Note: What it says on the tin—third in a series, a non-fiction piece about one day in my M/s dynamic, hoping to answer some questions I frequently see about the day-to-day life of a slave.
I am barely awake, and Mistress’ morning alarm goes off, and I don’t have much time to ponder why she has an alarm set today at all when she gets up, shuts it off, and gets back into bed. I happily take the opportunity to curl up against her until the snooze alarm goes off and she gets up to shut that, too, but stays up.
“May I get up, too?” I ask.
She tells me to get into my morning unleashing position while she goes off to the bathroom; I remember last night when she told me to get into my nighttime leashing position and wait while she finished getting a snack, and it was over twenty minutes before she came back. I can’t help but hope it will be a shorter amount of time this round. Patience, I tell myself, sitting up cross-legged, pulling my hair out of the way, getting the collar o-ring and attached leash clip to the front of my neck, the leash draped across my upturned palms. I try to keep my back straight.
I’ve been mentally toying with the idea of mantras and “patience” is a keyword. But it’s only a few minutes this time. She lets me up. I run through my morning routine—put on my uniform, wash up, do my stretching routine, check with Mistress before I go on my walk. Half a mile into the neighborhood, half a mile back.
When I return, I finish my morning routine. Make the bed, prep a pot of coffee for Mistress, start making the morning smoothies. I sip mine while I get some other things done from my list, quick checks on things in the house; I stick a few more glasses in the freezer to chill, tidy up some things in the living room, rotate laundry through the cycle.
I’m collecting the trash from the smaller bins around the house to combine with the big kitchen trash and recycle bin to take out, replacing the bags, when Mistress comes to get me for our weekly maintenance session. Well, she tells me to strip, get the maintenance wand—an unassuming short, thick, cane-like wooden implement that’s meaner than it looks—and kneel in the living room presenting it. So, I do. Like the leash, the maintenance wand lays on my upturned palms, and I’m practically still getting my back straight enough and my knees the right number of inches apart when she returns.
She sits on the ottoman, beckons me over her lap. Gives me the familiar instructions. I get ten strokes with the wand. “One, thank you, Mistress. Please may I have another?” The counting gets breathy quickly. Just the ten, full force, no warm up or cool down strikes with that wand is enough to bruise a little. When I count the tenth, she answers my question verbally and tells me no. Stays with me a bit, then places the wand back on the mantel. Always in sight. Gives me permission to dress and go back to what I was doing.
So I dress, and finish taking out the trash. Throughout the day I play catchup after some sickness and travel, doing so many dishes my hands start to wrinkle, and eight loads of laundry. Some clothes, bed linens, towels, napkins. No robes, other table linens, or mop pads today.
Otherwise, I wrap holiday gifts—make a note to ask Mistress a question about the gifts that will be given at an event in a few days, and I might still need to make a toy bag packing list for that too…
I’m hungry and have just started the first steps of making dinner when she tells me to push dinner back a bit, and clean up her office since she’s going to get in the shower and won’t be in it anymore, and set up things to give her a pedicure when she gets out. I have to think my way through some timing issues—tell her that dinner isn’t as much of a “put in the oven and wait” as she apparently thought, so I can’t do it at the same time, and dinner will be pushed back further than she thinks, but she’s fine with that. She goes.
I clean up her office. Set up the pedicure things. Still have a bit of time, so I preheat the ovens and handle some of that laundry, and finish that up while she starts soaking.
I give her the pedicure while we’re silent, but she’s watching something I can hear, though I have no context for it and don’t pay much attention to it. After, I clean up those supplies and start dinner again. Roasted potatoes, lemon pepper chicken.
After dinner, we do Meta Sunday—our weekly meeting where we run through a list of check-in questions and go over the calendar and anything else. There’s not a ton going on this week—but there are errands, two kink-ish events, my library volunteer shift, a visit with my family.
After Meta Sunday, I go through my evening routines, clean up the kitchen one more time, finish that laundry. Wind down. Write this. Soon I’ll write my journal, too, though this may be basically it.