Three Strikes (Desire Island 3)

“Yes,” Master Ryan agreed as he lowered the cage to the floor. “I know you will.”

He helped her climb out of the leather cage. She dropped to her knees, leaning forward to kiss the top of his foot. Sitting back on her haunches, she said quietly, “Thank you, Sir, for my punishment.”

“You’re welcome, slave Abbie.”

A shiver of pleasure moved through her at his words, her hand going to the sash at her throat. She silently vowed to prove herself worthy of his leather collar.

He held out a hand, which she took, allowing him to pull her upright. “Do you need to use the bathroom?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Each of the two bedrooms in the Master’s cottage had its own bathroom. He led her to the room where they’d be sleeping—at least she hoped they’d both be sleeping there together—and through to the bathroom. She noticed the pink plastic chamber pot near the toilet and recalled his dictate that she wasn’t to use the furniture without express permission. Did that include the toilet?

She hesitated between the two, her painfully full bladder forcing her to cross her legs. She glanced at him, waiting for direction. When he didn’t say anything, she asked, “Permission to speak, Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Which should I use? The toilet or the chamber pot?”

“I think the chamber pot for now,” he replied.

She understood by his use of the words “for now” that she hadn’t yet earned the right to use the toilet, so soon after her transgression.

She didn’t feel belittled or humiliated by his decision. If anything, it made her feel cared for. Master Ryan would make her earn her position as his 24/7 slave, and she wouldn’t have had it any other way.

With a nod, she lifted the lid of the pot and lowered herself carefully onto it. She was unable to control the blush of embarrassment at peeing in front of her Master, though she recognized he had every right to observe her.

It took a moment for her bladder to release. When it did, the relief was intense. Once she was done, she looked for the toilet paper. It was on the other side of the toilet against the wall, too far for her to reach. She glanced from the hanging roll to Master Ryan, who was watching her, the quirk of a smile on his full lips.

She opened her mouth to ask for permission to speak, but before she could form the words, he said, “I’ll wipe you. Open your knees.”

Another rush of heat moved over her cheeks, but she did as she was told.

He reached for the toilet paper and tore off a long sheet. Crouching in front of her, he put his hand between her legs, his eyes on her face as he carefully wiped her clean. “This makes you blush,” he observed. “While I understand you can’t control that physiological reaction, that blush, however unintentional, is a kind of holding back. This body—your body—belongs to me right now. Modesty has no place in a slave’s life. You do understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir,” she replied, chastened by the gentle rebuke.

He dropped the soiled toilet paper into the toilet. Getting to his feet, he moved to the sink and washed his hands. As he was drying them on the hand towel, he said, “Dump the pot into the toilet and then rinse it in the bathtub and set it back in its place.”

“Yes, Sir.” Abbie rose to her feet and picked up the chamber pot by its handles. She tipped the contents carefully into the toilet and took the empty pot to the bathtub. Running the hot water, she rinsed it and returned it to its spot by the toilet, replacing the lid.

“Strike two,” he said abruptly from behind her. “The paddle. You’ll find it in the bottom drawer to the left of the sink.”

Abbie hesitated for a fraction of a second, processing what he was saying. Then she turned quickly to the vanity and pulled open the bottom drawer. Inside the drawer rested a short-handled paddle with a round face, like a wooden ping pong paddle. Recalling his earlier instructions, she placed the handle between her teeth, managing, if somewhat awkwardly, to hold the paddle in this way. Dropping to all fours, she crawled to Master Ryan and waited, her heart beating fast, her ass tingling in anticipation.

Master Ryan took the paddle from her. Leaning over her while she was still on her hands and knees, he smacked her ass with a sharp, stinging blow that brought tears to her eyes and a gush of moisture to her cunt.

“Thank you, Sir,” she gasped breathlessly.

“You’re welcome, slave.”

Standing again, he nudged at her mouth with the paddle’s handle and she accepted it between her teeth once more. Her bottom throbbing from the sting, she crawled back to the open drawer and dropped the paddle back inside.