Setting lines is one of my favourite things to do to a loser. It can be done either as punishment, or simply on a whim. Takes me about ten seconds to come up with a line and a number, but it’ll take hours upon hours of pure tedium to complete for the loser. It’s very rare that one of my slaves will go a week without writing lines for my girlfriend and I.
I’ve found that it’s most effective when it’s a beautiful day out. Or at night, right before they were thinking of going to sleep. The loser will be writing line after tedious line while we enjoy a wonderful day in the sun, or enjoy some mind blowing sex and a wonderful nights rest afterwards.
I like to pick a sentence that reminds the loser of his abject inferiority. After a few hours of solid writing, the line will burn into his tiny submissive brain and eat him up from the inside. I’ll give some examples that I’ve used recently:
- “I’m a 54 year old loser who dances at the snap of my 20 year old Superiors’ fingers”
- “This ugly, short, tiny dick, sexless shitstain is deeply sorry for keeping its superiors waiting for a light”, after he was three seconds late with lighting my girlfriends cigarette.
- “Sir, please Sir. Will you use this wretch’s useless balls for kicking practice Sir?”, after football matches and trainings were cancelled due to COVID-19.
- “This wretch will profusely thank Sir when he so generously hands me my €20 weekly allowance”, after he forgot kissing our shoes in respect and gratitude for his meagre loser allowance.
What I love so much about it, is that it’s usually something that’s done to teach a nine year old child a lesson. That’s what makes it so sweet to do to someone nearly three times my age. It’s a way to showcase my absolute, unquestionable superiority over a wretch. I own every second of their lives, and I won’t allow them a second of free time. It’s a sign of utterly defeated slavery for a loser.
Often around line 50 the realisation sets in that the task is going to take them HOURS to complete. And the cramps in their old, feeble hands are surely not going to get any better as time goes by. It’s so crushingly demotivating. Every fibre in his body wants to put the pen down. But his mind stopping him. His patethic, deeply submissive mind keeps him going. Knowing that this is what he deserves. What he was born for. Reminding him that this is what he wants. Of the feeling he gets when he grovels at the expensive shoes of his superiors.
And then, when the loser is on line 930 of a 1,000 task he’ll receive a text from me letting him know that I changed my mind. I decided I didn’t like the structure of the sentence and changed a few words around. Throw them away and start over with the new, slightly different lines.
And when he’s finally done with whatever diabolical number I’ve set him that time, it’s time to present them to my girlfriend and I. Crawling on his belly, lines in hand. Holding them up as far above his head as his arms allow. Face on the floor. Patiently waiting for one of us to snatch them from his hands to inspect them as the stress position is taking its toll on his old body.
I can choose to inspect them line by line, scanning for the slightest mistake for an easy excuse to turn his life into a living hell. But more often than not, I’ll simply take the lines from the losers grubby little hands and rip them up in front of his face. Hours upon hours of tedium gone, just like that.
Those are the joys of setting lines.
