They were reading on the couch. Her head was in his lap, and his book rested against it. Sometimes he stroked her hair, or played with the ring of her collar. She was dressed, wearing a button down shirt opened enough for him to play with her breasts if he wished, and her fleece sweatpants with the crotch open and re-hemmed from front to back. When she needed to shift position she would put one leg up on the back of the couch or raise one knee or the other, always ensuring her legs were open as required. As usual, she wore no underwear at home.
They'd had a nice dinner, sitting together at the table, her ankle restraints secured to the legs of the chair, and a short chain attaching the ring on the back of her leather belt to the chair. She sat with back straight and legs open, wearing clothes for modesty and warmth, because it was a cool night and her Master wanted the windows open. To the casual observer walking by they'd look like an ordinary couple. Her long hair mostly covered the back of her collar and the ring to which was attached the other end of the chain keeping her back straight. The thick leather bracelets on her wrists might get a second glance, as might a glimpse of the chains leading from each to her collar, long enough for her to reach her plate, but not any lower than that. The sound of them clinking against themselves, or against the table, might seem odd.
A lingering observer might be surprised to see that as dinner ended, she remained seated in the same position, her back to the window, while the man across from her rose. It would be easy to think that he walked behind her and leaned over in order to kiss her, which he did, but it would be less obvious that he had unchained her wrists from her collar and clipped them both to the ring on the front of her belt.
Seeing her continue to sit still after the man left the room carrying the plates, the observer would probably move on, thinking it was nice to see the woman sitting with her hands folded while the man did the work. The observer would have no idea that she was a slave who was frequently kept waiting; that her owner sometimes enjoyed doing practical things while she remained shackled and restrained; that if her owner ordered it, she would clear the table, clean the plates with her tongue, and bend over to load the dishwasher, being sure not to drop anything when her owner fondled or smacked her exposed bare ass. The observer would not know that her presence at the table was a privilege, and that there was a towel on the chair, for her wet and naked cunt.
On some other nights, the observer would have seen a man seemingly eating alone, with his slave out of view under the table, eating at her owner's feet, perhaps allowed utensils, perhaps allowed the use of her hands, or perhaps with her hands shackled behind her, food all over her face, drinking water through the straw her master had put in her bowl.
But on any night, coming across this scene, the observer would have no more idea than she of what would be done to her next. Walking away, the observer might choose to go straight home, or perhaps stop at the corner bar, but she would choose nothing. She would remain restrained, with no decisions to make, just orders to follow. That evening, the only thing she was sure of that the ache in her cunt would remain unsatisfied.
After dinner, her owner had opted for a relaxed evening reading on the couch. Her ankle restraints were free and her wrists were shackled to her collar with a chain long enough for her to hold her tablet with one hand or the other. She could not hold it with both hands, however, because the chain was at a length that prevented her from touching herself. One hand could hold the book on her abdomen, with the chain pulled tight, while the other hand rested against her neck. Or she could fold it back and rest it on her chest, holding her hands together. But she was feeling happily spoiled tonight, sitting on the couch instead of the floor, reading or using her phone or just thinking, able to position herself as she liked as long as she kept her legs open, no spreader bar hindering her leg movements. She'd have to ask permission if she wanted to get up, but otherwise, she could enjoy her book unless her Master wanted to play with her in a way that distracted from reading.
They sat in comfort, music playing, her wrist chain sometimes rattling as she turned pages. He laughed at his book; she found something surprising in her book and read it aloud to her owner and they discussed it for a while. The incongruity of discussing musical theory with her wrists chained and her shaved cunt visible through her open pants was part of their delicious lives together. Part of how her slavery was part of everything they did together.
At one point she dropped her tablet and it fell to the carpeted floor, too far away for her to reach with her wrists restrained. Her owner noticed it, but kept reading. She waited patiently, knowing that she wasn't allowed off the couch. These kinds of moments had been surprisingly difficult during her earlier training and she still had to remind herself not to react quickly, but instead to wait for permission as a slave should. Finishing the section he was reading, he leaned over and handing it back to her. "Thank you, Master," she said. He kissed her forehead. She knew he appreciated the significance of her sitting quietly and waiting, rather than taking action as the aggressive problem-solver she was in the rest of her life.
He was free with his use of her, as he always was with his property. Sometimes he stroked her nipples, making them very hard, and she'd moan and cringe at the same time, never knowing when the stroking would turn to pinching or pulling. Her left breast still throbbed from where he'd twisted her nipple earlier, using two hands, until she cried out in pain. But she was proud that she hadn't safeworded and was rewarded with a kiss.
