Here is my story to the seven deadly sentences. I hope you like it.




Mrs. Proper

By Satan_Klaus

*note: 'Mr. Proper' is the continental European equivalent to 'Mr. Clean' (Meister Proper in Germany)*


I thought that going 24/7 would mean things would never get dull. I was wrong: Routine waters down everything

Our relationship has reached a point where we need to start something new, take things to the next level so that we both can grow. But where to start? It was always him who introduced the new games, the new rules.



I enter his room and kneel by his side, my eyes cast down. There are dust bunnies frolicking under his desk, hiding in the Gordian knot of cables. And, like their namesakes, they are proliferating rapidly. I run a tight ship, but here, there is nothing I can do. When I moved in, he made it very clear that I could do what I wanted with our home, but his room was to be his alone. Everything in his home office is simple and practical. There is not a single speck of color and, safe for a small portrait shot of me, there are no pictures.

His hand moves under my chin, pulling my gaze up to meet his. My eyes light up and I smile up at him. It still feels good, feels right to be his.

“What is it, slut?” He asks, pronouncing the epithet softly, like a compliment. “Something on your mind?”

“Dinner will be ready soon, master.” My gaze is involuntarily drawn to the teetering stacks of papers and CD’s that clutter his table. There is not a single square inch of free space anywhere. “And, uh, would you mind tidying up your room once in a while?” I have hit a raw nerve, and I know it.

“I’m doing it occasionally. It’s not a pigsty, okay? Besides, wise people make order, a genius rules the chaos.” His usual reply. But somehow I feel like fighting today.

“Modest expectations can be met with modest means, more likely.” This is bound to provoke a reaction from the man who once told me that he would never force me to do anything with my life, only to force me to do the things that I started properly or not at all.

“You know what my father always told me: A good engineer is a lazy engineer. And he was right. Do you know how many of my programs started as a quick hack to save me some work?”

“So innovation is the drive to work hard to be lazy?”

“Duly noted. Good engineering is always about efficiency.”

“So if necessity is the mother of invention, then sloth is the mother of efficiency? Tell me, how far are you willing to go with your apologia for laziness?” I’ve got him on the defensive, but it won’t last.

“As far as it takes to get you off my back. Being lazy has done me a lot of good: Got me through college and university, landed me a job as a developer. Being lazy is paying my bills, and yours by the way.”

“You always think about yourself and never about others! What about the munch you promised to host? It’s been three weeks already and you haven’t even fixed a date yet! I think being lazy means enjoying yourself on someone else's expense!”

“And I think you are forgetting yourself, slave!” His voice has acquired a hard edge. “I’m not noncommittal because I’m lazy; I’m noncommittal because I take my duties seriously. YOU of all people should know that!” He gets up and gestures me to do the same. “We are finished here, slave. Let’s have dinner while we are still civilized.”


Dinner is uneventful, unnervingly so, and I’m getting restless on my pillow by his side. If he says nothing, does nothing, it means I have crossed a line and he is gathering his thoughts on what to do next. What to do with me. It may take a day, or even a week, but there is something coming my way.


************************************************** ****************


Master’s home office is slowly shaping up. For the first time in years, there are no PC parts scattered around on the floor and the books and CD’s are slowly finding a home in the cabinet.

I hesitate as I feel the cold leather of the crop tapping my inner thighs.

“That one goes over there to the drive utilities.”

I move across the room with dainty little steps, my stride constrained by the hobble chain. Fumbling around with the drawers, I just can’t find the right place for the disk in my hand. It’s so damn difficult to do anything with your hands chained to your nipples.

“2nd row, left drawer.” The bastard has not even bothered to get up but has followed me on his wheeled office chair. As soon as I bend over, he lets me feel the crop in earnest and I draw in my breath sharply as the pain is spreading across my bum. “And be quick about it, slut!

“Sorry master, I’m trying, master!” I mumble. As expected, cleaning up his office is a lot of work. I have been at it all morning and I’m slowly wearing out.

“I’m not expecting you to try!” He says, letting me taste the crop again. “I’m expecting you to do it!”

“Yes master!” I say, trying to be tough but when I turn around, there are tears forming in my eyes. With a gesture from him I kneel by his side and he smoothes down my silly French maid uniform.

“Exhausted?” He asks smugly. “Or just lazy?” I’m in no position to appreciate his humor so I just kneel there, slightly wavering. He grabs my hair and roughly pulls back my head. “I asked you a question, slut!”

“I…I…” I stammer but he cuts me off.

“Just joking, little one.” He smiles down at me and pets my head, wiping the tears from my eyes. It feels really good to just kneel there in his arms. Somehow I’m so much more receptive to his caress if he has been mean to me. The pain is quickly fading and I feel protected. Protected and loved.

“Remember I told you that I would see to it that you finished what you started? Well, I’m a man of my word, so you are not getting out of this uniform until this house is sparkling like a Mr. Proper commercial, even if it takes a week.” I cringe at his words, but as his hand moves lower and grasps my neck gently but firmly, his control over me feels wonderful.

“Thank you master!” I say, and strangely, I mean it.

He smiles down at me affectionately but I know those eyes of his. They are hiding something. “Like you always say, procrastinating is not going to save you any work. But being tired is something else entirely; a tired slave is no fun. If you want a quiet moment, you better take it now. We are expecting guests.”

Does he expect me to host a party dressed like that? Serve at the table maybe? I shudder.

It is a good shudder.