A Pup and Their Pure Plug

The first time my Sir punished me was also the first time I wore the Njoy Pure Plug out of the house. In the past I’d worn other plugs in public, mostly the Bootie, occasionally the Tantus Juice, but every time I tried my large Pure Plug it just felt, well, large. It was so substantial and heavy that the thought of wearing it for any length of time was intimidating.

It was two days into the week we had decided to spend trying out this new D/s dynamic, he wanted to “see how it feels”, but I already knew how it felt. Fucking great. Every time my phone lit up with his name I giggled and blushed with excitement, I was neck deep in NRE and reveling in whatever commands he gave me.

“I need you to wear a plug to work tomorrow” he told me and I didn’t hesitate to agree, at the time I worked a pretty standard retail gig at a big chain store and wearing a plug during the day there didn’t seem like a big challenge.

“I wasn’t done” he amended “I need you to wear your Pure Plug” my confidence faltered but I was still on board “and I need you to tell every customer you help to “Njoy” their day.”

For me, dominance is never about just brute force, if you think you’re entitled to my submission I will laugh in your face. It’s about being cleverer than me, and there is nothing hotter than the special brand of sadistic creativity a good top has. That was my first glimpse of it. My Sir is a goddamn evil genius and it’s one of the things I love most about bottoming to him.

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It’s 3am on a windy cold morning in February, the cool metal of the Pure Plug clinks against the tiny glass vial of Uberlube in my pocket as I shift in my seat. If I had known it required being awake at this ungodly hour I certainly would not have agreed to this.

I’m crammed into the car with my family on my way to walk up 66 flights of stairs to the top of Rockefeller Center to raise money for… something.

Sixty-six.

Sixty Six flights of stairs.

All I can think about is what my sir had said the night before. “You should wear your Pure Plug.” He said it casually, as if noting that I should wear comfortable shoes. Our dynamic is still new, and I’m never sure what is a suggestion and what is an order. As if it would make a difference either way, I’ll always do what he asks.

I’m still not sure what surprises me more, the fact that I made it to the top in just over an hour, or the fact that the plug was still comfortable when I got there.

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I fucking hate moving.

I’ve done it nine times in my twenty-four years and I’ve learned to recognize the process as a special kind of hell. I whine to my Sir instead of packing like I should be doing and he suggests that I wear my plug to make the task more interesting. My plug, he calls it, and there’s not a doubt in my mind which one he means.

The Pure Plug has become my plug, our plug. It’s the plug I wear when I want to feel owned and the plug he asks me to wear when he wants to remind me who I belong to. I always bring it with me when I travel, as if he might text me at any time and tell me he needs my hole filled. I am a very good boy after all, and like a boy scout, I’m always prepared.

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It’s one of those rare instances where I’ve dragged myself out of the house, I have a date, I’m supposed to meet a boy at a small cafe in Bed-Stuy. I don’t quite remember how he did it, but somehow someone with an anonymous kink profile on OKC not only caught my attention, but made me feel comfortable enough make plans with him. Maybe it was the de Sade pun in his username.

An hour before it’s time to leave and my anxiety has other ideas. This is stupid, it’s a waste of time, I should just stay home. My best friend gives me a pep talk and helps with outfit choices. My Sir starts sexting me.

Thirty minutes before it’s time to leave and my Pure Plug is in my ass, my carefully constructed date night outfit is on the floor, and my hand is between my legs.

Fifteen minutes before it’s time to leave: “Does my pup feel ready for their date now?” my Sir asks “I think you should leave that plug in for me, that way if you decide to fuck your date, it’ll be a nice surprise for him.” I protest nervously, I can’t possibly wear a plug on a first date I explain. We both know I’m going to do what my Sir says.

At the end of the night I do decide to fuck him… and his friend. My Sir was right, as he always is, the plug was an excellent surprise.

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I’m with my Sir for the first time in months and we’ve barely left the house, instead we’ve spent most of the trip playing, cuddling, and just… talking. We’re getting ready to make the journey out into the brisk January cold for snacks when he says “Oh, You should wear your plug.”

I stop shimmying into my jeans and push them back down to the floor, but barely make it a step towards the Large Pure Plug drying on the side of the sink before he stops me.

“Not that one.” he says, as he digs through the bag of toys he brought with him. He pulls out the Pure Plug 2.0 and I falter and stammer nervously.

“I… I mean… I don’t know if I can take that one…”

“Oh, you will.” He says with a confident smirk.

Thirty minutes later we walk into Glam Doll Donuts in Northeast Minneapolis and I order a Mac and Cheese Donut. Because of course I do. We shuffle over to our table and I sit down not so gracefully to the resounding thunk of stainless steel on a plastic seat.

No one else hears, but my Sir flashes me the widest grin and I melt a little. I love it when he smiles.

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It’s my last day in Minneapolis and I’m sorting through the various clothes and toys strewn around our Air BnB. My Sir shifts the Pure Plug 2.0 from his pile to mine.

“That one’s yours now” he tells me “So you have it to wear whenever I need you to.”