Thursday morning starts a bit differently, as I have the Good Morning Britain appearance that kicked off this account. My bottom is still red, sore and itchy in that way that anyone who has been soundly spanked will recognise, and I have to work hard not to fidget while I chat with the presenters. It means I need to get up even earlier than usual - I was booked to be on air around 7:30, so I had to be at the studios by 6. Given the live nature of the show, you can never be quite sure when you’ll be needed and it is closer to 8 by the time I’m chatting to Susanna Reid and Ed Balls and so I have to forego my morning swim since I am due to teach at 10.
Thursday is my busiest teaching day and I only just manage to slip in a 5k run, a shower and a quick sandwich at lunchtime. At 5, I get my text from Master Gavin.
“Slave. You will report to Sir Zachary at 51 Lennox Gardens, SW1X 0DL. He has a guest, so I expect you to be on your best behaviour.”
My heart sinks, but my willy rises as I read the text. Sir Zachary is a very good friend of Master Gavin’s. He is American, like Master Gavin, and works in the US embassy here in London. He’s in his early 50s and is very strict. I know that he will not let even the tiniest slip-up go unpunished. The other difference when I visit Sir Zachary is that he and Master Gavin have agreed longer service hours for my visits. Instead of reporting at 7pm and leaving by 11, I report at 7:30pm (due to Sir Zachary’s work) and am released by 1.30am at the latest - six hours of hard labour and discipline.
I wonder about Sir Zachary’s guest - very occasionally I have reported for service when Sirs have guests round and, from time to time, I am sent to serve as a waiter at a dinner party instead of cleaning. The guest must have been vetted by Master Gavin, although since it is Sir Zachary, Master Gavin may just trust him to ensure that the guest is appropriate. There’s not much point in worrying about it, though - I have no say in the matter and I’ll be there in a couple of hours anyway.
Having cycled across to one of the poshest and exclusive parts of London, I lock my bike to a bike stand on the street and I press the buzzer for Sir Zachary’s flat on the dot of 7.30. As with many of the men I visit, he doesn’t speak, the door buzzes and I let myself in. Now comes the first nerve-wracking part of my visit. As soon as I enter the grand Victorian house, I undress in the communal hallway, stowing my meagre clothing in a cupboard under the stairs. Putting my rucksack back on, I walk naked up the expensively carpeted stairs. The building has four apartments - one with the basement and ground floors, one on the first floor and Sir Zachary’s at the top, occupying the top two floors with a roof terrace at the back.
I walk past the doors of the other two apartments and finally reach Sir Zachary’s door. As always, it is on the latch, so I let myself in and close it behind me. I leave my rucksack in the hallway and then get down onto my hands and knees and crawl to the living room where I know Sir Zachary will be awaiting me. He does not allow me to walk anywhere in his apartment - I have to crawl from job to job and to do his bidding on my hands and knees. Sir Zachary is sitting on the sofa watching TV when I crawl in. He is a handsome black man in his mid-fifties, dressed casually but with his bare feet up on a footstool. In the chair beside him sits another black man whom I guess to be in his late twenties, dressed similarly, but wearing white trainers.
I crawl to kiss Sir Zachary’s feet and greet him.
“This is Anton,” he says, indicating the younger man, “he is the son of a mutual friend of mine and Gavin’s.”
I crawl to Sir Anton and kiss his trainers and greet him too.
“Anton is going to give you your initial spanking, boy,” Sir Zachary says.
“Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir.”
“Get over my knee, boy”, Sir Anton says.
I stand and lay across his lap. He spreads my legs apart and reaches under me to move my erect willy so that, like with Sir Alec the day before, my now rock hard willy is pointing down the side of his leg. He has a good grope of my willy and balls and circles my anus with his finger before he begins spanking me.
"It's a pity this hole is out of bounds, Uncle Zach, I reckon it’d be properly tight to fuck!”
“You’ll find the boy’s mouth is talented enough, Anton.”
With that, the spanking starts. This athletic young man wastes no time in warming me up. My bottom is still showing some of the signs of the punishment I’ve received during the week but he is soon topping it up very effectively. It doesn't take long for me to be squirming and beginning to whimper as he really goes to town on my bare bottom. This is definitely the hardest and longest hand spanking I’ve had this week - I was dreading going over Sir Zachary’s knee, but Sir Anton is even harder, if anything. And so, for the first time this week, I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes and I am soon crying properly as he methodically and dispassionately spanks my exposed bottom until it is raging hot and throbbing. My willy is also throbbing and I am crying partly because I know how close I am to really disgracing myself and cumming down his leg.
I am crying hard and panting when he tells me to stand and put my hands on my head. My willy is so hard and is twitching and, as I am told to turn so that Sir Zachary can see Sir Anton’s handiwork, I can hold it no longer. Without touching myself, I tremble and semen erupts from my willy onto the wooden floor. I’ve not cum for over a week and it is a serious orgasm, even without any manual stimulation. I start apologising over and over again, even knowing that it will make no difference at all to the extra punishment I am going to receive.
“You filthy boy, how dare you ejaculate onto my floor without permission?” Sir Zachary says as he walks up behind me.
“Since you have decided that cumming is acceptable for a slave, you can repeat the performance. Anton, go and get me some lube”
With that, he turns me round and takes a firm hold of my now very sensitive and softening willy. He starts stroking me, polishing the super sensitive head of my willy making me buck and beg. When Anton returns, he slicks my willy up with lube and keeps stroking until my willy is fully hard again and keeps going until I cum again. Less semen is produced, but it is more intense than the handsfree first orgasm. Sir Zachary begins polishing my fully exposed and painfully sensitive glans, making me writhe and whimper all the more. After a while, he resumes stroking and I am begging harder and am bucking more as he doesn’t allow me any recovery. I look up and see that Sir Anton is filming all this on his phone - Master Gavin will see my orgasmic punishment.
The third orgasm is a trickle, and the fourth that Sir Zachary forces from me after a lot of stroking is just a drop or two of semen. The fifth orgasm, massively intense, is completely dry and only then does Sir Zachary seem satisfied. He lets go of my now sore and spent willy, and has me lick the cum off his fingers before he points to the floor and I kneel and lick up the now cold and congealing semen from the floor.
When I have cleaned up my mess to his satisfaction he says,
“You can start on the terrace, boy. The deck needs to be swept and washed, the table and chairs need to be properly cleaned and you can wash the fence too. We had a barbecue at the weekend, so you will need to empty the coals and clean that thoroughly as well.”
“Yes, Sir Zachary,” I reply.
He sits back down and he and Anton go back to watching the TV, so I crawl to the hall, get my rucksack and crawl back through the living room onto the roof terrace that leads off it.
Despite the fact that the terrace is above all the properties around and that it has a high fence, the fence is made of white wooden lattice work so I feel very exposed as I put my rucksack down and stand, naked and with a flaming red bottom. My willy is not only soft but is red and shriveled from the multiple milkings that Sir Zachary has inflicted on me. It is always worse having to labour after despunking, there is no sexual thrill, just nudity, exposure and hard work. And it’s even worse being out on the terrace. Whilst it’s been decent weather all day, it is now drizzling, so I get to work quickly. I do the barbecue first, a dirty job which gets me sooty and streaky as the drizzle makes it worse. Once that is sparkling, I move it and all the furniture so that I can properly clean the deck. On my hands and knees, bottom in the air, I use a small brush and dustpan to sweep all the detritus from the deck. Once I have tipped the last panful into the bag with the barbecue rubbish, I move onto the part of this work that I hate most, cleaning the fence. Using a soft brush and soapy water, I clean the woodwork so that it is bright white once again. Another dirty job, I am soon feeling really grimy and am now sweating as the drizzle has let up and the evening becomes humid as the sun sets. Partway through working my way around the fence, hyper aware of the possibility of my nudity being glimpsed by neighbours, the lights on the terrace come on as it gets darker.
Having checked all the fencing for streaks, I use the same brush with fresh soapy water to clean all the furniture so that it is as sparklingly white as the fence. When that is done, I take an old-fashioned scrubbing brush from my kit and the bottle of specialised deck cleaner from the storage locker. Pouring the filthy water from the bucket into the drain which goes straight to the house gutters, I refill the bucket from the outside tap and add the deck cleaner. Back onto my hands and knees I go, now scrubbing the deck vigorously. I hear the terrace door open, but do not stop or look around. It will be one of the Sirs archiving my work for Master Gavin. The door closes again soon after, but I am lost in my work.
Once I have scrubbed the whole deck, moving the furniture and barbecue so that I get the whole place clean, I look at my work and am pleased - the difference between when I came out onto the terrace and now is striking. Everything is looking almost as good as new. I put my kit away, and kneel against the terrace doors awaiting permission to re-enter the apartment. I don’t have to wait very long before Sir Zachary opens the door.
“You’re filthy, boy, you can’t come in here like that.”
He walks past me and gestures that I should kneel beside the drain. He fits a hose to the outside tap and hoses me down with cold water. Shivering, I turn when instructed so he can hose the back of me. He even has me lower my head and reach around to part my buttocks and the jet of cold water plays across my crack and anus. The hose stops and he tosses me a thin, hard towel and tells me to dry off and then get into the house. The scratchy towel does a poor job of getting me dry, and it is particularly uncomfortable when drying my red and sore bottom and my poor tortured willy. But I try to get dry as quickly as possible so that I don’t keep Sir Zachary waiting.
When I go into the house with my kit, Sir Zachary is alone watching TV. He snaps his fingers at me and points at his feet. I put my rucksack down and kneel and begin worshipping his big, sweaty feet. He’s clearly been working hard today, as they are particularly sweaty and there is lint between the toes which I lick up and swallow. I work hard with my tongue on both feet until he kicks me away, stands and unzips his fly. He takes out his cock and I put it between my teeth. A long stream of piss fills me - Sir Zachary has clearly been saving this for me. I’m very glad that I have been well-trained to act as a man’s urinal - Sir Zachary pisses just as he would in a pub urinal, not holding back or moderating his flow. I gulp it down and, again, the fact that I have been so thoroughly drained makes the humiliation and degradation all the worse.
Partway through pissing, he says,
“Saw you on the TV this morning, boy. You talk a lot of sense - if only they knew what that mouth was being used for when you’re not pretending to be a professional man!”
I can’t reply as my mouth is full of piss, but I nod slightly, and feel my face flushing red to match my lower cheeks.
Finally, the flow abates and Sir Zachary takes his cock out of my mouth.
“Kitchen, bathrooms, my bedroom and the laundry, boy. When Anton has finished using the home gym I am sure he will require you and then you can clean the gym too.”
“Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir,” I say as always, and crawl into the kitchen and set to work.
I work steadily for about an hour, before Sir Anton comes and finds me scrubbing the bathroom floor. He is in gym clothes and has clearly just done a hard workout.
“Zachary tells me that you can give me a tongue bath, boy.”
I swallow and say,
“Yes, Sir, of course, Sir.”
He turns without a word and walks to the spare bedroom. Once in the room he just strips off his sweaty kit, puts a towel on the bed and lays down on it. I so rarely see the men whom I serve naked, even my spent willy begins to stiffen as I look at this buff guy laying there.
“Start with the feet and work up, boy,” he says, before putting buds into his ears and turning his attention to his phone.
I begin worshiping his sweaty and damp feet. The taste and smell is strong, which makes my willy grow fully hard. I’m not sure how much time he wants me to take, but I know he wants a properly thorough tongue bath. Once I feel that his feet are clean and fresh, I move up his legs, licking the sweat from his well toned calves and thighs. When I get to his cock and balls, the musk is strong and I am worried I am going to spill again as I lap at his sweaty, hairless scrotum. He stays soft until I begin lapping at his cock itself, which grows and thickens, the foreskin rolling naturally back from the head as it does so. He isn’t clean under there like Sir Zachary had been when he pissed in my mouth, and I have to control my reactions as I lick the smegma out and swallow it down.
“Get on with it, boy, I don’t have all night!” Sir Anton says as I am almost sucking his cock, so I move up the bed and up his body - licking the sweat and grime from his thick, unexpectedly untrimmed bush, his torso and his pecs. He puts one arm up behind his head so that I can get properly into his pits. They’re very wet and smelly. He obviously realises my reaction,
“I don’t bother with deodorant, so they’re probably a bit ripe, boy.”
He’s not wrong, there’s a pungent mix of fresh sweat from his workout and whatever had built up since he last washed.
He decides when it is time to move on by lowering his arm, swapping hands with his phone and putting the other up behind his head.
Once he’s satisfied with my work on his second, equally ripe, pit, he turns over.
“Work back down, boy. My crack is going to need quite a lot of work.”
My tongue is starting to ache now and I’m struggling to get enough spit to clean him properly, but at least the towel has soaked up some of the sweat on his back.
I lick his hard buttocks with my willy throbbing, and then he spreads his legs so I can get between them. Like his genitals and pits, his crack is ripe and musky, but I swallow any pride I have remaining and begin to lap up and down, picking up stray gobbets of toilet paper and lint from his underwear.
“Get your tongue working on my hole, boy!”
I bury my face between his cheeks and begin rimming him in earnest, polishing his hole and getting my tongue deep inside him. As I do so, he starts gently grinding against the towel - he’s clearly getting turned on by this. I work on his hole for ages before he reaches back, slapping the back of my head and indicating I should finish his legs.
Eventually I am back at his feet, when he abruptly stands up, his half-hard cock swinging as he crosses the room, takes a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt from his dresser and gets dressed. As he leaves the room he says, without looking back at me,
“Finish what you were doing and then get this room, the ensuite and the gym cleaned. When you’re done, back downstairs, boy”
“Yes, Sir Anton, thank you, Sir.”
For the next few hours I am left alone to get on with my work. I work my way through cleaning the rest of the house, sorting and folding clean laundry and ironing all Sir Zachary’s shirts and trousers. By the time I’m done, I’m exhausted. As I put the last of his laundry away, I see the clock on Sir Zachary’s bedside table - just before 1am.
I crawl back down to where Sir Zachary and Sir Anton are watching TV. Sir Zachary looks up as I crawl towards them.
“You have half an hour before you can go home, boy. We both need to cum down that talented throat before you go. You can make a start on Anton.”
Before I can respond, Sir Anton has pushed his shorts off and his hard cock has bounced free. I crawl over and begin to suck him off. The TV doesn’t go off, nor do the two men take any notice of me as I work on him. It isn’t long before he pushes my nose right down into his pubes and holds me there while he pumps a large load of cum down my throat.
As soon as I’ve come up for air and gently licked the head of his cock clean, Sir Zachary has his cock out and makes it clear that I am to get straight to work. As I choke on Sir Zachary’s thick cock, Sir Anton puts his shorts back on, says goodnight and heads off to bed. Sir Zachary begins fucking my face hard and fast until he too shoots a sizeable load into my mouth. As I am cleaning him off, he says,
“Oh, I forgot to say, boy, you’re going over my knee for the remainder of the time you have with me. It’s 1:17 by my watch, so that’s a thirteen minute spanking you’re getting.”
I know better than to argue, but I am absolutely dreading it. I’m dead tired, have been comprehensively despunked and worked really hard. I’ve just been choked by both the men’s cocks and now I am going to get almost a quarter of an hour’s spanking on my still sore bottom. But, of course, I merely say,
“Yes, SIr, thank you, Sir,” and lay meekly over Sir Zachary’s knee.
That thirteen minutes felt like hours. Even though I could tell that Sir Zachary was not using his full force, his hand spanking still felt as bad as when other men used a brush or slipper on my poor, unprotected bottom. My willy shrivels up again as I squirm and yelp and, by the time he is done, I am crying like a kid again.
Sir Zachary tells me to get up and that he'll see me soon.
“Thank you for allowing me to serve you, Sir Zachary,” I say while trying to control my tears.
He nods and watches as I crawl back to the hallway where I pick up my rucksack, walk naked and, with my red bottom lighting the steps behind me like a brake light, head down to put on my cycling kit. I barely stifle a yelp as I sit my poor, sore, red bottom onto my saddle and the cycle home makes me cry for the third time that evening as it is rubbed and jiggled as I work the pedals. I’m even grateful for the continuing drizzle, as it hides my tears.
I get home, strip off and look at my flaming rear in the mirror as I have a quick shower and fall into bed and am asleep almost before my head hits the pillow.
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