A bitch’s happy Sunday.

Some people can’t live without drugs or alcohol; my addiction is something else. I have a shitty job, no friends, and no contact with my family—I’m just a dirty, masochistic faggot.

I spend the miserable pittance I earn on weed—weed I don’t even smoke.

There are some guys in the dirty, run-down neighborhood where I live who know exactly how to get my weed. On the only day I don’t work—Sunday—I head to a vacant lot to meet them.

I don’t know their names, and they don’t know mine; they just call me "Bitch."

When they arrive, I offer up my wrists for them to tie, and then they gag me. They rip off my clothes and take the weed from my pockets.

They spend the whole Sunday there, drinking and smoking, chatting among themselves, talking shit, and busting each other’s balls.

I’m nothing more than a dirty, aging faggot—tied up and naked—whom they use all day long. They beat me, kick me, punch me, and slap me. They piss on me—piss on my face and into my mouth.

I suck their cocks; some of them get a kick out of making me choke and gag by ramming their cocks deep into my throat.

Their cocks are big, thick, and filthy, but I suck them with devotion and professional skill. My only food on Sundays is their sperm.

The gag makes it clear that I am not to say a word; I am merely an object for them to use. I cry and moan in desperation when the pain becomes nearly unbearable. The gag, along with my bound wrists and feet, ensures their amusement.

They notice my cock, hard with arousal from all the pain and humiliation. They know what a bitch I am; they know how to make me tremble with lust and pleasure, but they also know how to keep me right on the edge—without letting me cum. They shove things—dildos and old plugs—into my ass. Some of them, to my delight, even fuck me with brutality and contempt while they talk.

They tie off my balls and the base of my hard cock—so tight that I can’t reach climax.

They bring quince branches and whips to lash me with. They bring pliers to pinch my nipples, my cock, and my balls. They put out their cigarettes by burning the parts they pinch with their pliers.

I usually arrive at the lot before lunchtime—on an empty stomach, so I don’t feel the urge to vomit—having already performed an enema, my pockets stuffed with their weed.

They arrive gradually throughout the day, each on their own schedule. They take turns, gathering in varying numbers around the naked, bound "bitch" lying there on the filthy ground.

This is the happiest day of my week. I spend all the other days waiting to be in this place, serving as their entertainment and their bitch.