Simone examined Brian. Inspected him. Most parts of him. His arms. His legs. His face. His chest. She decided that he needed a new bandage on his leg.
She unpeeled the old bandage and carted it away. She took the funky, used cotton out and tossed it in the trash.
Then she went into the bathroom. She carefully washed her hands.
Simone cleaned Brian's leg wound with "ouchless" antiseptic. Then she pressed a sterile pad against the place the railing hit. She wrapped the leg with bandage. She taped the bandage nice and tight.
Simone leaned over Brian. Her property. Her slave. Her most treasured piece of property. Her treasured little slave.
But her property had a fever. Drops had gathered on his brow. She soaked a terry cloth and wiped the fever-sweat away. She kissed her property and slave.
Simone met Brian's gaze. Simone had eyes like the sky.
"You be OK. You'll be fine. Just relax. Just relax."
She wiped his chin. She wiped his brows. She made his lashes gently gleam. They were asphalt after rain fall. Simone said, "Go to sleep."
Her slave obeyed.
*****
Brian woke in quiet darkness. But he was not there alone.
Simone clicked the bedroom light on. He blinked. A private sun. Simone reached out and felt her slave. His temperature this time. Her palm resting on his forehead, she asked Brian how he felt.
"Better. Much better. A whole lot better."
"Good. Your fever's had it, I think."
Then Simone asked Brian if he needed to go. He said he did.
"OK, stand up. Grab my arm. Lean on me. Just lean on me."
Simone and her man stood on tile out of ice, more than half a mile above a swaying, pale toilet. Simone held Brian like a squirt gun.
"You won't even have to wash your hands", observed Simone.
But she had to.
Then Simone renewed the bandages. Then asked Brian, "Are you hungry?"
"Famished."
"Up for soup?"
Brian grinned. "I am up for the ass out of a dead rhinoceros."
"Copy that", Simone said.
Fifteen minutes went by. Went by. Went by. Simone returned with a plastic tray. A plastic tray and a steaming bowl. A steaming bowl of - of course - chicken soup. "It is", she remarked, "a stereotype that comes in a can." Simone set the tray down. And in notably casual tones announced, "Oh, by the way, I am going to feed you."
"Scoot up", she said.
Brian scooted up.
Being careful to spare Brian her weight - normally a diamond gift - Simone climbed in bed. Loomed over Brian. She retrieved the plastic tray. Brian liked the steam that rose. He moved.
"NO!"
"Hands at your side! You just sit there. Just be fed. Let the spoon go into you. Into. So to speak. Penetrate a bodily opening."
Brian echoed, "So to speak."
At first the soup was way too hot. Way, way, way, way too hot. Simone blew over it. She blew on the spoon in the middle of the air. Now and then she paused a bit. She took a paper towel. She wiped Brian's mouth and hairy chin. Her baby had a beard.
The soup had lots and lots and lots of bits. "Thank you." Brian said. "That hit the spot." A few seconds later, "You are not bad at hitting the spot."
When the soup was all eaten, Simone put the tray aside. She looked into Brian's eyes. She said, "Get back down."
He got back down.
Haltingly and quietly, Brian thanked Simone. He was grateful. He was grateful. for the love and loving care. He had learned.
He had learned that she would always - she would always - know his need. And she'd protect him. She'd watch over him. She had proved that he was hers. This made him feel comfortable. Made him feel safe. It made him feel that finally he was home.
Brian added parenthetically that when Simone needed someone, that someone would be him. If she allowed.
*****
As the days rolled on by, Brian's wounds healed nicely. The cotton shrank away and Brian got a trifle bored. He got tired of lying around and lying around and lying around. Lying around and doing nothing. Lying around and doing zilch. A lot of reading. A lot of sleeping. A little swaying over the toilet. He felt tired and also guilty.
So one fine day, Brian begged to help Simone. "Can I please help? Please?"
Simone was cooking dinner. She muttered something about they'd see.
A few minutes trickled by. A few minutes trickled.
Simone entered. Looked at Brian. She looked quietly and calmly and assessingly at Brian.
Then she said in an offset voice, a light and sort of acting voice, "So you're sick and tired of being served by your domme. Jeez. Being waited on and waited on, hand and foot, foot and hand, by your sovereign queen. Please no more!"
"That's it exactly."
"OK. Alright. The bitch from hell now rides into town. You will make the salad or suffer the consequences."
"Anything you say."
"You are learning."
Now the days hurried by. Brian's life now had a core: housework for Simone. Doing things at her command. He was living for her will.
Simone had Brian do the dishes. He did the dishes and she watched. She watched Brian just in case and just to see his giving in. Then Simone had Brian help her. Help mainly when she cooked. He chopped and stirred and lifted stuff. And she watched him giving in. She liked to see him giving in.
