I hear your key turn in the front door, and automatically assume my position on the floor: kneeling with my hands in my lap and my head bowed – we established long ago that I’m not allowed to look you in the eye without permission. As you enter the house and walk towards me I feel a rush of anticipation, and try and work out what mood you’re in by the speed and heaviness of your footsteps. I watch your shoes as they approach and stop in front of my knees. I don’t dare look up at you. Without being asked, I lean forward, kiss each shoe and whisper,
“Welcome home, master.” You make no reply but grab a handful of my hair and drag me to my feet. I can’t help but cry out, even though I know this will make you more angry. Maybe I do it on purpose.
You yank my hair, forcing me to look up into your dark eyes. You look me up and down with disgust, and I begin to feel a familiar tingling sensation between my thighs. “Did I TELL you to speak?” your mouth is right beside my ear now, I feel your hot breath on my cheek. I shake my head as best as I can with most of my hair caught up in your fist. “That’s right. So why the FUCK did you think I wanted to hear your voice? You deliberately spoke without permission didn’t you? Do you want me to punish you? Because now I’m going to have to – and it’s all your fault remember…you brought this on yourself you disgusting little bitch.” I look into your eyes again, silently pleading, but knowing you can see how much I love to hate this. I stumble as you drag me up the stairs, never letting go of my long hair, and lead me into the bedroom. You take me to the bed and suddenly push my head down hard, forcing me to bend over, with my elbows on the mattress in front of me. “You are going to count ever single time my hand hits you – and you will thank me for each one, understand?” I nod in reply, loving the total control you have over me. I almost forget about the oncoming spanking until I feel a sharp SLAP on my bare behind. My skin burns where your hand has just been and for the second time in the half hour that you’ve been back I exclaim in pain.
I manage to incorporate a shout of “One!” Into the agonized cry, but only just. I clench my hands and squirm in humiliation as I thank my master for the first slap. You never tell me how many strokes you are going to do when you spank me, and I love not knowing when it will be over. I am thinking this as your hand once again makes contact with my smooth, warm flesh. “Two! Th..thank..thank you!” *SLAP* “Three! Thank you!”
After about 30 swats on each cheek, my arse is bright pink. But I can tell you are nowhere near stopping. Each CRACK of the skin of your palm meeting the increasingly tender skin of my backside builds both mine and your arousal, and when the pain begins to cloud my focus I stop counting and start begging. As usual you pay no attention.
“PLEASE!” *SMACK* “PLEASE stop this! I..I can’t take anymore! I’m sorry for sp..speaking..without..without permission! It won’t happen again! I..” *SMACK* “I PROMISE!!!! PLEASE NO MORE!” I am sobbing now, my tears and mascara mix, making black streaks run down my face. Finally you stop, and spin me round to face you. You spit on my face, and I let it run down my cheek, already wet with tears. “You know you deserved that, don’t you?” “Y..yes master.” “And do you know WHY you deserved it?” “Yes.”
“Tell me why. I want to hear you say it.” “Because..because..” I hesitate, blushing. Getting impatient, you slap my face. “How stupid are you?! TELL. ME. WHY.” “Because I’m a dirty, worthless bitch.” “…And..?” “And I disobeyed you, I went against my controller. I..I thought for myself, which isn’t allowed.” “No it isn’t you fucking bitch. I think for you. You feel or do nothing unless I tell you to. You’re not a real person. All you are is my personal fuckdoll – put on this earth to please ME. I am your master and what are you?” “..I am your slave.” “And what does that mean? What must you do at ALL TIMES?” “Obey you.” “Tell me why that is again?” You pinch my nipple hard between your thumb and forefinger through my thin t-shirt, forcing me to shout the words; “BECAUSE YOU ARE MY MASTER! PLEASE NO MORE!!” You let go and I stand, whimpering, with my head bowed. “Good girl. Maybe tomorrow you’ll think before you speak.” I nod in reply. You push me out of the bedroom and order me to start preparing your dinner.
An hour and a half later I lay the plate of food in front of you, praying I’ve cooked this meal well enough. My hands shake slightly as you cut into your steak. I shut my eyes and wait. I hear you chewing the meat, but then you stop, and spit it out. I gulp. I start to feel a wetness between my thighs. In one movement you are out of your seat and pressing me to the wall, your hand around my neck.
“You KNOW I like my steak rare. What the fuck is that? That’s not fucking rare!” You stop crushing my windpipe and move back over to the table. There is a crash as you sweep everything onto the floor. “THAT’S where your cooking belongs. On the fucking FLOOR.” You shout. Grabbing me by the upper arms, you lift me onto the table and slam me down. Your strong hands rip off my t-shirt and thong – the only clothes you let me wear – and I feel the rough wood against my bare skin. I feel your hands on my hips as you force yourself inside me. I gasp as you brutally pump your cock in and out, bringing us both closer to the edge. Your fingers grip my hipbones with one hand, as you press down over my mouth with the other hand, muffling my mingled sobs and moans. Your grunts get louder and you start thrusting faster and faster, until finally we both reach a shuddering climax. I lie on the table, panting, as you pull out of me. Suddenly you slap my pussy hard. I whimper in shock. “Get on your knees on the floor. NOW.” I do as I am told, kneeling down in the mess that was, earlier this evening, your dinner.
The congealed gravy has pooled all over the linoleum tiles, and there are peas everywhere. The steak lies in front of where I’m kneeling. “Now look at this mess.” You tut, mocking me. “I think you need to clean our kitchen floor, bitch. And I think you should clean it with your tongue. So, get to it.” And with that, you sit down in a chair and take out your phone to make a call to your business partner, whilst watching me silently crying as I lower my face towards the filthy floor.
It takes me all night to lick the floor clean, and after a few hours you go to bed. The house is dark and cold as I crawl across the tiles, my face dripping with stone cold gravy. I pick up the steak with my teeth and manage to put it in the bin, not daring to disobey you by using my hands, even though you can’t see me.
The sun is rising before I’m finally done, and every bone in my body aches with tiredness. I wait for you to come down to the kitchen and inspect it – knowing it won’t be up to your standards, because nothing ever is. I wait in a kneeling position for hours, and when you eventually enter the kitchen and tell me to stand up, it takes me a while before I can feel my legs again. I beg for a drink of water, and you fill up the dog’s water bowl that you bought especially for me, and watch contentedly as I lap up as much water as I can before you cruelly snatch the bowl away and tip the rest of the water over me. You pick me up and put me over your shoulder, taking me upstairs to our room. Here you lie me down and handcuff both my hands to the frame of the bed. I lie submissively as you tape a vibrator to my clit. This is one of your favourite games; the vibrator is controlled by a small black remote that you take to work with you, and play with when you get bored. I love never knowing when or even if you’ll turn it on or off, and I am wet before you even leave the house. I hear the front door slam, and then a very faint click as the vibrator is switched on…

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