9:35 PM.
My reminder alarm goes off as always.
I’ve probably had one eye on the clock, so it’s simple to wrap up the writing or whatnot that I’m doing, most of the time.
I see to my final evening tasks. Write the nightly turndown card with tomorrow’s reminders, meal plan, and weather forecast, place it in its spot. Turn down the bed. Fill the humidifier. Lay out my blanket on the floor at the foot of the bed (slave furs). Little things.
9:40, my pager—slave bell—gives its “goodnight” auto off buzz.
I strip out of my daily uniform as required, shivering a little—slaves don’t touch the thermostat, or so I’m told around here—and give myself a once over in the mirror, freshen up.
9:44, I get into Inspection Position. Standing, legs spread, hands clasped behind my head, head and eyes up, back straight. I can hear Mistress going down and up the stairs, checking on tasks I did earlier downstairs—cleaning the kitchen after serving dinner at 6, preparing the coffee machine for tomorrow, shutting down the house.
Back upstairs, she comes in and looks the room, then me, over, circling me, prodding—the usual mix of caresses, slaps, squeezes.
I’m silent, waiting for her to speak first. Speak when spoken to. My arms ache and tingle a little.
She tells me I did well, lavishes me with praise.
“Thank you, Mistress.” The required response. I mean it. And even though it goes this way ninety-nine percent of the time, there’s always an element of relief.
“You may get me lotion.” She sits on the end of the bed, lying back. I get out of position, grab the lotion, and rub it into her elbows. The nightly default is at least that. She rubs it in a little more and rubs the excess into her hands. “You may do my feet, too. And rub them a little.”
“Yes, Mistress.” The you may is no matter—it’s an order. Yes, Mistress. So I do as told.
When she seems content with that, she sits up. I get into Leashing Position, kneeling, knees apart, big toes crossed in back (right over left), my leash across both of my palms, hands resting on my thighs, tossing my hair out of the way, checking that the collar o-ring is in front, that my back is straight. She takes the leash clip from me and clips it to my collar. Gives me a few more pats on the head, says goodnight, and goes, off to do a few more things and then settle into the bed and sleep.
I settle into my blanket, seeing to a few final-final things. Set my alarms for tomorrow. Plug in my devices. Write my slave journal entry. Take my meds. Message my mom, Goodnight, I love you. More. Most. Seriously, goodnight. And shut my laptop.
And then it’s time for sleep.
Service Slave Secrets 