The alarm clock chimes. It is Saturday, mid-morning, and warm yellow sunlight shines through the white linen curtains against the bedroom window. I untangle myself from my lover enough to place a soft kiss on her forehead - her first gentle signal that morning has come, and that I will soon expect her awake and conducting our typical Saturday morning - and slide out of bed. I pause at the bedside to look at her as she sleeps.
She is beautiful, even in these ungraceful morning hours, and I love to see her like this. Angelic.
I head to the en-suite to don my workout clothing and pull my hair up, and then head out. Through trial and error, I have discovered that exercising first thing in the morning gives me a sense of command over my day in a way that both improves my mood and helps me smoothly transition into a dominant headspace for the day ahead. While I exercise, either running or doing strength-based work, I empower myself with positive affirmations, remind myself of my authority and prowess, and push myself to meet and exceed my goals. Then, I stretch out for a few minutes and meditate on my plans for the day ahead. We typically plan and negotiate what we're looking for the night before, outside of a scene, so we can be sure that we want what we say we want and we verbalize all the things we don't want. I review our discussion the next morning before waking her to ensure that I can meet both our needs and play within discussed boundaries.
Afterwards, I return inside to the bedroom to give my girl one last warning kiss on the forehead. I press my lips a little firmer to her soft forehead this time, and she responds by clenching her eyes a few times. I smile as I pull away, trying not to laugh and disturb her too much, watching a wide yawn escape her.
I take a warm, leisurely shower, and towel myself off. After some simple skincare, I wrap myself in a fluffy pink robe and slide on matching slippers. I exit the bathroom some twenty minutes after giving my girl her second kiss and see the bed empty but beautifully made - just as I instructed her to do - and smile to myself as I inspect it. The edges are crisp and there is nary a wrinkle in the outermost blanket. The pillows are carefully and symmetrically arranged, and have been freshly fluffed. The sheets are folded down precisely an inch over the comforter. It is perfect, and beautiful, and I feel gratitude for her attention to detail and dedication... and yet, also, I deviously think she has deprived me of a reason to correct her. I walk around the bed to her side and see her suitcase leaning tidily against the wall. Oh well, I'm sure there will be more opportunities later.
I leave the bedroom and walk slowly down the hallway, at a speed and loudness so as to announce my imminent arrival and to give her as much time as possible to complete her tasks before that time. It makes my heart flutter happily to hear her typical shuffling noises as she gets into position and probably wiggles out some excited energy before coming into view.
I pause at the end of the hallway to observe her. She probably knows I am there, but dares not raise her gaze up to confirm her suspicions. She sits just in front and to the side of my wingback chair, kneeling, and nude - I increased the temperature in the house to seventy-five in anticipation of this. Her shoulders are drawn back proudly to present her delightful breasts, and her posture is impeccable. Her elegant hands, facing upward in her lap, are holding a cup of coffee for me. The cup is a delicate china, resting atop a matching saucer, and the set is one I save just for our ritual Saturday mornings. I like to think it adds to the fantasy; for me, its luxurious weight and delicate details reaffirm my position as a superior, almost a noble, living richly with her personal girl servant. For her, its fragility brings her attention squarely on the task at hand and her servitude, and thus reinforces her submission. As with nearly all of our ritual tasks, we have rehearsed this moment many, many times; she knows exactly what is expected of her to the most minute detail. Obedience is required. Even so, sometimes the girl likes to "forget" a rule, and receive a subsequent punishment. I would be lying if I said I didn't also thoroughly enjoy her bratty side as the wonderful excuse to chastise and even torture my darling. It was something to be expected occasionally, anyway, since we had negotiated ways to include that dynamic in our relationship while still respecting the power exchange. So far, however, it did not seem to be a bratty day. My careful eyes saw no error in her presentation nor posture.
Aware of the strain kneeling puts on her, I limit my time observing her from the corridor and begin to stride over to the wine-colored wingback chair beside her. She looks deliciously nervous, with excited energy, but restrains herself to maintain her position. She is trying to keep her smile behind her lips, which makes me smile. I sit down, cross my legs away from her, and speak: "Good morning, pet. How lovely you look waiting for me so obediently."
It's almost as if her ears perk up hearing the phrase that gives her permission to move and speak. Being careful to not interrupt - a disrespectful transgression - she girlishly flicks her eyes up to me and, while raising the coffee cup up to me with both hands and bowing her head humbly, says "Good morning, Miss."
I love to hear it. Her voice is soft, higher-pitched than the voice she uses in the world outside our private and indulgent fantasy, and it betrays her eagerness. It stokes the fire in my stomach and makes me imagine her gasps and moans as I roughly kiss her, pulling her head back to bite her neck ... No, not yet.
I make eye contact as I accept the warm cup from her small hands, which gracefully fall back to her lap, where they rest upturned in silent submission. Beautiful.
"Have you slept well?"
"Very well, Miss, thank you."
"And how are you feeling this morning?"
"Your servant is feeling well and eager to please you, Miss."
I allow a small, but still distant smile, to pass over my face, though inside it brings me so much fulfillment to hear her speak to me this way without reservation. I nod slightly and look to my coffee. This, too, has a specific, prescribed formula she is to follow without exception. The color, light brown, looks right to me. I raise the cup to my lips and take a long, slow sip. It is smooth, slightly bitter and strong, just as I like it. Three parts black coffee to one-part almond milk. No cream, no sugar. I find no fault in it this morning.
"Is the coffee to your liking, Miss?" She asks, as she is allowed to do.
"It is, pet. Thank you," I respond, and I see her smile out of the corner of my eye.
If she had not made it properly, I would have indicated my displeasure with her immediately, upon which she would begin to apologize in the appropriate position. If the mistake was accidental, I would order her to rectify it, and if it was intentional, she would be promptly castigated however seemed appropriate and was prior negotiated as acceptable correction. As I drink another sip of coffee, I remember such a moment, in which she put a small spoon of sugar in, without stirring, so that I would not notice until the last sip of thick sugared coffee. I promptly demanded an explanation. She, flexing her brat muscle, responded politely that I had seemed so cross and tough lately that she thought a little sugar would help me be sweeter toward her, and she was only trying to help her beloved Miss. Oh, it makes me both excited and angry at the thought all over again, her challenging my authority. The ensuing punishment was great fun. I marched her to the kitchen, heartily chastising her disobedience and complaining about the devilishness of servant girls who are not strictly kept in line, bent her over the counter, and gave her ten heavy swats with the wooden spoon. After each hit to her increasingly red bottom, she recited, as instructed: "I am a naughty, disobedient little girl and Miss's wooden spoon will teach me to be good." I loved watching her skin bright and warm, and especially seeing her palpable arousal between her slutty legs afterward. No clothing to hide her from me, or keep my hands from humbling her. Recalling the memory, I almost wished she hadn't been so obedient today.
"You may eat, pet," I say as I set the coffee back in the saucer on my lap.
"Thank you, Miss," she says, and nibbles on some red grapes she had set on the table beside us. She slides them between her supple lips and chews carefully to avoid making any mess or unnecessary noise. Adorable.
"Now, my sweet girl," I begin, "have you been good this week?"
"Yes, Miss," she bites her lip. "I feel that I have been good."
I tilt my head and lock eyes with her. "Have you actually been good?"
"Your servant has tried her best to be good for you, Miss."
Aha. "And did my servant succeed?"
She looks nervous. "Not entirely, Miss."
"Did you neglect to care for my property by drinking enough water, sleeping enough each night, or not procrastinating on important work?" My tone has become somewhat harsher, and the edge of an impending punishment is obvious.
"No, Miss."
"Did you fail to remind yourself of your Miss's authority by cumming without permission outside of your allowed masturbation times, or not conducting your anal training?"
She is unable to hold eye contact in her shame - and arousal - and looks down to the grapes in her lap. A peachy flush has spread over her cheeks. "Yes, Miss," she almost whispers.
"What was that?" I say with a raised eyebrow.
"Yes, Miss," she squeaks out immediately.
"Tell me precisely in what way you have been disobedient, girl."
