I stand in the living room at 0700. It is day four of my slavery to Master Z, and I still am searching for some pattern in his dominant strategy for me. Yesterday was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day for me, and today I strive for happier outcomes.
He has me fetch him coffee, which throws me off. I didn’t think he drank coffee. I go clacking off in my high heels to find that a coffeemaker in the kitchen has just finished brewing. I realize I don’t know how he likes it, so I go back and have to ask him. Black, he says.
This morning he has me in another short skirt, pastel orange, and a white cotton top. I look like a creamsicle. He seems to have abandoned the idea of my wearing office suits while doing my chores. I thought that was a preference of his, but no.
He tells me the cleaning service will be coming today. “I thought they were to come on Monday,” I said. He tells me they had to reschedule, that it’s today instead. This is another unexpected thing, a variation from my expectations.
Master Z goes on to say he also has a plumber coming this afternoon to do some repairs. “Utility room,” he says vaguely. “You will conduct yourself in front of them all as you would if they were not here. In whatever state I have you.”
“Yes, sir.” I wonder if the plumbing need is real. I feel like I’m in a platoon of soldiers and today is a series of surprise field exercises meant to test my mettle.
He tells me to take off my top. I obey and stand topless before him, breasts out, full and pale. It occurs to me this is what he means by conducting myself “in front of them all,” that I’ll be bare-breasted in the company of service people today. He tells me to turn around and lift my skirt behind. I obey.
“Healing smoothly,” he says.
I say nothing, thinking of a dozen quippy things to say, but I just bite my tongue. I don’t know which Master Z this is — the one who tolerates my wit or the one who doesn’t.
He invites me to sit, sips his coffee, and asks, “How are we this morning?”
The royal “we” sounds like a drill sergeant’s rhetorical question. I don’t think he is suddenly wanting to be compassionate and conversational. I take the question instead to prompt a kind of progress report as to my frame of mind regarding him. “I wish to do better today,” I finally say.
He offers no response.
I go on: “I did and said things yesterday that I regret. It set my whole day off-track. I believe I disappointed you.”
Again, he offers no response.
It’s really your dom’s choice how much of a relationship to make with you, at least in situations like mine, when you’re loaned out to a stranger for just a week.
On the one hand, he may seek with you a true personal relationship, albeit within a dom/sub dynamic, yet with the intimate connection he might have with a girlfriend or lover.
On the other hand, he may see you much as he does hired help. You provide a service to him, like a plumber or electrician or people who clean his house. As such, he doesn’t intend to get personal with you. Just use you — say, for a different kind of plumbing service.
Actually, I prefer the latter to the former. Well, maybe something in between. It’s a matter of degree. The thing is, I don’t want to be made into a dom-stranger’s girlfriend. Love cannot be arranged or compelled. My whole gig with him is as his slave. Yes, slavery tends to develop dependency and longing in me, but it’s desire for him as a dominant mastering me, his slave. When a dom-stranger tries to pull me out of my slavery into the status of a girlfriend or wife, he is presuming love of a different kind, and that’s not what I signed up for.
With Master Z, of course, that’s the last thing I need to worry about. He has raised “stoic impersonality” to the level of an art form. I don’t need to be fawned over as his slave, but I could use from him a word or a smile, a wink or a nod, sometime before the Lord comes.
So, when sitting there, Master Z says he wants me to suck his cock, I am way too eager to go to my knees.
My eagerness is not just my sexual desire to take him in my mouth, although that’s been, this week, well documented and published. This moment is for me, I confess, an opportunity for a kind of blow-job redemption, the chance to salvage my slavery to him by providing him the experience of my oral heaven.
I warm him in my mouth, slather him with my juices. This time he leans his head back and closes his eyes, not distracting himself with a phone call or ignoring my presence by reading his newspaper. Perhaps I can save myself in this with him.
My special power, so I fancy, is tending to a man’s balls. They are terribly under-valued in these things, in my opinion. I take his, one by one, into my mouth like large and precious pearls, rolling them around between my cheeks. My face is under his wild manhood. His balls fill my mouth, and his cock extends across my face resting beside my nose, its head nudging close to my eye.
This is perhaps where he wants me, so desperately seeking his approval that I make my servicing of him the most important thing in my world. I imagine him looking down on me, literally and figuratively, seeing my urgent immoderation, thinking he has finally gotten me to yet a lower place in his command.
I don’t care. I want this to be his best blowjob ever. For me, there is nothing in the world but this, and I take his shaft, now hard, slowly between my lips.
But he stops me.
“That’s enough,” he says.
I have to pull his cock out of my mouth to speak: “But you haven’t—”
“That’s enough. ”
I look up at him through watery eyes. I have nothing more to offer him.
“Get a towel,” he says. “Zip me up.”
I walk to fetch a kitchen towel, and my heel slips on the tile floor. My naked breasts jiggling, I catch myself, though my mind is what’s crashing. What is this he’s doing? Is he unhappy with my oral services? Is he bored with me? But this is my best skill. If he doesn’t like me this way…
I want to cry.
The doorbell rings.
This day is not starting out well.