coffee

Every morning — and I mean every morning — at 7:30, I am to have coffee brewed and a tray prepared with mugs, milk, and sugar, ready to be served to Master Michael as he begins his day. I have done this for almost two years now, each and every morning, and I’m hard pressed to remember a day when I didn’t have coffee ready for him at 7:30 am.

(Well, there have been days when I’ve been visiting family. There are also days when Master is traveling — sometimes he takes me, sometimes not — but even when he’s away, I still am prepared with coffee at 7:30 am, even if the only coffee drinker is me. I am afraid of what would happen if I get out of the habit.)

Master loves his coffee, is quite the connoisseur, and it took me many days to learn how to make the coffee to his liking, much of that time spent in learning the precise grind of coffee beans and the delicate balance of the elements of the Dutch-made Techniform coffeemaker that is his pride and joy. In my virgin month of his possession of me, I endured many frowns and scowls from him upon first sip, and at one point I felt that my whole submissive life was falling apart because he was a Techniform guy and I was a Mr. Coffee gal.

I’m not a good cook either, but that’s another story.

The other aspect of the coffee ritual is that it isn’t just presenting to Master Michael the perfect cup of coffee. It is also presenting to him moi, his slave girl, his piece of human property, his hopelessly devoted Shae. If his cup of coffee is grade A, and his D cups of Shae are rightly presented, then all is good for the start of his day.

I’ll need to write separately about Master’s fashion sensibilities for me. He actually gets help from a woman who works for him, but he himself is a fashion plate, and has ideas of his own. One of his likes for me is a 50s retro look. And often this is what he prefers first thing in the morning. Not always, but maybe a couple times each week.

When Master first took possession of me, in those first days I felt a little ridiculous wearing a vintage-style, button-down-the-front, tight-waisted shirt dress with high heels, looking fully the part of June Cleaver from “Leave It to Beaver.” Master would sit in the great room, and I’d bring in the tray, leaning over as I poured the perfect cup of coffee, my breasts rolling forward against the bodice of my dress, which never happened to June Cleaver because she was bound underneath by an industrial-strength bra. (You see, bondage is nothing new.)

But Master never laughed at me in that outfit, he liked. And I liked the retro look too after a while. I now have four fifties-style shirt dresses in my closet. Barbara Billingsley would be envious.

Sometimes Master reads the paper as he sips his coffee. Sometimes he talks with me. I always stand until he tells me I can sit, and then wait until he opens a conversation with me. Other times during the day and evening are not so defined or formal, but he likes at the opening of his day for everything to be in order and in place. Including his slave.

And, for the record, I love this shit.

For me, the challenge of having coffee ready for him at 7:30 each morning is the nature of my night before. If I’m strapped to the bondage horse until two a.m., then 7:30 comes too quickly. But I set alarms, and I make the Techniform happen, and I present the coffee to Master Michael with comments about what I “whipped up” for him and how it was a “stroke” of good luck that I “beat” my 7:30 deadline.

Master smiles, enjoying my humor (thank god), and knowing my ass beneath that cotton shirt dress is beautifully striped and smarting.

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