It’s laundry day. The sun is high, and the courtyard is full of sheets billowing like sails. My hands are raw from the lye soap, the scent clinging to my skin. I used to hate it—the harshness, the reminder of labor. Now, the sting is a promise. I think of the marks left on these linens, the stains I’ll later scrub away in private. Some are wine, some are mud… and some are the evidence of my Master’s pleasure, soaked into the fabric from when he used my mouth or my cunt right here, muffling my cries against the cotton. He likes the risk, the chance of being seen. I like being his secret, his dirty little whore in broad daylight. The soap doesn’t just clean; it consecrates. Every ache in my hands is a prayer. Every stain I remove is a sacrament only I understand. My pussy is throbbing just writing this, slick with the memory of his cock and the anticipation of the next time he decides to ruin a perfectly clean sheet with me.