i don't think he cares enough
The hardest thing, I think, is that he doesn't really care whether or not I masturbate or cum. He says for the other girls, keeping them denied means they're always wet and ready, always eager to fuck, but that he doesn't care if I'm wet and that I'm too awkward and stupid to be a good fuck even if I did want it.
My room isn’t very large–big enough for a small bare mattress on a creaky wire frame, a little desk and chair, and enough room to pace probably seven or eight feet if I wanted. There’s a bucket at one end, as far from my bed as possible, and a barred window high on the wall that looks out on an abandoned factory and unused service road. The door is some sort of metal, anchored deep in the stone wall, with a slot in it about hip height that can be used to deliver food or cuff my hands, as desired.
When it’s cold I am usually provided a blanket, but I am most often naked in the room. When I’m good and Master is so moved, I am given paperback books to read, but frequently I find myself with nothing to do but sit and stare at nothing, waiting for an opportunity to be useful. Those are the times I find my hands wandering. Even at my most useful, I am not generally blessed with attentive lovers, and whatever pleasure I can sometimes wring from their economical thrusts and gropes has never even come close to giving me an orgasm.
I am masturbating with my eyes closed, talking to myself aloud when I hear his cough. I jump nearly out of my skin, adrenaline surging. I rush into position, face down on the sagging mattress with my ass up in the air. This is The Position, the one I am to take when he or anyone else enters the room. I’ve failed in my duty this time, wrapped up in my own little reverie. He won’t be happy, but apologizing will only make it worse.
He chuckles at my panicky breathing as I wait for his touch, his violence. And he leaves me waiting there for long minutes. A tickling trail of wetness slides down my thigh as my heartbeat slows, and I am back in familiar territory: being toyed with.
“What were you thinking about, cunt?” he asks.
I don’t really know how to answer that. The truth is, I don’t usually fantasize about anything in particular when I masturbate. At least, not any more. It’s more of a…a feeling I remember, or maybe imagine.
“I was thinking about what sex felt like…before, Sir.” His hand landed with a loud slap on my ass.
“Oh? Tell me about it, cunt. What was sex like before, exactly?” He drags his hand across my back, possessively, up and into my hair, which he plays with gently. He sits on the bed. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was a moment of intimacy.
“I…uhm, it was…it was slow, sir. Sometimes it lasted an hour or more." His other hand prodded gently at my pussy, and I tensed. I had to consciously release the coil of my muscles. "It felt gentle, and kind. I liked missionary. I liked to look into a man's eyes." I settled into his caress and sighed pleasurably. I was sure he'd turn rough any second, but I take my pleasure where I can get it. "It made me feel beautiful."
I haven't looked anyone in the eye for probably four or five months now, and sex just makes me feel useful. I know I must stink of cum and sweat, both men's and my own. Sitting here with Master’s hand wandering along my ass, face down in my dirty mattress, these memory-fantasies feel like a vaguely obscene, pathetic indulgence. I feel an urge to apologize, but choke it back.
"Do you feel beautiful now, cunt?"
"Do you regret committing yourself to me, knowing this is what I want from you?" I think, and decide honesty is the best policy. It won't change anything anyway.
"Sometimes, sir." He chuckles.
"When? What makes you regret your decision?" I have to think for a moment. In the meantime he pokes at my asshole, his hands painfully dry. I wince.
"When–mm–when you leave me alone here for more than a week, it gets hard to silence my doubt and pride. Or when one of your friends is especially rough. The one who broke my tooth and the one that threw me off the bed made me regret my choice."
“Mm,” he grunts noncommittally. His thumb traces up and down my pussy as his fingers worms its way deeper in my ass. I blush down to my chest as he just barely flicks at my clit.
I don’t speak unless spoken to, so we sit there in silence as he toys with my cunt and ass for probably another ten minutes. He works another finger in my asshole, which I tearfully accede to, and abandons my pussy. Every once in a while he chuckles. He types on his phone, but I can’t turn to see him, so I don’t have any idea if it’s about me or if I’m merely a warm-blooded fidget toy.
Eventually he pulls his fingers out and stands up. He lifts my face by my hair and shoves the digits in my mouth. The earthy, bitter taste wipes my mind clean of wandering thoughts. I am glad I didn’t skip the enema today, but apparently I could be cleaner yet.
He leaves me about half an hour after he entered, slipping out softly enough that I’m not sure he’s gone until I hear the bolt on the door. Even so, I stay in position. I don’t think he cares enough about me to try to trick me by remaining in the room, but who knows?
But when I raise my head several minutes later, I am alone.
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