Note: What it says on the tin—fourth 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 wake a few minutes before my alarm, shut it before it goes off and message Mistress for permission to get up, sleepily find my way into my unleashing position. She comes in and lets me up.
I dress in my uniform, wash up, prepare the coffee machine to make another pot for Mistress when this one is empty, nudge a disgruntled cat off the bed so I can make it. Mistress comes in and makes conversation with me around the time I’m tucking the folded-over edge of the flat sheet under the folded-over edge of the comforter. Both cats appear the moment the bed looks made enough for me to let them lie on it in peace.
My walk is shifted today to be practical transportation as per my new idea for this day of the week, but I go through my other light morning exercises; they seem to wake me up enough to shake the soreness I woke with. The jumping rope on the front porch reveals a nice day for walking later. I make our smoothies, stick a tri tip in the sous vide for later, and sit with Mistress while we drink the smoothies since I’ve moved fast enough to have extra minutes to just sit like that.
I pack up my bag. Sometimes I bring snacks for the other volunteers at the library, or bookmarks I crocheted to leave out for people to take. Sometimes I bring paper towels, since handling older books can get dusty enough to turn your hands black, and the only hand-drying option in the bathroom is one of those awful air-blowing machines that makes your ears ring for ten minutes. Today I travel light.
Mistress sees me out the door. I walk the mile I would’ve gone on my walk, but up a different street to the bus stop. Don’t wait long for the bus, and it’s just the one I need to get to the library, just a few minutes early for my volunteer shift.
We don’t have many customers in the used bookstore today, or a flood of donations coming in, but there are plenty of donations left in the back to scan and sort and shelve. As I put books out, books also find their way into a pile for me to buy when I leave. They’re mostly not for me—though there’s two I can’t resist—they’re for a teacher family member’s classroom library. And a book for her by one of her favorite authors, which she’s read but might not own, and if she does, she’s told me to grab this author’s works anyway because she’ll gift them. And an issue of a magazine her mom likes.
It’s fun work. Even just being around all the books is nice. And when we get a chance, I like talking with the other volunteers. I’m the youngest one by literally fifty years. They have great and quirky stories.
At the end of my shift, I buy the books and head out to the bus stop, not far away. Take the same route but backwards back—the one bus, the mile walk. I may have overdone it on the books; the reusable grocery bag they’re stored in has a strap break while I’m crossing the street, and I scramble to grab everything and get out of the road, regroup and make it the rest of the way home without further incident.
Mistress has been moving things around in the house, sorting through things in her current office and old office. The old one is in unrecognizably better shape, if there are still some things to be moved to make the hallway easy to navigate.
I settle in, do a few small things, and then start making dinner for it to be ready at the usual time of six, finishing the tri tip, making a side of corn, setting the table. We eat, talk. I refill her drinks. After, I clean up—take out the trash, do the dishes, whatnot.
I run through my other evening rituals, like prepping another pot of coffee, this one for the morning. I get leashed to the bed and write my slave journal entry, tired, but it was a good day.