Hayley’s flat seemed quieter than usual. She locked the door behind her and leaned against it for a long moment, her eyes flickering around the small, square living room. Nothing had changed since she’d left but it seemed different somehow. A little colder, perhaps. A little lonelier. She turned on the television to see an old black and white Hitchcock playing. With a sigh, she turned the volume up. She switched the radio on too.

In her bedroom, she tipped her bag out onto the neatly made bed and tried not to laugh at the contents. Hairbrush. Makeup. Phone. Purse. Sex toys. She picked up her phone and scrolled through unread messages and unanswered calls, looking for Henry’s last text.

Go to the nearest restroom and edge yourself twice. Then two times when you get home, before you start your lines. Two when you’ve finished them. Please me, my slut.

Hayley frowned. Two when you’ve finished them. What was it he’d said about the lines? For the life of her, she couldn’t remember. She dropped down onto the bed and looked at the ceiling. One hundred lines. That much she was sure of. For the next ten days. But did that mean a hundred lines per day, or ten per day? It must be ten a day, right? Surely, she was overthinking it.

She looked at his text again and at the one before but neither provided any clues. She tried to be rational. He probably wouldn’t remember the exact instructions anyway. Besides, how could he expect her to have understood him so completely when she was in that trembling not-allowed-to-orgasm state of mind? She blew out a long breath. Ten a day for the next ten days. A hundred in total. She’d call him later and ask. It was no big deal.

But it was. He’d said he wanted a picture of them by the time he got off the plane. Fuck. Hayley bit her lip. Did it really matter, in the big scheme of things? After all, he’d be in goddamn America, miles and miles away. It wasn’t as if he could do anything. Well, except make her edge for an unnatural length of time. Or make her wear a plug. Or the damn nipple clamps. She could feel the plug he’d made her put in just before they’d left the Brighton flat; the weight of it lodged tightly inside her ass. And if that wasn’t enough, every time she moved even a centimetre her shirt brushed against her sore nipples.

“Fuck.”

She said the word out loud and then said it again.

“Fuck.”

Her voice sounded defiant but small. She dropped her phone onto the bed beside her and trailed her fingers down the soft cotton of her t-shirt. She dragged it up, cold fingers resting on the flat of her warm stomach.

Two times before you start your lines.

She didn’t need to slip her hand beneath the waistband of her jeans to see if she was wet; her panties had been uncomfortably damp since the airport. In a moment of decision, she quickly unfastened her jeans and sat up to tug them off, along with her underwear.

“What are you like?” she asked herself.

She didn’t have an answer. In some ways, she felt almost humiliated by the long, aching weekend with Henry but most of her felt lazily satisfied. There was nothing she liked more than knowing she was the source of his pleasure. Her body still ached from being bent over the chair and her ass stung from the repeated spankings. Her mind flicked back to the flogger and she couldn’t quite decide whether she hated or loved it. Her elbow knocked against her hairbrush and she picked it up with her free hand, eyeing it thoughtfully. How could something so unassuming deliver such lasting bruises?

“You son of a bitch,” she said to it and dropped it back down onto the bed.

She still remembered having to buy the damn thing; dropping in and out of Superdrug and Boots and wondering exactly what Henry’d had in mind when he’d said ‘a nice wooden hairbrush’. God. He’d been pretty pleased with her eventual purchase and it didn’t take her long to discover why. Sometimes she considered hiding it or ‘accidentally’ misplacing it but didn’t quite have the nerve.

She sighed again. She could hear the radio playing a sketchy rock song. One leg bent at the knee, she allowed her fingers to carefully walk down her stomach and between her legs. Wet. Warm. Her eyes drifted closed. In the back of her mind was the vague notion to take a long, hot shower but somehow it seemed too much of a chore. Instead, her fingers slowly crept further downwards, finding the end of the torturous plug and toying with it before moving back to her swollen clit and circling slowly.

There was something intensely cruel about having to edge herself. At least when he did it, there was some possibility that he might let her come. But when it was just her, she was obliged to follow his instructions and so even as her body built towards orgasm, she knew it would never come. It only increased the throbbing agony. Her teeth sunk into her lip, her narrow hips lifting off the bed as her fingers moved. Close. Closer. Her breath shuddered out as she pulled her hand away. Her body slumped back down onto the bed, wound up and desperate.

She didn’t move for half a minute, afraid that even the slightest pressure between her legs might tip her over the edge. When she was finally sure the throb had diminished, she sat up, dragging off the rest of her clothes and walking naked to the bathroom. The shower took a while to heat up so she waited a few moments before stepping in. The steaming water rained down on her. She eased the plug out of her ass and moved to let the water pound down against her reddened flesh. It was hot enough to make her wince.

The shower shouldn’t have taken as long as it did but there was something comforting about the way the water jetted down. She slid her fingers between her legs again, her free hand pressed against the tiled wall. It always took longer when she was standing up but she only had to think about the weekend’s events before her body shuddered on the edge of release. It took an enormous amount of self-control to pull her hand away and when she did, she stood under the shower for a while longer, her body clenching and unclenching with urgent need.

Your very first rule is that you only come when I tell you to.

Hayley turned off the shower. She dried herself hurriedly and let her hair down, trying to think of a way to rephrase his rule. I only come when Sir tells me to. Would that be good enough? Sir is the master of my orgasms. He is also a bastard. She imagined writing it out, sending it to him, and awaiting his apoplectic reaction. Maybe he’d laugh. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he wouldn’t let her come for a year.

Heading to her room, she dug out some paper and a few pens. Black. Blue. Red. Did he say he’d wanted them in different colours? Should each line be a different colour, or each set of lines? She didn’t have any other pens. Half of her considered going out and buying some and then she told herself she was being ridiculous. Perhaps she should just type up the lines on her laptop, print them out in different colours. It’d be interesting to see what he’d have to say about that. Though probably not worth it.

You will of course write them naked, and laying on the floor of your apartment. Not on the carpeted area, on the hard wood. Do you understand?

She remembered that part perfectly as even with that goddamn ice-cube in her snatch, she’d been worried. The thing worrying her was the fact that the only hardwood floor in her flat was in the kitchen.

Did he know? Was it a part of the punishment, a way to make her feel even more humiliated? Hayley swallowed hard. She looked at her naked self in her wardrobe mirror. Her ass was cherry red. God, even by his standards, this was kinky to the extreme. She found herself hoping that every single inhabitant of the next door block would be asleep, out, or engrossed in something unputdownable.

Her heart thudding, she picked up the paper and the blue pen and walked through the living room and into the kitchen. The window looked bigger than usual. The sun hadn’t quite set which meant she didn’t have to put on the light which was a small blessing. Warily, she looked out at the opposite block. She didn’t see anyone at any of the windows.

Hurriedly, she dropped down to the floor, laying out the piece of paper and propping herself up on her elbows. It was very uncomfortable. The floor was cold and hard against her stomach and her hipbone pressed uncomfortably against it. Even her elbows hurt. She frowned in the dim light, flicked the lid off the pen and started writing.

Sir is the master of my orgasms. He is also a bastard.

It looked very neat in her joined-up handwriting. At school, she’d once won a fountain pen for having such nice handwriting. Smirking, she turned the sheet over and started afresh.

I am only permitted to come when Sir allows me.

There. She smiled in spite of herself. That would satisfy him. She briefly considered adding a ‘kind’ before ‘Sir’ but that would mean getting another piece of paper and the sun seemed to be fading at a spectacular speed. She wrote out the next line and the next, trying her best to keep them identical.

She’d decided that he’d meant ten lines per day for ten days to make one hundred. He surely couldn’t expect her to write a hundred a day. And what was it he’d said afterwards? She had to put them up in her flat? Hayley blanched. Where the hell would she put them up? What if her friends came around? What if someone saw them? Maybe she could put them up in her bedroom? But it didn’t have a lock on the door. Perhaps she could explain them off as some kind of avant-garde artwork. Fuck. She wrote the next line too fast and it looked messy. Biting her lip she glanced warily at the window only to see the silhouette of someone at the level above her.

Her mouth went dry. Was it a man? A woman? They couldn’t see in, surely. It was dark! The radio was still playing in the next room, the upbeat voice issuing traffic warnings before a Taylor Swift song came on. The person at the window didn’t move. Hayley tried to reason with herself. They couldn’t see in. And even if they could, it wasn’t as if they could see very much. Her light wasn’t on. What would they do anyway?

Preoccupied, she turned her attention back to the half-finished lines and wrote the rest hurriedly. Being seen naked wasn’t a big deal, she told herself. It wasn’t as though she was having sex. Or being spanked. Or crawling around like an obedient slut. Or wearing fucking nipple clamps. She glanced up at the window again. The person hadn’t moved. Furtively, she stood up and slipped out of the kitchen, her completed lines in her hand.

Nine more days. Nine more pages of lines. Maybe it’d be a good idea to do them at midnight, when everyone else was asleep. By torchlight. Or candlelight. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so goddamn humiliating. Hayley set her mostly neat page of lines down on the coffee table and took a photo of it. Before she could overthink it, she sent the picture to Henry.

On the radio, Taylor Swift’s voice had turned into Zara Larsson’s. Two more edges. Despite her anxieties, her snatch was as wet as ever. It didn’t take long for her to coax herself to the edge of orgasm and when she pulled her hand away, the urge to come made her want to scream. She hated herself for it and hated Henry too. It took her a while to cool off and as she did, she wondered desperately how long he’d make her wait. After all, her last orgasm had only been that very morning. How could she need it so soon and so urgently?

He’d said it would be a month until the next one. A month! How many edges would that be? How many days of climbing and climbing only to fall at the last hurdle? Hayley closed her eyes and sucked in a long breath, her fingers moving towards the last edge of the day. This one took longer but was no less frustrating. When she stopped, her whole body willed her fingers to move again. She could have finished it. But she didn’t.

Back in the bathroom, she cleaned up before getting dressed. The clock ticked ominously. It wouldn’t be long before Henry’s plane landed and then he’d see her text. She wondered what he’d think. Had she done it right? Maybe she should have written a hundred lines. Even if it wasn’t what he’d asked, it would at least have shown him she was trying to please him. But it was too late. She’d done ten lines. And all in the same colour. But it was blue. He liked blue.

She turned the light on when she went into the kitchen and was relieved to see the silhouette had disappeared from the opposite window. One sandwich and two cups of coffee later, she found herself half-watching the television and half-eyeing her phone, waiting for his response. She looked up his flight online. It had landed. She had a good few missed calls to return and she knew she had to check her email but some part of her didn’t quite want the weekend to end. It had been such a departure from the usual. Life could wait.

Her phone rang, startling her. Henry’s name lit up the screen and she hesitated for a split second, before picking it up.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” She could hear voices in the background, people and traffic. Was he in the airport? Or on the way home?

“Did you get my picture?” she asked cautiously.

“I did. Was it your idea of a joke?”

Hayley felt her heart sink. She crossed her legs and bit down hard on her lip.

“I thought I made myself perfectly clear,” he continued. “Very neat and in different colours. Did you not understand?”

For some absurd reason, she felt the urge to laugh.

“I wasn’t sure,” she admitted. “I only had three colours anyway. And they’re neat, aren’t they?”

He laughed. She wasn’t sure whether to join in. Erring on the side of caution, she stayed quiet.

“I think you should do them again,” he suggested. “Now.”

Hayley took a breath.

“Look, the thing is, the only hard floor in my apartment where I can lie down is the kitchen. And people can see in the window. It’s dark here. I’d have to put the light on. They would see me. Maybe I could just do it twice over tomorrow.”

He laughed again.

“No. You’re going to go into the kitchen, take off all of your clothes, lie on the floor and write them out again. I’ll let the colours slide. You can fix that by tomorrow, right?”

“But -”

“What? You disagree?” His voice was playful but there was a dangerous edge to it. “No? Good. Don’t forget to send me a picture.”

Author’s Note: This story should be read in conjunction with the ‘English Girl’ series by 19Savant. The characters and overall storyline are the same, only this part was written by me. If you enjoyed this, check out his chapters – I guarantee you will love them!