Tuesday and Wednesday
Tuesday is much the same as Monday, except I don’t see Ahmed at lunchtime. Again at 5pm I get Master Gavin’s message. I’m pretty sure he preprogrammes them all at the beginning of the week, since they always arrive on the dot of 5.
Today is a new Sir, so I’ll be travelling on public transport. I am always allowed to use public transport on a first visit, in case there is nowhere suitable and safe for my bike. Because it’s a first visit, Master Gavin gives a bit more detail than yesterday.
The man’s name is Sir Evan and he is 28. He lives in a two bedroom flat in Croydon and his roommate is away. I’ll be doing a full clean of the flat. He’ll buzz me into his building and leave his flat door unlocked. I am to let myself in, lock the door, strip and wait for him nose, knees and toes against the front door, hands on head.
I check out the journey online; it should take about 50 minutes door to door. I leave at 6 to make sure I get there on time in case of holdups en route. As always when reporting using public transport I am wearing running shorts, trainers without socks and a white singlet top, with my cleaning kit in my rucksack as last night, except that a cardboard tube protrudes from the top of the bag, containing a whippy cane and a harsher, more solid one. As always when visiting a new Sir, I am nervous but excited. Master Gavin knows that not knowing who I am going to see and what they will require of me arouses me, and I can feel my willy stiffen in my shorts. Some men like to see that I am aroused by my humiliation, others are not as keen and some don’t care. I know there have been men who have asked Master Gavin if my willy can be locked into a chastity cage for service, but he likes the fact that my arousal at being humiliated and used is obvious in the archive he receives. There is even one guy whom I am sent to a couple of times a year who requires me to have taken a viagra before I set out, meaning that I have to cycle all the way across London with a stonking hardon.
I find the place - it’s a brand new, very smart block of flats a minute’s walk from West Croydon station. On the dot of 7 I key in Sir Evan’s flat number. Without a word, the door buzzes and I let myself in. The flat is on the forty-fourth floor and I get into the lift, the nerves fluttering slightly in my stomach as they always do with a new Sir. I get out and find his flat and let myself in. Closing the door behind me, I strip quickly, and await him as instructed.
He makes me wait quite a while before I hear him behind me. He still doesn’t speak and I hear him picking up my clothes and my rucksack and walking off with them. Again, I’m alone for some time.
Finally, I hear him call,
“Get in here, slave!”
I follow the hallway round to a large, very modern open-plan living room/kitchen, with massive windows all around looking out over the city. Sitting in a chair looking out of the window is a young man. As I see when he stands up later, he is properly tall, at least 6’5”. He is also big - not obese, just big. He has a full blond beard and short blonde hair. He’s wearing very smart chinos and a polo shirt.
As always with my service, I am put over his knee. Unlike Sir Steven yesterday, he doesn’t bother with anything resembling a warm-up. His large and very hard hand begins as it continues, striking my bare bottom very firmly and methodically. He doesn’t vary the intensity or the speed, he just works my bottom (still showing Sir Wen’s cane marks) until he has got it to the shade of a ripe tomato and I am struggling and whimpering like a baby over his knee.
When he is done, he has me pose so he can archive my red and sore bottom, then tells me to get to work on the bathrooms, then the kitchen, then the bedrooms and finally the living area.
“When you’re done, you can pack your kit up and wait at the front door as you did when you arrived.”
With that, I am more or less completely ignored. Sir Evan doesn’t interact with me at all except to take a few pictures of me at work. He doesn’t ask for any service, no fetching drinks or anything. He doesn’t use me as a urinal. I just clean. Everywhere has hard floors, so I spend a lot of time on my hands and knees cleaning up dust, washing floors and then drying them with a soft cloth. I clean for over three hours, finishing up cleaning the living area while Sir Evan watches TV with a glass of wine. It feels a bit odd to be completely ignored like this, none of the other Men that I have served have taken quite so little notice of me. It actually makes me feel more humiliated as I labour naked and ignored, but it also just feels good to be working for this man who doesn’t appear to think of me as anything more than he would his vacuum cleaner or dishwasher.
Finally, I finish what I have been told to do, and collect all my kit and put it into my rucksack. As Sir Evan hasn’t told me to take it with me, I walk to his front door unencumbered, and wait as I started - nose, knees and toes against the door. After a while, I hear him walking along the corridor behind me and sense him putting my clothes and rucksack down by the door.
“Face me,” he says, “on your knees, hands at your side and back against the door” he says.
I turn around and he is standing in the hallway. Still fully dressed, but his cock and balls are out of his fly and he is erect. I kneel before him, with my back and the back of my head against the door.
“Open,” he instructs, and I have barely opened my mouth before he grasps my hair roughly and forces his cock balls deep into my throat.
“I’d better not feel your teeth,” he grunts, as he begins to fuck my face roughly. I can’t escape as I am against the door and I gag and choke as he forces his cock in and out of my mouth. He’s not that big or even that thick but, like the way he ignored me as if I were not human when I was cleaning, he is now treating me like a fleshlight or a sex doll. Despite the force and roughness of the face-fucking, he takes a long time to get close to orgasm. His heavy and hairy balls slap against my chin again and again and I have drooled and gagged down my front before he tenses slightly and, for the first time, withdraws fully from my mouth. He grasps his cock in one hand and after only a few strokes he erupts. Thick ropes of cum enter my still open mouth, paint my face and hair and the last shuddering jolt lands on my chest.
Without putting his dripping cock away, he takes a few pictures of my cum stained face and hair, turns and walks down the corridor.
“You can fuck off now,” is all he says before shutting the door to the living area without a backward look.
I know better than to clean myself up, despite the fact that I am going to have to take public transport home with my face and hair covered in cum. I dress quickly, pick up my rucksack and, as he said, fuck off!
I’m just leaving his building when my phone buzzes. It’s Master Gavin.
“Not only are you going to wear Evan’s cum home, you’re going to wear it to work tomorrow. When you get home it should be dry - don’t shower or wash your face or hair or clean your teeth tonight or tomorrow morning. You can clean it off and clean your teeth when you shower after seeing Ahmed. Skip the pool.”
I’m very grateful I’m not doing any media work on Wednesday morning. Despite its not being that visible by the time I get to work, I am deeply aware of the fact that I am still covered in Sir Evan’s cum and haven’t showered after a sweaty evening’s labour. Normally I would shower after my swim, so having not swum I can smell the dried semen and sweat, and am convinced everybody I pass can too. Luckily, I only have one meeting before I go to see Ahmed in the gym at lunchtime. I know he and Master Gavin are in touch, he sends reports on my training, so I wonder if he’s been told about my current condition.
I don’t get a text from Master Gavin on a Wednesday. Well, I do occasionally get texts from him, but not one giving cleaning instructions. Wednesday evenings and Sundays are my two regular visits. I’ve been making my Wednesday visit for almost two years. Master Gavin was delighted when he was able to set it up and he knows that, even now, I find it probably my most humiliating service.
It takes me about half an hour to cycle from home to the terraced house between Mile End Park and Tredegar Square in Bow. Taking the key from under a flower pot by the door, I unlock the bike store in the front garden, put my bike alongside the two already there and relock it. I ring the doorbell and it’s only moments before it is opened. The young man who opens it doesn’t even appear to look at me, he just turns and walks away, calling as he does,
“It’s only the fag!”
I wince at the slur as I swiftly undress. I put my singlet and shoes into the carrier bag that is ready for them by the door as always and only close the front door once I am naked. My willy has already begun to stiffen as I walk into the living room at the front of the house where the Man who opened the door had gone.
In the living room four young Men are playing on a PS5. They look up briefly as I enter and kneel
“Good evening, Sir Joel,” I say as I kiss the feet of the tall skinny brunette.
“Good evening, Sir Magnus,” I say to the blonde Icelandic rugby player beside him on the couch, kissing his feet.
“Good evening, Sir Alec,” I say to the nerdy looking guy with the specs who is on a beanbag by the window as I kiss his feet in turn.
“Good evening, Sir Hamid,” I say, as I finally kiss the feet of the handsome Arab who is sitting on the other side of Sir Alec.
I kneel beside the TV until they finish the game. This is the regular Wednesday routine - whoever wins the game gets to spank me. The four Men share the house and are all medical students at Barts. They know I teach at one of the other London universities, hence Master Gavin’s delight when he was able to set me up as their weekly cleaner.
Sir Alec cheers, he’s won the game. My heart sinks - despite his nerdy look, he is a very harsh spanker and has had me in tears over his knee on more than one occasion.
“Get the chair, fag,” he says.
As they mute the TV, I move the coffee table from the centre of the room and get the wooden dining chair from against the wall behind the door. I put it in front of the TV and Sir Alec gets up off his beanbag and sits on it. He grabs my hard willy roughly and pulls me over his lap, kicking my legs apart and arranging me so that my erection is pointing down his leg. As well as having brought me to tears in this position in the past, Sir Alec has also caused an unauthorised ejaculation as my hard willy rubbed against his leg while being spanked. Apart from the mortification of disgracing myself in this way, and having to lick up all my mess, and then having to labour and be disciplined after shooting my load, this also earnt me eighteen strokes of the senior cane, which had my bottom deeply welted and the tears flowing freely.
Like Sir Steven, Sir Alec starts deceptively gently on my exposed rump, but it is not long before he is spanking me harder and harder. He is relentless, there are no pauses for rubbing or fondling, just a constant barrage of swats to my rapidly inflaming cheeks. Master Gavin says that I have to be squirming and whimpering before I am allowed to get up, but Sir Alec doesn’t take any notice of that, he just carries on spanking me.
What makes it even worse is that he and the other Sirs are apparently paying no attention to my plight. They’re having a conversation about their course and what firms they are going to be working on next - all to the background sound of hand on buttock and my rising whimpers and yelps. Thankfully, he gives me several really hard slaps then tells me to get up before I start crying this time. My willy is throbbing and twitching as I stand before the four of them, hands on head as they admire his handiwork.
“You know the drill, fag. Off you go.”
“Yes, Sir Magnus,” I say, and I go back into the hall and get my cleaning kit. My Wednesday chores are generally the same. I clean the kitchen and the two bathrooms. I am allowed to use the vacuum cleaner to do the bedrooms and landing upstairs where there is carpet, but I sweep, wash and dry the hard floors in the rest of the house by hand and on my knees. Once I’ve vacuumed, swept and dusted everywhere and have the kitchen and smaller bathroom spotless, I take the laundry bag from beside the main bathroom door into the bathroom.
You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but the smell of a week’s worth of running kit, gym kit, underwear and socks from four lads in their twenties (not to mention Sir Magnus’ rugby kit) hits me hard as I open the bag. As always on a Wednesday, I take the two buckets from the cupboard on the landing. One I fill with hot soapy water, the other with cold clean water. Kneeling, I take a few items at a time from the laundry bag and hand wash them in the soapy water, wring them and then rinse in the clean water, before wringing them again thoroughly and putting them into the laundry basket. As I work my way down the bag, the stale sweaty smell gets stronger and the clothes need more time taken to wash them. Several times I empty both buckets into the bath and refill them.
Finally, with my knees and back aching, I have a full basket of wrung out, clean clothes. I put the empty bag back where I found it and carry the full basket into the spare room. The house has four bedrooms, but Sir Joel and Sir Magnus are a couple and share the largest of the four. I set up the heated airer and hang the all freshly laundered kit on it. The one job I don’t do is to fold and put these away, as they will take the night to dry. But washing them all by hand is humbling and hard work. My willy has shrunk and shrivelled and is now looking pathetically small as well.
When I have finished the laundry, I clean the main bathroom and then head back down to the living room where Sir Magnus and Sir Alec are watching TV together. My heart sinks when I see that the rimstool (I bought it for the house last year) is set up. Without having to be told, I settle myself under the stool and put on the blindfold that is beside it - I am not allowed to see the naked backside of whichever of the Sirs uses my tongue.
A few minutes later I hear footsteps come into the room and one of the Sirs comes over and settles himself above me. The cushions under my head ensure that his buttocks rest directly on my face and his cheeks part as he sits. I know straight away that it is Sir Hamid whom I will be pleasuring today - I can tell each of the men apart and his crack is the hairiest of the four. He is clean but sweaty and musky - he’s not washed since he showered at the gym at lunchtime.
“Get on with it, boy,” he says. Sir Hamid is the only one of the four who doesn’t use the anti-gay f-word for me. I am always ‘boy’ to him.
I can’t respond, as my face is buried between his buttocks, but I do as I am told and set to work licking his hole and probing it with my tongue. I feel his bare feet resting on my belly and, from time to time, he will stroke or kick my willy which has quickly become erect again. If my tongue slacks off, he will press onto my balls until I restart lapping and probing to his satisfaction. Beyond that, he chats with the other Sirs as they watch TV. I try to lose myself in rimming Sir to his satisfaction, but it is not long before my tongue begins to tire and ache. Despite having spent plenty of time rimming over the last five years, the tongue doesn’t seem to be a muscle that gets stronger with that kind of use! But I have no choice other than to continue to work on Sir Hamid’s hole. My face is now damp from the spit I have used to lubricate him. With my face buried between his cheeks, all I can taste and smell and feel is him, and I struggle to breathe at times when his weight is bearing down on me.
I don't know how long I am under the chair for, but it must be close to three-quarters of an hour by the time he gets up and I am told to do the same.
I take off the blindfold, blink at the light, and stand slightly stiffly. Looking down, my knees are dirty and red from kneeling cleaning earlier. The chair on which Sir Alec sat to spank me when I arrived is back in place in front of the TV and I walk across to it, bend over the back, and grasp the legs. Each Sir in turn comes up and punishes my already sore bottom. Sir Alec gives me twenty hand spanks to each cheek. Sir Magnus uses a bathbrush which makes me whimper and gasp, mercifully only delivering ten to each exposed buttock. Sir Hamid lands a size twelve plimsoll solidly twenty times across both buttocks, rocking me on the chair each time and eliciting a yelp with the last few. Finally, Sir Joel delivers twelve nasty strokes of his whippy cane, which hurts in a different way to the thicker and more solid senior cane that I got on Monday from Sir Wen. Each of the twelve makes me hiss or gasp.
When Sir Joel has finished I remain in place while they archive my bottom. I know that one of them will have filmed all of my punishments for Master Gavin as well, although I will never see these unless he thinks watching one might be particularly instructive or humiliating for me. The last video he allowed me to see was of me on my knees performing urinal service for Sir Edwin, a black man in his 70s whom I visit every couple of months.
Eventually, Sir Joel says,
“See you next week, fag.”
I get up and go back to the hall, where I open the front door before packing up my cleaning kit and putting my singlet and shoes on and heading home.
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