"Shit, shit, shit!" I look down at the ceramic shards lying on the floor. Little bastard just had to slip right out of my fingers. That was his favorite mug. As soon as he finds out I'm really gonna be in for it. I throw the dishcloth down in frustration. I lean on the kitchen sink and look out of the window at the carefully manicured garden, the view ruined by a high brick wall. As I lean a little more forward, I can feel the latex skirt tighten around my ass.
Besides the skirt, he has also allowed me to wear a white apron today. He said that he wants it absolutely spotless when he comes home. Have you ever tried to clean a two-story house and not get a single spot of dirt on you? Every one of my movements has been carefully planned and executed. When I was scrubbing the toilet, I did so with my body twisted away so that an errant fleck of filth wouldn't land on the apron. Then there are the heels. Black and sheer, and intentionally a size too small, they had made today's tasks that extra bit uncomfortable. "Just give it until the end of the week." I sigh, turning to fetch the dustpan for the mug, and promptly fall over.
Oh yes, I'm also wearing restraints just above my knees. Grabbing on to the countertop, I haul myself up back to my feet. The lock between the leather cuffs gives me less than an inch of movement at my thighs. "So you will learn patience," he had said. I grit my teeth and resist swearing; another lesson I need to learn. I hadn't been to the toilet since breakfast. I texted him earlier, begging to be allowed to relieve myself. His one word answer: "No." By now I knew that to be more than enough of a command. I will have to wait until he gets home.
Very carefully, I shuffle off to complete the rest of the day's chores: fresh Egyptian cotton bedding for the main bedroom (where I wasn't allowed to sleep yet), polish for the dining room table (where I wasn't allowed to eat yet), vacuum the lounge (where I wasn't allowed to sit yet), lay out some alcohol for when he comes home (that I'm not allowed to drink yet).
After a while I fall into a semi-trance, trying to distract myself from the building pressure in my bladder. I think about my life before all of this. "Sarah the temp" they had called me at the office. I had six months of sending faxes, sealing envelopes, photocopying monthly reports and other bullshit, and they still called me "the temp" most the time. I lived in a small gray bedsit in Croydon, the only part of London I ever really knew. I wonder what it was that drew me into trawling through those online personals. But I guess I always knew at some level. Back in primary school I loved it when the boys pulled my hair, or stuck their wet fingers into my ears, or wiped boogers on my sleeve. Oh, I squealed like the other girls, but it gave me this tiny tingle in my spine that slowly grew over the years.
I snap out of my day-dreaming and look at the clock. It's 5:05 pm. Shit! Three hours? It had taken me three hours for those few chores? I can't hop, not in these heels. I have to get to the front door as quickly as I can. I grab the bannister and freeze for a moment. The fucking stairs! I fall to my knees, grimacing against the flesh that had been bruised last night. I crawl down the steps, pulling with my arms and dragging my feet up. I eventually make it to the entrance hall. Through the frosted glass window I see his silhouette, his key clicks into the door. Just as it swings open, I fall into the prescribed bow.
My forehead touches the carpet, my arms lie flat out in front of me, ass up and ready for inspection. Sweat runs down my neck, over my face, and drips to the carpet. My breathing is heavy, and I feel my face flush. The cool outside air blows in and kisses my cheeks. The door shuts, and he sticks his shoe in front of my face. My ass twitches at the memory of the beating I received when I first refused this. I slide my tongue over the dusty leather, making sure to cover every square inch, and give a soft moan of pleasure, hoping it pleases him. He swaps his feet and I polish it with the same feigned enthusiasm. His heavy footfalls circle around me. There is a jangle of keys and my knees are unlocked. His fingers dig into my thighs as he peels the latex dress up over my ass.
"Spread you knees." His voice is cool and calm. No hint of excitement or approval. I spread my knees. My asshole twitches as he rubs in the cool lubricant. I take a deep breath as he pushes the butt plug in. It's bigger than yesterday's. There's a short sharp pain, and then finally it sinks into position. A drip of piss escapes and runs down my leg.
"Please Sir," I whimper, "May this cum-whore go to the bathroom?" He doesn't answer at first. He takes his time in securing the butt plug's straps around my hips and thighs. He pulls the skirt back down.
"No. Go to your position." I bite my lip and crawl to the lounge, stopping in front of his chair. After a few minutes, he comes in and reclines in his seat, resting his feet on my back. The stereo starts up, and Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata gently fills the room. I'm not allowed to turn my head, but I'm sure he is sipping the whiskey I had prepared for him earlier. I hold stock-still at first, his piece of furniture, but soon I blink away tears, and I swear my thighs are shaking from the effort it takes to not piss myself right now. After what feels like an eternity, the melody finally winds down.
"You may go to the bathroom." I start to stand up, "No, crawl." I take a long, deep breath to keep calm, "Yes sir," and go back down to my knees. The bathroom offers a short reprieve but no privacy. I'm not allowed to close the door. I rest my face in my hands as relief shudders up my body, such a simple relief, but it's one of the sweetest things I've ever felt. "Just give it until the end of the week." I say it again quietly. It is what we had agreed to.
We had met at a fancy restaurant in the West End, in a private booth with a curtain. I had arrived anticipating a date. It turned out to be an interview. He wore a fitted pin-stripe suit, as he did nearly every day. His black hair and stubble was salted with white hairs, although he wasn't much older than forty. He was lithe and toned, although I had seen stronger men at my gym. Nonetheless, there was an air about him, some way that he kept his posture, some way that he moved with self-certainty, some way he always looked at you with cool appraisal that left you feeling as naked as a newborn babe.
After a few minutes of courteous small-talk, he turned to a long series of brief questions. I had lost track of how many times I blushed at them. They covered the gamut of sexual and personal experience: everything from anal sex to drugs to debt to disease to allergies. He seemed a little disappointed by the end of it.
"You seem eager, but horribly inexperienced." A phrase I heard all too often when trying to find a job, but I think he saw a look of disappointment in my face that led to him give me one piteous offer. "I may be too, let's say draconian, for your first time. So this is my offer: a one week trial period. If either of us are unhappy at the end of it, we part ways." So that was it, I just had to endure it for one week. He gave me a safe-word. A single utterance that would terminate the trial, and we'd immediately part ways. I vowed to myself that I would not use it, no matter what. I had caved so easily in the past: from math in school, to a data-entry job I had found too stressful. This is going to be one damn thing that I can say I had the strength to see through to the end.
It is day four, and in the first three days...well, pain has never burnt through my body like it did then. Nobody could accuse him of being lenient. The skin on my ass bled at the end of the first day. On day two, he opened the cuts up again with his cane. I'll be scarred there now, I have no doubt. I screamed and I cried and I begged. I didn't use the safe-word. Besides, I had deserved each slap, each pinch, each caning, each shock, each vulgarity-sown insult: I had broken a rule, or ignored a command. His methods are barbarically harsh, but effective. On day three I did everything right, so that night he added to the rules and commands he had given me on my first day. At the end of the new list he simply said, "Good girl." I felt something odd then, something welling in my chest. To my surprise it was pride. An odd thing to feel while I was bowed down before his feet.
"Slave! Present!" The harsh bark of his voice snaps me to attention like a reveille. I quickly finish with the bathroom and crawl to where I heard his voice coming from. I realize it's coming from the kitchen. I make my way over the hard tiles and present myself: kneeling, back straight, eyes down, and hands resting on my knees with my palms facing upwards. The ceramic handle of his mug hung in front of my face.
"Forgive me, Master. It slipped, it-" I stumble over my words, my mind is only screaming one thing: Please not my ass, oh please do not cane me on my ass again.
"Quiet." I shut my mouth. His voice is icy. "That mug was gift from a friend. You have cost me slave, and you are going to pay for it." I stay dead still, but I can't help imagining what he is going to do to me. If he whips me again the scabs are going to break open and bleed. The thought makes me feel cold. A tear starts to well up in my left eye. I know better than to splutter out a few useless words begging forgiveness. "Crawl to the corner, put your head to the floor and you will remain there." I go where he points, a tight, dim corner of the kitchen. I place my head to the cold tiles and wait, curled tight, hands clasped behind my back.
