Three days to go. When I woke up it was the first thought that popped into my head. So much had happened in four days, it felt like I’d been here a year. Yet I only had three days to go. The thought was like an anvil to my head, making all my thoughts heavy, dragging me down into despair.

He woke me, he fed me, he watched me pee, he bathed me, he made all my decisions for me.

He chose what I should wear, he chose what I ate, he chose what time I went to bed, what time I got up. It was bliss.

I never thought I’d want someone telling me what to do to such an extreme extent but the truth of the matter was that it felt liberating. Making decisions is a sign of being an adult.

When you’re younger, someone else makes all your choices for you, all you can do is go along with it. You get what you’re given, the stock phrase when raising a child.

But as an adult, you’re expected to decide everything. It’s supposed to be liberating and it is in many ways.

But it’s also draining. It’s tiring. It’s hard work making decisions. It’s even harder when most of the decisions you make are wrong. Look at me, at my life. I was penniless, about to be homeless, I’m no great example of decision making.

Then along comes someone who wrestles that away from me, snatches it and says don’t worry, I’ll do that for you.

It was like a weight off my shoulders when he did that. At first, I rebelled against it, I didn’t like being trapped with him, being told what to do.

But in just a few short days, I had realised exactly what he’d done for me. He’d freed me. He’d freed me from the person I thought I was, he’d shown me who I really was. He’d told me it was okay to want sex, to want to submit, to want to be spanked, to want to be bathed and worshipped and touched as tenderly as you would the petals of a rose.

I was barely awake before he was in the room. My heart soared at the sight of him even as the voice in my head continued to count down. Three days to go. Three more days of him being the first person I saw, of kneeling in the middle of the bed and presenting myself for him as he brought me to orgasm.

Starting each day with his hand on my pussy was wonderful. But it was nothing to the feeling of him taking me through to the bathroom and fucking me in front of the mirror.

I looked up and saw me and him reflected back at me, unsure if I was dreaming. This most handsome man was fucking me, his face a wild picture of lust at the sight of my ass, his hands gripping me in place, his cock buried inside me.

Three days to go.

I wanted this to go on forever. I didn’t want it to end. I didn’t want to have to leave him and return to my ordinary life. Even with the money he had promised me, it would be an ordinary life.

I’d never find anyone else like him, someone so confident, so sure of themselves. Or so I thought.

He teased me towards orgasm using just his hand as I knelt on the bed but just as I was about to come, he stopped, driving me wild in the way I was already getting used to.

He led me into the bathroom, bending me over in front of the mirror, his expression hungry as he looked at my ass.

I got to see his face as he slipped his cock into me, and the sight filled me with joy. He looked happy.

I pushed back onto him, loving the feel of him stretching me, hoping he would let me come, not tease me and then stop as he did so often.

He was fast and hard, slamming into me until I could barely catch a breath. My legs turned to jelly as my climax approached. Another few seconds and it would reach me.

I didn’t get chance. He grunted, his cock twitching in my pussy. It was just as he came inside me that his expression changed. He suddenly looked sad. I was about to ask if I’d done something wrong but the words died on my lips. He was already gone.

His cum was still inside me, my pussy was tingling, my clit throbbing and on the verge of orgasm but he’d vanished.

I got myself upright, ignoring the need of my body for a climax as my legs rubbed together. I walked to my bedroom, picked up the white dress and slipped into it, stepping out onto the landing and listening to see if I could hear him.

He’d never explicitly told me I could move without his say so. But neither had he told me I had to stay where he left me.

I heard something downstairs so I followed the noise. He was sitting alone in a study, his chair facing the window. On the desk behind him was a metal box, the contents spread across the space. I could see a letter and a photo of a woman amongst other papers.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, taking a step towards him.

He spun round, scooping up the papers and cramming them back in the box. “What are you doing down here?” he snapped. “Get out of here.”

“No,” I replied, taking another step towards him. “Something’s wrong and I’m worried about you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me. What could possibly be wrong with me?”

“You look sad.”

“I…” His voice faded away and it was as if something inside him snapped. His shoulders sagged, his chest deflated, his eyebrows fell, the colour drained from his cheeks. “Get out.” His voice was nothing more than a whisper.

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong,” I said, sinking into the chair on my side of the desk.

“You’ll be naked in the empty room for the rest of your stay if you don’t get out of here.” There was no strength to his words. It was like he was a different person to the one I knew.

I leant forwards in the chair, reaching across the desk. “Talk to me, Ethan.”