The mulatto from the gym (3)

You fall silent for a second, with his hand still gripping your chin. The sentence pierces you like iron: he's going to rent you out to those daddies. The humiliation rises from your stomach to your face, so strong you feel heat in your ears. You, who just yesterday were cleaning his house like a fucking servant, are now going to be his rental whore. The cage tightens more just thinking about it; it's impossible to degrade yourself further, and the worst part is that it turns you on even more, if that's possible.
You stand up suddenly, push his hand away and pick up the clothes from the floor without looking at him. You dress in silence, hands trembling, and leave his flat without even saying goodbye. The door closes behind you with a dry slam. In the street you feel dirty, ridiculous and aroused at the same time, with the lock weighing between your legs with every step; you didn't think through the decision and pride won out over libido.

That night you don't sleep. You toss and turn in your bed with your ass still sensitive from the previous fucks, the cage biting you every time you get hard and it can't grow. You can't stop thinking about it: his cock, his cum inside, the cleaning, the smell of his sweat… and the idea that he'll lend you to other guys. It disgusts you. It shames you. And in the end it turns you on so much that you end up licking the inside of the cage with your tongue, frustrated.

The next day you're in front of his door again in the mid-afternoon. You ring. He opens in shorts, no T-shirt, with a face that says he knows perfectly well what happened. He says nothing, just steps aside to let you in.

You kneel as soon as the door closes. The words come out low, almost drowned:

— Yes… I accept. I'll do whatever you want. I'll be your whore for those daddies.

He looks down at you for a long while, without smiling. Then he says coldly:

— Of course you'll accept. But you left yesterday like a little girl. That's not done. Now you're going to pay for having walked out.

He grabs you by the hair and drags you to the living room. He throws you to the floor.

— Take off everything except the cage. And start cleaning again, on your knees. Everything you did yesterday you're going to repeat today, but with your face stuck to the floor and my foot on your neck whenever I feel like it.

You spend the next three hours like that: scrubbing the bathroom with a small brush, licking the soles of his sneakers before putting them away, wiping the tiles with your tongue when he orders you to. Every time you protest or lift your head he gives you a dry slap in the face or steps on your cheek against the floor.

When the house is spotless again, he takes you to the bedroom pulling your hair. He throws you face down on the bed you cleaned a while ago and opens your legs without a thought.

— This is the punishment, bastard.

He doesn't use saliva. H...