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I opted for a huge salad with grilled chicken for lunch, just to make sure I didn’t have anything heavy in my stomach since he said not to eat again after lunch. Mac picked me up without Master, and then deposited me into the garage. Some different wrist and ankle cuffs were on the shelf — not as uncomfortable as the punishment ones had been, but not super-padded, either. I put them on and read the note they’d been sitting on.

Go to the playroom and follow instructions in the jail cell.

I had the code to get into the house from the garage now, and my palmprint brought up the screen to put the code in for the playroom.

I made my way to the jail cell and performed the seven bulleted items — using a liquid glycerin suppository, then a Fleet, and then a bulb enema with a little salt in it to rinse the Fleet out. I lubed myself and the too-fat plug, and put it in me. I struggled a whole helluva lot getting it in, but I finally managed, and then I washed my hands to get the lube off, which had been in the instructions but it wasn’t a bulleted item.

He’d lined everything up I was to use on the small bed, and the only thing left was the blindfold. I lifted it, walked to the center of the playroom, put the blindfold on, and then reached up to grasp the bar over my head.

I have no idea how long I stood in the dark, but my arms and hands were beyond heavy, and my shouldersachedwhen the door finally opened and I heard footsteps I had to assume were Master’s.

The footsteps walked around me twice, and my heart rate sped with each step. Each circuit.

And then Master stopped behind me and his arms were around me. I felt the denim of his jeans against my ass, but he was shirtless on top, and my heart raced in my chest.

“Tell me why we’re here, slave.”

I was so far gone, it took me a second to manage speech. “Maintenance, Master. A reminder of who we are to each other, to try to help keep me from getting in trouble. Neither of us is a fan of actual punishment, and this is supposed to help keep you from having to discipline your slave.”

“Exactly right. When I have to punish you, it means I’ve failed as a Master, and that means neither of us gets off. That isn’t the case during maintenance, which means either your ass or your throat will be made use of at some point. Possibly both, depending on my mood. You may or may not be allowed an orgasm at the end of the session, but never in the middle, so don’t bother begging.”

He stepped away. “In fact, thanking me for reminding my slave of his status might be a good way to remind yourself why you’re being denied an orgasm, and why the maintenance session is happening.” He stepped in front of me and my nipples exploded in pain, one then the other, and I couldn’t be certain of which clamps he’d used, but they had teeth and theyhurt. I held onto the bar as tightly as I could to keep from reaching down and taking them off, and I did my best to breathe through the pain.

He stepped closer, so I could feel his body heat on my stomach and chest even though he wasn’t actually touching me.

“That isn’t an order, slave, just a suggestion. There’ll be no consequences if you don’t do so out loud.”

He took a step back, and I missed the warmth of his body, but then his arms were on either side of my rib cage. “Hands at your back. Grab your elbows.”

My shoulders didn’t want to cooperate, but I managed to get my arms down and in position within about ten seconds, and I was moving the entire time. It wasn’t like I took a few seconds to comply, so Master didn’t reprimand me. He’s usually reasonable about that kind of thing.

He stepped beside me and grasped my left arm just above my elbow. “Four steps forward and go to your knees. Go slow. I’ve got you.”

I felt the mat under my foot on the third step. I took the fourth step and brought my feet together before I went to my knees the way Master prefers, with my legs together rather than the way I’d done for other masters, one leg at a time.

Seconds after I was down, Master was in front of me and I heard the zipper on his jeans. His dick touched my lips, and I opened for him.

There are blow jobs, and then there’s face-fucking, and this was absolutely the latter, with Master’s hands wrapped around the back of my head holding me in place while he pounded my throat and face. My dick was harder than granite and throbbing like it might explode while Master went in and out of the hole he preferred at the moment, pleasuring himself no matter how his slave felt about it.

Sometimes he can do this for thirty minutes or even longer, other times he only fucks my face five or ten minutes and calls it a quickie.

Today it felt like a long quickie, and when he finished he merely told me to swallow his gift and get into position for push-ups.

I could do thirty-two push-ups all at once when I met Master, and I’ve built up to the low fifties now before I’m at absolute failure, so when Master told me, “I want sixty-five push-ups, and you’ll get the cane for three times the number you fail to give me, and then double that number from the belt,” fear flooded my system.

If I could manage fifty-four, the most I’d ever done, that would be thirty-three strikes of the cane. Some days,mostactually, my top number was fifty-one or fifty-two.

Forty-two cane strikes would be brutal, and then the belt eighty-four times afterward? I resolved to keep going no matter how tired my muscles were — I’d find some extra staminasomewhere.

He gave me time to do the math in my head before adding, “Today, your mouth, cock, balls, nipples, ass, and asshole will be reminded of who owns them. Every body part will be punished based on the number of push-ups you fail to give me. Also, if you’re at the top of the push-up more than four seconds, it means you’re finished and we use the current tally. No dawdling. Begin.”

At twenty-three, I thought I was managing okay, but then the cane struck a line of fire across my ass, and I screamed in both surprise and pain.

“The last two don’t count because you raised your ass. Form is important. Slow down and pay attention, slave. The count is twenty-one.”

By the time I made it to fifty, six of them hadn’t counted, and I’d been struck four times. My arms and shoulders were on fire, my abs and legs were feeling it, and the stripes across my ass were fucking blazing.

And the huge, way-too-fat plug in my ass wasn’t helping anything except to keep my dick hard as a rock.