Sleep eludes me for the fourth night in a row. No matter how exhausted I am, how I desperately crave its embrace, it slips through my fingers, leaving me at the mercy of my looping thoughts and churning emotions.
I can’t take it anymore. I’m on the verge of a mental breakdown.
I’m not the praying type, butGod, if you’re up there, grant me sleep, and I promise I’ll do a good deed. Not just a “helping an old lady cross the road” good deed, but something substantial. I don’t know what yet, but I’ll think of something... after sleep… when my brain isn’t fried.
After our encounter in the kitchen four nights ago, Dameon stumbled into bed and promptly passed out, leaving me to stew all night as I listened to the symphony of his snores. As dawn broke, I faced the harsh reality: I had fucked up. I allowed myself to lower my walls and entertain the idea of something more with him. Ultimately, it’s my responsibility. I’m the professional who should have maintained boundaries, not him. I got swept up in his soft words and sweet kisses. I can’t blame him for misleading me. That’s why I woke him up the next morning with my mouth attached to his dick and greeted him with a fake smile and a sweet “Good morning, master.” When I wished him a lovely day at work, he looked at me oddly, confusion clouding his hungover eyes.
The last few days have been exactly the same. I’ve been the perfect sub for him, per the contract. I never forget to refer to him as master. I kneel by the door when he returns home, serve him dinner, and kneel at his feet when he eats. I don’t do anything without his implicit instructions.
We haven’t talked about what happened; he seems keen to ignore it, and I’m more than okay with that. He made his desires clear, and it’s my duty to fulfill them. In fact, we haven’t spoken much at all, other than him barking orders and my immediate “yes, master” in response. He hasn’t fucked me once or touched me intimately in any way. And I’m relieved, because I’m not sure I could maintain my defenses. There’s every chance they would crumble with just one gentle caress.
Even though I’ve rebuilt my walls and firmly closed the door to my heart, I’m still hurting. I dared to hope he was different, that there was something deeper between us. But I was wrong. Now, he’s just like every other client. Which I hate, because despite it all, I miss him. Maybe I should pop a sleeping pill to silence the incessant chatter in my brain. I don’t just need sleep, I crave it. I feel like a junkie, desperate for my next hit of sweet relief.
The bedroom door opens and Dameon steps inside, flicking on his bedside lamp. Though I’m facing away from him, he can tell I’m still awake. I hear him undress and prepare for bed.
“Tomorrow night we’re going out,” he says stiffly. “A package will arrive for you in the afternoon. You are to wear everything it contains.”
“Yes, master,” I intone without turning around.
“Be ready by seven. Get some sleep.”
“Yes, master.”
I would if I could.
***
“You look like shit,” Maddy declares.
Dark circles plague my eyes, and I swear I’ve seen a few new wrinkles appear over the last week. Sleep eluded me again last night. So, she’s not entirely wrong, but still… rude.
“Don’t you have some cleaning to do rather than prancing around in that get-up you call a uniform? Dameon’s not going to fuck you, you know.” I don’t really know that; I’m just guessing that they used to sleep together. In fact, I don’t think he likes her all that much, given some of their recent interactions I’ve witnessed. Then again, what do I know? I thought he felt something for me.
What a joke.
I’m surprised at my cattiness. The fatigue is really bringing out my inner bitch.
“You’ll be gone soon enough, and then he’ll be back,” she replies.
I have no doubt.
I turn my back and leave before another bitchy remark slips out. I refuse to stoop to her level, even if I am sleep-deprived.
“A package arrived. It’s in his bedroom,” she calls out as I walk away. I ignore her and make my way to our room to see what he’s left for me to wear. A medium-sized box rests on the bed. But for some reason, I was expecting a much larger package, like a garment bag, perhaps holding a ball gown or something similar. I’m perplexed yet intrigued. Popping open the box, my eyebrows hit my hairline.
Where exactly are we going tonight?
I pull out a black bandage dress that looks like a series of straps, along with lube, a large anal plug, nipple clamps, and a small butterfly clit stimulator with ties.
What on earth does he have planned?
Under normal circumstances, I would be squealing with excitement, dripping wet at the prospect. And, honestly, I kind of am. But there’s a weirdness now, a formality, which takes the fun out of it. The shine has worn off; everything feels subdued. I spread out all the items on the bed and begin the process of getting ready.
It’s late afternoon, granting me ample time to prepare, and I’ve got nothing better to do. I’ve spent the entire day with Beth, as I’ve done every day since we returned from the hospital. I’m immensely proud of her; she’s approached her recovery with determination, diligently following all the necessary steps and always maintaining a positive attitude. Not once has she grumbled that it’s too hard or dropped a “Why me?”
I draw a bath, intent on taking my time scrubbing every inch of my body, making it soft and smooth. I’ve got my work cut out for me, considering I resemble the walking dead.
After two hours of primping and preening, I’ve indulged in every beauty treatment available, determined to bring myself back to life. I fasten the magnetic silver clamps onto my nipples, enjoying their sharp bite. They’re snug but not overly tight, offering a steady stream of stimulation. Glancing at the sizable butt plug, I wince. It’s an elegant stainless-steel piece, cold and impeccably smooth, crowned with a glittering, deep red ruby at the top.
