He got so mad that morning.
By then most days looked the same and the daily humiliation of my morning routine had become mundane. The watch on my wrist was set to vibrate exactly 15 minutes before the shrill stationary clock on his beside would go off. Mornings on which it was allowed to do so were not likely to turn into good days for me. I tiptoe past his bed into the bathroom to freshen up before my first task of the day. He's a heavy sleeper and it's important he is brought out of deep sleep gradually. I climb underneath the covers, careful not to let my wet hair startle his skin. I locate his sweaty boner and wrap my soft, warm lips around it. I would need anywhere between three and ten minutes before he reaches over and flips a switch on the clock. It's not so unreasonable if you think about it - some fifteen minutes a day for all that he does.
But on that one morning, none of those happened. Instead I woke up to him screaming, hours later. There was a meeting he missed; I could never be trusted to do anything right; I was a waste of his breath. And so forth. Unusually groggy and predictably sore (from sleeping on what was essentially just padded floor) I listened, sprinkling in my sorry's where I could.
And maybe there really was a meeting, specifically on that one morning; and maybe it really was important. Maybe my phone, to which only he had access to - really did catch a bug on the same day his desk clock malfunctioned.
Or - maybe he'd already known about the party we would be attending the following day and this was his nothing more than his way of making sure I was prepared.
He has such foreign ways of love.
"You're gonna regret this..." he grabbed my jaw. "You're so gonna regret this, bitch.."
There was no reason to distrust this. Regret has long become background noise.
"Im getting real tired of this shit... You want me to throw you out on the street? Is that what you want??"
I won't lie, I've fantasized about that too. A lot. A thought of a new life is always temping, even of one that starts with old trouble.
"No, I dont want that..."
"You sure? You get to sleep in all you want on the street." He threw me down on the bed. "I asked you a question!"
"I'm sure Sir! I'm sure. I'm really sorry..."
He cut me off by spitting in my face.
"Get your toys bitch. We'll see how sorry you are."
***
Much about him was static, monotone - his lifestyle, his passions. But not his anger. His anger is what made him unpredictable - at least to me. There was the kind of usual decompressing he went through after anything from a bad trade to getting into an online argument. Just letting some steam off, something that he insisted was vital for his health. And then there was this kind - controlled, as if summoned deliberately. He indulged in it too, with real venom to his words, and a sickening amount of patience.
My punishment began with a lengthy paddle session. The sting on my skin quickly softened me up - I was never someone who handles pain well.
Next I got a thorough face fucking. He was spiteful, purposely messy. No matter how well I learn to handle him, he always seems to take a little longer than that. He could stay hard for hours without cumming now. By noon I had given myself to soothing his anger - no thought left behind. I was sorry, sincerely and universally, for myself and everything I've done.
For a while after I was left sat on a vibrator, alone with myself. He'd come and play with me, switch it up, slap me around - and leave me again. The more this ride wore me down, the less strength I had to fight off the looming explosion. I can't cum on punishment days - or they won't count.
"You really think you're some hot shit, don't you? Are you sure about that?"
I hated questions I knew had no right answers.
"No - I don't know Sir. I'm sorry Sir."
"A dumb, sorry slut that cant get me hard.. Why is it I keep you again?"
"Please, I..."
"Yeah, yeah - whatever. I've got a idea. We'll see how you do."
He got his laptop and set it up on top of a plastic storage box.
"Come here, hot shit. Let's see if you're right."
I knew that website, A video chat that connected you to random strangers - we used to get on it with friends when bored.
I was to get as many of these strangers cum as I could. It was to prove to him that I was capable of doing so, making me at least somewhat worth his investment. Though the microphone was on mute I was not allowed to talk, only to smile and to touch my body. The cameras switched viewers often, some gawking at the immediate nudity, many suspecting a fake, others skipped by him. The creepy kind I used to skip were the guys that stayed on and talked the longest. I was to obey any requests unless it involved showing or touching my pussy. The veiny silicone dildo hanging next to my head would inevitably come up, and I was to take any mention of it as a command and start sucking it.
Plenty of men were happy to showcase their excitement front and center, filling the screen with one proud erection after another. One guy jerked off without saying a single word, just to me sitting still. Most asked the same questions, made the same requests. I was told to squeeze, rub, push and jiggle, to pinch, bite, lick, or pull my nipples, to choke on the dildo, of course, and sometimes to take out my tongue so that they can imagine their jizz landing there. One guy kept asking me to moan, while some others preferred to shower me in praise that somehow mainly consisted of the same few slurs.
I can admit I didn't find this part as torturous. The attention was a faint reminder of the way I used to feel. Of a time in beautiful rooms and tasteful garments, when simply batting my eyelashed could make tall, gorgeous men of an entirely different caliber crumble before me. I had what a modeling agency once referred to as "high-demand features" - almond eyes, classic pout, olive toned skin - plus a tiny waist and long legs. I had a decent shot at the runway once.
My eyes glazed over to the pudgy, bitter excuse of a man sweating behind the screen with his dick in his hand. That man has become everything. His eyes had that glossed over look he gets when his enjoyment reaches a certain feverish quality. It was hard to see him as the same guy that I met only five months ago. Perhaps just as plain and pudgy then too - he was also sweet, and kind. Generous, too. When he said he was going to help just because he could, without needing for anything in return - I believed him...
"Oh shit!.." A lively group came up next.
"Wait.. wait hold on, is that live?"
"Hey gorgeous!!"
"That's some nice tits you got there..."
A batch of indistinguishable bros talked and shuffled over each other, all at once, the red-and-white plastic cups blinking about.
"Yo come you gotta see this!"
"Damn, squeeze those titties girl!"
"Oh shit, did you see? No that's live, for sure."
"Can you hear us?"
Their drunk excitement multiplied until there were more faces shouting at me than I could keep track off. A couple of them were female.
"OMG what is this."
"What the fuck did you guys put on?"
"It's not porn!"
"Hey, shut up..."
"What's with the dildo?"
They said it. I carefully took the better half of its length in my mouth. It was a real "and then the crowd went wild" moment. Granted they behaved half-feral to begin with, but it was still nicer to have these guys watching me than some of the dark rooms creeps from before. Still, something about that contrast made it all even more painful. I felt like a freak.
"Oh my god, why is she doing that?"
"Nobody tell Rachel why!"
"Shut up, Mike! I get why - but like, why??"
