The week goes by slowly. At no point do I think I have managed to fully distract myself from the situation that I am in, not truly. I have become obsessed by it, by sex, by my cunt, and by the depravity of my slavery. I play with myself several times, each time thinking of him, though none is as enjoyable as that first wank: the moment I heard the door close, naked on the floor, my arse gaping from his fist, and the taste of my own shit in my mouth from being forced to lick clean each of his fingers, I fingered myself furiously, and with only a couple of flicks of my clit, came, squirting upwards, like a water feature, landing on the hardwood floors.
Hell, I even enjoying cleaning up the mess, that was how horny I was.
Finally, it is Wednesday evening, and I have only a short while to go before I will once again be able to submit myself to my glorious landlord. I stare at the clock so many times, and begin undressing at twenty to nine, which is far too early, only to find myself naked, and with all my clothes packed away, by quarter to, so now I'm just naked sitting on the sofa scrolling on my phone as though this is how I relax.
I stroke at my cunt, which I have had waxed at great expense only a few hours ago, hoping to impress him, and find myself already getting a little wet imagining that they were his hands on me instead. Though of course he doesn't play nicely: his touches are pulls, slaps, and pinches, and I fucking love them.
I notice myself falling into the first stages of a wank, slipping my finger down my slit in the same way that I have done so many times this week. One moment I'll be watching television, and then suddenly I've got three fingers inside me, biting my hand trying to stop myself from screaming. But I can't do that now with only a few minutes to go, so I run to the kitchen and splash my face with water, wash my hands, dab my cunt a little, dry everything on a hand towel and then run back to assume the position by the door.
It feels strange kneeling like this at my own door, to my own flat. Though if I am being honest it doesn't quite feel like my flat, but his. I don't pay for anything, and though I live there I am bound by the hour of his return. Within that hour he treats the flat as if it were his own, just as he treats me as though I were, which I am -- his sex slave. I say it to myself, staring at the door, my bare arse resting on my feet and my hands in my laps: I am a sex slave. And the feeling is both exhilarating and scary.
The door opens and he looks at me, though not as one does another human, into the eyes or the face, looking for recognition or connection, no, he looks at me like a cleaner looks at a hoover, an object that they know is there, exactly where they left it, and that they are about to use, one that has no emotions or feelings, and one that will not be interacted with, for it need not be, but merely have things done to it.
'Pain, this week,' he says, and I notice he is carrying a bag, which he carries over to the coffee table, out of my vision. He has already ignored me, sort of, having only spoken though three words, and spoken them to the flat more than to me specifically. I do not turn around, but wait for instruction. The door remains open, and I look down to the corridor, anxious that someone might come up and see me.
'You hear me?,' he shouts, and I feel his foot kicking my back, 'pain!'
'Yes, sir. Pain, sir.'
'Better.'
He kneels down in front of me, and opens his hand to reveal two wooden clothes pegs, presumably from his bag. Having made sure that I have seen the clothes pegs, and picks on up and puts it on my left tit, making me wince a little, and then puts the other on my right tit.
'Does that hurt your pathetic little tits?'
'Yes, sir, it hurts a lot.'
'But you like the pain?'
I nod, for which he obviously slaps me in the face: 'yes, sir. I like the pain, I like it a lot, sir.'
'Good,' he says, standing up, and returning to his bag of tricks. 'How is your arse now?'
'It's ok, sir. It hurt for a bit, but it's ok now.' I am still staring down the stairs, wondering who might be able to hear our conversation. I have met the downstairs neighbour once, and she looked very strangely at me. Perhaps she knows the situation.
'Good. Now stand up, close the door, and come over to the sofa.'
I am disappointed, a little, to close the door, and close ourselves off from the outside world.
When I turn around I see that he taken out of his bag several items used for beating people, and laid them on the coffee table. There is a leather flogger, a cane, a whip, a riding crop, and a wooden paddle. I stare in awe at them.
'Not a bad collection hey?'
'No, sir. Very nice, sir.'
He gets me to stand by the side of the sofa, and then bend over, my face resting where my bare arse had been a few moments ago, with my head facing the back of the sofa, and so rendering me effectively blind.
There is not waiting around with sir, filling every second he's got on me, and so I am not exactly shocked, though it does make me jump, by the feeling of an item, a thin one I think, on the backs of my legs.
'What was that then, do you think, slut?'
'Eerrmm. Was that, the cane, sir?'
'No,' he says, with joy, bringing it once again down on the backs of my legs.
'The whip?'
He brings it down again, quickly, without replying, and then I feel my hand on the back of my head, roughly grabbing hold of me, and his breath on my neck.
'I didn't ask for you to guess again, did I, slut?' he whispers, though it might as well have been a shout, in my ear.
'I'm sorry, sir, no, sir.'
The item is returned to the table, the sound of which leads me to believe that it wasn't the whip either, and was probably the riding crop.
The next thwack comes down on my arse, my left arsecheek specifically, and I know that it must be the paddle, though of course I remain silent, apart from a small uncontrollable whelp. Already there is the beginnings of a tear in my eye. I don't do well with spankings, never have: the few times that boyfriends have spanked me I have never really enjoyed, and they have been very cautious anyway. Though I am determined to take whatever pain is given to me now, desiring only to please him. I quake at the thought of the next swoop.
There are three more thwacks of the paddle, making two on each side of my arse, and then he brings the paddle in front of my face, and orders me to thank it and kiss it. This is a strange moment, though it is highly effective in bringing me down, thanking the very items that are making me cry, which I am by this point, which surely he can hear through my words.
I then feel his spit land on my arsehole, and the soft tip of, I presume, a butt plug pressing on me, moving back and forth, each time going a little deeper, until he just gets bored and shoves the whole thing in, much to my surprise and with a little bit of a pain.
'Good, plugged up like a good little slave, aren't you?' he says to the squeak I let out as it goes all the way in.
'Yes, sir. Good and plugged up, sir. Your slave, sir.'
And so we return to the pain: never again am I asked to guess what something is, though I am a few times asked to kiss them and thank them. The focus in on the backs of my thighs and my arse, though he does cane my shins, which makes me buckle only to be dragged back up and scolded for falling, and a few times goes up to my back, where the skin is thinner, and so naturally marks more easily.
I wonder what my back will look like, and am excited to see in the mirror in the bathroom once ten o'clock comes along, though of course I am not looking forward to him leaving.
