She took her coffee black. She liked spicy food, neat whiskey, and artsy horror movies. And so they were obligated to adapt to her needs and desires, not their own. They lived to serve. That was where the two submissives found their enjoyment.
Inside their heads Ben and Horst had their freedom, one of the few freedoms remaining to them, and from an outsider's perspective this was unimaginable insanity, but whenever either of them, the tall, gangly German in his early twenties or the quiet, more stolid American in his early thirties, would tell friends privately about their lifestyles they'd both share that they were perfectly content, more than content, that although their lives revolved around servicing their domina they were quite happy, or if not quite happy all the time they realized their existence was like anyone else's, interminable grayness, neither always happy or sad. It was what it was, to use that time honored cliche.
Right now it was the cleaning up. Left to their own devices they would secretly divide up the daily tasks to suit their own styles, unbeknownst to their domina. Neither of the subs thought that she would greatly mind much if she knew they cleaned or kept the house their own way, but it was technically disobedience. Disodience was against the rules, naturally.
There had been many rules that they had come to learn. Each of them came to the domina, who in her public life was named Maria Reina Velázquez-Patrón, in different ways.
Ben, being older, had been on the scene for longer. His hiring, though he preferred to think of it as a lifestyle change, had come from an in person interaction, master to mistress. Ben had just come from a short spell under the heel of a brutal dom named Max, a highly touted sports doctor in the city. It was brutal but it was all with Ben's consent, even though Max was by far the toughest master or mistress Ben had ever served. It had only lasted a few weeks. Ben didn't mind the constant sex, the spanking, the choking, the slapping, the biting. But something about Max just brushed him the wrong way. Maybe it was his collection of medieval weaponry, or how he boasted to other doms that he made his slave call him "Maxter", or the fact that he made Ben call him "Maxter", which was so immature, so jock-like. Max had lettered in two sports in high school, dropped out of college after three years to try to go to the big leagues, but after a brief career of semi-professional football, a knee injury, he'd gone finished his undergraduate and then gone to medical school so he could specialize in sports medicine, still exist in the world of his dreams. It was his failure to go pro that caused his rages, Ben believed. He had never served a more temperamental dominant or one who polluted his own home with such an atmosphere of constant, toxic anger. After a few weeks, both realized things were not working out. When Max had told him about the domina and the new offer Ben had leaped at the chance.
Horst, being younger, came into the domina's service via the internet. She was the first and only mistress he had ever known. Horst came to her from a village outside of Frankfurt, a place so small and old with a funny name in English that when asked he only said he was from Frankfurt. Bacharach, it was called. It sounded like the card game baccarat, or the singer Burt Bacharach, even though those two things were French and American, respectively, even so, the first Americans he had ever met, online when he was still back home, would only always associate the village with both or either of those things. Besides, no one knew where it was, anyway. It was to that group of Americans he first spoke to over a fetish website that Horst had made his plea. He wanted out of Germany, he said, out of Europe. He couldn't find a job, he couldn't find a master or mistress (he wasn't looking, though, he was hedging the entirety of his bets on these kindly Americans he had never met), and he hated to sound xenophobic but the immigrant sitaution was stifling and upsetting. Horst left that remark up to their interpretation, and apparently they interpreted favorably, because after six months of chatting they sent him a trifle of money, told him to buy an open ended plane ticket and come over to visit.
When Horst had arrived, however, the situation had changed. The man in the American couple, Kurt, met him at the city's dirty airport. Horst had seen pictures, and it was the same man, though a great deal older. When they locked gazes a moment passed between them, a mute acknowledgement in Kurt's watered down blue eyes that he had misrepresented himself gravely, that he wasn't all that much to look at. After that the American was blunt:
"The situation has changed. Carla's cousin needs to stay with us. But don't worry, I have made other arrangements. You're bi, right?"
The question was so bold, so casual, that Horst was taken aback, but that was how a lot of Americans spoke, straight and to the point, not impolitely, but there was simply a different set of norms observed in Europe, that was all. He stammered back that he was, indeed, bisexual.
"Good. I want you to meet a friend of ours, Maria, tonight for drinks. It'll be you and another sub, dude named Ben. This Maria has two openings. She's tough, but she's fair. And she rewards those who serve her well. If it doesn't work out with her, give me a call and we'll put you up in a motel."
Happily, it had worked out with Maria, but Horst later found out that it wouldn't have mattered if it didn't. The number Kurt had given him was a fake. But Kurt and Carla ended up being nothing but a pair of rank poseurs anyway, two wishful, wistful thinkers. Maria, soon to be called domina, was the real deal.
That first night for drinks was quite awkward for several reasons. Horst spoke enthusiastic, rapid fire English, with a generous accent but such aplomb and warmth that his listeners were usually charmed. Ben was quieter, and though they hadn't made a deal with this Maria Reina Velázquez-Patrón yet, quite subservient in tone and body language to her. Neither man gleaned that this first night of interaction would be a microcosm of their future relationships, all three of them.
Maria was stern, aloof, stoic, and distantly generous. If she had ever shown an emotion neither of her subs had been around to witness it. She had a regal quality like many Latina women, an air that demanded attention and worship on an unconscious level. She had a generous body in every way, curving and bulging in all the right places. Her hair was so deep brown that it was often mistaken for black. Her face wasn't classically attractive, but there was a way all of her features fit together, the quirky smile that sometimes came, the big brown eyes, sharp cheekbones, her teardrop chin, that made her simultaneously come across as commanding, girlish, and utterly beautiful. Horst was eyeing her up boldly over the rim of his American craft beer, which was quite good. Ben was sipping sparkling water and keeping quiet.
"I'm an executive in the city," Maria told them. "I'm well off. You'll always have a place to stay with me, and fun to be had. I don't mistreat or disrespect anyone, or humiliate them unless they get off on it. You'll receive money, days off. Even weeks if you want to fly home, Horst."
"That's very kind of you," The young German man said, smiling like an idiot.
"I have a few rules, of course." Maria went on, ignoring the younger man's cheer. "Which we'll get into in more detail when the time is right. For now, I'll just say this: always obey me. Never lie to me. And always have fun with me."
It was quite simply the best pitch Ben had ever experienced. His motives were both practical and esoteric: he hated living with Max, hated it, and wanted a master or mistress he could please. Horst was overwhelmed as well, with sexual desire, but at the end of the day he only needed a place to stay, if only for the night. That offer was made by Maria soon after they finished their drinks.
That first night had been wild. Maria took them to her country style home, far from the glittering highrise of her office or the dingy dive bar where they'd met. Whatever kind of executive she was Maria did quite well for herself, Horst observed aloud.
"Thank you," She said simply, regarding him with a mixture of scientific curiosity and fondness. "Now, should you decide to stay, should I accept you, you will have many tasks. Cooking, cleaning, chores. Even if you've never done any of that before you can learn. But there is one thing that cannot truly be taught or learned."
"What is that?" Horst asked.
"I want you two to fuck," Was all she said.
Professionally, neither man had a preference, as it was their solemn pride to adapt to their masters or mistresses. But personally, Ben, with his thick, short cock and Horst, with his tiny, almost feminine member, were versatile and bottom, respectively. So things worked out.
Both men learned a great deal that first night, about one another, their soon to be domina. Ben learned that when he was railed hard enough Horst made noises like a woman, the most whorish woman, but it wasn't an affectation or a performance, it was just how he sounded. Horst learned that Ben could maintain his powerful erection for hours, and could really only cum by his own hand or at the hand, mouth, whatever, of his owner, not a casual lover.
They learned that Maria liked to watch. She was wearing a spaghetti strap red cocktail dress, slit up just enough to where she could sit on her settee, move it to the side, and slip her hand unobtrusively between her legs as the men went to work. They learned that when she was aroused her lip curled in an expression that could resemble disgust or delight, depending on one's mood. And they learned that they wanted to stay with Maria for as long as she would have them.
The next day, as they awoke on the pair of sofas in the foyer, she wondered aloud which of them had a talent for cooking. In a flash, Ben was orienting himself around her kitchen. Horst started the coffee and toast, fumbling a bit with the American appliances. Soon, all of them were sitting down to a hasty but tasty breakfast of scrambled eggs, microwaved bacon (Ben quietly apologized, but he thought it would be prudent to get food on the table quickly), toast and black coffee. Neither man took their coffee without anything less than several teaspoons full of sugar and plenty of cream, but they adapted.
After the food, Maria sat them both down in the living room and asked them how they were feeling. Horst immediately gushed with a desire to serve her forever, to live with her, by her side and under her boot, where he belonged.
