I have to get Mike out early so I can prepare for spot, the slave (or client, whichever you prefer) who will be spending the day with me. And Mike has to get to work early. Proper breakfast today, since I have company, orange juice, cornflakes, and fresh milk with not even a single lump in it. Luxury! I'll be eating something normal at lunchtime too, since I have a slave with me. (I always do, it would seem strange if I ate worse slop than I was forcing my slave to eat!) That'll make three normal meals in a row. I must be getting old or something. But we do drink each other's morning piss - I love my own but there is something special about that extra-bitter taste of a man's.
Spot has strict instructions to be here at 10. (Oh, the problems of trying to be literate... slave names start with a small letter of course, but should I use a capital at the start of a sentence? After all, I would for any other word, say "bucket" or "headlight". After pondering for a few minutes, I decide I will). He lives a few miles away, so I make him walk here. To be sure that he does, I have sent him a pair of tracksuit pants - bought heavily used in the charity shop of course - that have been soaked in piss and shit, so they really stink. There's no question of him being allowed on a bus or the tube. He's been told to wear them overnight and to do his business in them this morning too, so they will be in a terrible state when he arrives. He's also to wear a dirty old tee-shirt and a pair of filthy trainers without laces that I sent him. I'd love to make him walk here in high heels, but even in London that might attract a bit too much attention. It wouldn't be good for business if he got arrested on the way to see me. So to make sure he isn't too comfortable I pushed some nails through the soles of the trainers, with the points just emerging on the inside, so walking is constantly painful. The weather is typical London, grey and rainy from time to time, so he will be soaked and cold. He's one of my more extreme slaves, into really heavy pain and humiliation. I love it when he visits, it's a real turn-on for me to make him suffer.
I decide on a mixture of fetish and slut for the way I'll dress. I choose a black latex body with holes for my tits and a pair of thick black tights. Spot is quite a foot and shoe fetishist, and I have a real treat for him today. What the foot fetish sub expects and longs for of course is a pair of shiny black leather high heels, viciously pointed stilettos, to kiss and lick. But if that's what he longs for, how can it be humiliating? So instead I have a pair of cheap, heavily worn and scuffed black working shoes, with broad flat heels and a rounded toe, the kind of thing a traffic warden would wear. They come from my favourite charity shop, where they cost me a pound. They smell of stale feet and old socks.
At ten o'clock, spot is still nowhere to be seen. Finally about ten minutes late, I see him limping slowly up the road towards my place. He will of course pay dearly for this disrespect. I rapidly rethink the way he will pass his day. I hear his knock at my door, but I have decided to let him wait for a good while. After fifteen minutes, his impatience is clearly visible, he starts to pace but then the pain in his feet is too much and he stops. He is wondering what has happened, whether maybe I have forgotten about it. Finally I go down and open the door. "You're late, it's nearly half an hour after you were supposed to be here", I say.
"I'm sorry mistress. But my feet hurt badly, and I've been waiting here a long time." I slap his face, hard, twice. I don't want to hear his pathetic excuses, and I tell him so. Tears start to form in his eyes.
"I want you to run to the corner and back. As quickly as you can, every second you take will cost you a stroke of the crop. And don't stop, if you do you'll start again. Now, off you go, quick." I look down at my watch to time him. He staggers and stumbles off, half running, crying out in pain as the nails drive into his punished feet. Halfway back he stumbles, screams out, stops to regain his balance, and sets off again. When he returns he looks at me pleadingly, but he certainly deserves no mercy.
"You stopped, you useless piece of filth." I slap his face again. "Do it again, and try not to stop this time." He staggers off again, and this time he does manage without stopping although he is barely running. "Sixty eight seconds", I say. "You'll pay soon". Then I lead him into back yard behind the shop and tell him to strip. He stinks, and when he removes the pants he is covered in filth, running down his legs. His feet are just a bloody mess.
"Your feet must hurt. It'd do them good to cool off a bit". He nods in appreciation, not daring to speak. I point to the puddle of filth in his pants lying on the ground. He hesitates, then steps into it with both feet. He gasps in pain then starts to sob as the corrosive mixture seeps into his wounds. When I think he has had enough, I have him put on the thick rubber hood, then I take the bag with my stockings in from yesterday. The bag has kept them nice and moist in the mixture that I saved from the bed, and now they really stink. I take just one and make him thread it through the mouth hole in the hood until it fills his mouth. Then I strap the ball gag in place, compressing the filthy stocking deep in his mouth. His breathing is now hard, dribbles of the stinking mess in the stocking running down his chin and spraying out with every noisy breath. I need to clean him up, otherwise all my gear will be covered in his filth, so I hose him down with freezing cold water - one of the advantages of working outdoors. When I see how much he jumps about and squeals I keep the hose on him for longer than I planned, until he stops jumping about and starts shivering. I have a chore planned for him this morning that I need to prepare him for. The first thing is a strap that will hold a big butt plug in him. I make him insert this himself, using some of the stocking stuff as a lubricant. Next I have some high heels for him, nearly seven inches tall that make every single step a challenge that requires careful planning. To make it a bit harder I put inside them a mixture of sand, fine gravel, and some sludge from the stocking bag. (What useful stuff this has turned out to be!) Every painful, difficult step will grind this into the open wounds on his feet. His cock and balls pass through a ring in the strap, so I attach a fairly heavy weight to his balls. The weight swings freely at knee height on a chain, so that as he stumbles and staggers around on his heels it will snatch and tug. To make sure it's solid, I lift the weight as high as I can and drop it a few times. Even with his gag he still manages to make quite a lot of noise. Afterwards he is breathing hard, snorting and snuffling through the filth and the stocking, his chest heaving. I rub his cock until it is hard and he starts to thrust, despite the pain.
I finish his bondage, for now, with a couple of gloves. His right hand is completely enclosed and attached behind his back to the waist strap, so it is of no use at all. For his left hand I have something a little special that I borrowed from my friend Irma's gadget collection. It's a glove made of thick rubber. The three first fingers are joined together, and a strap passes over the back from the wrist, then wraps around and covers these fingers, folded back against the palm, and then fastens again at the wrist. The effect is that only his thumb and little finger are available for his chores. His hand is then fastened to the front of the waist strap, on a foot or so of chain, limiting his movement but not completely. Finally he is ready for his little chore. At one end of the yard I've placed a heavy bowl with a dozen or so marbles in it. At the other end is an empty bowl. All he has to do is move the marbles. Sounds easy, but his hand bondage means that he can only carry one at a time so he will have to make one round trip down the yard and back - about thirty feet in each direction - for each of the marbles. I reckon that even if he can hurry, it will take him an hour or more.
Before that, though, he needs to be punished for his disrespect in arriving late. Sixty eight strokes of the crop, I haven't forgotten. I tie him over a wooden trestle, a rope round the back of his neck holding him folded double with his legs spread, his ankles twisted in his high heels. I'm feeling lazy so not all the strokes are at full strength, but after twenty he has some nice weals on his bottom and his thighs, deep purple lines with little spots of broken skin where the tip of the crop has hit. It's hard to describe the noise he is making. Without the gag he would be screaming, but instead he is just spraying filth everywhere then making a terrible rasping noise as he inhales. He is struggling so much that the trestle is bouncing around on the ground. I switch to using a whip on his back, using the next dozen or so strokes to cover him with thin red lines. Then it's back to the crop to finish the job. I doubt whether he is able to count, but in case he is I give him an extra half-dozen strokes. By then he is shaking all over, breathing rapidly and in quite a state. I undo the rope and make him stand immediately, which he is barely able to do in the punishing heels.
I sit and watch him for a while. It really turns me on to see him struggling and suffering so much. He bends over to reach the dish, carefully picks out a marble, then turns around for the marathon journey to the other end of the yard. Every step is a major effort, and as his weight transfers to just one foot the gravel digs into the irritated wounds and I see him tense in pain. Then he puts the other foot down, often staggering or stumbling, and continues. Step after step, he suffers like this, until he reaches the other end and carefully places the marble in the dish. Then he returns, each step equally painful and difficult. He isn't allowed to stop, and most certainly is not allowed to take the weight off his feet. After watching three trips I start to feel cold so I return upstairs. I doubt that spot is feeling cold. Before I go I stop him and toss his cock until it is hard again, and I slip vicious metal clips onto his nipples. I love the gasp this provokes, and the little jerk his cock makes.
I watch him from the window, as I potter about my flat doing odds and ends. I go back down a couple of times, once to give him a wank to within a whisker of orgasm, another time to give him another beating with the crop. He is really suffering now, staggering at every step. This is why I love to use a hood, I'm sure he is crying and his face is showing terrible anguish. If I could see it, I might be tempted to be merciful - after all, I am human, I do really feel his pain, the agony in his feet that is renewed with each step. But I can't see it, so it is easy to ignore. Finally, I see that the marbles are nearly all gone. I go back down a third time to prepare his next torment. When the last marble has been dropped, I stop him and say, "Would you like to lick my feet now?". I see him look down at my feet, hesitate, then nod - he can't speak, he can barely breathe. "On your knees!" I command him. He drops gratefully to his knees, but I slip a wooden stick under each one to make it painful. I take the stocking that remains, still bathing in yesterday's juices, and use it spread the semi-liquid thickly on my sweaty old shoes. I remove his gag and pull out the filthy stocking, still soaked in stale shit and piss as well as, now, his saliva. He starts to speak, or try to through his cramped jaws, but with a gesture I make him put his mouth to my shoes and start licking them, caressing them with his tongue, absorbing the fermented filth into himself. He's good at this, even with these dirty old shoes. He pushes his tongue deep into the crevice between the sole and the upper, and into each of the dirty seams, slurping everything up. I let him work at this for a long time, until there is really no trace remaining. I pull my feet away from him and say, "Now you've worked up an appetite, it must be time for lunch". His filthy trousers are still in a heap on the floor, I kick him over towards them and make it obvious what he is to do. He hesitates, so I stamp his head down into the mess that fills them and press down, crushing him into it until I see that he has started to lick it up. Once he has got going, I use the crop on him until he is nicely covered in fresh traces, including a couple that fall on his exposed balls. He screams but stays in position - just as well or he'd get a lot worse.
I have another treat for him. I take off the old shoes, pull my body stocking out of the way, and piss into them, filling each one up through the hole I've cut in the tights. I tell him to drink the contents once he has finished with the trousers. By then all of the years of accumulated sweat and dirt will have soaked out into my piss, giving him a nice cocktail to drink to wash down the rest of his lunch. While he is eating, I pop upstairs and put on some shoes that he would have liked to worship instead, black patent ankle boots with a high stiletto heel. I love wearing heels, feeling the tautness in my calves and thighs, hearing the dom voice in my head telling me I have to walk for miles and miles as the heels drill their way into my feet. I love the ache in my feet and legs after a few hours, and the mixture of relief and disappointment when I finally take them off. I tip-tap my way back down, and by now he has nearly finished slurping the mess up from inside his soiled trousers. He's such a humiliation slut that his cock is rock hard. Looking at the old shoes full of my piss, I'm overwhelmed by temptation. I want to drink this for myself, to taste the mixture of piss and old sweat and dirt and tired leather. But I can't do it in front of spot, so what can I do? I move them out of his reach - he doesn't have to know why - and tip-tap back upstairs, my feet twisting deliciously in the heels. When I return I have a leather bag-hood which I push over his head, tying it tight at the throat. Now he can't see anything. I use the crop on him for a while, then wank his hard cock until I start to feel him getting ready to come. Then I leave him to his blinded imagination, and pick up one of the old shoes. I take a first sip. It is revolting. It's far worse than I imagined, a sour, sweaty taste of rotten old socks mixed with the bitterness of my piss. I gag, and as usual my cunt betrays me. Fascinated, I take a second sip, and a third, then a mouthful, and another. The sourness fills my body, my cunt is trembling, and finally I gulp down the whole content, barely resisting the primeval urge to throw up, feeling my belly filled with the foulness. I rub myself, aroused and ashamed as so often before. I can't resist more, I take the other shoe and take a generous swig. This time I hold it in my mouth, swilling it around and savouring the foul taste. Soon the whole lot is gone. Luckily I can easily refill both shoes, squatting down and feeling the piss squirting through the slit in my tights. Spot will not experience as strong a taste as I did, but it will still be revolting for him.
Minutes later, the hood is off and he is lapping up the contents of one shoe. I make him pause often and tell me how delicious it is. I can see that he is gagging each time he swallows. I sit close by, watching, doubly excited, by his humiliation and by the sour taste that fills me. I can't help myself, and as he starts on the second shoe I rub myself to orgasm - the first of the day. Afterwards I set him the first of his chores. In the yard is an old porcelain sink under the cold-water tap, and I have him wash all of the soiled laundry - the sheets from last night, my stockings, his trousers. In cold water of course, changing the water over and over until things seem clean. He has to stand, his feet still grinding into the painful mixture of filth and gravel. Of course he is gagged again, just a ball gag now, but a big one, nice and tight, with a dirty sock behind it. I go upstairs and eat my lunch, a mixture of the curry from last night and the half-eaten hamburger that I saved from a bin - since spot is downstairs, I can eat how I want to after all. On top of the sweaty piss from the shoes, it's a real messy turn-on, although I decide to save an orgasm for later. Afterwards I feel pretty sick, if I was on my own I'd probably throw up and then treat myself to it a second time. But with spot to supervise, I'd better not.
Once he has finished with the laundry, it's time for him to clean up my flat. I take him upstairs and set him to work. There is plenty to do, the place is in its usual terrible state and he'll be very slow in his painful shoes and with his nearly-useless hands. While he is working I potter about, still in my latex outfit, tights and boots. I read a bit, write a bit, bring this diary up to date, mess things up behind him so he has to do them again. Of course from time to time I beat him, a dozen strokes of the crop or the whip, enough to make him scream, or try to through the gag. A couple of times I wank him to hardness or near-orgasm. By five or so the place is as clean as it will ever get, with his bondage. He's visibly in severe pain with his feet and can barely totter about in tiny agonising steps, his whole body tensing each time his whole weight falls on one foot. There remains one chore he has not yet started - the toilet still needs cleaning. Right now it's pretty clean, so I take a shit that I've been saving up for a while and make him spread it all around with his one good hand. Then the gag comes off, and it's time to lick it all spotlessly clean. That takes a while and the slut is enjoying it, to judge from his erection, so when he is done, it's time for him to jerk off, using his shit-smeared and rather restricted left hand. I let him come, and he explodes, cum squirting out everywhere as he screams out of his (for once) ungagged mouth.
Once he has finished, it's time for his final punishment. My regular readers will know that I never let a slave relax once he has come, but rather make his bondage, his pain and his humiliation stronger than ever. It's about the worst punishment there is, his body and mind craving relaxation and peace, his cramped and tired muscles tormented worse than ever, his face and belly full of shit or filth. I start by making him lick his wanking hand clean of my shit. In the meantime I take my morning shit which has been festering teasingly in a corner, now nicely dried out and crusted, and put it in a thick rubber hood. I pull it over his head, mashing the decomposing shit around his head and into his mouth, his nose, his ears and his eyes. Then it's back downstairs and into yard, where the weather is cold and damp. I fasten the collar of the hood to the wall so that he cannot move, and if he takes the weight off his tortured feet he cannot breathe. I give him a good thrashing on the fronts of his thighs and his belly, his squeals and screams barely muted by the hood, then fix painful clips to his nipples and the head of his slowly-hardening cock. A quick wank to full hardness, and it's upstairs to relax for a couple of hours for me, thinking of his suffering outside and giving myself a little rub from time to time.
All good things have to come to an end, and around eight, when it is completely dark, it's time for him to go home. Downstairs he is almost frozen, his skin cold to the touch. Before releasing him I suck his shit-smeared cock until he comes in my mouth, rubbing myself off at the same time. Then it's off with his hood, the gloves, and even the shoes, so he can clean himself up under the cold water from the hosepipe. His feet are a real mess, the bloody wounds engrained with dirt and gravel. It will be a good few days before he can walk or stand in comfort - and he still has to walk home, since he stinks so badly that nobody would let him near them. He thanks me profusely and I let him kiss my dominatrix boots as a special treat. I feel really horny still, so I let him suck my cunt, which is a real treat for him, but he kind of deserves it. He is wet, naked and frozen cold, and it takes me a long while to come so soon afterwards. Finally I let him dress in his tee-shirt and still-damp trousers. I've taken the nails from his shoes, replacing them mercifully with just a little of the fine, shit-smeared gravel. I leave the butt plug in him, it will make his long walk home more interesting - he will post it back to me after licking it clean. Finally I send him on his way, for an hour or two of painful exercise until he gets home. He is in pain, beaten and defeated, but I know I'll see him again soon.
After that I'm exhausted. Even though I haven't really done very much, topping all day is tiring - this is why I can't imagine having a true live-in slave. I decide to go out and get myself something to eat, so I put on my favourite raincoat - not from a charity shop, this one, but the best rubberised cotton from Weathervane, a present of course. It feels delicious, especially over my naked tits, and makes a wonderful swishing noise as I walk in my high-heels. I pop in a medium-sized dildo, then since I'm feeling too lazy to walk, I drive to my local High Street. It must be my lucky night, because just as I stop outside a kebab place I see a couple throw most of their portions into the bin. I wait for them to pass, then grab the leftovers. It feels good, walking in my heels and my coat, in the damp evening, feeling my nipples rubbing against the rubbery roughness, the dildo squeezing my cunt from the inside. I strut down the High Street, passing a few people, and duck into an alleyway behind some shops. Here I can squat down, tucking my food find under me, and then I let go with a stream of piss. It squirts out sideways, soaking my tights and dribbling along my thighs, some landing on my dinner in its cheap, absorbent wrapping. Then it's back to my car, savouring the dampness between my legs.
I wolf down my dinner when I get home, after warming it up in the microwave - greasy kebabs, soaked in my own piss. Yum. I feel turned on but I'm tired, so after watching some junk on TV, it's off to bed, still in my rubber and damp tights.