Hello everyone! It's a series on everyday life's event in a Female Lead Relationship with a strict chastity regime.
Please show your understanding as English is not my native language.
Any feedback, suggestions, ideas, comments, remarks and constructive criticism are welcome. All characters in this story are adults.
Thank you in advance!
Anthea comes home late at noon; her sweat-soaked flesh speaks of the heat outside. I am on my knees, greeting her with alacrity, and initiating an ardent kiss of her toes, tops and soles of her feet.
Anthea collapses on to the couch and heaves a heavy sigh, stretching her legs towards me.
"Boy, massage my feet, I am at my end," she commands heavy with fatigue.
I kneel immediately, taking off her pale blue sandals and placing her feet in my lap. As my fingers start massaging the soles of her feet, I feel the tension slowly ease out of her body, but it's obvious the weight of her worry is still there.
"I am so tired physically and mentally," she utters, her voice barely above a whisper, with half-closed eyes. "The job is sucking me dry, and the PhD writing is endless; it is as though there is no exit from it."
I smile soft and comforting. "Lady, holidays are coming soon; it's just a few days more, and you'll be allowed to take some rest and enjoy your break."
She opens her eyes for an instant and bursts into laughter, though her voice is laced with irritation. "Holidays. ha! If only I could forget about work during them. Still, at least it'd be great to have just a few days free from worries."
She then pulls out from her purse a small, silver ring bell and says, "Here, boy, take it," extending it to me with a snicker. "I want this bell, in whichever room I be, placed there. As long as you hear it, from that day on, you run to me immediately. Understand?"
"Yes, Lady Anthea," I nod, taking the bell and rising as does she. She walks toward the bedroom, and I prepare her coffee.
Within a few minutes, she reenters the living room wearing a deep purple satin camisole; its slender straps lie delicately on her shoulders. It cascades down with soft fluidity over her torso before stopping just above her hips. Under the camisole, she is wearing a simple turquoise pair of lace-trimmed panties that cling tightly to her form, leaving little to the imagination.
"Cook for me something, boy," she says, walking by as if it is now the only thing you care about, her comfort. "I want pasta. Something light and easy, with a lemon-butter sauce."
"Yes Lady." I answer with an eagerness.
Anthea sipped coffee while watching me prepare for her.
"You're going to sauté garlic first, then add butter. Once it starts bubbling, I want you to squeeze in lemon and toss the pasta."
I prepare the meal, keeping my head slightly bowed. "Yes Lady, thank you for the instructions."
"And sprinkle some Parmesan on top before serving." Her voice is serious but with a note of satisfaction as she watches me again getting ready to serve her.
Anthea leans against the kitchen counter, a little way off, supervising me. Her eyes flick over my movements; her attention is keen.
"It's ironic, isn't it? There was a time when I used to cook for you... how things have turned around. Now I just sit here and enjoy the sight of you cooking for me."
I turn away briefly and catch her smirk, widened across her lips. "Yes, my Lady," I reply as I go about sautéing the garlic as instructed.
She shifts, her gaze following my hands in motions from stove to ingredients. "I kinda like watching you cook for me now especially in that apron," she says, an edge of playfulness, almost a seductive sound in her voice. "It's romantic in a weird sort of way. and honestly, a little arousing." She chuckles lowly.
She goes and stretches out on the couch, I serve at the coffee table-her coffee and water in a tray and then I curtsey, causing her to stifle laughter. "I'll answer a few messages while you are cooking," she says casually. "Work silently. I don't want to hear a sound from you unless I ring the bell."
I give a slight curtsey and withdraw into the kitchen to await further commands, well aware that I am only a ring away from responding to whatever need she may have.
I set the table out and serve her meal. She sits down in the chair, and I stand beside her, my hands clasped in front on my apron. As Anthea enjoys the meal, she eats each bite with slow deliberation, occasionally glancing at me. After a few moments, she speaks; her tone is tinged with amusement.
"I must admit, boy, your cooking is getting better. This is not bad at all," she says, swirling the pasta around her fork. "But don't get cocky. You still have a long way to go before I can say you're good at it."
I nod, acknowledging what she said, a sense of pride welling up inside me despite the subtle put-down.
"Thank you, Lady; such kind words from you do inspire me."
Having eaten her fill, Anthea stretches out on the couch, sinking into the cushions with her phone in hand. While I begin clearing the table, she scrolls through messages and social media feeds, chuckling occasionally at something that catches her fancy, paying you no mind--until she does.
My hands are deep in soapy water, washing dishes, and her voice cuts through the clinking of the plates. "Boy, scratch my calf. It's itching," she orders from the couch, her voice flat as if my compliance is a given.
