Daily

Weekdays and evenings, he was King Wainsneedle, making decisions of state and hosting social events in the castle. His mask never slipped, and he was as strong and calm as Tyron. Tyron would be there, always behind him, providing support as only Tyron could.

Weekends, he was Humperdinck. Weekends brought Tyron's hands, damp soothing cloths, and the wet stroke of Tyron's tongue across his aching cock. Weekends meant laughing at Tyron's dry wit, hearing Tyron's smooth voice reading aloud to him. Weekends were for the making love, lying sweaty, panting and sated beneath the man he loved.

Weeknights, he was nothing. Weeknights meant time in the pit, strapped to Master's latest device, detailing his emotions and pain at a word from his Master. Weeknights were tears and defeat and debasement and pain and release. he didn't have to put on a mask in the pit. he just had to be. Master would have been disappointed with anything less than absolute honesty, and he sank into despair at the thought of displeasing his Master. he loved his Master too much, and lived for the rare moments his Master's face relaxed into soft smile or slight smirk. Weeknights, he was nothing but pain and a voice, a tool Master used, and nothing more. his value lay only in his ability to take whatever Master doled out.

He was never sure if he liked weeknights or weekends best.