Last night, I lay there thinking back over the day, rolling my dick in my hand, wondering if jerking off would earn any infraction marks—and if so, how many. I decided not to test it. If he suddenly sprang the question on me—Oliver, have you masturbated to the memory of my voice?—I decided I’d prefer to keep my dignity slightly intact, and be able to truthfully say no.
But I really,reallywanted to jerk off to the memory of his voice telling me I’d done something wrong.
Service kink always seemed like a kink for other people. I’ve always been into way wilder shit; Brandon and I were working our way through a bucket list with the Doms of LA before he shacked up with his Sir, Heath, and service kink? Wasnoton that list. Or if it was, we’d both crossed it out years back. It always seemed like playing on easy mode.
But that was before Lord Arden.
Maybe I’m not into dusting, or cleaning shoes, but I’m starting to see that I never really understood service before him. I thought it would be a cinch. It’s…not. I’ve been in the scene a long time, and I’ve never had my submissive side tested quite like this. It’s not just the 24/7 nature of it, either. It’s the demands on mymindthat I find challenging. Without a phone to keep my thoughts busy, I’ve found them shifting. Realigning.
That time spent at his feet with nothing to do butthink—at first it was torture.
But right now, sitting at his feet by the piano, my mind wanders to what I should be doing for him, and when, and how can I do it to his satisfaction…
I’m docile and happy, my head almost in his lap, buzzing on the edge of subspace.
I don’t get there easily. I don’t get there with strangers, ever; I need a regular play partner for a while before I really trust them enough to let go. But it’s different with him…
Just as my head begins to swim with that telltale feeling, I catch sight of the clock across the room, and sit up. “My lord?”
The sweep of his pencil across the page doesn’t stop, but he does say, “Yes?”
At first the impatience in his voice got to me. Now I’m learning he doesn’tmeanto be rude, it’s just hard to suddenly come back down to earth when he’s in that creative zone.
“It’s time for me to go down to help prepare for dinner service.”
He gives a tut, but then looks at the clock himself. “I suppose it is.” Usually he gives me permission at once when I remind him I’m supposed to be somewhere, but it’s not forthcoming this time.
“Uh, my lord?” I prompt, looking up at him. “May I go?”
He’s still glaring at the clock, like time is supposed to submit to his whims, just like me. “Yes, alright,” he says at last. “You may go.”
I reach the door when he calls after me, “Oliver, I don’t like these interruptions. I might speak to Niklaus about it, and see if you can be excused from meal service from now on. Do you have any objections?”
I stand there wondering what to say. There’s only one more meal to go after dinner, and that’s Monday morning breakfast.
After that, I’m leaving again.
He doesn’t seem to have remembered.
“I don’t have any objections, my lord,” I say at last, because that’s true enough.
“Very good,” he says in dismissal, and goes back to his work.
In the kitchen, I’m the last one to arrive, and I apologize profusely, but I’m pretty sure Daniel speaks for everyone when he says, “As long as you’re keeping Lord Arden happy, be as late as you like.”
There’s a murmur of agreement as I pick up the bucket of potatoes and get to peeling. “Lord A-hole really has a reputation down here, huh?”
“He sure does,” Daniel replies grimly.
But something prompts me to say, “He’s notreallyan a-hole.”
“Yeah, I know,” Daniel sighs. “But he does a very convincing impression of it.”
“He’s actually really easygoing when you get to know him.”
He goggles back at me. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Yes,” I say with a straight face. “Of course I fucking am.” We both laugh, and then I add, “Why does he have tobelike that? Can’t he just chill and enjoy? If I was a rich, aristocratic musical genius, I’d bemuchhappier day-to-day.”
