My psychiatrist, Doctor Philip Lancaster, once recommended that I keep a diary of my thoughts. Naturally I ignored him at the time, he was a man after all, but given the state of things now, it seems that it might be a good idea. Not that I admit that he was right, circumstances merely conspired to make him so. Besides, he’s most likely too busy feasting on his own shit to feel overly arrogant about just how correct he was. I’ve seen one of the creatures do that of its own accord… Disgusting.

Anyway, I suppose that I should begin with the day that mankind went back on the menu. It started like any other day; I put in a twelve-hour shift hauling in a construction site and returned to Mistress Monica to be berated. With my PHD alone I could have been making more money managing some company or other, never mind all of those other qualifications that I’ve collected over the years like so many vintage butt-plugs, but Mistress preferred her whores muscular, and the labour kept me that way.

I only remember the details because it was our last night together, but they’re so clearly etched into my mind that they’ll stay with me whenever I finally turn into one of those shambling monstrosities. I wore my finest leather gimp suit; around the house I wore nothing else, I slept in it and ate meals through the zipper when she granted me permission. Mistress didn’t starve me often, as I’ve stated, she didn’t abide scrawny slaves.

I brought her roses that night; I knew well enough that she didn’t give a fuck about flowers but the excuse to demean me always pleased her and that was what I lived for. She made me eat them through that zipper. That must have been the last time that she fed me, and I suppose that it’s only fitting that I tempted her wrath one final time. It’s difficult to talk back with a mouthful of thorns but possible, if you’re determined enough.

I’ve always hated having my anus violated, but the fucking she gave me with that studded strap-on was the degradation that I needed. That was most why she did it, to remind me who was in charge. Sometimes I needed that, others she just felt like making me suffer. I always suffered well for her.

Ten or fifteen minutes after I began weeping (it’s difficult to keep an exact measure of time when something vaguely resembling the erect penis of a mechanical bull is battering against the bottom of your kidneys) she relented, rewarding me by allowing me to worship her feet. My cheek had earned me another five days of cuckolding before she’d allow me to cum again, but sucking on her toes always soothed me. It calmed me so much that I once started to snore with them in my mouth. To this day I still have the scars that her cigarettes left on my chest as my so very justifiable punishment.

The good Doctor once spouted some drivel that suggested that being a six-foot-seven tower of muscle with an intimidating education forced me to be in control of just about every situation that I encounter. Therefore, he explained with his usual pea brained pomposity, I can only relax when I allow myself to be dominated, but he didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. For as long as I can remember women have made my knees turn to jelly and my words to mush. They are simply superior and prostrated before a beautiful one is where I belong to be. It’s the only time I feel at home; a dirty, sordid, cum-stained home, but home, nonetheless.

He’d suggested going cold turkey while he counselled me on my, what he called, “obsession.” Doctor Phil was an idiot. It was like he was repeatedly describing steak to a starving man, going into mouthwatering detail of how succulent its fatty juices were, while reminding him that he would never be permitted to taste it. Around about then I resolved to never to take orders from a man again. We aren’t made to handle that kind of power.

But, back to that last beautiful night. After Mistress Monica’s feet had been pampered to her satisfaction, she handcuffed me to the bed, spat green phlegm into my mouth as a parting gift and left with my credit card. I lay there, delighted and disgraced, the knowledge that my Mistress had wrung all of the pleasure that she could from me lulling me into a blissful, satisfied sleep. It was later that day when things started to become strange…

I jolted awake as Mistress Monica came crashing through the door. At first, I was filled with the usual hopeful exhilaration, the commotion and sight of her cleavage accentuated by that designer top causing me to assume that she’d returned in a foul mood to take out on me. Then I saw the blood running between them and the glint of tears in her eyes.

“Thank god, you’re alright.” she gasped with unsettling warmth. It was the concern in her voice that scared fifty shades of crap out of me. I was speechless and frozen solid, not that I could have replied if I knew how to react to such kindness; she’d left the zip on my mouth closed and wrists bound. “They’re everywhere.”

I lay perfectly still for hours once she uncuffed me and snuggled gently into my thick leather hide, too nervous to move, too confused to speak. Eventually I drifted into an uneasy, fitful sleep fuelled by a terror that had nothing to do with the anal violations that I was used to.

Featured Image Credit: Pexels / James Superschool