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”.
Sunday. As always, morning inspection at 10:30.
Morning service tasks already done, I shut my 10:29 alarm and get in Inspection Position in the bedroom. I stand, legs spread, hands clasped behind my head.
Mistress comes in. I’m silent, waiting for her to speak first. Speak when spoken to. She tells me my morning tasks were done well and on time, looks me and my uniform over, approves.
“Thank you, Mistress,” I say, the required response to the praise.
“You’re welcome, slavegirl.” She releases me from the position to fetch the nearby sunscreen and apply it for her: “You may get me lotion.”
I do. And normally, that’s it.
Today, though, it’s not. “Remove all of your clothing.”
I do. Meanwhile, she seeks out a few items. Removing my leggings and underwear is painful today. On Friday night, we did an impact scene—paddles, full force, thirty minute timer—that had me dripping blood on the floor before finishing with the barbed wire “flogger” I made (barbed wire duct taped together). It looked like a horror movie scene—blood drops on the carpet, blood soaked implements, blood rushing down the shower drain. A barb flew loose from the flogger after catching in my skin, landing on the floor.
It was supposed to be a catharsis scene, but it got more silence and giggles than anything. It was fun.
After all the blood, I spent Saturday draining so much plasma, it immediately soaked through my clothes no matter what I did, leaving clear wet spots wherever I sat.
Now, my clothes stick to the wounds, and I have to peel them out. But Mistress has a solution.
I step into the Pull-Up unprotesting. Diapers aren’t my thing—and that increases the fun for her—but I’ve yet to figure out a better solution. She lays on the humiliation verbally, but the reality is practical.
With that in place, she has something else for me. The mostly used soap from the shower, wet. I let her run it over my tongue and place it in my mouth without protest, too.
She places me in the corner—well, nose pressed to a wall, arms boxed behind my back, Corner Position—emphasizing how much this amuses her.
I wait there. She takes a picture. I’m sure it’s quite an image. I wonder nonchalantly if she’ll post it.
She leaves me there for a few minutes. I’m pondering the soap. The shape and size are okay right now, but the bar wouldn’t fit in my mouth brand new. It’s plain to look at, and the taste is unpleasant, but it doesn’t burn or tingle like some of the scented ones do. I should do something about this.
(By Thursday, I’ve played with making my own cute, well shaped bars in various flavors for her to torment me with—and use around the house—including ginger ones shaped for anal insertion, and an improvement on my ginger infused lube creation.)
Mistress comes back in and releases me from the corner, lets me rinse my mouth out, leaves me to redress in my uniform and go about my chores or, “Whatever it is slavegirls do.”
Tuesday, which means I give Mistress a pedicure at four o’clock.
I’m done now, still cleaning up supplies, and soon off to start dinner.
But Mistress has other ideas. She finds me again, putting a few things away in the master bath. “You may remove all of your clothing.”
This order always leads to interesting things. Given the setting, I’m pretty sure I know what, and as I strip out of my uniform, I warn her that means dinner will likely be late (not served at six as always).
“That’s fine. I can make dinner be late if I want. If I’d rather harass you.”
“Thank you, Mistress.” The permission is kind of buried, but there, evoking the required response.
She opens the shower door. “Kneel.”
I do. The shower floor is cold and hard, and just big enough to manage my usual Kneeling Position—knees open, big toes crossed right over left, hands clasped behind my back, right over left, right thumb over left thumb—without touching any walls.
She leaves me there for a minute, seeing to something in another room. Then returns.
She pees on me, and has me lick her clean, then turns the shower on full blast cold. I fly out of the sudden stream of water before I can realize what I’m doing, kneeling up and clinging to the doorway of the shower as she orders and shoves me back into the freezing water. She wants me there for a few solid seconds, soaking me with the removable shower head, before she leaves me to clean up with warm water.
Or, “You may rinse off,” as she puts it, waiving the requirement to shave and present for inspection after. I’ll be free to finally start dinner.
“Thank you, Mistress.”
I’m making dinner, to be served at six as always. Steak is in the sous vide, soon to be seared; potatoes are boiling on the stove, soon to be mashed; asparagus is getting tossed and put back in the oven. Some mutual favorites.
Mistress comes in, asks about the food. I answer.
“Take off your shirt,” she orders in response.
I glance at the various uncovered windows around, but comply. A neighbor could see in, but it’s not in plain sight.
“And your bra.”
I set both uniform items on the island.
She produces two clothespins. No points for guessing where those are going. I’m not shocked by their appearance, either—I noted them sitting on her desk earlier. They were out of place—not in the dungeon—but, as I cleared a few dishes, trash, other out of place items, I left them, suspecting exactly this.
She puts them on me. I bite my lip as she does. Then, the pain is low intensity, but achingly constant.
She presses the ice dispenser button on the freezer behind her, and traces my breasts and stomach with an ice cube, cold and wet, dripping down my skin.
Then she reaches past me and pulls a fork out of a drawer. She dips it in the water boiling on the stove, holds it there for a few seconds. Presses it to my abdomen hard a few times, though it loses heat quickly, and she sticks it back in the water.
The contrast is interesting—there’s a second where the now mild cold from the ice rapidly gives way to mild warmth from the fork, before I’m struck by the burning heat of the metal, squirming a little.
She cycles the ice and the hot fork for a minute, and finally her nails down my skin, a strange collection of pink marks.
She talks about how she likes coming in and harassing me, having me as, “A toy to play with as I please.” She removes the clothespins. I bite my lip again, hold my breath. “You may get dressed.”
“Thank you, Mistress.”
I check on dinner. Evidently, she’s had her fill of entertainment for now.