The moment I stepped into his world, I knew there was no turning back. I was his, utterly and completely. The air was thick with the weight of my submission, and every breath I took was in service to him. This was the life I had craved, the life I had dreamed of. Every day, every moment, was consumed by the need to please him.
It wasn’t long before I became his live-in slut. The transition was seamless – one moment, I was visiting him, serving him for hours at a time, and the next, I found myself packing my belongings and moving into his home. His words still echoed in my mind.
“You will live with me now,” he had said, his voice commanding and absolute. “You will serve me in every way, every day. Your life outside of this is over. You belong to me, and only me.”
The gravity of those words settled deep in my soul, and with a trembling breath, I knew there was only one answer.
“Yes, Master,” I had whispered, my voice filled with reverence and devotion. I was his, completely.
***
Living with Master was everything I had dreamed it would be, and more. From the moment I woke up until the moment, I drifted into sleep, my life revolved around serving him, fulfilling every task and command with precision. My days had a purpose now, a purpose I had never felt before. I wasn’t just existing; I was living for him.
Every morning, I would rise early, slipping out of bed to prepare his breakfast. The ritual became sacred to me – every detail had to be perfect. His eggs exactly the way he liked them, the coffee brewed just right. I learned quickly that even the smallest mistake could lead to punishment. But it wasn’t the fear of discipline that drove me; it was my need to be perfect for him, to prove my devotion.
Some days, he would watch me silently as I worked in the kitchen, his presence commanding even in stillness. I could feel his eyes on me, taking in every movement, every breath. And when he was pleased, the corners of his mouth would curve into a subtle smile that made my heart race with pride.
“You are doing well, slut,” he would say, his voice low and approving. “Keep it up.”
Those words were my lifeline. I lived for his approval and thrived under his praise. And when I failed, I craved his correction just as much. The sting of the paddle across my skin, the burn of the cane – it was all part of the dance we shared, the unspoken connection that bound us together.
***
But life wasn’t all about serving in the home. Master helped me manage my job and social life as well. He was strict, yes, but also attentive to every aspect of my existence. He understood that while I was his, I also had responsibilities outside the home. He would ensure that I kept to my schedule – whether it was work deadlines, family obligations, or social gatherings. I was still allowed to exist in the world, but only with his permission, and under his control.
Before I moved in, I worried about how I would balance it all. But he was clear from the start: My life was his to manage. He would remind me to be on time for work, help me plan my day, and even set reminders for when I needed to respond to friends. He controlled my life outside our home just as much as he did within it. This control didn’t feel restrictive – it felt safe. I knew I could rely on him. I didn’t have to think; I only had to obey.
One morning, I was rushing to get ready for work, flustered and anxious. I had an important meeting, and I was afraid of being late. Master noticed my distress immediately and grabbed my wrist, pulling me back toward him.
“Calm down, slut,” he said, his voice steady. “I have already planned your day. You will be fine. You will do what you need to, and you will come back to me tonight. I am in control. Remember that.”
His words grounded me, and I nodded, feeling the anxiety slip away. He was always in control, even when I wasn’t. That thought alone gave me the strength to face the world outside. I knew that no matter what happened out there, I would return to him in the evening, and that made everything easier.
At work, I would find myself daydreaming about him, replaying the moments of our mornings together, the feel of his hands on my body, the sound of his voice commanding me. It was almost unbearable to be away from him for so long, but I knew that this was part of our dynamic. He wanted me to function in the world, and to succeed, but always under his watchful eye.
My phone would buzz with a message from him, a simple reminder of his presence. Sometimes, it was an instruction, and other times a degrading taunt, reminding me of my place.
“Remember, slut,” the message would read, “you are nothing without me. You are just my whore, waiting for me to use you.”
Those words would send a shiver down my spine, making my body ache with need. I craved his attention, his touch, his control. And when I returned home, I would find myself falling to my knees before him, offering myself up in gratitude for the life he had given me.
***
My duties in the house were simple, yet every task held weight. I would wake early, prepare his meals, clean his home until it gleamed, run his errands, and attend to every need he had. When he came home in the evenings, I would greet him at the door, kneeling in silence, waiting for his command.
And when he wanted me – when he desired me – I was ready, eager, craving his touch. He would take me, use me, and I would bask in the pleasure of being his plaything. There were no boundaries in our world, only his desires and my willingness to fulfill them.
But with pleasure came discipline. Mistakes were inevitable, and with each one, I learned more about the depths of my submission. One evening, after forgetting to fold his laundry just the way he liked, he decided to teach me a lesson I would never forget.
“You have disappointed me again,” he said, his voice calm but filled with cold disappointment. “And you know what happens when you disappoint me, don’t you, slut?”
“Yes, Master,” I whispered, my heart sinking as I prepared for the inevitable.
He made me strip, standing naked and vulnerable before him as he inspected my failure. Then he led me to the bedroom, where I knew what awaited me. The punishment was swift – a paddle across my ass until my skin was red and burning. But even in my pain, I felt the deep satisfaction of knowing that this was my place – to suffer for him, to be corrected, to be made better.
And after the punishment, as I lay trembling in his arms, he would soothe me, whispering how proud he was of me for taking it so well. His affection was the sweetest reward, and it only made me crave more. More pain, more submission, more of him.
There were nights when he would take me in his arms and remind me that I was his. The words he whispered in the dark were like a mantra, sealing our bond. “You are mine,” he would murmur against my skin, his hands roaming over my body as if to claim every inch of me. “And I will never let you go.”
***
My life had changed completely since I began living with Master. I was no longer the person I used to be. My identity had been stripped away, replaced by something stronger, something truer. I was his slut, his whore, his property, and I loved it.
Every day, I served him with everything I had. My tasks were no longer just duties – they were sacred rituals that bound me to him. And even in my failures, I found fulfillment in knowing that I was learning, growing, and becoming more of what he needed.
He managed everything. I never worried about missing an appointment, because he wouldn’t allow it. He knew my schedule better than I did, and he made sure I kept to it. Friends would ask how I balanced it all – work, social life, and living with him. I would only smile, knowing they could never understand. Master made it possible.
I had become addicted to him, to his power, to the way he made me feel – alive, needed, desired. My life had a purpose now, a purpose I had never known before. And every night, as I knelt beside him, waiting for his next command, I knew that I was exactly where I belonged.
I was his. Completely and utterly his.
The end.