Free SlavesofMistressDespoiler by Bruce McLachlan

walls, the skirting boards and bath, the sinks and other places where daily activity caused the accumulation of grime. It was a long period of time where he spent it thinking on his destiny, fantasising about what had been done to him.
    Occasionally he exploited the chance to draw his stiff member free and treat himself to a few moments of delicious strokes. He was forced to deny himself orgasm in case it betrayed his actions or he was discovered. It was a pleasing diversion but one that only fleetingly eased his tension, banishing it for the moment and fuelling a greater and long term frustration.
    Thankfully, Mistress Despoiler had not yet invested in a chastity belt, so he was granted a much-needed freedom. It was a little nugget of illicit activity, a portion of naughtiness against her desired rule over him. To covertly steal such pleasure and risk its dire consequences was a rush of adrenaline that was all too tempting to ignore. If he were truly deprived of access to himself, he would be a slavering dog at her feet, aching for release, for the merest caress, and although that was appealing he was also more than a little scared by it.
    The temptation to extract the butt plug was just as alluring. But again, he would not be able to get it back in quickly enough should she decide to spontaneously check on his progress, so he did not interfere with it.
    The rubber outfit was unbearably hot, cooking him as he worked. It made his lot difficult, turning him into a maid beset by sweltering discomfort. But this also roused his perverse enjoyment of being made to endure it in service to a powerful female.
    During his work, she would call him down and have him perform small and annoying errands. She had him change the channel, make her a drink, fetch something for her or put it back. But the most vexatious times were the occasions when he was summoned from work, rushing downstairs lest he be whipped for tardiness and he was called on to simply receive the scourge, or to place a kiss on her boots. Each time she also checked on the plug, shoving her fingers to the base, jiggling it painfully before letting him continue with his work.
    Sweaty from his completed toil and trapped with this moisture, he returned downstairs and knelt before her, head held low. For a few moments she ignored his presence, regarding him as something of no consequence, especially to one of such high stature as herself. Only once she had indelibly illustrated such knowledge did she look over to him.
    “Have you finished, slave?”
    “Yes, Mistress Lynn,” he muttered, keeping his gaze down and watching her swing in her seat and drop her feet into his field of vision.
    “Lick them, slave,” she ordered, letting him lap at the toes. His tongue strained through the slim aperture at his mouth and diligently attended the patent leather before she brushed him aside.
    “Now we’ll see what sort of job you have done,” announced the Mistress. Clipping the leash to his throat she towed him in her wake as she began to inspect the quality of his labour.
    The first chamber was the kitchen, which he looked over with new and sudden uncertainty. Questioning his own work, he tottered behind her on his heels. His feet were aching because of her constant spiteful calling of him up and down the flight of stairs.
    “That smudge, get rid of it,” she growled, indicating a small spot where the water from the mop had dried to leave a slim stain.
    Grabbing a cloth he lowered to remove the offending streak. He answered with a yelp as her foot trod on his hand, squashing it into the cloth and stopping him from continuing.
    “Don’t think you get off that lightly, slave. Use your mouth,” she hissed, and kept her weight on the extremity as he leaned in and reluctantly licked at the floor.
    The foul taste lingered on his tongue, a stalwart squatter on his taste buds that his saliva had little hope of evicting. Pleased with the outcome of his cleaning, she removed her foot