Toad Chapter 5
“Toad,” Part V
by c.w. cobblestone
A lump of hashbrowns peeked out from beneath Lisa’s discarded napkin, while Janie’s plate still had a half-eaten sausage patty and a soggy piece of toast marinating in a pool of slimy egg gunk. Omar, as usual, had wolfed down every morsel, leaving a spotless platter.
My wife waved her hand. “Clean these plates up, toad, and then go get the shower ready.”
“Yes, Mistress. Um, can I please have the leftovers?”
Janie picked up her partial piece of sausage and inspected it for a few seconds before tossing it back onto the plate. “Nah. You can go hungry, toad. No food today.”
Omar and Lisa snickered as I croaked my required, “yes, Mistress, thank you, Mistress,” and rose from my knees.
My sister-in-law pouted. “Aw, poor widdle toady. Mistress is so mean. It must suck only getting to eat our leftovers, huh?”
“I … I dunno, Miss Lisa.”
“When’s the last time you ate anything, toad?”
“Um, the day before yesterday.”
“Well, there’s a reason your mistress came up with that rule. You’re too fucking fat. So, you eat what we leave on our plates, and if there’s nothing left, oh well. Two days without food ain’t gonna kill ya.”
“We need to knock some weight off your fat ass.” Janie smirked. “Besides, what are you whining about? Didn’t you get to eat Omar’s cum out of my pussy just last night?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“So, you’re saying that don’t count as something to eat?”
“Oh, no, please, Mistress, it was delicious, of course. Thank you, Mistress.”
Lisa nudged Omar. “Ooh, I think the toad just disrespected you, baby. Janie let him eat your cum and he done forgot about it. That sounds like disrespect to me. You should teach him a lesson, baby.”
My master chuckled. “Come on, girl, I’m full. I don’t feel like that shit right now.”
My sister-in-law giggled and shrugged. “Oh, well, you can’t blame a gal for trying. What can I say? I love watching you kick the ugly little toad’s ass. It’s sexy as hell.”
Lisa turned to me and batted her eyes innocently. “Toad, do you think I’m mean for always trying to get you in trouble so I can watch your master smack you around?”
“Uh, no, Miss Lisa, I’m happy to be here for whatever you want,” I lied. Everyone in the room knew I was full of shit, but that just made it more satisfying for my power-tripping rulers, who were tickled to death that I hated what was happening to me but had to fake a smile and pretend to be happy anyway.
I stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do, until Janie snapped her fingers.
“Didn’t I tell you to get this shit cleaned up and get the shower started?” She pointed toward the master bathroom. “Go, toad. Omar’s not gonna have to kick your ass — I’m gonna get the damn cattle prod out if you don’t get your fat ass moving.”
The prospect of having my testicles zapped with my diabolical wife’s favorite implement of torture spurred me into action, and I worked my way around the reclining threesome removing their plates from the bed. After lugging everything to the kitchen, I scraped the leftovers into the trash can with a heavy heart and grumbling stomach, and then started the shower for my masters. They paraded into the bathroom for some wet frolicking while I changed their cum-stained bedsheets.
Janie, Lisa and Omar enjoyed a long, noisy Sunday morning romp in the shower while I scuttled around the house picking up their messes, wishing I could be more of a man, and contemplating my sad excuse for a life.
^^^^^^^^^
The world hated me from the start.
When I was two weeks old, my mother wrapped me in a blanket, dropped me into a dumpster and disappeared. I would’ve been crushed to death if a garbageman hadn’t heard me crying just before he emptied the container into the trash compactor.
The story of the abandoned garbage baby was covered by the local media, marking the first and only time anyone ever gave a shit about me.
My life had gotten off to a miserable beginning and would only get worse.
I spent my childhood being shuttled around to different foster homes. Every now and then I’d move in with a ****** that treated me halfway decently, although it was obvious most of them were merely using me to for the grant money, and the adults in my life were dismissive at best, and sometimes outright abusive. The other foster kids picked on me constantly. I guess I made a prime target, being short, fat and ugly. I never had a friend growing up. Not one. And no ****** ever thought about adopting me. They always took the cute kids.
When I was nine years old I moved into the McMurtry home, where two of my older foster sisters routinely molested me. That first night in the new house would haunt me forever. The two teenagers stole into my room, stuffed a rag in my mouth to stifle my screams, and scraped a fork across my penis until it bled. Then, they shoved a hairbrush handle up my butt and ordered me to dance around the room like a “little faggot monkey.” After sodomizing me with the brush for an excruciating period of time, they took turns squatting over my face and peeing on me, soaking my mattress. Before they left my room, they forced me to thank them. I cried all night, shivering under piss-soaked sheets.
At breakfast the next day, I couldn’t look my smirking foster sisters in the eye, and I never said a word to my foster parents. I doubted they would’ve cared if I had said anything.
The sexual abuse continued throughout my entire five-month stay at the McMurtry home. I had mixed feelings when I got word that I was being transferred to another facility. While I hated the way the older girls were treating me, I was starting to get a sexual charge out of it. For a young boy, seeing pussies up close — even when they were pissing in my face — was a major turn-on.
When I got to the new home, I was abused there, too, albeit without the sexual element. No matter where I went, everything stayed the same: I was still a sad, confused orphan with no one on my side.
Since nobody wanted to hang out with me, I turned to my studies. Most kids hated school, but for me it provided a welcome escape. My classmates bullied me just as ruthlessly and relentlessly as my foster siblings, so I found no solace there, but I lost myself in the wonderful books, mathematical problems and scientific laws and theories that carried me away from my terrible circumstances.
As a result, I was fast-tracked and double-promoted, aced every test, finished high school with a 4.0 GPA and earned a full college scholarship. After obtaining my engineering degree with yet another 4.0 average, I shifted my ambition from schoolwork to career, and by age 30, while I still had no friends, I was an executive vice-president in a major manufacturing firm’s engineering department, earning more than $400,000 a year.
Although I was making tons of money, nothing had changed. I still lived an empty, sad existence. Having a luxury condo meant little because I found myself alone in it each night, either staring at the ceiling wishing there was someone out there for me, or jacking off to femdom porn. The abuse at the hands of my older foster sisters had shaped my sexuality, and the only way I could get off was to fantasize about being abused by pretty women.
I was dying for some kind of human contact, so despite my lack of social skills I started forcing myself to go out more often. My wild Saturday nights usually involved sitting alone at the bar, ogling pretty females and watching other men take them home before heading to Betty’s Diner for a late-night meal.
It wasn’t the restaurant’s ambiance or the apple pie that kept me coming back. It was Janie, the waitress.
I literally choked the first time I saw her. I had started to order a western omelet, only to have my throat clutch, which caused me to start gagging. I took a drink of water but that made things worse. I hacked up a storm, prompting the cook to rush from behind the counter and pound on my back in a ham-handed attempt at First Aid. His actions only gave me a sore back, but I eventually caught my breath and thanked the man anyway.
After I gathered myself and got resettled in my booth, the pretty waitress threw me a wry smile and said, “you all right there?”
Her innocent four-word question nearly brought tears to my eyes. It was one of the only times a woman had ever expressed concern for my well-being.
I must’ve asked her 20 questions about the omelet in a pathetic attempt to prolong our time together. By the time I’d finished my meal, I was hooked, and left a $100 tip.
As soon as I got home, I signed up for multiple social media accounts and followed Janie on all platforms. It was clear from the photos she’d posted that she preferred black guys, but that didn’t matter to me because I was obsessed, and harbored a ridiculous fantasy that I somehow might be able to win her over.
Betty’s Diner became my hangout spot. Whenever Janie would see me skulk into the restaurant, she’d flash her little smirk that made it clear that she knew I had a massive crush on her, while also signaling that she thought I was a creep. That didn’t stop me from trying to make conversation, although she usually responded to my efforts with an eye-roll and contemptuous lip-smack.
I remember the exact moment when her attitude changed. I was sitting in my usual booth, going over tax documents when she brought my order and peeked over my shoulder.
She squinted. “What’s that?”
I was shocked that she was initiating a discussion with me, and had to lick my lips a few times before being able to formulate words.
“Um, it’s my W-2. Uh, taxes.”
She poured more coffee. “Dang, you make four hundred and thirty thou a year?”
“Um, yeah.” I cleared my throat. “Yes.”
The glint in her eye was shaped like a dollar sign.
The next time I came to the restaurant, Janie asked me out for a drink, and I almost choked again. Of course, I accepted. Like a chump.
While we were at the bar she’d chosen, she mentioned that she was behind on her rent and didn’t know where she was going to get the money. It was an obvious hint, but I took the bait and offered to pay. That got me a thank-you, but no good-night kiss. In fact, I didn’t even get a “good-night” — for most of our date, she texted with someone while I sat across the table playing with my napkin, and after she finally pulled her face out of her phone, she told me that “a friend” was coming to the bar to drive her home, and suggested that we cut our date short.
At that point, I would’ve agreed to anything she said, and although I wasn’t happy about the turn of events, I thanked her for a wonderful time and left my first-ever date with a smile on my chubby face.
My buoyant mood deflated when I checked my cellphone a few hours later and saw that Janie had posted an Instagram photo shortly after I’d left the bar that showed her nestled in the arms of some muscular black dude in the same booth we’d just occupied.
For the rest of the night, I lay in bed looking at that rotten picture. If I wasn’t crying about it, I was jacking off to it.
The next day, I paid Janie’s rent — six months in advance.
It wasn’t long before I was paying all her bills. I was a sugar daddy who hadn’t even gotten to first base yet, while she enjoyed lots of sex with her black guys, if her social media feed was any indication. Of course, I never asked her about all the other men in her life. It wasn’t my place.
Our relationship took a drastic turn one night when Janie started badgering me about whether I masturbated to her pictures.
“Let’s see which ones you got on your phone,” she said, snatching my Galaxy from my hands. After thumbing through my photo gallery, her face twisted up and her nose crinkled.
“What the fuck is this shit?” She held the screen toward me, showing a photo of a leather-clad dominatrix pegging a prone man with a huge, black strap-on.
Since I was caught, I had no choice but to confess my femdom fantasies. Janie seized on the opportunity.
“Kneel your ugly ass down,” she said.
With a beating heart, I obeyed. Out of nowhere, her hand slashed forward, striking my face with surprising force.
“Now thank me.” She stood over me with her hands on her hips.
“Thank you.”
“Say, ‘thank you, Mistress,’ you ugly little fucking toad.”
“T-thank you, Mistress.”
“If you like this kind of shit, I’m gonna give it to you. In spades. You hear me, toad?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
In response, she slapped me again. Then, she spit in my face.
“Now that I don’t have to hide it, I can tell you the truth — you are one ugly little fucking toad, you know that? There’s nothing about you I find attractive.”
I bowed my head. “I … I know.”
She spit in my face again. “Fucking toad.”
With that, my fate was sealed. Todd, the name given to me by some social worker because my birth mother hadn’t bothered to name me, was gone. I would forevermore be known as toad.
The following day, Janie informed me we that were going to get married at the Justice of the Peace so she could quit her waitress job and have access to my primo health benefits. While I knew she was marrying me strictly for my money, I was over the moon and floated into her web with my eyes wide open.
Our “marriage” was never consummated. My wife didn’t dress in leather, nor did she ever peg me. She basically ignored me, other than barking orders or insulting me when she got *****. If I did something to piss her off, she’d either yell at me or slap me, although if I really made her mad, she might kick me in the nuts. That was about as far as she went toward fulfilling my femdom fantasies, although I knew she wasn’t doing it for my sake. Meanwhile, she continued dating while I stayed at home like a good little cuck and financed her lifestyle.
Within a year, Janie met Omar and my life fell completely off the rails. The man had an imposing presence due to his giant, muscular frame and confident authority, and he scared the shit out of me. Everything moved at warp speed once he started dating my wife, and the next thing I knew he was coming over regularly to fuck her. In the blink of an eye, he’d moved in with us and assumed the role of man of the house.
Shortly after that, my wife’s sexy sister moved in and we became a foursome — or, rather, they became a threesome with an ugly little toad who served them and paid the bills. My three masters fed off each other’s cruelty, and the meaner they treated me the more turned on they got.
As had been the case in the McMurtry home so many years earlier, I found myself being constantly tortured by two females. Presiding over the abuse from his perch on the throne was King Omar, the head of our household and the man I called Master.
^^^^^^^^^
The bathroom was a total mess as usual. Seven towels were scattered across the floor. Toiletries were left open on the sink. There was piss in the toilet and nearby tiles. Water had been splashed everywhere.
It was a Sunday, so I couldn’t escape to the office, and I knew I’d be forced to spend all day with my tormenters if they chose to stay home. I cleaned the bathroom with a pounding heart, praying that my masters had better things to do than to hang around the house abusing me …
by c.w. cobblestone
A lump of hashbrowns peeked out from beneath Lisa’s discarded napkin, while Janie’s plate still had a half-eaten sausage patty and a soggy piece of toast marinating in a pool of slimy egg gunk. Omar, as usual, had wolfed down every morsel, leaving a spotless platter.
My wife waved her hand. “Clean these plates up, toad, and then go get the shower ready.”
“Yes, Mistress. Um, can I please have the leftovers?”
Janie picked up her partial piece of sausage and inspected it for a few seconds before tossing it back onto the plate. “Nah. You can go hungry, toad. No food today.”
Omar and Lisa snickered as I croaked my required, “yes, Mistress, thank you, Mistress,” and rose from my knees.
My sister-in-law pouted. “Aw, poor widdle toady. Mistress is so mean. It must suck only getting to eat our leftovers, huh?”
“I … I dunno, Miss Lisa.”
“When’s the last time you ate anything, toad?”
“Um, the day before yesterday.”
“Well, there’s a reason your mistress came up with that rule. You’re too fucking fat. So, you eat what we leave on our plates, and if there’s nothing left, oh well. Two days without food ain’t gonna kill ya.”
“We need to knock some weight off your fat ass.” Janie smirked. “Besides, what are you whining about? Didn’t you get to eat Omar’s cum out of my pussy just last night?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“So, you’re saying that don’t count as something to eat?”
“Oh, no, please, Mistress, it was delicious, of course. Thank you, Mistress.”
Lisa nudged Omar. “Ooh, I think the toad just disrespected you, baby. Janie let him eat your cum and he done forgot about it. That sounds like disrespect to me. You should teach him a lesson, baby.”
My master chuckled. “Come on, girl, I’m full. I don’t feel like that shit right now.”
My sister-in-law giggled and shrugged. “Oh, well, you can’t blame a gal for trying. What can I say? I love watching you kick the ugly little toad’s ass. It’s sexy as hell.”
Lisa turned to me and batted her eyes innocently. “Toad, do you think I’m mean for always trying to get you in trouble so I can watch your master smack you around?”
“Uh, no, Miss Lisa, I’m happy to be here for whatever you want,” I lied. Everyone in the room knew I was full of shit, but that just made it more satisfying for my power-tripping rulers, who were tickled to death that I hated what was happening to me but had to fake a smile and pretend to be happy anyway.
I stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do, until Janie snapped her fingers.
“Didn’t I tell you to get this shit cleaned up and get the shower started?” She pointed toward the master bathroom. “Go, toad. Omar’s not gonna have to kick your ass — I’m gonna get the damn cattle prod out if you don’t get your fat ass moving.”
The prospect of having my testicles zapped with my diabolical wife’s favorite implement of torture spurred me into action, and I worked my way around the reclining threesome removing their plates from the bed. After lugging everything to the kitchen, I scraped the leftovers into the trash can with a heavy heart and grumbling stomach, and then started the shower for my masters. They paraded into the bathroom for some wet frolicking while I changed their cum-stained bedsheets.
Janie, Lisa and Omar enjoyed a long, noisy Sunday morning romp in the shower while I scuttled around the house picking up their messes, wishing I could be more of a man, and contemplating my sad excuse for a life.
^^^^^^^^^
The world hated me from the start.
When I was two weeks old, my mother wrapped me in a blanket, dropped me into a dumpster and disappeared. I would’ve been crushed to death if a garbageman hadn’t heard me crying just before he emptied the container into the trash compactor.
The story of the abandoned garbage baby was covered by the local media, marking the first and only time anyone ever gave a shit about me.
My life had gotten off to a miserable beginning and would only get worse.
I spent my childhood being shuttled around to different foster homes. Every now and then I’d move in with a ****** that treated me halfway decently, although it was obvious most of them were merely using me to for the grant money, and the adults in my life were dismissive at best, and sometimes outright abusive. The other foster kids picked on me constantly. I guess I made a prime target, being short, fat and ugly. I never had a friend growing up. Not one. And no ****** ever thought about adopting me. They always took the cute kids.
When I was nine years old I moved into the McMurtry home, where two of my older foster sisters routinely molested me. That first night in the new house would haunt me forever. The two teenagers stole into my room, stuffed a rag in my mouth to stifle my screams, and scraped a fork across my penis until it bled. Then, they shoved a hairbrush handle up my butt and ordered me to dance around the room like a “little faggot monkey.” After sodomizing me with the brush for an excruciating period of time, they took turns squatting over my face and peeing on me, soaking my mattress. Before they left my room, they forced me to thank them. I cried all night, shivering under piss-soaked sheets.
At breakfast the next day, I couldn’t look my smirking foster sisters in the eye, and I never said a word to my foster parents. I doubted they would’ve cared if I had said anything.
The sexual abuse continued throughout my entire five-month stay at the McMurtry home. I had mixed feelings when I got word that I was being transferred to another facility. While I hated the way the older girls were treating me, I was starting to get a sexual charge out of it. For a young boy, seeing pussies up close — even when they were pissing in my face — was a major turn-on.
When I got to the new home, I was abused there, too, albeit without the sexual element. No matter where I went, everything stayed the same: I was still a sad, confused orphan with no one on my side.
Since nobody wanted to hang out with me, I turned to my studies. Most kids hated school, but for me it provided a welcome escape. My classmates bullied me just as ruthlessly and relentlessly as my foster siblings, so I found no solace there, but I lost myself in the wonderful books, mathematical problems and scientific laws and theories that carried me away from my terrible circumstances.
As a result, I was fast-tracked and double-promoted, aced every test, finished high school with a 4.0 GPA and earned a full college scholarship. After obtaining my engineering degree with yet another 4.0 average, I shifted my ambition from schoolwork to career, and by age 30, while I still had no friends, I was an executive vice-president in a major manufacturing firm’s engineering department, earning more than $400,000 a year.
Although I was making tons of money, nothing had changed. I still lived an empty, sad existence. Having a luxury condo meant little because I found myself alone in it each night, either staring at the ceiling wishing there was someone out there for me, or jacking off to femdom porn. The abuse at the hands of my older foster sisters had shaped my sexuality, and the only way I could get off was to fantasize about being abused by pretty women.
I was dying for some kind of human contact, so despite my lack of social skills I started forcing myself to go out more often. My wild Saturday nights usually involved sitting alone at the bar, ogling pretty females and watching other men take them home before heading to Betty’s Diner for a late-night meal.
It wasn’t the restaurant’s ambiance or the apple pie that kept me coming back. It was Janie, the waitress.
I literally choked the first time I saw her. I had started to order a western omelet, only to have my throat clutch, which caused me to start gagging. I took a drink of water but that made things worse. I hacked up a storm, prompting the cook to rush from behind the counter and pound on my back in a ham-handed attempt at First Aid. His actions only gave me a sore back, but I eventually caught my breath and thanked the man anyway.
After I gathered myself and got resettled in my booth, the pretty waitress threw me a wry smile and said, “you all right there?”
Her innocent four-word question nearly brought tears to my eyes. It was one of the only times a woman had ever expressed concern for my well-being.
I must’ve asked her 20 questions about the omelet in a pathetic attempt to prolong our time together. By the time I’d finished my meal, I was hooked, and left a $100 tip.
As soon as I got home, I signed up for multiple social media accounts and followed Janie on all platforms. It was clear from the photos she’d posted that she preferred black guys, but that didn’t matter to me because I was obsessed, and harbored a ridiculous fantasy that I somehow might be able to win her over.
Betty’s Diner became my hangout spot. Whenever Janie would see me skulk into the restaurant, she’d flash her little smirk that made it clear that she knew I had a massive crush on her, while also signaling that she thought I was a creep. That didn’t stop me from trying to make conversation, although she usually responded to my efforts with an eye-roll and contemptuous lip-smack.
I remember the exact moment when her attitude changed. I was sitting in my usual booth, going over tax documents when she brought my order and peeked over my shoulder.
She squinted. “What’s that?”
I was shocked that she was initiating a discussion with me, and had to lick my lips a few times before being able to formulate words.
“Um, it’s my W-2. Uh, taxes.”
She poured more coffee. “Dang, you make four hundred and thirty thou a year?”
“Um, yeah.” I cleared my throat. “Yes.”
The glint in her eye was shaped like a dollar sign.
The next time I came to the restaurant, Janie asked me out for a drink, and I almost choked again. Of course, I accepted. Like a chump.
While we were at the bar she’d chosen, she mentioned that she was behind on her rent and didn’t know where she was going to get the money. It was an obvious hint, but I took the bait and offered to pay. That got me a thank-you, but no good-night kiss. In fact, I didn’t even get a “good-night” — for most of our date, she texted with someone while I sat across the table playing with my napkin, and after she finally pulled her face out of her phone, she told me that “a friend” was coming to the bar to drive her home, and suggested that we cut our date short.
At that point, I would’ve agreed to anything she said, and although I wasn’t happy about the turn of events, I thanked her for a wonderful time and left my first-ever date with a smile on my chubby face.
My buoyant mood deflated when I checked my cellphone a few hours later and saw that Janie had posted an Instagram photo shortly after I’d left the bar that showed her nestled in the arms of some muscular black dude in the same booth we’d just occupied.
For the rest of the night, I lay in bed looking at that rotten picture. If I wasn’t crying about it, I was jacking off to it.
The next day, I paid Janie’s rent — six months in advance.
It wasn’t long before I was paying all her bills. I was a sugar daddy who hadn’t even gotten to first base yet, while she enjoyed lots of sex with her black guys, if her social media feed was any indication. Of course, I never asked her about all the other men in her life. It wasn’t my place.
Our relationship took a drastic turn one night when Janie started badgering me about whether I masturbated to her pictures.
“Let’s see which ones you got on your phone,” she said, snatching my Galaxy from my hands. After thumbing through my photo gallery, her face twisted up and her nose crinkled.
“What the fuck is this shit?” She held the screen toward me, showing a photo of a leather-clad dominatrix pegging a prone man with a huge, black strap-on.
Since I was caught, I had no choice but to confess my femdom fantasies. Janie seized on the opportunity.
“Kneel your ugly ass down,” she said.
With a beating heart, I obeyed. Out of nowhere, her hand slashed forward, striking my face with surprising force.
“Now thank me.” She stood over me with her hands on her hips.
“Thank you.”
“Say, ‘thank you, Mistress,’ you ugly little fucking toad.”
“T-thank you, Mistress.”
“If you like this kind of shit, I’m gonna give it to you. In spades. You hear me, toad?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
In response, she slapped me again. Then, she spit in my face.
“Now that I don’t have to hide it, I can tell you the truth — you are one ugly little fucking toad, you know that? There’s nothing about you I find attractive.”
I bowed my head. “I … I know.”
She spit in my face again. “Fucking toad.”
With that, my fate was sealed. Todd, the name given to me by some social worker because my birth mother hadn’t bothered to name me, was gone. I would forevermore be known as toad.
The following day, Janie informed me we that were going to get married at the Justice of the Peace so she could quit her waitress job and have access to my primo health benefits. While I knew she was marrying me strictly for my money, I was over the moon and floated into her web with my eyes wide open.
Our “marriage” was never consummated. My wife didn’t dress in leather, nor did she ever peg me. She basically ignored me, other than barking orders or insulting me when she got *****. If I did something to piss her off, she’d either yell at me or slap me, although if I really made her mad, she might kick me in the nuts. That was about as far as she went toward fulfilling my femdom fantasies, although I knew she wasn’t doing it for my sake. Meanwhile, she continued dating while I stayed at home like a good little cuck and financed her lifestyle.
Within a year, Janie met Omar and my life fell completely off the rails. The man had an imposing presence due to his giant, muscular frame and confident authority, and he scared the shit out of me. Everything moved at warp speed once he started dating my wife, and the next thing I knew he was coming over regularly to fuck her. In the blink of an eye, he’d moved in with us and assumed the role of man of the house.
Shortly after that, my wife’s sexy sister moved in and we became a foursome — or, rather, they became a threesome with an ugly little toad who served them and paid the bills. My three masters fed off each other’s cruelty, and the meaner they treated me the more turned on they got.
As had been the case in the McMurtry home so many years earlier, I found myself being constantly tortured by two females. Presiding over the abuse from his perch on the throne was King Omar, the head of our household and the man I called Master.
^^^^^^^^^
The bathroom was a total mess as usual. Seven towels were scattered across the floor. Toiletries were left open on the sink. There was piss in the toilet and nearby tiles. Water had been splashed everywhere.
It was a Sunday, so I couldn’t escape to the office, and I knew I’d be forced to spend all day with my tormenters if they chose to stay home. I cleaned the bathroom with a pounding heart, praying that my masters had better things to do than to hang around the house abusing me …
- Previous page: Toad Chapter 4
