He put her on a diet.
In all fairness, she’d asked for His help. Her cholesterol was high, her blood pressure was creeping up, and after her work shift she was exhausted.
Now here she was, 30 pounds lighter, just 10 more to go on her goal.
There were no excuses on His plan. The beauty of being His slave was that she had her choices removed. His word was law.
So what if she was an independent, capable woman at work? At home, He was the lord and Master. It made her shiver just to say it in her head.
Who knew such comfort would be found in those 6 letters. In being owned. In being cared for so completely.
He’d cleaned out her cupboards, her fridge. Gone were the little sneaky treats that bit her in the ass over and over again. No more cereal bars, now she ate fruit. No more bakery cupcakes, now she ate fruit. NO more chocolate bars…well, two outta three ain’t bad.
It was her daughter’s birthday. The rule was no “bakery” cakes. So, she made one at home. Tasted a bit of batter. Oh. Yum.
The taste of sugar and chocolate, removed for so long now, exploded on her tongue. It was almost a mouth orgasm, she mused, licking the stirring spoon as she set the stove timer.
Several hours later, her house still smelling of chocolate, two cake rounds cooled on her counter, she grabbed the tub of frosting. She spread the cake beautifully, the sprinkles looking like fireworks against the rich brown icing.
There was a bit of frosting left over. She put it into the fridge. She was never a waster and surely it could be used for something.
They cammed that night. She reported that her daughters’ party had gone well, but the ex hadn’t shown.
“Part of why he’s the ex,” He responded, picking up on her dejection.
“I just hate when he does that to her, you know, Master? Gets her all psyched for him coming by…then drops her. Fucking Bastard!”
He let her vent a bit more, then calmed her.
He always left her in a better head space, her Master. And she could happily report that she’d only eaten the wee sliver of cake she was allowed for family celebrations.
Midnight. Light spills from the open fridge. A hand sneaks into it, finding without effort, the small white cylinder. A cylinder that spells her doom….
She woke, blinking against the sun streaming in through her bedroom windows. It was her day off, her daughter was back at her home, how the fuck did her window blinds get open?
She heard a tapping. Focusing against the glare, she saw Him. Holding the nearly empty container of frosting, spoon silently pointing out her guilt. In the other, the lexan rod that controled the blinds. The lexan rod he was tap, tap, tapping against the side of the frosting jar. Now, it seemed, that lexan rod would be controlling….her.
“UP.” His tone was controlled too. Cool, crisp. His no-bullshit tone.
She rose from the bed, nerves making her belly quiver unhappily. Or maybe it was the frosting. Or maybe it was both.
“Hands up and linked behind your head, slave.” Now the quivers had become full-on backflips. She watched him, still tapping the lexan wand. He looked calm, but looks could be oh-so-deceiving.
“This is not sexual.” He met her eyes, wide with worry, with His implacable ones.
“This is a punishment. Third strike, you might say.”
She stuttered. “T-third…s-s-strike? What..” He cut her off.
“Last week at work. Peanut butter cookies that Diane made for your shift. You had two. I let that one slide, as you recall. This past weekend. I said you could have eggs when you went to brunch with your friend Pat. You chose Eggs Benedict. Need I say more? You’ve slid, slave, down a very slippery slope. Now it’s time for me to pull you back up.”
He began striking her tits. First one, for 5 strokes. The fifth one was always the hardest, as if He’d built up tempo for it. Then the other tit. Same thing. She thought that was it. And although the fucking lexan hurt like all fucking get out, she considered it acceptable penance, not that HE was asking her.
He pushed the tub of frosting to her mouth.
“Hold this between your teeth.”
He whacked her tits again. This time it was for 10 stripes of the wand. She was moaning, teeth clenched on the lip of the tub, the smell of chocolate nearly overwhelming her as she began panting through her nose.
Her arms were aching from being held up for so long, her jaw was sore from gripping the fucking frosting tub, and the smell of the chocolate, now linked to her pain, was nauseating.
A third round made her begin to passionately hate the wand, the Man, the chocolate.
He tossed the cane onto the bed when he was done. Reaching up, he took the can from between her teeth, then unzipped his pants, pulled out his cock, and pissed into it. Looking into the pissy, sludgy mess in the container had him wrinkling his nose. He took the spoon and gave it an experimental stir. He scooped up a spoonful of the disgusting goop, offered it to her.
She knew better than to refuse. She opened her mouth to the pissy concoction. She wanted to vomit, she wanted to spit. His gaze held hers. Solemn dark eyes took in her mutinous ones. She swallowed. He offered her a second serving. And a third.
He handed her the container.
“Next time, you’ll drink it all down, understand? Should there ever be a next time. Cheaters never prosper, slave.”
She knew then she’d have no trouble losing those last 10 pounds…she didn’t think she’d ever, ever cheat again.