Though it is not a truth universally acknowledged that all the best days begin by waking to a text from the night before which reads: “I’m abusing you tomorrow, baby x”; it ought to be.
Barely awake and already hit with that sucker punch of arousal, nipples tightening underneath the duvet; abused I am ready to be.
My morning routine usually consists of re-lubing my butt plug – which I wear 24/7 (Sir likes a permanent reminder of his ownership and I like my ass to be ready for whenever Sir decides to use it) – selecting three underwear choices from which Sir will choose his favourite and then ten firm spanks to my arse to set me in the right mindset for the day.
Today, my instructions are clear:
“20 slaps on each cheek, and 5 on each side of your face. And let’s not forget your clamps.”
My cunt quivers. Clamps. All day. For a split second I imagine being sat at my desk, clit and nipples throbbing under the pressure of the clamps while I try to concentrate on a time sensitive matter. And then I’m reaching for my clamps with a flurry of excitement, ignoring the voice telling me that I’m building my own coffin.