Sundays

Each Sunday morning, before getting ready to leave for Mass, I go down to the long-term punishment room −where each slave spends not less than one week purging a surely well-deserved sentence− and, picking out one at random, I grant it pardon. You should see the doggish expression of infinite gratitude in the poor thing's eyes, as my foreslave removes the anal hook, and the shackels and chains! Naturally, unless I command so, the slave is not allowed to say a single word of thanks in my presence, but I permit it to lick my boots for a couple of minutes while I practise my best grimace of contemption. Then, with a little admonition kick to its ass or balls, I just quit the room.