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By Pebbles Lacasse

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“Mistress Scarlett…” A deep but whispered voice calls to me. “It’s time to wake up.”

 

With a groan, I roll to my back, yawn, and stretch my legs and arms, as if trying to reach for the footboard. The leg stretch feels especially good after the hellish workout I had with Colby yesterday.

 

Without acknowledging my bedfellow, I sit up, tossing the covers aside. My hands fold over the edge of the bed as I stretch my back by arching and lifting each shoulder as high as possible, ending with another groan. That damn knot beside my shoulder blade still hurts. I’ll get Ted to rub it out later. Right now, I have to pee.

 

After a quick bathroom visit, I return and collect the key from my nightstand. Before I went to sleep, I handcuffed Ted to a spindle on my dark walnut headboard and told him not to go anywhere. Obviously, he can’t, and that’s why I find it funny.

 

Ted smiles as I slip the key into the handcuff attached to the bed and unlock it, but I leave the one on his wrist. I allow him a few minutes to relieve himself. He leaves the door ajar, knowing he isn’t allowed privacy.

 

The shower starts, and I enter the bathroom, where Ted holds the glass door open for me.

 

“Ted, wash me.”

 

Without hesitation, the thickly built man steps in behind me, and I stand under the hot water. I love the way the heat seers my flesh, turning my tanned hue a deep red. Ted holds a pool of shampoo in his hand, waits for me to step from under the water, and then massages it onto my scalp. With him towering over my 5’7” frame, he manages with ease.

 

I rinse, and then the deep brown-eyed man coats my long, dark strands in conditioner and whirls it atop my head to affix with a clip. I wash my face, and he rubs me down with a sudsy loofah. My legs spread, and he washes my undercarriage with great care and tenderness, but not enough to warrant punishment for taking sexual enjoyment from the task.

 

After I rinse my hair and body, I step out into Ted’s waiting arms, who holds a fluffy white bath sheet, and he wraps it around me before tucking in the edge to keep it snug. I bend forward, and he wraps my hair in a turban-towel. I leave the bathroom to allow Ted two minutes to wash himself.

 

What the hell am I going to wear today?

 

The left side of my walk-in closet is lined with a variety of long dresses that promise to accent my thin, muscular figure. To the right hang all my lingerie, leather gear, latex, and silk clothing; everything and anything to scream my dominance. The centre houses my regular street clothes and workout wear, which is my goal this morning.

 

I lay my pale blue spandex shorts and matching sports bra on the bed. I sit in the black metal-framed chair perched before my make-up table with the large matching mirror. Ted chooses a pair of socks and a thong for me and sets them beside my chosen outfit.

 

While Ted’s towel-dried hair points in many directions, he massages my long hair with argan oil-coated fingers and then blow-dries it. He brushes the strands and then twists them into a loose braid while I lotion my face. When I rise, he coats my body in lotion, and then leaves while I dress. By the time I’m slipping my feet into my workout shoes, he’s returning with a steaming mug of coffee.

 

“Thank you, Ted. You may go,” I say as I take the mug from him. 

 

He bows, and then his tight ass sways over thick thighs as he scurries from my bedroom.

 

That man enjoys being my submissive. I enjoy his company, even though he isn’t permitted to speak without permission. Having him beside me when I shut my eyes is a comfort. I don’t have romantic feelings for Ted and never will. Our relationship is strictly professional… Well, sort of. It’s mutually beneficial to us both, and we’re friends, I suppose.

 

Ted visits four times a week: Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday, if I permit. He does whatever I ask, which is usually catering to me. He cooks and cleans, bathes me, dresses me, when I tell him to, and remains on his hands and knees for me to use as a footrest when I watch television or read a book. The man’s content to remain motionless for hours without complaint.

 

The benefit of our relationship for him is that he can shut off the decision-making aspect of his brain. Ted’s a clinical doctor with his own practice, and he has to make tough decisions and stay sharp while he’s on the job. It’s stressful and draining. When he’s here, there are no decisions to be made, and he can relax his mind.

 

It’s a rare occasion when we have sex, but not unheard of. If he’s been exceptionally well-behaved, I’ll allow him to masturbate while he eats my pussy, but he’s only allowed to cum after I do. Every so often, I’ll fuck his ass with a strap-on, or allow him to lie flat on his back while I ride him to take my pleasure. He can finish himself off only after I dismount him. He isn’t to touch me unless he asks permission first, or I instruct him to.

 

There are rules to be followed, and if he breaks them, he gets punished. Sometimes, when he’s feeling frisky, he’ll step out of line because he wants my attention, punishment, or both. My favourite punishment is to make him wear a cock cage with a weight attached while he stands at the end of the bed, holding the metal footrest with his legs spread and a penny resting on his nose. He’s forbidden to move. If he drops the penny, I add weight to the cage. The task is harder than you think.

 

About a year ago, I left him for almost an hour. By the time I got back to him, his legs were shaking, and he was crying. I felt bad and sat on my make-up chair with him on the floor so he could rest his head on my thighs and cry until he felt strong again. After that, I’ve kept a closer eye on the time.

 

I hop down the stairs to the open-concept main floor with my braid bouncing against my back, and head to the kitchen to get my protein drink and jug of cold water. The large windows lining the west wall of the loft reveal a sky lined with dark grey clouds, promising a hot, muggy day with showers. The grimness of it has me thankful I don’t have to go outside today.

 

My runners slap the hardwood floor as I tread down the hall, turn, and follow the glass wall to the entrance gap at the end. Through the glass, I watch Colby pull down on the weighted cable to work his latissimus dorsi muscles. I refer to them as wings.

 

Colby is my best friend. He’s also a dominant and understands the pressures and pleasures of this lifestyle. He’s not my boyfriend, but he likes to say he is when people ask. The man is my best friend, nothing more. That’s not to say he hasn’t hounded me to push our relationship past that level. I simply have no use for the bullshit concept of love.

 

Love is a useless emotion. It makes people do stupid things like marry, which gives your spouse half of your possessions should the relationship fail to live up to the hype. People have killed in the name of love. Thanks, but no thanks. Don’t even get me started about cheating spouses! That happens way more often than their spouses know.

 

Being alone and able to make my own choices without input from anyone else works well for me. I do what I want, when I want, and how I want. If people don’t like it, they can fuck off.

 

“Hey, woman! You’re late,” Colby teases as he eases the weights into their resting position.

 

I set my water jug on the pewter-coloured, vinyl-composition tile floor, and then step onto the 10’ x 10’ midnight-grey floor mat. My legs spread shoulder-width apart. With my fingers weaved together behind my back, I bend forward, allowing gravity to pull my arms for a good stretch. Damn, my legs are really feeling yesterday’s workout.

 

“I’m not late. You’re early.” I stand and lunge side to side as I groan through the stretch.

 

Colby chuckles. “Stiff?” ...

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