The oven beeps and I open the door. I poke the potatoes and check that they're done. The ribs still need a little more time: I brush them with a bit more sauce and let them finish with the residual heat. No need for me to be on top of it, dinner is almost ready.

I check the time: my Owner is about to arrive. I take off my apron and that leaves me naked. I'm always naked, except in the kitchen, it's one of His rules. I take a quick walk around the house. I straighten the bedsheets a bit, place a couple of cushions, make sure everything is in order. My duty is to ensure His house is perfect and few things give me more pleasure.

At the entrance, I check my appearance. I am also one of his possessions, so I have to be perfect. I'm slim and fit, the result of a strict exercise routine I follow religiously. In my butt, I have a jeweled plug that I put in every afternoon after the corresponding cleaning. In the front, hang my swollen balls and a tiny cock, barely a pinky finger in a resting state. I'm completely shaved, thanks to laser. I look like what I am: a 22-year-old boy, immaculate, pure.

I position myself at the entrance on all fours, with my butt raised and kissing the floor. I estimate there are about 15 or 20 minutes left before He arrives. Not only do I enjoy waiting for Him on the floor, it's another of His orders. The thought of Him arriving and me not waiting for Him terrifies me; I don't want to disappoint Him. Those moments of silence on the floor allow me to reorder my thoughts and calm down.

I hear noise outside. Again, I start to get nervous. He's about to arrive. The sound of a conversation filters in as He opens the door. I only hear the last part:

—...a man like you deserves a good woman to accompany him —says one of the elderly neighbors across the street, whose voice I recognize.

—Thank you for your attention, Madam, but I have everything I need. Good night —says Ricardo, He, my Owner.

Just hearing Him already gets me excited even though I haven't seen Him because I'm still with my head resting on the floor. He closes the door and I hear two steps approaching me, a sign that it's my turn. He stops and His shoes come into my field of vision. I devoutly kiss each of them, then I lift my head, look at Him, and say:

—Good evening, Master.

—Good evening, slut.

A shiver of pleasure always runs through me when He calls me that. I have little time, but I still allow myself to glance at Him. He's 50 years old, more than double my age. Perfectly trimmed beard, a rugged, tough face, but with soft cheeks occasionally showing a mocking smile. He towers over me about twenty centimeters and fifty kilos. The suit covers him up well, but it suits him. Underneath, I know there are strong legs, a prominent belly, and a lot of hair. Despite his weight, he is rather burly, and his size gives him a self-assuredness that I find so attractive...