Your wish is my command

You need a blow job, my Master?
Today?
At noon?
With my house commandeered by workmen?

Of course, Sir.
No problem.
No arguments.
No sputtering as to how this could be potentially embarrassing.

Our motto:
You swell.
We suck.

I admit, that makes me sound much more blasé about the matter than I really was. Here are these 2 guys, with whom of course I've become friendly (no, you nasty people, not that friendly!), who've been spending hours and days in my house, re-doing the basement bathroom along with related projects, and I have to tell them... well, I said that for an hour or so I'd be home but not available to answer questions or anything. Of course 5 minutes before the sadist is due, one of the guys is out front asking if the electric outlet in my non-functioning outdoor light gets power. Quickly, I answer and remind him that I won't be available for the next hour or so and then disappear back inside.

I text my Master a warning that one of the guys is out front.
The sadist doesn't care.
Not one bit.

By the time he arrives, both guys are out there in the disgustingly thick hot air, hanging out, drinking water, eating lunch, and (one of them, cutting back) smoking half a cigarette. My Master strides up the walk as if he owns the place. Which, in a manner of speaking, he does, since he owns me and I own the house.

I am very grateful that he gave me permission to greet him clothed. With plain white bra and panties under my little jumper over a pale green t-shirt. Flat Mary Jane shoes.

He said I looked around nine.

Sometimes, you just have to do your job.
Not matter what the working conditions.

Anyway, when you're a slave, there's no negotiating.
You do as you're told.
Which I did.

He left here feeling a whole lot better.
And that's all that matters.