It had been a really long day at work. My feet were killing me, traffic was horrible, and I had stained my favorite shirt. All in all, not one of my finer days. I was driving through the roads of the neighborhood, making it to the house deepest into the little villa, where I lived.
I pulled up in the driveway and gathered my things, just wanting some relaxation. What I got was far far better. I walked in and immediately smelled the aroma of cheese sauce and grilled chicken. I sat my things down and went to investigate.
"Hey babe," said my fiance Victor in his funny little Russian accent. He may have been Russian by birth, but he spoke damn fine English. In fact, most people didn't even know he wasn't American. "We haven't had a date night for ourselves recently, so I thought you might like one." He pulled a pan out from the oven and in it was a sizzling dish of chicken alfredo, something he knew to be my favorite.
"You're the best babe. I'm going to go get out of these clothes if you don't mind."
"Of course not! You go change, and dinner will be on the table when you get back."
I went to our bedroom and changed out of my work clothes, and into some sweatpants and a tank top. They may not have been the nicest clothes I had, but they were comfortable and Victor was all about comfortable.
I walked into the dining room and sit down across the short table from Victor, smelling the Italian scent that filled the air. He smiled at me and I beamed back.
As we ate, we talked about different things. What had happened at work that day, how we want to renovate the house, and most importantly our upcoming wedding.
When we were done, I began cleaning up dishes. Victor offered to help but I denied the offer. He had cooked it. It was only fair that I cleaned up. I walked over to the sink and began scrubbing the dishes off, still pondering the venue we would use for our wedding.
Out of nowhere, I feel a cold piece of leather slip around my neck and I hear (or rather, feel, because I understood the breaths more than the words) "Get on your knees and remember your rules." My lips creep into a grin as I begin taking off my shirt and sweatpants, leaving me completely bare and exposed to the small amount of heat still radiating from the oven. Rule #1, when my collar goes on, my clothes go off. I kneel down and hold my wrists to the sides, ready for my leather cuffs to go on. He slides them on as I thank him.
"Thanks Vic. You're the best."
Out of nowhere, I feel white hot pain go across my right cheek. "Rule #6!" He yells.
I recite it, immediately understanding my transgression. "Rule #6: Victor does not exist at the same time the collar does. When the collar is on, you will be referred to as either 'Master,' or 'Sir.' Anything else is grounds for punishment."
"Good slave," he states, probably more happy that I understand the rules than he actually is with me. He puts more leather cuffs around my ankles and commands me to stand up.
I do as I am told and I face him, getting my first look at him since we left the dinner table. He was wearing nothing more than tight athletic boxers that allowed anyone who could see anything to see every bit of his member. Out of impulse, I began counting his abs in my head.
He reaches behind him and pulls out a leash that he hooks onto my collar. With a rough tug, he guides me into our living room where I notice something I hadn't noticed when I first walked through it; there was a chain hanging from the ceiling.
"Hands above your head, slut," master commanded. That accent drove me wild sometimes, and it was the hottest when he was giving me orders. I did exactly as commanded, and he clipped my cuffs to the chain dangling from the ceiling. This was always my favorite part. It was the part he called playtime, where I was nothing more than a reactive ragdoll that he could do whatever he wanted to.
