I had planned for days. Each and every course was perfectly thought out, tied together with the next course by a mutual taste sensation. The execution would be flawless; the presentation immaculate. She would be well pleased.
I pulled the chicken from the oven and inhaled the steam wafting toward my face - a mixture of rosemary and honey; tantalizing. I imagined her taking the first bite - the way her eyes would close with pleasure, the way her tongue and teeth would move, savoring the delicate flavors. A shiver ran down my spine as I pictured her happiness. The look she gets on her face when eating is so, so close to the satisfied look she gets when I am on my knees in front of her, her cock in my mouth.
As I finished artfully arranging the food on plates, a knock sounded at the door. She was here. My breath caught, a hand went to my hair to check that it was in place. I scrambled to remove my apron and run to the door. When I saw her standing there, my heart sagged with relief. My owner. My protector. My dominant.
"Attend." came that deep, commanding, sexy tone; the tone I only heard when I was expected to comply immediately.
"Yes, ma'am." I responded, trying to keep from weeping from relief at having her assume control. "Have you prepared a meal for me?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Very well. You may serve me, and then serve yourself."
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am."
I carried the plates out to the table - the stuffed mushrooms, the chicken, the potatoes, the Caesar salad, the glazed carrots, and a large glass of milk. It still amazes me how much milk my dominant can drink. Once her entire meal was in front of her, I brought my food to the table as well and sat across from her. I watched, eagerly, as she took the first bite.
There it was - the entire reason I had devoted days to this meal. Her fork entered her mouth, her eyes slid shut, and a look of rapture appeared on her face. I had done well.
"Well done. This is excellent." "Thank you, ma'am."
"Relax." She smiled at me across the table, and I leaned in to kiss her. Now that I was no longer attending, I was free to speak openly, to eat my own meal, to revel in time spent in her company. I wasn't her equal - the only command that elevated me to that status was "release," and that didn't happen very often; which was completely fine with me.
"How was your day?" I inquired.
"It was nice. I had an interview that went very well."
"Oh, good!" We continued in this manner, pleasant, trivial conversation about how we had spent our time since we were last together, through the meal. When she was finished, I rose to clear the plates and serve desert. However, she followed me into the kitchen. The moment I had set the dishes in the sink, but before I was able to pull the Boston Cream Pie from the refrigerator, her voice sounded in my ear: "Attend."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Strip."
"Yes, ma'am." I complied, folding my clothes and setting them on the kitchen table."
