Our slave is such a dick. I thought the purpose of being someone’s personal servant was to constantly be at their beck and call. Apparently not. Our slave seems to think it’s totally fine to have this other “life” where he goes to this so-called “job” and has all these so-called “friends.” The little shit hasn’t been here in nearly two weeks! Who the fuck does he think he is?
For as mentally disturbed as you’d imagine a sadomasochist with a fetish for licking toilet scum to be, the slave is actually pretty normal--nice even. He’s about thirty, from Nepal, works as a lawyer and goes to the gym in his free time. One time he even said something mildly funny. I can’t remember what it was exactly, but I remember thinking, Wow, the slave just said something mildly funny. Seriously, if you saw him on the street, you’d never guess he’s the type of guy who gets a massive, throbbing erection from being forced to scrub plates full of mold while being whipped repeatedly by a phone charger.
However, though it seems wildly impossible, since acquiring our servant Squallyoaks has gotten even more repulsive. It’s the curse of having someone wait on you hand and foot–you loose all sense of responsibility (not that we had much to begin with). We’re all trapped in this weird mindset where it doesn’t matter how much mess we make, how many windows we smash or how much puke accidentally misses the toilet bowl and lands on the bathroom floor, because, Fuck it. The slave will sort it out. Which would be fine, if the fucking slave actually got his slave ass over here and did some fucking cleaning. But apparently the pathetic piece of human garbage has better things to do. I could kill him.