueled by that bitter core of hate—men who took, who assumed. One weekend, I invited a friend over, a divorcee from York named Clara, all sharp wit and sharper heels. We sipped gin in the parlor while you served on hands and knees, naked save for your gear. "Look at my pet," I said, yanking your leash to make you present yourself. Clara's eyes widened, then gleamed. "My, Margaret, you've trained him well." I made you kneel between us, lapping at our pussies in turn—first mine, then hers, the taste of two women mingling on your tongue. We laughed as you worked, your ass plugged and tail wagging. Clara rode your face to orgasm, squirting a little, while I unlocked you and made you fuck a fleshlight at our feet, coming only when we allowed. "Good dog," I praised mockingly, as Clara watched you lap up the mess.

But it wasn't always group play; most nights were intimate torments. I'd oil your body in the bathroom, the steam thick as my commands, massaging every inch but your cock—fingers probing your plugged hole, stretching you for larger toys. "Relax, bitch," I'd murmur, inserting a vibrating plug that buzzed against your prostate, edging you for hours while I read aloud from your parents' old Bible, twisting the verses into perversions. "Thou shalt not spill thy seed—unless I say so." You'd beg, body slick and quivering, until I finally milked you dry, prostate orgasm ripping through you without a single touch to your dick, cum dribbling pathetically.

The house in Wetherby bore witness to it all—the creak of the stairs as I led you to new degradations, the drip of wax on antique rugs, the muffled moans from your cage. I escalated: electro-stim pads on your balls during dinner, remote-controlled to zap you if you spilled a drop. Or forcing you to wear the tail plug during "walks" in the garden at midnight, crawling under the stars while I followed with a crop, whipping your flanks. "Faster, dog! Heel!" Your body adapted, craving the pain, the denial, even as your mind frayed.

One crisp autumn night, leaves crunching under the windows, I took it to the edge. You'd been teasing yourself all day—my orders, humping a pillow in the bare room while caged, pre-cum soaking the fabric. I dragged you to the master bed, unchained and oiled, binding your hands behind your back. "Tonight, you fuck me like the animal you are," I said, but with a twist— I'd ride you reverse, your cock finally free and buried deep in my pussy, but a gag in your mouth to stifle pleas. I sank down, hot and tight, clenching around you as I rocked, my ass grinding against your hips. "Don't you dare come," I warned, nails digging into your thighs. But you did, too soon, spilling inside me with a muffled groan—creampie hot and forbidden. I dismounted furious, cream leaking down my thigh. "Filthy beast! You ruined it."

Punishment was swift: back in the cage, plug replaced with a massive one that stretched you to tears, and a week of total denial. But as I locked the door, watching you curl up, collared and broken, I felt a twisted thrill. My control was absolute, the house our eternal playground.

And yet, in the quiet hours, as the Wetherby fog rolled in, I'd sometimes unlock you just to hold you—whispering cruelties mixed with rare softness. "You're mine forever, Robert. My perfect, pathetic dog." You'd nod, eyes adoring, and I'd smile, knowing the game was far from over. Who knew a Victorian pile in this sleepy town could hide such delicious depravity? But here's the witty twist: one day, when the solicitor calls about "irregularities" in the trust, I'll just hand him the leash and say, "Care to see why I deserve it all?"