still as I focused all my attention
on him. “I am a bad slave. My master gives me pain.”
“Y-yes... sir,” I said, scarcely able to comprehend what he was saying, even though I was totally
focused on him.
“Say it!”
“I am a bad slave. My master gives me pain,” I immediately said, obeying him.
“Again.”
“I-I am a bad slave. My master gives me pain.” My breath came hot and pooled around my face as I
spoke, the carpet sucking up all the warmth and retaining it. The air around me already felt stale. I felt like I couldn't get a good lungful of air. My body was utterly exposed to my master, and I was just waiting for the first blow to come. I was saying it myself. My master gives me pain. He was going to do it.
“Repeat that until I tell you to stop,” Mr. Hendricks said, and I did. I thought I heard the light pad of
footsteps, of him leaving the room, but I wasn't sure.
“I am a bad slave. My master gives me pain.”
I didn't know how long I crouched there, chanting. The words meant the world to me at first, but
slowly that meaning melted away. I felt like I was speaking a foreign language. I didn't understand the
syllables my mouth was making. Then the meaning crept back into my brain.
“I am a bad slave. My master gives me pain.”
My knees ached, my arms were itchy and sore. The carpet fibers dug into my skin like tiny biting
insects. Blood was slowly rushing to my head, making me feel dizzy. My pinky fingers fell asleep,
tingling with pins and needles. Still, I chanted.
“I am a bad slave. My master gives me pain.”
I felt like I'd been going for hours. For days. There was nothing in the world but me, and my
chanting. This was the longest I'd ever gone with this particular exercise, and it was indeed becoming a
tortuous one. But I persisted, for my master.
The whip came with the suddenness and harshness of a bee sting. No, it was the sting of the largest,
angriest hornet in the world. It filled my brain, pushing everything else out from the pain of it. The
searing throb of the whip-mark lanced up my ass, my back, stabbing straight into my brain. I screamed
and lurched forward.
“Say it!” my master commanded in his deep, authoritative voice.
“I am a bad slave. My master gives me pain.” I trembled, waiting for the next bite of the whip.
It came like clockwork, crashing on me as soon as I finished the verse in my chant.
“Again,” he ordered.
“I-I am a bad slave. My master gives me pain.”
The whip came down again. And again. Every time I said the chant, the whip came down, beating me
into submission, beating me bloody. And my master was at the other end of that whip, controlling it.
Controlling me.
And it was true, I was a bad slave. A very bad slave. Through my inaction I'd disobeyed him, and
now I was paying the price. The exquisite, luxurious, painful price.
At first I loved it. I thought to scream and beg for more, but I knew that wasn't what he wanted to
hear. He only wanted to hear the chant.
And he wanted to drive me right up to the edge of what I was capable of. My brain could only take so
much pain, and I was approaching my limit.
Finally, right when I was about to beg for mercy, he stopped, throwing the whip on the floor. “Clean
this up,” he commanded, and left the room.
For many long moments I lay there, my body trembling. I was at the very limits of what I was capable
of, and I wasn't certain I could even make my body work, at this point. I tried to force my limbs to lift me upwards, but they wouldn't listen to me. I was like a doll, stuck in this position, this revealing,
embarrassing position for all of eternity.
I felt a trickle of something roll down my rear, and curiosity finally got the best of me. It broke the
spell. I lifted a hand, and wiped at the strange liquid.
It was blood.
Like I did when I was younger, I licked the spot of blood from my finger, and finally lurched my body
upwards, into a kneeling position. My
on him. “I am a bad slave. My master gives me pain.”
“Y-yes... sir,” I said, scarcely able to comprehend what he was saying, even though I was totally
focused on him.
“Say it!”
“I am a bad slave. My master gives me pain,” I immediately said, obeying him.
“Again.”
“I-I am a bad slave. My master gives me pain.” My breath came hot and pooled around my face as I
spoke, the carpet sucking up all the warmth and retaining it. The air around me already felt stale. I felt like I couldn't get a good lungful of air. My body was utterly exposed to my master, and I was just waiting for the first blow to come. I was saying it myself. My master gives me pain. He was going to do it.
“Repeat that until I tell you to stop,” Mr. Hendricks said, and I did. I thought I heard the light pad of
footsteps, of him leaving the room, but I wasn't sure.
“I am a bad slave. My master gives me pain.”
I didn't know how long I crouched there, chanting. The words meant the world to me at first, but
slowly that meaning melted away. I felt like I was speaking a foreign language. I didn't understand the
syllables my mouth was making. Then the meaning crept back into my brain.
“I am a bad slave. My master gives me pain.”
My knees ached, my arms were itchy and sore. The carpet fibers dug into my skin like tiny biting
insects. Blood was slowly rushing to my head, making me feel dizzy. My pinky fingers fell asleep,
tingling with pins and needles. Still, I chanted.
“I am a bad slave. My master gives me pain.”
I felt like I'd been going for hours. For days. There was nothing in the world but me, and my
chanting. This was the longest I'd ever gone with this particular exercise, and it was indeed becoming a
tortuous one. But I persisted, for my master.
The whip came with the suddenness and harshness of a bee sting. No, it was the sting of the largest,
angriest hornet in the world. It filled my brain, pushing everything else out from the pain of it. The
searing throb of the whip-mark lanced up my ass, my back, stabbing straight into my brain. I screamed
and lurched forward.
“Say it!” my master commanded in his deep, authoritative voice.
“I am a bad slave. My master gives me pain.” I trembled, waiting for the next bite of the whip.
It came like clockwork, crashing on me as soon as I finished the verse in my chant.
“Again,” he ordered.
“I-I am a bad slave. My master gives me pain.”
The whip came down again. And again. Every time I said the chant, the whip came down, beating me
into submission, beating me bloody. And my master was at the other end of that whip, controlling it.
Controlling me.
And it was true, I was a bad slave. A very bad slave. Through my inaction I'd disobeyed him, and
now I was paying the price. The exquisite, luxurious, painful price.
At first I loved it. I thought to scream and beg for more, but I knew that wasn't what he wanted to
hear. He only wanted to hear the chant.
And he wanted to drive me right up to the edge of what I was capable of. My brain could only take so
much pain, and I was approaching my limit.
Finally, right when I was about to beg for mercy, he stopped, throwing the whip on the floor. “Clean
this up,” he commanded, and left the room.
For many long moments I lay there, my body trembling. I was at the very limits of what I was capable
of, and I wasn't certain I could even make my body work, at this point. I tried to force my limbs to lift me upwards, but they wouldn't listen to me. I was like a doll, stuck in this position, this revealing,
embarrassing position for all of eternity.
I felt a trickle of something roll down my rear, and curiosity finally got the best of me. It broke the
spell. I lifted a hand, and wiped at the strange liquid.
It was blood.
Like I did when I was younger, I licked the spot of blood from my finger, and finally lurched my body
upwards, into a kneeling position. My
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