This is part of the Lifestyle Masochism series. These are stand alone non fiction/memoir examples of the lifestyle sadomasochism we practice within our irrevocable consent framework, as discussed in the explanation post “What I Talk About When I Talk About Masochism”.
I’m making some natural cleaners in the kitchen when my pager buzzes. I lift my shirt a little and tilt it towards me from where it’s clipped to my uniform leggings as always. Your presence is requested in the loft.
I’m curious. There are currently three active buttons on the pager transmitter that sits on Mistress’ desk, marked with little sticker icons. One, if she presses it, pages me with, Refresh coffee and water. I’ll go to her and collect one or the other or both and refill them and bring them back. One tells me to check my messages, indicating she wants a response to something she can’t communicate with a transmitter button urgently, or at least wants me to see it, which allows me to keep all digital notifications off. The third makes my pager buzz with simply, Your presence is requested in the loft. Her office. The equivalent of ringing a more old fashioned slave bell. The simple, Come here, without the yelling, “Slave!” that created the rule that I need permission to make a phone call (or to notify her when I answer one) before things get awkward. Even with the pagers, the rule is still in place, actually.
She uses this summons the least, since she could use check messages to communicate most things. But that’s the one my pager displays now.
I have the feeling she just wants to harass me. On her daily spreadsheet printout, there’s a section that says simply, How to Harass Hannah Today. Sometimes I notice the note she makes under it before she does it. Either way, I know it’s there and that generally something is in store each day.
So I go upstairs to the loft. As they say, when the slave bell rings, you answer it without question.
Okay, I don’t meet many people that so literally applies to, but.
She asks what I’m up to. I tell her about the cleaners. She confirms I have no dangerous chemicals sitting open on the counter or anything. Approaches me casually, then slaps me across the face, hard, so fast I have no chance to see it coming. While I’m still reeling, she does something that ends with me landing on the floor, though I’m too disoriented to tell what.
From there, it’s the usual flurry of abuse, the kicking, punching, choking, pulling me by the hair. I remember sliding clear across the kitchen floor when she pulled me by the hair the other day, the throbbing for hours after. Fond memories. Right now, the pain is everywhere. It’s wonderful. She tells me how pathetic I am. I agree.
She yanks my clothes out of the way, fingers me, roughly enough I squirm, much more pain than pleasure. She presses one finger into my ass with negligible natural lube, though that might be my favorite kind of anal and, while it’s uncomfortable, I squirm less. I don’t remember all of the taunts she throws at me during this. The usual, slut, whore, slave, property, bitch, owned, masochist, pathetic, mine. Her other hand tight in my hair, wrapped around my throat, wrapped around my collar, smacking my ass.
She stops abruptly, stands, gives me one more hard kick, and leaves. I hear water running in the nearby bathroom, probably washing her hands. I don’t manage to move right away. I don’t try very hard, to be fair, since it doesn’t seem urgent.
Still, she makes fun of me for this when she returns. That I don’t have the sense to run. I end up on the floor somewhere else—dragged, maybe, or shoved after a go at standing—and she fingers me again. Taunts me for getting off on all this. “What are you?”
“Your slave.” A familiar ritual.
“That’s right. I own you. Show me. Show me your body does what I tell it to. You’ll come exactly when I tell you to. Ten. Nine.”
The countdown is familiar. I can picture the little upwards line graph of pleasure amount versus spoken number in reverse order.
Increasing. I’m wetter this time.
“Six. Five. Four.”
I’m pretty much there. Not struggling to hold it back, but I know I’ll do exactly as she said.
Maybe struggling to hold it back. I whine.
I do. It’s lovely. After, I’m panting, coming down. “Thank you, Mistress.”
She dismisses me shortly after; I fix my clothes, stand, curtsy as always, and leave.