"I'm sorry, I was watching the hollandaise and—"
"Excuses don't unburn toast." He guided me down, upper body against cool wood, positioning me carefully. "Spread your legs. Arch your back. Show me you understand this is correction, not cruelty."
The position displayed me completely, white panties stretched across raised hips. I could see my reflection in the black granite—collar bright against flushed skin, breasts pressed to the table, face already showing anticipation of punishment.
"Count," he instructed, then brought the spatula down with controlled force.
"One." The sting spread immediately, wood against barely covered flesh. "Two." Harder, making me gasp. "Three."
He worked methodically, covering the same spots until they burned. Not cruel, as he'd said, but thorough. By ten, I was squirming. By fifteen, tears pricked my eyes. By twenty, I was floating in that space where pain transformed to something else.
"What do we learn from this?"
"To pay attention," I gasped. "To focus on the task at hand. To take pride in every aspect of service."
"Good girl." The spatula clattered onto the counter. "Now remake the toast. Properly this time."
I moved gingerly, aware of the heat radiating from punished skin. This time, I watched the toaster with completefocus, producing golden-brown perfection. Plated it alongside the now-cooling eggs, presented it with hands that barely trembled.
"Acceptable," he pronounced after examining the meal. "Kneel beside my chair while I eat."
The position was familiar but the context new—not training or play but actual service. I knelt on the hard floor, back straight, hands on my thighs, watching him eat what I'd prepared.
"Open," he commanded after a few bites, holding a forkful of egg toward me.
I opened obediently, accepting the offering. The hollandaise was rich, properly emulsified despite my amateur attempt. He fed me slowly between his own bites—a piece of toast here, a sip of juice there. Making me wait, work for each morsel.
"Please," I whispered when he made me wait too long. "Please, Daddy, may I have another bite?"
"Since you asked so nicely."
The meal continued this way—him eating while I knelt, occasionally feeding me like a pet. The humiliation of it mixed with strange pride that I'd prepared something he found acceptable. That I could serve him in this simple, fundamental way.
When he finished, dishes remained on the table. I started to stand, but his hand on my head stopped me.
"Did I say you could move?"
"No, Daddy. I just thought—"
"Don't think. Wait for instructions." He produced something from his pocket that made my breath catch. A plug, smaller than some he'd used but designed for extended wear. "This will help you remember to focus on your duties instead of your assumptions."
He had me bend over the table again, panties pulled aside. The plug slid in easily—my body well-trained to accept what he gave. Once seated fully, he adjusted my panties back in place, patting the fabric.
"Now you may clear the table. Wash everything by hand—the dishwasher is too easy. I want to watch you work."
Moving with the plug was an exercise in awareness. Every step shifted it slightly, not painful but impossible to ignore. Bending to gather plates pressed it deeper. Standing at the sink, washing dishes while he watched, I felt marked inside and out.
"Spread your legs wider," he instructed. "I want to see the line of your panties shift when you move."
I complied, which changed how the plug sat, made each movement more pronounced. Suds ran down my arms as I scrubbed, warm water making my skin pink. Such a normal task made surreal by my near-nudity, his observation, the constant reminder of submission nested inside me.
"You're dripping," he observed clinically. "The panties are soaked through."
Shame heat flooded my face, but I couldn't deny it. Something about this—the domestic service, the casual control, the reduction to useful object—hit deeper than elaborate scenes. This felt sustainable. Real. What our life might actually look like beyond these walls.
"Continue," he said when I paused. "Arousal doesn't excuse incomplete tasks."
I finished the dishes with shaking hands, dried everything carefully, returned items to their proper places. He'd moved to the living room, sprawled on the leather couch with his tablet. I stood uncertainly, awaiting instruction.
