This isn't a story. It's a girl. Her name is Cherie Lindor—Miss Lindor if you're one of her colleagues. Everyone else calls her Princess. She's a primary school teacher at Los Palagos Elementary, teaching up through third grade. I have to say, she's the perfect teacher. Sweet and sensitive. Passionate, even a little strict. It's so cute. Because she's a vixen, you see. An elf. One of the really submissive breeds, too: White Chocolate. Let me describe her for you. She has a very pretty face with high cheekbones, a pointed chin, and a button nose. Teutonic, I think, is the word. Her hair is platinum blonde with bangs, flowing midway down her back. Sometimes she has it braided. The rest of her is equally perfect: slender calves, shapely thighs, round buttocks, a tiny waist, and teardrop shaped breasts that perfectly fit my hands. She has a mole somewhere that only I know about.
She always wears a dress to work. Not some pert, corporate garbage that a businesswoman might wear to give a presentation about money to a bunch of men who already have too much of it. No. Her dresses have heart. They're flamboyant and colorful, long and regal, tastefully adorned with filigree. She owns quite a few, in pastel shades of pink, yellow, blue and white. My personal favorite is lavender and silver, with deep violet lace. She says it's too pretty to wear to school everyday, so she saves it for special occasions. Like dinner with me.
She completes her outfits with a little tiara. She is a princess, after all. The ones I buy her are very expensive, made of silver or gold and set with real gemstones. Not that she knows anything about money—she just knows they're pretty.
Her life isn't completely perfect, as it obviously can't be. She complains about her coworkers sometimes: there are men who make rude remarks, and women who get catty. It's frustrating, because she wants to be taken seriously. A few of her students are incorrigible rascals, too. She can't drive, so she carpools with Mrs. Doblini. But sometimes her ride is late, or her dress gets wet in the rain, or whatever. Alright, maybe a life can't be perfect. But a day can.
Like today. I'm off work today; I don't work Fridays, but she does. It's the one day of the week when I'm waiting for her to get home instead of the other way around. I don't have much to do, so I take it easy and sleep in. Around eleven I get up, make some breakfast, and watch some TV. It's amazing how quiet our home is without her. Every time I walk past our bedroom, I glance at her empty cage. It just hangs there quietly, with her plush cushion, journal, and colored gel pens lying where she left them.
I spend around two hours cleaning, taking care of chores, fixing stuff, and whatever else needs to be done. In general, just making the place ready for her. Some people ask whether I really do chores when I have a submissive little elven slave to do them for me. Yeah I do. She appreciates it when I take care of her. Besides, if you love someone, little stuff like that is hardly any work at all. Anyway, I finish up around two thirty, which is perfect—she'll be home in about 45 minutes, if her ride isn't late. I spend the rest of my time sitting in a chair in our front yard under our maple, with a glass of wine and a book. Time goes. Not too quickly, but it goes.
Like clockwork, at 3:15 a white car pulls down the cul-de-sac and rolls to a stop. The passenger door opens, and a blonde head pops out. She says goodbye cheerfully and shuts the door, then hikes up her dress and struts across the yard up to me. Mrs. Doblini drives off.
"Hey honey. How was your day?" I ask.
"It was very nice, thank you."
"I've got some wine."
"Oh! Perfect."
She stands in front of me expectantly, waiting for me to undo her skirt. Her dress is actually in two parts, with the skirt secured to the upper part by several buttons, which are in turn covered by a sash. The sash comes off easily enough, and I reach around to unfasten the buttons. It slides off, and I ball it up and toss it on the grass.
"Oh, that feels nice," she gushes, sighing away the day's frustrations. She stands there in her underwear and pantyhose, though she frowns as her skirt lands in a pile of leaves. "Do you really have to toss it on the ground like that?"
I pull her onto my lap and hand her a glass of wine. "Yes. Yes I do."
Her look of annoyance changes into a quiet smile as she takes a sip of wine. It's a warm day early in the fall semester, and the leaves are a mix of red and orange. Our eyes meet. She leans in gently for a kiss, offering me her soft lips. I accept. We spend the next five minutes or so just making out. It's passionate, but not like in the movies. There's no urgency. A light breeze caresses us, running through her hair and ruffling her dress. I begin to touch her intimately. She squirms. It's time for us to head inside.
We stand up together. She immediately struts off to collect the lower half of her dress, then dashes back to me. A certain touch on her shoulder instructs her to go down on her hands and knees, and she obeys instantly. She crawls ahead of me into the house, casting a backward glance just as she crosses the threshold. Dinner is cooking. It doesn't smell nearly as nice as when she cooks, but it's still a welcoming scent.
"What are we having?" she asks, her voice floating gently through the autumn air.
"Lasagna and asparagus. There's a little cake left too, if you want it."
"Oh, you can have it. I'll just have the lasagna."
"Babe, the cake is for you."
"Really? It's sooo good. Are you sure?"
I ruffle her hair. "Yes, I'm sure. If I have any, I'll just have a bite."
She smiles and nuzzles her cheek against my calf affectionately. "May I stand, master? And get washed up?"
"Yes. Wait a minute."
She knows what's coming; she bends so that I can smack her ass, and then scampers off. I hear the sound of running water, and I focus on getting the table ready: glasses, plates, silverware, and napkins. She's very particular about the napkins being folded and tucked inside the tines of the forks. I do it all the way she likes, just to make her happy. By the time she returns, it's all set out. She steps out from the hallway corner and presents herself to me, standing with her arms clasped behind her back. She's wearing lacy purple lingerie with a plunging neckline paired with satin slippers of the same color. I don't wait for her to ask the question; I already know what she's wondering.
"Honey, you're very beautiful."
"Thank you, master", she replies, her half-whispered answer blooming into a smile of irrepressible self-satisfaction. She takes her seat next to me.
Our dining room isn't anything special, but two of the chairs have been moved to the same end of the table. That's because she's always scooting her chair closer to mine, until we're pretty much knocking elbows. We've discussed buying a larger chair so we can eat side by side, but most of those types of chairs don't fit against the table. The perfect chair eludes us currently, but Cherie has the utmost confidence that it will eventually be found.
We chat a little during the meal, mostly about her day plus a smattering of world politics. She's not allowed to watch the news, since a lot of the things that humans choose to do to each other are inordinately violent and cruel. This isn't something I impose on her; we've sat and discussed this and agree that it's a man's job to protect his woman from the world emotionally as well as physically. Nevertheless, she has a genuine interest in geopolitics, and she often discusses current events with her students.
I find myself putting my arm around her shoulder. Her body shimmers in response, and she leans towards me. Her entire body is warm, overflowing with her feminine joy.
