In Western society, we cast downward looks upon anyone who has someone serving under them. Can’t they drive themselves? Can’t they fold their own laundry? Can’t they make their own breakfasts? Is it so hard? That poor maid, the poor nanny, the poor butler, how humiliating.
Yet, no one ever considers that servant would have a desire to serve and the master has put aside his self-sufficiency to give contentment to his slave.
Ever since I was little, I liked to clean, cook, and organize. I was passive, quiet, and observant. My mother worried. I went to college but did not find my way. I threw myself into the BDSM scene, yearning for even a moment to pretend my role was real. After years of play, I was introduced to someone at a fetish party. He was serious; he understood. Like me, he was alone in his perspective. He would not have been out of place in an old English country estate commanding a full staff while simultaneously throwing grand lawn parties and being the perfect host to the lords and ladies.
There is a private joy in being a good slave. We share one life in both the present and future. He dictates the schedules, chores, and errands and I can do them all without having to pester Him questions. I know exactly what He wants and my actions improve His life.
There is a certain level of psychic communication too. Master will come in from the autumn sleet to find a hot bath drawn and ready, or Master will wake up on a fine spring morning to floral-scented air breezing in through the open windows. Or perhaps, a touch of brandy in his coffee. An extra cookie in his lunch. Warming His bed with my lubricated, naked body for him to find after a long frustrating day running of his business.The list is endless.
He loves me. He is fair. His punishments are just. In public, the curious glances my behavior attracts roll off of me like water on a duck’s back. I show off my collar with pride. I have no shame in being exposed or chaste. It is for His proud gaze and eager touch that I live and the euphoria that accompanies it is my raison d’etre.
There’s a plaque that hangs on the wall in the laundry room that I extol. It says: “A place for everything, and and everything in its place.”
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ed note – this story will likely under go some revisions later; I have to go now.
