He really does.
I carefully climb out of bed, use the bathroom, wash my hands, shut off all the alarms, review the latest version of his schedule an aide sent to his work phone and mine only fifteen minutes ago, and start his coffee brewing before I return to bed. In his sleep, he automatically snuggles against me again, even though he’s not awake.
Not even close.
Guilt slams into me over how I awakened him Sunday morning.
He deserves better than that from me. Far better.
The petty, punitive bullshit is something I need to get under control, and fast. My pain is not his to bear.
It’s my fault I fell in love with Jordan.
It’s my fault I let Elliot agree to being poly.
I’m the Master. My job is to take care of my pet, and always has been.
One more failure in my life.
And still…
I am nowhere close to being done processing my grief over losing Jordan. There’s a nearly physical hole painfully carved in my chest, a chunk of my soul now residing in Tallahassee.
I cannot be two places at once. I cannot be here, taking care of Elliot, and there, taking care of Jordan.
Nuzzling Elliot’s forehead, I gently tighten my grip around him. “Good morning, pet.”
Because I’ve tightened my grip, I’m ready when he startles, followed by the sharp, pained gasp of breath, the frightened-horse response, until his brain kicks over and takes control.
He presses his face against me, embarrassed, as always, by his reaction. “Good morning, Master,” he whispers against my throat.
Fuck it.He needs an ego boost this morning. I roll him onto his back and pin his wrists over his head, my legs straddling him and my weight holding him down. Staring into his eyes, I wait him out, until his gaze is settled and focused on me.
Until I am his world.
“10:15, we’re taking a break,” I tell him. “Don’t care where we are, we’re going into a room, locking the door, and you’re letting me take care of you. That’s as long as you need to hold on for this morning. 10:15.”
His throat works as he swallows. “Yes, Master.”
Relief fills me. That he’s not even trying to argue with me, or asking to see his schedule first, means he needs this as badly as I do.
I kiss him, until both of us are hard and aching.
We have enough time.
I turn around on top of him and it only takes a few minutes until we’ve sucked orgasms out of each other and once again curled up together.
Holding his head in my hands, I press my forehead to his. “You’re my very perfect pet, and I love you very much. Master’s going to take care of you this week. All I need for you to do is trust me and do what I tell you to do. Understand?”
The residual tension drains from him. “Yes, Master. Thank you. I love you, too.”
I help him out of bed and make sure he’s steady on his walker before I go retrieve his coffee and make me one, too. We shower together, and I shave him, let him shave me, shampoo his hair for him—everything.
I keep him naked while he helps me dress. This helps psychologically reinforce our dynamic. Then I dress him, not letting him do a thing, including putting Duck on. The only input I give him is checking the fit of the inner sock on his stump, making sure there aren’t any wrinkles or folds that will cause him issues, and the liner, and adjusting Duck’s overall fit with the outer socks over his liner. Everything else I do for him—dressing him, fastening his buttons, tying his tie.
The entire time, his eyes are focused on me, looking into mine every time I meet his gaze, which is exactly what I want from him this morning.
There’s enough time built into our schedule for this.
