I could not believe you fucked her.
I had been living with you for a month, and I never left the house unless you sent me on errands or took me somewhere. I was at your disposal, available to you whenever you wanted me, for anything. And you exercised your right as my Master frequently, often making me drop whatever I was do to please you or to be used by you. You were sometimes brutal, but you never endangered my safety or abused me more than I could stand. My mouth, my cunt, my ass were ready for you anytime you wished.
Why on earth did you fuck her?
True, you are the Master and I am the whore, and you have no rules beyond the limits we agreed upon when I came to you, so you could do whatever you wanted. But you had me.
"Why would you fuck that slut from work, when I am always waiting, always willing to serve you?" I asked staring up from you at the kitchen floor with tears in my eyes. You had just walked in, and I was holding in my hand a copy of the email you had sent her yesterday. You knew I had gone snooping, rage boiling in your face, and I had hit floor to prevent you from knocking me down. "Why?" I repeated.
Through your clenched jaw you finally spoke: "You nosey whore. You don't control me, I control you!" With that you grabbed me by the hair. I crawled quickly to keep from having my hair torn out. You shoved me into our bedroom. "You're going to stay here tonight while I go out. It's Friday, and I'm not going to miss an evening with my friends just because you need to be punished. Filthy slut. I'll deal with you when I get home." You shut the door and I heard you lock it from the outside. Being sent to our room was usually the first step in my punishment when I had committed a grievous error, and you knew how much I hated it. "Don't even think about touching your cunt, whore. I can always tell when my bitch has been in heat." And then I heard you leave the house. I trembled with rage and fear. I was going to be punished because you cheated on me? No. Not this time.
My ego badly bruised and my heart shattered, I decided that if you could fuck around, then so could I.
You had installed a lock on the bedroom door, but you had never secured the windows, knowing that I adored you, and thinking I would never try to escape. But you were wrong. I went to our closet to look at what few articles of clothing you had let me keep when I came to you. Not much, and all very suggestive. I rarely wore clothes in the house, only if we were having guests, and everyone knew I was yours. It didn't matter though. I was going to go out and get fucked. I knew you wouldn't be back until the early hours of the morning, so I could sneak out and come back and you would never know. And if I was going to be punished, I wanted to deserve it.
Red button down blouse, black skirt, stockings, heels and a black lace thong. No bra. You hadn't let me keep any. "You're a whore," you had said. "I want you to look like one." I grabbed a small purse and took twenty dollars from your underwear drawer. I felt a twinge of guilt taking it, but I needed enough money to get a cab back home incase I ended up across town. I certainly wasn't going to need it for drinks.
I slipped out the window with only a little difficulty, due to the short skirt. For the first time in a month, I was not where you knew me to be. I felt naked, as though I had lost your protection. But I was determined. I took a deep breath and walked the fairly short distance to the seedy bar where all the town trash went on a Friday night. I knew you wouldn't be there; you would be at a friend's house playing poker until the wee hours of the morning.
I made it to the bar in record time, since it was already dark and I had been whistled at by at least a half dozen men. "Why shouldn't they whistle?" I thought. "I look like a whore." But rape wasn't what I had in mind. No, I wanted to go to another man freely, and punish you for going to another woman. This was payback.
The bar wasn't packed, but there were enough people for me to know that someone would take an interest in me. Most of the women seated at the bar looked to be over fifty. At twenty years old, I knew I was going to be the catch of the night. I sat down at the bar, and before the bartender could make it over to me a man sat down next to me and called for two tequilas. He smiled at me. "Tequila isn't my drink," I told him with a smile, "But if you're paying I'm game." He looked to be about fifty, not quite as tall as you but heavier set.
"If I'm paying," he said with a twinkle in his dark eye, "Then what are you game for?" "Fuck," I thought. "He thinks I'm a whore." I picked up the shot glass which the barkeep had set in front of me and downed it as fast as I could, hoping to steel my nerves. All it did was burn my throat.
I looked the stranger square in the eye and before I knew what I was saying, I told him, "I'm not a whore; I'm slut, so you don't have to pay." His eyes widened. He drank his own shot of tequila. I inhaled raggedly. He called for two more shots, but didn't say another word to me. We drank the tequila quickly, and then he reached for my hand and whispered, "Let's go." I rose, my knees barely supporting me, and we headed for the door.
