A day in the life of a slave and her Master [bdsm] [OC] [Mf]

*The desperation not just to please and serve, but to lower herself, to revel in performing something so denigrating, wanting, needing to shed her dignity and be consumed by the power of her owner, to crawl into the shadow of his looming presence while shrinking herself to nothing, just becoming a frenzied vessel of worship, striving to physically place her face, the part of her body that makes her a unique, valued being, in and under and smothered by the least desirable, least clean, least acceptable part of his body.* — My Master

My Master directed me to explore my mindset, an intelligent woman who is driven to serve, to be His lowly object, a perfect but simple tool, needing to be used, degraded, demeaned, humiliated, and thereby elevated. He said to tell you your reactions to it will be considered in his assessment of my story’s worthiness and my ultimate reward or punishment. So I do hope you enjoy, dear Redditors, but ultimately, of course, his pleasure or displeasure is all that matters to me.

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She heard his key turn in the lock, and she got wet. She couldn’t help it. She hadn’t even told him about it yet — it was her own little secret. He had conditioned her to so many things… she was so used to kneeling and kissing the toilet to thank it for allowing her filthy body to sit on it, that she had to physically stop herself from doing it when she was in public bathrooms, where he’d prohibited her. And he would raise an eyebrow, and she’d scamper over, kneel gracefully and kiss his foot, and ask “how may I serve you, Master?” A finger crooked and she’d slap her own face or pinch her nipple or whatever he had trained her to do that day or week. And of course he knew that using certain words and tones of voice would make her spasm as if punched in the stomach, goosebumps all over, nipples hard, weak in the knees, and pussy soft and wet. But the key turning in the door was her own secret… she’d save it to tell him about someday when he’d had a hard day — she’d present it to him like a cat brings its owner a mouse, proud and supplicating at the same time.

But, most of all, it was her job that got her wet. To keep her Master squeaky clean. She would have his chair ready, his drink at hand, his book or the computer nearby. She’d greet him at the door, on her knees, naked save for the collar on her neck and chain wrapped around her waist, looking up with a smile and shining eyes. He’d say hello, pat her head, and walk by to take his seat. She’d follow, taking his keys or his bag, helping with his coat, until he plopped down with a sigh. He’d take a drink, and shut his eyes or turn on the tv, as his mood determined. That was when her job started.

She’d take his shoes off, then put her hands on the back of her neck, as taught, and pull off his socks with her teeth. He’d grunt and sigh and wiggle his toes. This was her sign. Kneeling, face down, round white ass up — and usually wiggling happily — she would drop her mouth over his big toe. Suck, swirl the tongue around, make sure to get every drop of dirt and sweat. Thrust the tongue inbetween the big toe and the next… pause and listen to his grunt and little gasp that meant his cock was waking up. On to the next toe. Drop, suck, swirl, thrust, listen for her reward of his pleasure. She could feel her pussy getting wetter. She could feel his eyes on her teats, hanging down, swinging as she renewed her attentions on her job with gusto. On, and on, ten times.

When done, she would sit up in Nadu, gasping and chest heaving with desire, but trying to be as still and well-behaved as a very good utilitarian object would be. Sometimes, he would just keep watching tv or reading, and she would sigh and get up and finish making dinner, trying to ignore her twitching clit and the swelling in her pussy. But sometimes… sometimes she would look up at him and he would nod at her. That meant she could take off his pants. She would try to help, and if she was *very* lucky, he would use his belt to lash out at her, leaving instant red welts on tits and thighs and ass and she would scurry away and assume her position flat on the floor.

He gave her leeway to use her imagination with this, to create the best pose to make him happy. She delighted in coming up with new ones: fingers cruelly pinching her own nipples, twisting and lifting straight up, until they were burning red…. or mouth open, little fingers hooked on the sides to keep her agape, index fingers pushing up her nose, exposing and opening all of her face holes to be as vulnerable as possible… or hand on clit, rubbing and stopping short of an edge every time — he wasn’t content with ruining her orgasms, he had to ruin her edges also. Unless of course he commanded otherwise.

When his pants were off, he’d come kneel over her face, settling in and facing her helpless body. She’d immediately raise up her head and begin licking him clean. While he smiled at her eagerness, then mocked her obvious arousal, pinching and commenting on her crinkled nipples, fingering her wet pussy, and slapping her flesh, leaving red welts in the shape of his hand. All the while, she’d be licking his taint, suckling on his balls, rearing up her head to thrust her tongue as far into his ass as she could. He could hear her mumbling: “what’s that, slave? you have something you want?” “please, Sir, could I touch myself?” Sometimes, he would say yes, benevolent, watching her hand fly to her clit and begin rubbing furiously as she fucked his asshole with her tongue. Sometimes, he would say no, wanting to focus on the feeling of her warm tongue in his ass or just wanting her to suffer the pain of his belt and hands without distraction. Her favorite times, though, were when he would let her hold his cock with one hand and her clit in the other, rubbing in sync as he bounced on her face and her body jackknifed under him with edge after edge, pounding the ground in obedient frustration. By the end, it was hard to see the red welts of the pain he’d been dishing out against the background pink of her near-orgasms and difficulty breathing while smothered with his ass. But still, they felt amazing when he shot hot cum all over them, rubbing it into the reddest places while she quivered and thanked him.

This is how they would go to dinner: him, cleaned from balls to toe by her tongue; her, sticky and messy, makeup smeared, eyes watering, hair destroyed. Often, he would take pity on her and let her lie in her stupid sub state, and make cooingly demeaning sounds at her while she recovered and he dished out their plates. Then he would get her chain leash and go over and attach it to her collar and lead… or drag… her to the table where he attached it to his chair.

He would pour his IPA in his glass and hers in her dog bowl, and put his food on the table and hers… well, sometimes she would get a fork and a plate. Sometimes she would get food in a bowl. One time he just dumped it on the floor and made her eat it from there like a dog. When she saw that, she got so humiliated and hot from the outrageously degrading treatment that she set up on her haunches and put her hands to her shoulders, mouth open, tongue out — the sign he’d taught her to use when she really really needed to come. He
nodded at her, and she had put her hand on herself and come right there on the floor, feeling like a sideshow, a travesty of a human, a freak, shrieking and moaning with her orgasm. Then she sheepishly bent and ate her dinner off the floor. That night was memorable, but her favorites were when she just got her bowl of beer and one of water, next to her pillow by his feet. He would talk to her about his day and hers, ask her opinion about things, and feed her by hand, while she patiently waited for her next tidbit. The dissonance between having to wait to have food put in her mouth like a begging dog and being treated like a respected friend was So. Fucking. Hot.

She thought he might like it best too, because, on those nights, he often would deign to fuck her ass. Of course, she was plugged for at least some of every day. He’d been working her up to her big scary glass plug, but so far had been kind to her. On some nights, after they ate and she was cleaning the kitchen, he would call her over periodically and inspect her by shoving something inside of pussy, ass , or mouth — a spoon, a piece of food or trash, a spatula handle, his fingers, a knife handle. He would laugh at her while she waddled away with a utensil shoved deep in her ass, especially because he knew how wet it was making her. Then he’d grab her leash again and yank her to her hands and knees to crawl ahead of him to the bed to be fucked.

Other nights, perhaps he was tired, perhaps he just wanted to torment her, perhaps he wanted to make sure she was aware of her place… she was never sure… he would call her over after she cleaned the kitchen and have her lay across his lap. She would be his table — he’d leave his phone on her while he gamed, or his game control on her while he read. She could feel his cock under her stomach and it tantalized her, she wanted to serve it so badly. And of course the utter indifference he showed her while he enjoyed himself or worked on email or bills, drove her mad. He could smell her desire oozing out of her, and would occasionally dip his fingers in and wipe them on her face, adding to the smell of ass and spit and cum on her, chiding her for being such a worthless greedy slut.

And then it would be time for bed. If she’d been good, she would get to sleep on her little bed on the floor next to him. If he were very pleased with her, sometimes she would get to sleep curled up at his feet, comfy under the weight of his legs, or even curled up around him with his cock resting softly in her mouth while she used every ounce of self control she had to not tease it with her tongue. If she’d been bad, she would be chained into her cage, to sleep alone and sad. But he did not do this to her often, recognizing that useful objects needed to be cared for well to continue being happy and useful. Mostly he preferred — to her great delight — to have her use her cage for her daily ritual, reminding her of his ownership and control over her every day even while he was at work. But that was later, and private.

They started the day with her spanking… well, technically, she started the day by enveloping his cock and balls in her warm mouth, gently and thoroughly cleaning them and slowly waking him up. And *then* their day would start. He’d pull her up and over his lap and enjoy her ass to his heart’s content, spanking and squeezing until his cock started protesting and he’d push her down and fuck her face until he came. She’d say “thank you for your cum, Master” then run off to make their breakfast while he showered and dressed.

While they ate, he would listen to her plans and list of chores, and advise her. He’d always add some special tasks for her, designed to keep her aroused and submissive and happy throughout the day. He was so considerate in selecting tasks that fit both their moods, yet harsh and unforgiving if she forgot something small detail or failed altogether. It was perfect. *He* was perfect. Sometimes the task would be simple, staying discreetly plugged or clamped or chained under her clothes for her errands and chores. Sometimes it would be an impossible list of rituals and obeisances designed both to keep him on her mind and to make she would fail repeatedly, receiving a hash mark on her thigh for each small transgression, which were counted, punished, and then forgiven every Saturday morning. Sometimes it would involve larger body modifications, and he would bind her breasts or corset her waist or pump her nipples or plug her ass with an increasingly large plug and leave her for the day, with or without edging instructions.

After breakfast, he would order her into position– in nadu, on her hands and knees, back against the wall, whatever he wanted — and then he would take a marker and give her her label for the day. Sometimes it would be a piece of indescribable filth, scrawled large across her breasts. She’d have to be careful with what she wore to the gym. Sometimes a small, matter of fact notation of what she was, perhaps inferior object or obedient cunt, printed neatly on her thigh. Sometimes it would be more directions on how she was to serve him that day. Once he wrote something on her back and forbade her from trying to read it. She went mad that day, trying to distract herself from it and not look. She finally texted him and begged him to order her to beat herself to calm her mind. (When he returned that night, he left her on her knees and went for a washcloth, proceeding to scrub it off and never revealed it to her. Cruel And perfect.)

This was their life, a perfect circle of Bondage and Discipline, Domination and Submission, Sadism and Masochism. All fed by her need to serve him, to be the perfect receptacle for his cock and cum, to be degraded and adored. She was, simply, happy.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/g3oxtp/a_day_in_the_life_of_a_slave_and_her_master_bdsm