“If you are very good and eat all of your lunch and let me wash and shave you, this slave will service his Master’s cock afterward,” I say while holding the spoon expectantly at his mouth.
This lifts his spirits a little, and though his agreement is a grumble, I’ve been granted his permission all the same. After I’ve fed him his soup and shaved his face and given him a thorough sponge bath, I draw back the covers and, avoiding his bandages, worship his cock. Because of the pain meds, Master is unable to sustain an erection, but he allows me to pleasure him as much as I am able while drifting in and out of sleep. Towards the end I simply suck on the tip of it like it were a pacifier and drowse right there with him. Rest is what he needs most, and if it means sleeping alongside him, I will.
And because Master knows that going for too long without exercise is bad for my mental health, he assigns one of his guys to accompany me down to the pool so that I can swim laps. The man’s name is Anthony and he’s one of the better ones—respectful, diligent, cleans up after himself rather than expecting me to do it like some goddamned housewife.
“Can I ask you a question?” he says when we’re on the private elevator back up to the penthouse. I’m wearing my Speedo with a towel draped over my shoulder. My cap is off and I’m shaking out my long hair. I’ll shower upstairs.
I nod for him to continue. Some speech is necessary, but I try to limit it as much as possible to maintain my good habits.
“Why do you call him Master?” Anthony asks, and his tone sounds curious, rather than judgmental.
“Why do you call him Boss?”
“So, it’s a sign of respect then?”
“And an exchange of power and control. Master knows what’s best for this slave. The slave finds it freeing to not have to worry about what to wear or what to eat or what their next few hours might entail. What does tomorrow look like? What about next week? Master makes those decisions for his slave because he is competent and capable. The slave does not need to wonder or be curious, only serve.” I don’t always slip into referring to myself in the third person, but I find it comforting sometimes to put a little bit of distance between my selves.
“And he, um…” Anthony begins but doesn’t finish. They’ve heard (or seen) enough by now to know the nature of our relationship.
“He, um, what?” I ask impatiently.
“He fucks you?” Anthony asks, dropping his voice to a whisper.
“The slave exists solely for Master’s pleasure. Master uses his slave as he sees fit.”
“So, it’s like a role play then?”
“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players,” I say, growing bored by his questions. Anthony looks confused. He must not be a fan of Shakespeare.
“Doesn’t that make you feel… like some kind of prostitute?” he asks, his eyes flickering to the gold adorning my body. No doubt he’s also seen my lavish clothing and fine instruments littered around our apartment.
“What is a wife but a contractual whore?” I ask. “What is a husband but a yoked stud?”
This gives him something to ponder. “But don’t you ever just want to…” he stalls, clearly thinking on what to him resembles ultimate freedom, “I don’t know, get a beer with your friends or eat a whole carton of ice cream?”
Both of those options sound terribly pedestrian to me. I worry Anthony might be lacking in imagination.
“Truthfully, I’d rather Master whip me until I bleed, then gag me on his cock so that I choke on his cum.” His eyes go a little wider, arousal or perhaps shock. I shouldn’t play with Master’s men, but sometimes I can’t help myself.
“It takes all types I guess,” he says at last.
I smile. “Yes, it does.”
Even with stickingto our routines, the demons have a habit of taking advantage when they spot an opening, so on the ninth day of Master’s convalescence, I suggest that he might tell one of the men to lock me in my box.
“What are the voices saying,tesoro?” he asks with concern.
I try to sort through the din and the rabble. The overarching theme is that they want a blood sacrifice, a few cuts to release some of the mounting tension.
“They want me to cut. Just a little,” I add, so that Master won’t worry too much. I really hate to bother him with my problems when he clearly needs to focus on getting better.
“Undress yourself and come up here.” He adjusts the bed and removes the covers, then pats the space between his thighs. Anthony is nearby and a voyeur to this exchange, though his face doesn’t betray anything out of the ordinary, another reason I tolerate him better than the others. “Anthony,” Master makes a motion, “shut the door, will ya?”
I undress quickly, already feeling more centered than I have since Master’s party that went disastrously wrong.
“I haven’t been able to milk you,” Master says with a note of regret as I settle myself between his strong legs.
“You’ve needed your rest. This slave feels inadequate that they are unable to manage a couple of weeks without Master’s attention.”
