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Thank God It's Friday
As I drag my bag out of the car and stride to the house I'm thinking, thank God it's Friday, I really need a change.
“Good evening, Milady,” Brian is standing just inside the door, and my heart lifts at the sight. He is, of course, naked except for the light chain collar hanging loosely around his neck, and he takes the bag and deftly slides my jacket from my shoulders. “Dinner is ready, or if you would prefer, it can wait till after your bath.”
“Hm... What is it?”
“Lasagna, Milady.”
Since I'm late home, he'll undoubtedly have it beside a pan of water so it won't dry up, but... “Your lasagna's too good to keep waiting. I'll have it now.”
He steps aside to usher me into the dining room, where quiet music is playing and the light shines on a single silver-laid place at the table. He draws the chair back and seats me, sets a glass of melon soup with sticks of crisped ham before me, then shows the wine bottle for my approval. He draws the cork and pours a glass, then moves softly from the room.
As I'm chasing the last drop of the soup round the glass he's back, a napkin draped over one arm, carrying a dish in oven mittens to set on the hotplate on the sideboard. He serves one helping on a dish and another into a steel dog bowl, sets the dish in front of me and the dog bowl on the floor, and kneels beside me while I taste my meal.
“You may eat,” I tell him.
“Thank you, Milady.” He goes down on all fours and pushes his face into the bowl.
For a little while I give myself up to appreciation of his cooking. The lasagna is perfect, the pasta cooked almost to a cream, the vegetables with just enough bite to be interesting. I reach down and stroke Brian's hair, and fondle his broad back that is so rewarding to flog. “Very good, darling.”
“I live to please, Milady.” He tilts his head knowingly. “Have you had a bad day?”
“Oh, you can just tell, can't you?” I snarl. “That idiot Kelly – I got in this morning and found he never got insurance! Thank God I noticed before we turned up at the shoot and they asked for our documents – I had to phone around for an hour to find an emergency rate that wouldn't break us. Then the photographer decided to be a diva...” For ten minutes I enjoy the freedom to rant. “I'm so mad at them, I could beat hell out of you just to make me feel better.”
“Yes, Milady. Would you like me to bring a cane now, or after desert?” His eyes are sparkling.
“Bless you, darling, but you know I don't play angry. Besides, it's Friday.” He vanishes the dishes and sets a bowl of fruit salad and a cup of coffee before me, kneels a little further away, and folds down till I can stretch out my legs and rest my heels on his bent back. Peace soaks into me as I enjoy the perfect moment of a good meal, pleasant surroundings and a loving slave at my feet.
The bath is another symphony of bliss, wallowing in hot scented water while he caressingly washes me from the length of my hair to each separate toe. I have a lot of rules to make my slave's life difficult for him and amusing for me, and one is that he must never touch me with his hands: so he holds a large sponge in his mouth, his eyes running from splashes of soap and his hair in wet rat's-tails, craning and twisting over the bath as I turn to him like a cat being stroked. When I stand up he swaps the sponge for a device I had him make for me, a big pompom of towelling on a wooden block the right size to grip in his teeth; with his hands clasped behind him he carefully rubs down my hair, my back and breasts, and as I step out onto the mat he works his way down.
The sight of him grovelling to dry my feet is as delightful as ever, and I can't resist putting a foot on his head and forcing it to the floor, enjoying my utter power over him. He is a beautiful slave, attentive, caring and endlessly obedient: sometimes I can't resist making his life harder just to see him put up with it uncomplainingly.
Still, the best things come to an end, and so they should. Heaven would get dull if you could never leave. I step back and say “Darling, it's time.”
“Yes, Milady.” He kneels up and unfastens his collar and offers it to me, and I give his hand a quick kiss as I take it from him, drape it round my neck and close the clasp.
The next moment his hand is tangled in my hair, throwing me forward. “Right, bitch!” I fall across his knees as he swings round to sit on the edge of the bath, and he grabs my right wrist and twists it up between my shoulders to pin me down. “You need a good hard lesson!”
“Oh, please, Milord -” Then his first slap lands across my so vulnerably bent cheeks, and my appeal becomes a howl.
For a little while he enjoys the sensuous fun of palm slapping buns while I squirm and wail. But then the next blow explodes white fire, and I recognise of old the touch of the bath brush. With its broad flat wood back and long handle it lands like a heavy paddle. This isn't just fun, this is going to be a serious ass-pounding, and I let myself break down and scream till the pain and helplessness fill my world and nothing else matters.
When he lets me loose to fall gasping and sobbing to my knees, it's to grab some more hair and pull my head up. I've been vaguely aware of something the size and hardness of a baseball bat wedged between my flank and his belly, so I open up quickly in time to get it shoved to the back of my throat, then devote all my efforts of hands and lips and tongue to pleasing Milord while trying not to choke from his brutal face-rape. He lets go of my head to maul my nipples, which is easier on my throat but harder on my brain, but soon – he's been waiting a long time for this – he grabs my head again and rams in till even with all my training I nearly gag, and my cheeks fill with hot sticky man-juice. I tighten my lips to draw out the last drop, gulp and pant “Thank you, Milord.”
“Down.” He forces me back to hands and knees, and strides from the bathroom, half dragging me by my hair as I scrabble to keep up.
In the bedroom he reaches under the bed and hauls out a dog-bed – extra large Great Dane size – with a quilt folded on it and a heavy steel collar and chain on top. There's a month's dust on it: I prefer my slave to sleep in my bed, across the bottom end so I can rest my feet on him. The collar is solid iron half an inch thick, and when he closes it round my neck the cold weight of it tells me I am well and truly chained up.
He rolls into bed, then glares at me as I kneel by the bed. “Lie down, girl.”
“Milord,” I venture, “may a girl be permitted to show her devotion?” He snorts approval and tosses back the cover, and as I bend over him I lift my night collar in both hands to keep the cold metal off him while I lavish fond kisses on his cock and balls. I spend rather a long time over it, and he snickers as he guesses why. There wasn't much chance that he could fuck me so soon after coming down my throat, but he's been known to use cialis to beat the odds. Not this time, though, so with one last lingering kiss I slide back down into the dog bed and pull the quilt over me.
It occurs to me that I should have made him eat me before I switched, and I slap down the bad thought. If Milord wants to send his girl to bed hungry so I'll appreciate his cock all the more, a good slave shouldn't even think about cheating.
It's not like I won't get enough tomorrow. We switch on a Friday to have the weekend for slave induction. In the morning he'll really beat me, whip and cane and studded belt till I'm bruised and welted everywhere that can be hit, till I loose the power of speech and gobble crazy animal noises, till my face is a red mess of tears and snot, till I hang in the straps too drained to twitch at the next blow. And as soon as I've got my breath back from that, he'll fuck and tease and vibe me till I beg for mercy, till I don't believe I have the energy for another orgasm, and then he'll wring another out of me to show me who owns my body. And I'll work my much whipped tail off, vacuuming the carpets on all fours with the brush in my teeth and my ass in the air to be chased by Milord's cane, washing dishes on tiptoe at the sink on a cock-stand, polishing and dusting till even the cane can't make me get up and carry on. I'll be used and abused like the slave I am.
The thought makes my all too empty cunt throb, and I squirm and press my legs together in frustration. A hand snakes under the quilt, finds a nipple and tweaks it hard. “Don't even think of trying, girl,” he says, “or you'll be wearing the chastity belt for a week.”
And he would, all day every day of the week. The belt is slim enough not to show, provided I wear loose wrap-around skirts to work. I've discovered from the office gossip that they think I wear what they call “Earth Mom” skirts when I've got bloating from acute PMS: logical, because when I wear them I'm tense and irritable. And he always knows if I cheat: I suspect he's got a sound-activated recorder hidden near my bed. So I'll be a good girl.
I wriggle back a little, till the chain on my collar pulls tight and lets me feel that I'm chained, and I savour the warm ache of my bruised ass and the hunger of my yearning cunt. For the next four weeks I'll spend every minute I'm home serving Milord, cooking and cleaning under the whip, taking his brutal cock anywhere he cares to shove it in me, suffering for his pleasure in all the evil ways he knows. Brian as a slave is sweet and restful, but it's always so good to have my cruel Lord back again.
Thank God it's Friday.
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