These have been a relatively quiet days, Amanda keeping me in my place, all collared and improper in some whimsical way, yet being casual with me, often conversational and girlfriend-y, as if she really likes me.
For all the various relational “modes” we have, she seems to have perfected this one, which combines several of my roles into one — “girlfriend-slave-lover.” She woos this into a new reality, as if making one’s best friend forever into a slave-whore is the most natural thing in the world.
Of course I, being the deep submissive I am, luxuriate in it all.
I call her “Mistress” more often now, the result of her recent conversion to “McKenna rules,” a reclaiming of some of the formality of my slavery to her. But I say “Mistress” in various tones for different contexts, like it’s in one of those languages in which a single word can mean twenty things, depending on the note and sound and inflection.
Lately she’s taken to calling me her “strumpet,” which I’ve embraced because it sounds Victorian and somehow musical. But I looked it up — it means “prostitute.” So much for the romance, although she sometimes says “strumpet” in the most endearing way.
To that point, we continue to have conversations about whether I am naturally promiscuous, which she is sure of, or if she has made me promiscuous, which I am damn sure of and tell her emphatically with a wink and a smile.
This is the sound and rhythm of us.
During the sonata of these quiet days, the strumpet gives her mistress a suds bath in the vintage tub, sponging her flesh-curves like buoys afloat on the surface and finding secret places at greater depths.