bath

I’ve been given permission by my mistress to post this. It happened on Tuesday evening a few weeks ago, two days after I’d moved in with my new owners.

 

Last night around ten, she says, “I’m going to teach you how to bathe me.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

She stands from her chair, reaches out her hand to take mine. She leads me, holding my hand, down the long hall and past the green room, through her bedroom into a long, spacious bathroom. In the middle is a to-die-for standalone clawfoot bathtub. Not an actual antique, but one of the newer ones that looks antique. It’s actually a soaking tub, with one end taller, like a chaise lounge.

There’s a short stool on wheels. She sits me there, and starts the water, waiting for the right temp. “Feel that,” she says. “Learn it. That’s how I like it.”

It feels too hot to me. I’m not sure how to memorize the feeling of a temperature.

“Now, three capfuls of the bath soap from the bath box below.”

Mistress Amanda disappears into her bedroom, and I hear her rustling around back in the walk-in closet. She soon reappears wrapped in a white terry robe. “I’m going to train you to be my handmaid,” she is saying. “You will bathe me and dress me, sometimes do my hair and makeup. I will teach you.”

“Yes, Mistress,” I say. This is real different.

“Help me with my bathrobe.”

I stand and step behind her. She pulls the robe from her shoulders and I catch it as it undrapes from her body. “There’s a hook behind the door,” she says.

I walk to the door, hang up the bathrobe, turn back toward her. I stop. Nude, bent over at the waist, Mistress Amanda is testing the water with her hand, her full breasts hanging.

She is a Degas painting.

She has a vintage body — not in the sense of physical age — but in how it echoes the look and style of an earlier time when women were shapely and flesh-figured.

She catches me staring. “I know you’ve seen a naked woman before, Shae. What is it?”

I pause, flustered, searching for words. “I think I’m just happy to see you,” I say, butchering the punchline of a worn-out joke.

But she laughs. Smiles. She has a sense of humor. Maybe more to the point, she enjoys my sense of humor. “Come here. Feel the water.”

I do.

“It’ll take some practice, but you’ll get the water right for me. I’ll tell you to draw a bath, and when I come in, I’ll expect the tub to be filled, at about this temp.”

“OK.”

“Now, when you bathe me, you’ll need to be dressed properly. There’s a bath skirt in the linen closet. That’s mine, but we’ll get you another this week. Take off your clothes and put that on.”

“And on top?”

“Nothing,” she says. She sees a faint reaction in my face, and adds, “Yes, I’m happy to see you too, but the point is purely practical. As you bathe me, you’ll get soaked on top. Better to be topless.”

I hunt down the bath skirt, strip out of my dress, and wrap the terrycloth around my waist.

She eyes me as I turn back toward her. I know this may be a test — how do I respond when she gazes at me? I do nothing to cover up my breasts or become fussy with my hands or stance. I stand casually with my hands by my side, submitting my body to her view.

“Better,” she finally says. She steps into the tub, sits, and leans back. “Now sit on the stool, and slide up alongside me. Let me teach you.”

Mistress Amanda talks to me about folding her hair up in back into a bun. Sometimes I’ll wash her hair, but not today. There is a soft sponge I am to use on her body, along with another body soap, and she instructs me on the amount to apply and then the circular motions she wants me to scrub her skin with.

I scoot my stool behind her, to the head of the tub. I fold her hair up and pin it. I start with the sponge over her shoulders.

“Sometimes I’ll not want to talk,” she says. “I may read or close my eyes, and doze. I may talk on the phone with work. Today, I’ll talk with you.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“OK, and about that. Already I’m re-thinking what I said to you yesterday about how you address me. I like hearing you say ‘mistress’ when we’re around others. But when we are alone, together, like this, it seems too formal. You’re a woman of words. What do you think?”

My response is perhaps too quick and comes out jokingly: “I think I should call you ‘goddess.’”

She laughs. “You have quite a sense of humor.”

“Uh-huh. And it gets me in trouble.”

“Well, I like it. How does it get you in trouble?”

“I blurt out things that seem funny to me, but sometimes are not appropriate.”

“Ah… Well, I think you should feel free to be yourself.”

“Thank you, but you may want to wait to see what that means.”

“I’ll risk it. ‘Goddess.” Throw that in sometimes, for fun. But when we’re like this, you should just call me Amanda. You know your place, and I know your place, and it seems forced for you to call me Mistress when it’s just us. Is that too confusing — when and where to address someone in various ways?”

“I can navigate that.”

“Good.”

She leans forward for me to do her back. I move the sponge in small circles over her shoulder blades. She tells me I can press a bit harder. The sponge is soft enough that it does a pretty good job of exfoliating, but only with sufficient pressure.

“Amanda,” I say, testing my new permission. “May I ask a question?”

“Yes, you may.”

“I don’t mean to pry into things that are not my business, but it seems you and Master K each want me for different things.”

With the sponge I move down her spine and make circles along her sides. My breasts press into her back as I reach down under the water to her hips. “How am I doing?” I ask.

“Good. Though you can still press harder.”

I do so, and she sighs. “There, you have it now…”

“It just seems,” I say, “that I am to fulfill different purposes for each of you.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Just trying to figure out what those are. I want to do well.”

“You’re right. We are different in what we want from you. But I think it best that you discover most of that yourself. We don’t want you anticipating, trying to be something you think we want.”

“I get that… Thank you.”

“Kevin wants a girl he can subjugate sexually, over and over. That could be any girl, but you excite him.”

“And you?” I ask.

“I didn’t want just any girl. I wanted you.”

Her words make me pause briefly, but I quickly resume my bathing of her. Her words are mysterious and in some way wonderful. “Thank you,” I say finally. I sponge down her back in a broad sweep top to bottom. “I think I’m done here.”

“OK,” Amanda says, leaning back. “Now do my front. Slightly less pressure, of course, on the tender parts.”

“Your face?”

“I don’t use these soaps on my face. We’ll do that in a makeup session.”

“OK.” I scoot my rolling stool closer in to the head of the tub, squirt some soap onto the sponge, and start circular motions across her upper chest and up across her neck. My breasts hang down against the sides of her face, at times flattening against her hair or ears.

She closes her eyes.

Time feels slow to me, like I’m living in a poem. I am utterly relaxed with her, and I adore doing this, the work of making a beautiful woman glow.

My sponge moves down to her breasts, and I make slow circles on each with a lighter touch.

“Make sure you get underneath,” she says in a half-whisper.

I gently lift her right breast and slide the sponge under along the crease. Her breast overflows my hand and is slippery, falling back into place in a plopping jiggle.

She says nothing, eyes closed, her hands on either side under water. She is allowing me full access to her body.

I attend to her other breast, leaning over her reclined head. It’s a pale, almost translucent, creamy pink, with a short blue vein meandering along one side. She sighs. Her nipples have engorged and hardened.

She says, “You like doing this.” Her eyes are closed. It’s not really a question.

“I do,” I reply.

I stand from my seat and lean farther over, my breasts dangling in front of her face. I soap the sponge, reach down and scrub her midriff and tummy. She is a little fleshy there, a thin fold atop her wide hips, the amplitude of her vintage beauty.

“At this point add more hot water,” she says. Amanda pulls her feet forward, her knees rising up above the surface.

I scoot to the opposite end of the tub and run some more hot water, testing the temp as it pours out.

“Now — do my legs the same way.”

I position myself along the right side of the tub, soap my sponge, and attend to her right foot and ankle and calf.

Just then a phone rings. It’s distant, in the bedroom.

“That’s my cell,” Amanda says. “Go get it for me, Shae. It’ll be on the dresser.”

I stand, and quickly dry my hands on a towel, then fetch the cell phone and bring it to

Amanda. She starts talking into it, business.

I get back to sponging Amanda’s legs. She has smooth skin, shapely calves and somewhat fleshly thighs. I scoot my rolling stool to the opposite side of the tub to do her other side. I repeat my administrations to her left leg.

Amanda hangs up about the time I finish. “Tatiana,” she said. “I’ll have her meet you sometime.”

I nod. “I think I’m done.”

“Almost,” she says. “You need to do my pussy, and I’ll tell you how.”

“Oh. OK.”

Amanda pulls herself out of the tub, water rushing down her body. She sits on the rim of the tub, longways, on the left side. She spreads her legs. “Grab one of the washcloths by the sink. Then come over here, behind me.”

I do so, rolling my stool to that side. She tells me to run the faucet with medium-temp water, wet the washcloth, and drizzle some body soap on it. “Now wash between my legs.”

I lean around her and take the cloth to her abdomen, then lower. She is shaved but for a thin patch of public hair, trimmed close forming a faint stripe.

“Pretty,” I say as I wash her.

“Thank you. I’ll teach you how to trim me there.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I slide the cloth along the crease of her leg. Then again on the other side.

“It’s OK to go in,” she says. “Another time, we’ll work with a vaginal cleanse and then some lotions.”

As I lean closer, her arm wraps around my shoulder. I take the edge of the wash cloth and slide it slowly just inside her pussy lips. She breathes deeply. I am careful not to allow my fingers alone to touch her, though I want to. I don’t know what protocol this should be, but I make sure of the wash cloth barrier between my fingers and her sex.
Soon I finish and slide back. Amanda stands in the tub, instructing me to rinse her off with the handheld shower hose.

I rinse her, and sheets of clean warm water cascade from her body and curves. I fetch a large terry towel and dry her back and front, her arms and her legs. She steps out of the tub, and I kneel and dry her feet.

“Shae, I will have you do this a couple times a week,” Amanda says. “Maybe another time on the weekend. We will combine it with other routines. I’ll have you shave me, do my nails. Sometimes you’ll do my makeup and hair. I will have you pamper me.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Now, off with you. Get your own shower, and get some sleep tonight.”

“Thank you, goddess,” I say with a smile.

She laughs.

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