Her Butler

"Roommate to share a two-bedroom Chicago gold coast condo. Please reply by email with resume and references. Rent negotiable."

Jim answered the Craigslist ad. His lease was up. He thought a change would be good. A new place might get him out of his rut. He rarely left his Humboldt Park apartment except for work and groceries. Living with someone might alter his morose attitude.

It was unusual for him to take action like this, to make a change in his life. Normally, he went about his day without plan or purpose. The highlight of his week was always a moment he could help someone out. He likes Chicago winters because it presented the opportunity to help push a car out of a snow bank.

But feeling good didn't drive him to make a change in his life. No, it was the insistent, nagging dread of meaninglessness. He saw her ad because he read Craigslist for entertainment. He read Craigslist personals for something to do; it gave him an insight into people who had lives.

He sent his one-page resume, such as it was. The interview was brief, ten minutes on a Saturday morning. He met her in a law office in the loop. Jennifer Kendall was trim, tall, attractive and purposeful. Her efficient demeanor was consistent with her position as a fourth-year associate in a large multinational law firm.

He was not entirely clear why she chose him. First of all, he's two decades older than she. Second, he's not in her class: she, a high-power attorney, he, a warehouse manager. He didn't even own a suit.

Women, especially like her, never notice him. And he is not comfortable in a room of men attractive to her. Still, he moved in the first of the following month. She made the rent affordable on his salary. "What the heck?" he thought.

Six days a week, she woke very early, went to the health club in the building and returned for a shower and light breakfast. She took the bus to the loop arriving at her office before 7:00. Most evenings she was in bed at 9:00. He accommodated his life to her schedule. The third morning he made coffee while she was in the shower. She smiled when she appeared in the kitchen and accepted the mug from his hand. He liked the smile. To him it meant he had been helpful. He liked being helpful.

He took to preparing her granola, yogurt and dried fruit breakfast. Somehow it didn't seem right to simply put the cartons out on the kitchen island, so he served each in a Polish pottery bowl with a spoon for her to assemble as she desired.

While wandering around Woodfield Shopping Center on a Sunday morning, he found the Polish pottery set. The blue of the decoration reminded him of her eyes, her intensely blue eyes. Sometimes he had to look away. The intensity of her eyes, he thought, would make her intimidating at depositions.

He purchased an insulated carafe for her coffee. She sometimes liked to add cream. He kept a small pitcher in the refrigerator so it would stay cold. Each of these extras he added one at a time, as he thought of them.

It felt right to please her, to be helpful. He found he liked making things right. He stepped out of his negative attitude by thinking of small things he might do for her. Her smile encouraged him. Life was better, living with her. He did well in this move, even if his commute was longer. Things at work seemed to pick up as well. He was happy.

Their little morning ritual began when she walked into the kitchen, fresh from her shower, dressed for the office. He'd hand her the mug. She would smile. A gentle "Good morning" from her was the perfect start to his day. He would then leave her to her thoughts and preparations for the day.

After his shower, he put her dishes in the dishwasher and drove to his warehouse management job. He needed to be at work at 9:00, so there was plenty of time. He liked the physical act of cleaning up after her. She deserved it. She worked hard. He could see she would be an important attorney.

He parked in her spot in the building. She didn't need a car. Once in a while, when she had an errand to run on a weekend, he would drive her to her destination and wait for her to return. Waiting was easier than finding a parking space on the street. He didn't mind.

He appreciated being near her. It was clearly stated there would be no sexual connection between them. She set the boundaries and he respected them. In his early twenties he might have imagined a relationship would blossom. But years have gone by. He had a good job, nothing like hers, but still with decent pay. He was going nowhere special. He went to work each day and back home. He had not gone on an actual date in years. No one was interested. He accepted that.

Wednesday mornings were his "late day." One manager needed to be present for evening hours. His night was Wednesday. He didn't go in until two. The second week he lived with her he got out the vacuum and did the carpets. He hesitated at the door to her room. He did not open it. The following Sunday afternoon he explained his schedule and asked if she would like him to vacuum her room. She smiled. "Why James! That would be so kind of you."

He cleaned her room, straightening the side chairs by the window. He was going to do his laundry, washing his sheets anyway, so he stripped her bed and remade it with sheets he found in her linen closet. He washed her sheets with his, folded them and returned them to her linen closet. The next morning, along with her smile, came a gentle "thank you." It made his day. Her expression of appreciation for some little thing he did made him almost dizzy.

It wasn't long before he added cleaning her bathroom to his Wednesday morning routine. None of this was a lot to do, and he enjoyed that morning smile. One Thursday she had an early breakfast meeting. The entire schedule was off, no coffee this morning. As she left to catch a cab, she asked if he would be "so good" as to make her bed that morning. He said, "of course." She smiled; he closed the door behind her.

He began making her bed every morning except Sunday. Saturday evenings she often had a "gentleman caller" who stayed the night. When that happened, Jim stayed out of the way, enjoying a late morning in bed himself, or going out early for a leisurely breakfast. This is why he was wondering the mall on a Sunday, purchasing pottery. She should have her space and he made way for her.

He didn't think too much about the men who stayed the night. He seldom saw them. He didn't like meeting them. It wasn't jealousy, but a deep unease about what they might think of him. He feared their scorn and laughter about his age and chaste existence.

Some of those who stayed the night were not quiet. He could hear them in her bedroom groaning. Once in a while he a heard a visitor cry out. He didn't think about it. He would be there when they were gone. Besides, so far as he could tell, she rarely brought the same one home more than twice, and only on Saturday night. He thought these men, while they had access to her bed, could not substitute for his service to her. Life was good.

Yet it seems nothing remains perfect forever. On a particularly stormy Monday morning he overslept. A clap of thunder woke him up. He had no idea what had happened. He may have shut off the alarm instead of hitting snooze. More likely he failed to set the alarm the night before. Either way, he rushed out only to see her at the door. She asked if he was ill. When he said he wasn't, she said, "I'll get coffee on my way to the office." There was no smile. The door closed.

Her dishes were rinsed and in the dishwasher. Her bed was already made. He sat down in the side chair by the window in her room and cried. Feelings of loss and of guilt came over him. He vowed it would not happen again, but he could not get over his overwhelming sense of shame. He failed; there was no smile.

The next morning, as he handed her the mug, he apologized for oversleeping, for ruining the peace of her morning. He could not look at her face. He feared her eyes, finding disappointment and judgment in them. He didn't look up on Wednesday morning either, only at the floor and her shoes. She put her hand under his chin and lifted his face. "I know you feel bad. Don't worry. Let's talk about this on Sunday morning when we both have time."

But he did worry about it. He had no idea what Sunday morning would bring. He worked extra hard cleaning the whole apartment. Thursday morning, she said, "Nice job." He could not look at her.

Saturday evening, she came back late after going out, but there was no one with her. Sunday morning at 8:00 there was a knock on his door. "It's time for our talk." He pulled on some clothes and joined her in the living room.

She was dressed for the health club. Lycra shorts, matching fitted top, hair pulled back, he enjoyed her workout clothes. But this morning they were going to talk about his failure. He put his head down. "Tell me what happened Monday morning."

"I overslept; my alarm didn't go off." He apologized. "I feel awful about it."

"I know. I know you felt remorse, and you continue to feel that way. Mistakes happen, I'm ready to move on. But you don't seem prepared to get past it."

He was honest with her, "I just don't know what to say. I have trouble even looking at you. I don't know how to 'get past' Monday. I used to get this way when I lived alone. One mistake would live with me for weeks. I don't know how to make it up. Never have."

"Perhaps you can't 'make it up,' but you can pay for a mistake. By paying for it you can leave it behind and be free of the shame. Once a criminal has done the time, he has paid his debt to society. He is freed. He is let out of prison. Might it be like that for you? Might you be free of your prison of shame?"

"How can I pay for it?"

"Maybe some kind of punishment for your mistake would get us past this dark attitude of yours."

He looked down and asked, "What kind of punishment?"

"Well, if I were to give you a spanking, once we were done, the air would be cleared, and you could look me in the eye once more. We would never have to speak of it ever again."

He looked up, then down again. "You would give me a spanking?"

"Yes, right now, this morning, if it would clear the air and we could get back to our normal routine without all this apologizing all the time."

He didn't know what to say. He didn't move. He was frozen in his seat. She stood up and said, "Follow me."

In a fog he followed into her bedroom. He later remembered the curve of her hips highlighted by tight lycra. His mind a blank, he wanted to touch her. He wanted to get on his knees and say he was sorry. She stopped at the chair by the window. "Go to my dresser, get the hairbrush, hand it to me."

He dusted her dresser many times and moved this hairbrush. It was black wood and heavy. It may have been an antique. The rounded back side had an inlaid flower design. He wondered about it. He didn't think she used it to brush her hair. The thought had occurred to him that it would make a great spanking implement. He had often wondered what it would be like to be spanked; now he was going to find out. He gave the brush to her.

Bending over her knee was awkward. Having her pull down his underwear was embarrassing. Head down, he could see only her running shoes and ankles. The spanking really was painful and, as predicted, cathartic. Standing in the corner of her bedroom, trousers around his ankles, hands behind his head, bottom feeling hot and heavy and very naked, she gave him time for the experience to take effect. She surfed the morning news. After what seemed a long time she said, "You may now pull up your pants. Please sit in the chair."

He did what he was told, sat and looked at her. She smiled. "I see all has been made right. My grandmother's hairbrush still works wonders. We won't speak of this again." She left and went to the health club. He made her bed and went back to his own, exhausted. He slept until noon.

Examining himself in the mirror, he found only one small bruise on his right buttock. This lack of markings was surprising because the spanking hurt. It hurt so much more than he might have expected. He had trouble staying on her lap. She stopped once and made him bend over one leg so she could hold him down with the other. At the time he felt completely overwhelmed, and, as a result, now thoroughly freed of his shame.

Spanking had long been a part of his fantasy life. It was like an old friend, always there. Most pornography he had seen involving spanking had a man spanking a woman. This made no sense to him. If the stronger one spanked the weaker, if just seemed like abuse to him. No, being spanked by a woman made more sense. It was the amount of pain that was unexpected. A spanking from her hairbrush really hurt.

Her smile returned, or rather he was able to see her smile again. They never spoke about his failures because there was a new ritual. Whenever he felt he disappointed her in some way, her grandmother's hairbrush worked its magic. There would come a knock on his door and they would have their "little talk." He always felt better after and she seemed to enjoy providing his spanking.

He came to treasure his corner time. Not because he stood semi-naked in her bedroom, but because of the pleasure she exhibited when she released him. Standing in the corner was the essence of his punishment; his moment of transition. Perhaps, the awful spanking put him in the right place to wait for her release, "Please pull up your pants, come here and sit down." It all made perfect sense to him. He was very happy.

She told him the hairbrush was precious to her. It was a part of her family's history. She thought may have been her great-grandmother's. If so, it would have been used to correct her grandmother. She was certain her grandmother used it to spank her mother. Her own mother used it on her when she was a teen. It was now unused, unlikely to spank another teenager.

That was something to ponder. Generations of women used that brush to spank younger women in her family. Now, she used the back of the same hairbrush on him. He thought about those female bottoms every time he dusted her room and rearranged the top of her dresser. The hairbrush itself chased all other thoughts and shame from his head when she used it on him. It became precious to him as well.

He spent the next two very happy years serving her, making her life better and staying out of her way. When her firm promoted her, he rejoiced with her. When she made junior partner, she moved to a larger condo on an upper floor. It included a 'maid's room' built next to the kitchen. That became his room.