NSFW Deals with nonconsentual consent. Mature persons only. .Don’t try this stuff just because you think it’s easy or safe.

Thursday again. Or is it Wednesday? Days all blur when I awake, naked, put on my apron to fix Mistress’s breakfast. Coffee is ready. Croissant is warm, butter is practically liquid. Fig jam is room temperature, ready to be spread. Mistress comes to the table as I kneel at the floor by her chair.

“The apron, Boy!. Why is it still on?” I take it off, place it on its peg.

” I know you’re sorry. No over the top apology is required. Just be naked and open when I get to the table.Your hand. Now. ”

I offer my open palm.She takes a short tawse off a hook on her belt, and strikes my palm with it. It isn’t so much the pain, but the humiliation. Once again, too often, I am the Bad Boy.

The chore list showed no errands. I would therefore be naked all day. If I had to step outside, it must be at a time when the neighbours were gone or had their blinds closed. I must admit the thought of potential discovery and subsequent embarrassment sometimes caused my cock to stiffen. Excitement, whatever the source, is always appreciated.

I had dutifully performed dusting, changed the bed linen, vacuumed, with no need to venture out.Then I noticed the recycle bin, overflowing with Mistress’s iced tea cups, egg cartons, and the rest of the recyclable detritus of the household. A quick dash was unavoidable. I waited, recyclables hiding my “package” til I thought I was safe.. I made the dash, tossed the junk in the outside barrel, then turned and saw my neighbour, Mrs N—-, peering through a raised slat in her miniblinds.

“ Oh well. Sometimes things just don’t work out, ” I mused and shrugged off my slight faux pas.

I went back in, put on my ABBA Greatest Hits CD , and began cleaning the kitchen and bathrooms. All was going well. The kitchen sparkled, as did the downstairs bathroom. The upstairs bath got my attention next. Toilet, sink, mirror, floor and now the tub. It is a lovely old-fashioned ball and claw foot cast iron tub that Mistress had found at a salvage yard..I began the scrubbing with the cleanser, ABBA wailing away about The Dancing Queen, when, all of a sudden, I felt a hand squeeze my ass..

“Do. Not. Make. A. Sound.” It was a woman’s voice, vaguely familiar.

“Keep your eyes on that tub. Do. Not. Turn. Around.”

I wondered what would happen next. I heard something squirt from a tube, then lubed and gloved fingers pushed at my asshole, and a gloved hand was on my dick,making it hard. Whoever she was, worked rhythmically between the fingers in my ass and the hand jerking me off .At one point, she leaned in to nibble at my left ear lobe, just as I was about to come. I could smell the scent of patchouli, from her, as I felt the rush and release, as my jizz spurted from me.

“Damn!” was all I could think. The orgasm, so surprising , so novel, was a delight.

“Stay there Boy till you hear the door close!” After a minute, I turned, the gloves and tube of lube were on the floor. I put the gloves in the trash, the lube in the nightstand drawer , cleaned the puddle of sperm off the floor. I wondered who my visitor was.

Next morning I had store errands. At the market, I saw Mrs N—- in the produce section. She picked up a honeydew melon, sniffed it, then looked me in the eye and said,

“Do. Not. Make. A. Sound.”