I peered across the aisle. “Hmm... I don’t think there’s one free. I think we’ll have to go to one with a cashier.” I tried to keep a hopeful note out of my voice.

Sir stepped past me, his head tilting to one side as he scrutinised all the occupied self-checkouts. “Yeah, I think you’re - no wait, one’s free at the end there.”

Bugger.

Glancing around, he smirked at my apprehensive expression. “I mean, we were never going to a cashier, love. We’d have just waited for one of these to free up.” I took his point with a slightly exasperated smile, and scurried after him as he strode towards the available till.

He swiftly scanned his single purchase - two bars of salted caramel chocolate, currently on offer for anyone with a Nectar card. I shivered a little as he proceeded to purchasing options, and selected debit card payment.

Without even looking at me, he held out a hand in my direction. I pressed my Mastercard - already in my grasp, out and ready for him - into his palm. He waved it over the card machine, the contactless transaction going through with a high-pitched beep.

Picking up the chocolate, he turned on his heel and handed my card back to me. Avoiding eye contact, I slid it back into my purse and hurried after him, out of the shop.

It wasn’t like buying a couple of chocolate bars was a huge expenditure. I wouldn’t have minded buying both of them for him, if he’d asked.

But he hadn’t. Because he didn’t have to. He never did, these days. What’s mine was his. Not mine.

We’d been driving home after work when he offhandedly mentioned he wanted to stop by a couple of shops, the seemingly innocent remark sending a quiver of anticipation and submission through me. Sainsbury’s was our first stop, to satisfy his craving for chocolate. I wasn’t exactly daunted by the purchase - not as much as I was by having to surrender my bank card to him, so he could buy his treats with my money.

If we’d gone to a manned till, it was unlikely he’d have used my card. Public displays of our dynamic in front of unknowing bystanders, however implicit, were firmly against our limits. But there was no escape for me at the self-checkouts - there was no cashier watching, no-one paying attention to us. So I was helpless to hand over the little plastic rectangle that granted access to, and therefore symbolised, my finances. I couldn’t resist the compulsion to give it to Sir, just as I’d given him control of the rest of my life, including all my money.

Sir strode out of the shop into the January evening, his meek plaything following close behind him. I was too immersed in humiliation and subservience to notice where he was leading me, until my surroundings changed from a dark street in the centre of town to a brightly-lit clothes shop.

He made a beeline for a row of jackets, sifting through them to find one that suited him. I stood and watched, feeling ornamental, as the only purpose I served in this shop was to be his human wallet. I didn’t have any need to look for new clothes myself, and besides, if he was planning on using my money in here, I didn’t want to spend any more.

That line of thought made me throb. I was saving my finances, not for myself, but for him. I didn’t feel like I should spend my own money in case Sir needed it. It just made it feel less like my money, and more like his. He owned me, so he owned what I owned.

Consumed by these demeaning thoughts, circling around my head and reinforcing my powerless obedience, I drifted after him as he made his way to the till, a faux leather jacket hanging from his arms. There was a cashier there, so I felt able to relax a little.

My relief evaporated as he held his hand out to me again, before we got near enough to the till for the cashier to see.

Swallowing, I held out my card once more. At some point I must’ve got it back out of my purse again. I hadn’t even noticed. It was an automatic action now, one I performed without thinking whenever I was out shopping with Sir (or more accurately, whenever Sir was out shopping, and I was along for the ride as his money-holder).

Or maybe it was a post-hypnotic suggestion. It was getting hard to tell these days - which of my actions were triggers and responses he implanted in my head, and which were simply conditioned into me through daily acts of deference. They blurred together, triggers blending with training, all forming the building blocks of the slave protocols that’d been gradually ingrained within me over the past year.

I stepped away as he paid for the jacket, turning to face in the other direction. Not because it was a more expensive purchase than the chocolate, and I couldn’t bear to see some of my hard-earned cash slip away... but because I didn’t trust myself, at that moment, to adequately conceal my arousal in front of the cashier.

Little chunks of my earnings, from long, hard days at work teaching SEN children, were being carved off by Sir and spent on his whims. And fuck, that made me wet.

I could have just bought the jacket for him - cut out the middle man entirely, and not have to keep handing my card over. Then he’d still have been spending my money on something for him. It wouldn’t have made a difference.

Except... there was a difference. The act of handing the card over, of meekly relinquishing control of my own money again and again and again, was the whole point. It was what appealed to me about findom - about our whole dynamic. I was choosing to give up control, to give up autonomy, to give up everything to my dominant, my owner, again and again.

He slowed his pace as we exited this store, walking beside me as we made our way back to Sainsbury’s car park. He slid his arm around my waist, and I nestled into his embrace, his warmth working to counteract the chilly winter air. Mind you, he was already wearing the jacket, and the feel of it against me - the silky pleather surface caressing me, reminding me of the money I’d just lost so it could be here with us - sent more shivers through me.

“A-are you gonna buy anything else tonight, Sir?” I asked timidly, my eyes on my feet as they trotted along below me.

“Maybe,” he replied, his tone brimming with amusement. “Haven’t decided yet.” As I let out a tiny whine in response, he added playfully, “Hey, you’re the one who gave me ownership of all your money and worldly possessions, love!”

“I was slightly under duress at the time,” I giggled - even as my cheeks further reddened at the memory of how, months ago, I frantically formed a verbal contract with him, giving him dominion over my entire life, my finances and my belongings, in exchange for being permitted to finish rubbing one out.

He tugged me around the waist, drawing me even closer, and murmured in my ear, “Oh, sweetheart - you still are.” As I let out a small, strangled squeak, he added, “Actually, I don’t need to buy anything else today. But I could do with getting some cash out - about fifty quid. I’ll meet you back at the car.”

Swallowing and nodding, my gaze still laser-focused on my feet, I whispered, “Yes, Sir.”

Giving me a quick squeeze, he relinquished his hold on me and sauntered off to the car park. Slowing to a stop, I changed direction and headed back towards Sainsbury’s - specifically, to the cash machines lining its front wall - as I reached into my pocket and pulled out my purse yet again...

I returned to our car a few minutes later, to find him leaning against it and scrolling through his phone, which he slid into his new jacket when he saw me approach. “Job done?” he asked expectantly, a mischievous grin on his face.

“Yes, Sir,” I said with a nod. I moved towards the driver’s side door, but he blocked my way and placed his hands firmly on my upper arms, a clear signal that he wanted me to stand still where I was. So I did, obeying like the good little toy soldier I am.

“I’d like to make a withdrawal,” he sniggered.

My eyes widened. “Here, Sir?”

He glanced around. “I don’t see any reason why not.”

He patiently let me look around as well, checking there was no-one in sight - no-one who could witness what was about to transpire. My face burning despite the cold night air, I nodded mutely and stood straight and firm before him.

Without further ado, he thrust his hand down the front of my jeans, reaching into my knickers to reach the cash that I’d felt irresistibly compelled to shove down there. I shuddered as he slid a note right over my slick slit before pulling it free. “I’m your personal cashpoint, Sir,” I said automatically.

He held the £10 up to his face, inhaling deeply. “Mmmm, I love the smell of money in the evening,” he chuckled. I barely had time to let out a whimper before he plunged his hand back into my pants to get the rest of his money.

He could’ve taken them all out at once, but instead he drew out my torment by removing them one at a time. “I’m your personal cashpoint, Sir,” I helplessly repeated with each note he took out, my eyes still darting around to make sure we weren’t caught by a passing shopper.

Once he had all five tenners in his grasp, he grinned at me, booped my nose with an outstretched finger, said, “Good toy,” and strolled around the car to get into the passenger’s side. Taken aback by his brazen attitude, I spent a few seconds composing myself before I got behind the wheel.

As I slid into my seat, he gave my arm a prod and held out one of the caramel bars. “Thought I’d buy you a little treat, too,” he said with a cheeky wink.

I stared at him for a second, and then let out a defeated laugh and took the chocolate, shoving it in the pocket of my own brown corduroy jacket. The nerve of the man, buying sweets for himself with my money, and then giving one of them to me as a ‘little treat’, like he was being sooo generous! I’d slap him if I wasn’t his docile, submissive servant.

He’d probably pay me back when we got home, of course, for the chocolate and the jacket - and he’d likely return the cunt-scented banknotes, too. He usually does reimburse me after one of these degrading little findom excursions... but often not for a few hours, which he’d spend wandering about the house in his new jacket, showing it off, taking selfies, rubbing my face in it. (Figuratively - but maybe also literally, because he’s a dick like that.)

Or... maybe he just wouldn’t bother paying me back. He didn’t have to, after all. There was little point. He’d just be moving some of his money from one of his bank accounts to another.

My money was his. My belongings were his. My will was his.

I was his. His slave. His servant. His property. His possession. His human wallet. His personal cashpoint.

And his chauffeur, apparently - though, mortified and aroused as I was, I had to work hard to concentrate as I drove us home that evening.