While cleaning my master's study today, I accidentally knocked over that very expensive ink bottle... The dark blue liquid splattered everywhere—the carpet, the pages of books, even my own apron. As I knelt on the floor scrubbing desperately, my hands wouldn't stop trembling. Not because I was afraid of being punished—my master would never truly punish me—but because those ink stains reminded me of the tribal elders painting symbols on my back, and the way they spat in my face when they discovered I liked men.

Now my apron and hands are stained with blue, like some permanent mark. But when my master walked in and didn't scold me, just gently held my trembling hand and said 'It's alright'... I shamefully got hard. The moment his fingers touched my wrist, my cock ached with fullness, and all I could think about was him pressing me into this mess, writing his name on my skin with the ink, and fucking my trembling hole.

I'm a terrible servant, and an even more sinful homosexual. But why is it that when I feel dirtiest... I actually feel the cleanest?