Master and Mistress tell me this morning they will be putting me through some basic slave training. I say nothing, though I feel I’ve had plenty of training over the past two years and even in my year prior. Mistress says it will be a “refresher course.”
It ruffles my feathers. Like repeating a grade in elementary school. So, later after breakfast coffee, I guess I am acting a bit pouty, stewing over this. Mistress reads me perfectly, confronting me, and slapping my face. “Do you think you’re above being trained?”
I held back, biting my tongue. “No, ma’am,” I say.
She knows there is more I want to say, but doesn’t press it and just walks away.
I walk to the drawing room where there is privacy and have a chance to vent to myself, talk with myself. Helps maybe a little. I believe I’m a well-trained slave. Further training is demeaning to me. Then again, what in the slave life isn’t demeaning? Treat it that way, I tell myself. It’s another slave task.
Still it gnaws at me. More training, really?
They didn’t say why they wanted to slave-train me more, but it is true that new dominants need to shape their slave into specific behaviors they prefer in the manner they prefer it. I know that. So, that is fair. Also, I have gotten a vibe they might be prepping me for being shown to others, demonstrated, perhaps at dinners and parties here at the house. Or perhaps they just want the enjoyment of training me. Maybe all of the above.
Still, I’m a little pissed. I go to the kitchen to stack dishes in the dishwasher. Not my task to do, but it might distract me. I need to work off my attitude. And kitchen work in fact calms me down, sort of.
Until Mistress Amanda breezes in with a light-bulb discovery. “You’re on your period!” she says loud enough for the housing development five miles away to hear. It is loud and perky, and I’m not in the mood. At all.
So this is the moment: I lean over the sink, turn my head toward her, and give her a look that could melt iron. In the flash of this treacherous second, I am thinking with a hiss that’s almost audible, Really? You, of all people, are blaming my behavior on my menstrual cycle? Really?
At first, Mistress is herself stunned by my irate stare, again reading my thoughts perfectly but unsure of how to respond.
In that moment of her paused confusion, I come to some grip on myself. Maybe my only salvation in this hell of a morning. My body slumps at the sink. I quickly, desperately say, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Mistress.” I turn toward her, slump to my knees, and clasp my hands behind my back. “I apologize. Please, forgive me.”
She says nothing, I’m sure just catching up to the quick emotional event happening.
I speak again, haltingly, finally admitting: “And yes, it’s my time of month.”
Mistress stands there across the kitchen, thinking of how to respond, what to say. She says nothing for what must be a full minute. She starts to walk out, and actually does, her heels clacking through the breakfast room.
I am now in agony for what I have done. Tears in my eyes.
I hear her pause out there, then slowly start walking back. She walks to where I am kneeling, standing close beside me.
After some further long moments of agonizing silence, she says harshly, “Your period is no excuse for any of your behavior or attitude or insolence. It isn’t for the rest of us at work. It sure isn’t for you in slavery. We bought you, Shae, to be our slave 24/7. You need to be available, willing, submissive to us the whole time. Whether you’re bloody, crampy, filled with piss and vinegar, we will use you and expect your submissive best. No excuses. Got it?”
I nod. My face is wet with tears.
She stands there, her nyloned leg against my torso. I long to lean my head against her, but I don’t dare. And now there’s another long wait, more agony.
“Shae,” she says. “If this had happened with Kevin, he’d have you strung up in the bondage room and be whipping you to the edge of your pain threshold. He will never injure you, but he sure will make your body hurt like hell. Consider that a little tip. You don’t want to pull this attitude stunt with him. Capeche?”
I lift my head up and down..
She goes on: “Now, I know what you and I are, what we have, is confusing to you. Know that you are my slave. And know, obviously, that you are more than that to me. But because we are more, Shae, doesn’t mean you can treat me as less than your dominant Mistress. We are more, but you are my slave. If that confuses you, figure it out. But don’t take advantage of me. Get it?”
Again, I nod. She reaches down and fondles my hair. I lean toward her, my face resting against her leg. I so long for her to hold me, though I don’t deserve it.
“I’ll come back to this tonight. There will be a punishment for this, Shae.” She pauses. “I shouldn’t, but I’ll make it lenient.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” I say. “Thank you very much. I’m sorry.”
“Consider it training,” she says.