"Prove it." He leaned back. "Continue your service. The kitchen floor needs mopping. On your hands and knees."
The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of domestic tasks performed nearly naked. Mopping as ordered, on all fours with the plug shifting inside me. Folding his laundry while he worked, each piece of clothing a reminder of the man I served. Preparing dinner with more success than breakfast, proud when nothing burned.
By evening, I was exhausted in new ways. Not from intensity or denial but from constant low-level arousal mixed withgenuine effort to please through simple service. My knees ached from kneeling, hands pruned from cleaning, but satisfaction hummed through me.
"Come here," he called from the couch as darkness settled outside.
I went immediately, expecting to kneel again. Instead, he pulled me into his lap, arranging me against his chest. The plug pressed differently in this position, making me squirm.
"How was your first day of domestic service?"
"Harder than expected," I admitted. "But also... fulfilling? Like I was useful in practical ways, not just as an experiment or toy."
"You were perfect." He kissed my temple. "Burned toast and all. Watching you move through my space, tending to my needs, struggling with simple tasks because you were so aware of being observed... exactly what I've imagined."
"This is what you want? After?"
"Part of what I want." His hand found my hair, petting gently. "Not all day every day—we'll find balance. But yes, I want you available. Want domestic service mixed with our other dynamics. Want you collared in my kitchen as much as kneeling in my bedroom."
"I want that too." The admission came easily now. "Want to wake up and make your coffee. Want to clean your spaces and cook your meals and be useful in all the small ways that make a life."
"While wearing minimal clothing?"
"If that pleases you."
"Everything about you pleases me." He shifted, pressing the plug deeper. "Especially how you've embraced this. No feminist guilt about enjoying domestic service. No shame about wanting to serve."
"Oh, there's shame," I corrected. "So much shame. But you taught me that shame can be another kind of pleasure if I let it."
"My brilliant girl." Pride colored his voice. "Learning all the best lessons."
We sat quietly as full dark arrived, my nearly naked body against his clothed one. Tomorrow would bring more service, more learning, more small humiliations that somehow added up to contentment. But for now, I just existed in his arms, collar warm against my throat, marks from the spatula still tender on my skin.
"Two days left," I murmured.
"Two days of protocols," he corrected. "Then a lifetime of choosing this. Choosing to serve and submit and find fulfillment in tasks that would bore you if they were for anyone else."
"They'd destroy me if they were for anyone else." I pressed closer. "This only works because it's you. Because you see the gift in my service. Because you correct mistakes without crushing spirit."
"Because I love you," he said simply. "Love owning you, controlling you, watching you flourish under structure. But mostly just love you, even when you burn my toast."
"I love you too," I whispered. "Love serving you, pleasing you, being useful to you. Love how you make the mundane feel sacred."
"Then we're perfectly matched." He stood, lifting me easily. "Now come. Time to remove that plug and reward my domestic angel for her hard work."
"I burned your toast," I reminded him.
"And took correction beautifully." He carried me toward the bedroom. "Served despite discomfort. Embraced humiliation. Found joy in submission. Worth all the rewards I can give."
He was right. I had found joy today. In simple tasks elevated by context. In service that satisfied something deeper than sexual need. In being useful to the man who'd taken me apart so carefully and was rebuilding me into something sustainable.
Two more days of formal training.
Then a lifetime of chosen service.
Of collar and panties and burned toast.
Of kneeling beside his chair and begging for bites.
