bath

We were both up early this morning. Amanda called to me from her bedroom and said she wanted a bath. It was her mistress voice, though the one with soft edges, and it warmed me and made me happy.

“Yes, Mistress.” I started the water running in the tub, then got the coffeepot going in the kitchen. I quickly freshened up in my bathroom and put on the T-top and denim skirt Amanda had laid out for me last night. Giving her a bath is a wet experience — and yes, that can be interpreted as you wish — my point here being that whatever I wear gets progressively drenched during bath-giving, but Amanda seems to like seeing that. I checked the water temp, added in some bubbles, slowed the faucet. I called to her that the bath was ready as I returned to the kitchen to pour us coffees.

My slavery is, as most slaveries are, a mixture of slave being and slave doing. Sometimes the slave doing — the duties and chores and flurry of services — is actually relaxing. Maybe especially so in such a global moment of anxiety. A Saturday morning of slave work is pleasantly distracting right now. Reducing myself to a series of “little things” that are for me the most important things for me to do, well, it’s calming for me.

Maybe Amanda called for a bath because she knows this. Or maybe she just wanted a bath.

When I returned, Amanda was already luxuriating in the tub, her breasts buoyant, half submerged, as if floating, and her one knee bent above the waterline, revealing much of her right thigh and its pale skin.

Seeing this, I stopped in the doorway, holding the tray of coffees. She wasn’t trying to be seductive; she was just being herself in the bath, and that just happened to be beautifully sensuous. I cherished this mental snapshot.

I served her, and Amanda took the mug of coffee from my tray, leaning back and sighing.

I started to sponge her, but she said I should just sit with her for a few moments first and enjoy my coffee too. I did.

Later I warmed the bath again and took the sponges to her flesh. If it had been night, she might have fallen asleep during my ministrations. This, being morning with coffee happening, had her well awake and conversational.

I listened to every word and chimed in myself. But I was also aware of the methodical pattern of my bathing her, the soft splashes of the water, and the rhythm of our words in the echo of the bathroom. I thought of the scary times we’re in, grateful that, for this hour anyway, they remained outside. And yet, they change us, even in these present things, in how they make each moment more precious. A simple task becomes pregnant with satisfaction and wonder.

I came back to the conversation: “Mistress,” I asked, “would you like the water a bit warmer?”

“Yes, I think I would. And some more coffee.”

“Let me do that for you.”

One thought on “bath

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