Itdoesmake me feel good to please him.
It makes me feel good toservehim.
I’m totally one of those service subs I always joked about, and I can’t help feeling rueful about it now. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to admit it to anyone, either, because my reputation as a pain slut will betotallyshot. I snicker to myself about it as I check the water once more.
When the temperature is perfect and everything is waiting for him, I go out to let Elliot know. He’s at the piano, still working.
“Excellent,” he says, putting down his pencil. “Come with me.”
I follow as commanded, hoping that my eyes will keep propped open long enough to wash him down and dry him. But when we get into the bathroom, Elliot says, “In you get, Oliver.”
“Huh?” I’m confused and tired enough to lose all politeness, and I wonder if that will earn me another strike. I’ve had a lot of them over the last week, before I settled into a good rhythm between work and home.
“I’m afraid that’s another tally to your score,” Elliot says, soundingalmostsorry. I know he’s not, though. He loves giving out strikes as much as I love getting them. My pain slut side has gonenowhere. “I asked you to get into the bath, Oliver.”
“But…” I stand there and wait for his instructions to make sense in my head.
“Oliver,” he says, much more gently, and he comes toward me, his fingers drifting up my belly, making me catch my breath. “Get in.”
“But the bath is for you.”
“I wantyouto have a bath tonight, dear heart. You’re clearly tired. Your service tonight will consist of allowing me to care for you. Do you understand?”
Do I understand? “Not really,” I say bluntly. “I thoughtyouliked to be served, my lord, not the other way around.”
He is briskly pulling his shirt out of the waist of his pants and stripping it off as he replies. “Do I provide adequate aftercare?”
“Of course.”
“Then why would you think I expect you to do nothing but suffer? Unless you don’twantto be taken care of, Oliver—in which case I will leave you to bathe yourself, with an expectation that you will not remove yourself from that tub until you are completely relaxed.”
“Okay, hang on a minute,” I say, lifting up a finger. “Are youorderingme to relax?”
He considers that for a moment, folding up his shirt and laying it to one side. “Yes,” he says with satisfaction. “I am ordering you to relax.”
It’s not that this is unthinkable; even the most sadistic Doms that I’ve been with enjoy the aftercare as well, like to indulge their submissives from time to time. But I’m supposed to be here in this house to servehim. That’s…the point. I’m not entirely sure how this role reversal makes me feel.
A little disconcerted?
Because if this is becoming a more reciprocal relationship, then I’ve gone well beyond my role as a household staff member. Elliot, so far as I know, has never become this close to anyone else here.
Maybe I’m doing something wrong.
But it feels so good, brings such warmth to my heart, that I push away those niggling, pointless worries. “If you’remakingme relax,” I tell him, “then I’d like you to stay here with me. If you will, my lord,” I add quickly, not completely forgetting the nature of our relationship.
But what I’ve said pleases him. He smiles broadly, and then gestures me over. I let him help me into the tub, leaning back with a sigh of relief and pleasure.
Elliot says nothing while he bathes me, which is also a relief. I’m a huge extrovert, but even extroverts need some quiet time now and then. I don’t think I’d have any wordsleftto give to him after today.
“I’m concerned that you’re running yourself ragged,” Elliot says at last, ten minutes into the silent process.
I open my eyes and give him a look between my lashes. “You’ll remember, my lord, that one of my caveats for being here was that you would accept my work schedule.”
“Of course I accept your work schedule; that’s not at all what I meant. I merely wanted to discuss whether your duties here in this household needed to be scaled back. I don’t want you making yourself ill overme. As much as I appreciate everything you do for me, I don’t want you to work yourself into the ground.”
Ialmostask him where the real Lord Arden is and what he’s done with the body.
“Thank you?” I say, except it sounds more like a question.
