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Pressing my forehead against the cold glass of my car window, I debate going inside. I do this every week.
Every Wednesday, for 10 weeks, I have left my “real life” to come here and pretend to be someone else. In clothes that don’t fit into my wardrobe, shoes that most women would die to own, and a sparkling beauty that I rarely see in myself, I become veronica.
She is sweet but sultry, demure but erotic, fantastic but punishable. She is submissive. She is what I, Chelsea, would truly like to be.
I decided to use the fake name at the suggestion of Martin, my “Master”. He believed it would help me disassociate since I clearly wanted the job, but my morals kept me from feeling good about it. Being paid to play a part makes it easier.
Now, I live for these nights, and I’m not truly doing anything wrong, but I constantly worry that continuing with this arrangement will prevent me from moving on with my life, and finding someone to share my life with. I tell myself once again, it is just a part. I steel myself against the anxiety, knowing that I have been happier in the last several months than I was at any moment in the past 10 years.
I love this little “job”. It makes me feel remarkable, and useful. My day job can’t hold a flame to this one.
I straighten up, feeling the familiar release that is veronica’s submission. I do not have a choice, I must do as Master wishes. Per my contract, his wishes are for me to show up at 8pm every Wednesday, dressed in the clothes he chooses, and complete the tasks he assigns (mostly cooking and cleaning). After these tasks, I am either punished or rewarded, which for me, are often the same thing, a lovely, long, hard spanking. I’ll admit, getting paid after that does feel a little wrong.
But it isn’t much, enough to cover the time I spend actually cleaning.
Sometimes, when he permits me to pleasure myself during or after (reward), I feel especially guilty. But often, he orders me not to touch myself at all, and to go home frustrated. This definitely helps with the guilt, it feels more like work, I guess.
When we first made this arrangement, I was still married. However estranged my husband and I were, I did not feel comfortable having a physical relationship with another man. So, getting this thing I needed from a job seemed like a perfect fit. I have thought about it many times recently, but cannot imagine having a full relationship with Martin. He has two other subs, and I don’t think this is the type of relationship I would like full time, unless it was monogamous. I have always believed in love. One man, one woman, in deep, loving commitment to each other.
I wonder momentarily if Martin could live that way, with only my submission, somehow. But I don’t allow myself to dwell on that idea.
As I make my way to the front of the townhouse, Grady is exiting and smiles at me. In his husky voice, he admonishes me. “You are going to be late, veronica. You know Mr. Martin is not going to be pleased.”
He has been Martin’s assistant for years, so I assume he knows all that there is to know about His lifestyle, in particular, what happens to His subs when they are late.
“I’m hurrying, Grady, Thank you.” I exhale, fumbling for the key to Rachel’s door. Sir has two regular subs, Rachel, who lives in an apartment created out of what must have once been servant’s quarters in the luxury home, and Marie, who lives with Him in the main house. She has been gone, the last few weeks, visiting family.
I use Rachel’s apartment to change into the costumes or outfits that Master chooses for me. As I step inside, I am surprised to find her, lying on the sofa in a fluffy robe, with a bright red nose and a pile of tissues on the table. “Oh, no! Are you sick??” I squeak before realizing what a stupid question that is.
“Yeb. An’ it sucks,” Rachel moans. “Don’t come near me, I don’t wanna get you sick too.” She coughs and wheezes before blowing her nose and tossing the tissue towards the pile.
“Don’t worry, I have lungs o’steel. Do you need anything? Some soup?” I say as I pull the waste basket from under her desk and tidy up the mess. I gather several mugs and cups and carry them into the kitchen, not waiting for an answer.
“You’re going to be late, and Marie is still gone, so Master is going to be waiting for some company.”
My heart stops, and I wonder if she meant what I think she meant.
Of course not, ninny. She just meant companionship. Was that hope I just felt?
After unloading my arms, I pick up the phone in her kitchen and dial Master’s cell.
“What do you need, Rachel?” He answers, sounding distracted.
“Sir, it is veronica. I am here to get dressed, but…”
“But what, veronica, I do not like to be kept waiting.” His voice is lower than normal, and slightly raspy.
“May I ask, if it is OK to be a few minutes late so that I can make Rachel some soup? …Please, Master?”
He pauses momentarily. “Of course. She is still very ill?” He sounds tired, but the annoyance in his voice wanes.
“Yes, Master. And I’m not sure she’s eaten anything today.”
“Ten minutes, veronica. But do not change.” Deeper than ever, I sense something else in his voice… Hunger?
“Sir? -” click.
That was unusual. Well, what did you expect? You are keeping him waiting!
I rush around the kitchen, finding soup and some crackers. While I pour the soup into a bowl to heat, I contemplate the reason he doesn’t want me to change. He wants you there sooner, because he’s going to rip your clothes off of you!
No, He would not do that. When we established our agreement, I told Him I was simply looking to be a service submissive, a maid that he could spank. I was excited by the idea of the spankings, because I often fantasized that my husband would find some task incomplete or improperly completed, and would pull me over his knee. This type of correction seemed like it would help me. I had no idea how much I would enjoy it until, on my first day, I neglected to wipe out the water droplets in the kitchen sink. It was such a small detail, after he bent me over the table and smacked me 40 times, it is a detail I never miss, even in my own home. And that night, I was so aroused that I contemplated hooking up with my soon-to-be ex-husband, just for the release.
After washing Rachel’s dishes, I carry in a tray to her with soup, crackers, some orange juice and tea. “Oh, Roni! How sweet are you?” She smiles up at me. I help her situate herself on the sofa, so that she can eat and after I turn on the TV and hand her the remote, it has already been 9 minutes.
As I run out the door, I tell her that I’ll come back after to clean up and help her get into bed, and she thanks me, in the middle of a coughing fit. I contemplate what it will mean to walk into Master’s home with my own clothes on. I’ve only done so twice, when we were ironing out our arrangement. The second meeting, He introduced me to His subs. They were both friendly and openly answered tons of my questions. When it was time to decide, I had asked them both why they were willing to share. And while their answers made sense to me intellectually (they each could provide something to Master that the other couldn’t), emotionally, it made me queasy.
When I push open the front door of the main house, Master is standing in the foyer waiting for me.
“Sir, I’m so sorry,” I whisper, dashing inside and dropping my gaze.
He doesn’t say anything, but ushers me into the kitchen. He slides off my jacket, and hangs it on the back of one of the stools at the island. When he beckons me to sit, I just stare at him, anxiety locking my body. This feels nothing like a conference with a regular employer.
Nor does it feel like a meeting between Dom and sub.
“Chelsea, please sit. I want to talk to you for a moment.” His voice is not the normal dominant one I am used to. And His use of my real name sends shivers down my spine. I suddenly realize he is wearing jeans and that his normally crisp, white, suit shirt is untucked and his sleeves are rolled up. This is not the polished Sir I have become used to.
I fold myself onto the stool and look up at him. He glides into the seat next to me, and swivels to face me. “Chelsea, you are such a sweet and lovely woman. I have enjoyed your services greatly, but I find myself in an odd predicament.” When He licks His lips, I drop my gaze, feeling out of sorts, being Chelsea in the place that veronica knows so well.
“What is it, Sir? Have I done something wrong? Are you upset that I am late?” I twist my hands in my lap, wondering if He’s ending our arrangement. I silently pray he is not. But it’s not the job I will miss.
“No, my pet,” He whispers, raising a hand to touch my cheek, but pulling away before He reaches me. I suddenly long for His touch, His fingers on my skin. This is new. I twist uncomfortably in my seat, and cast my eyes to the floor again.
“Tonight, you saw Rachel in need of something. A need that you could have easily ignored or told me to have someone attend to, but you chose to help her yourself. Many of the evenings you have spent here, I see you do things that are above and beyond the tasks I assign to you. I want you to know how much that pleases me. You are very good at what you do, and I only seek out flaws in your work… because…” When His voice trails off, I glance up at him, but see that he is staring at me, and focus my gaze on my fingers in my lap.
“I believe you enjoy being punished, but lately, it seems that you long for more than that.” I feel a blush rise in my cheeks and my stomach turns. I feel excited, nervous, and scared to death. I’m not entirely sure what I want, but I know exactly what he means. I have lingered in His presence after my punishments lately. Last week, during a hand spanking for crumbs left on the coffee table, I begged for more until He told me He had been spanking me for an hour and simply couldn’t continue.
I recall the heat in His gaze that evening, and sigh.
“Please look at me, Chelsea.” I look up and see warmth in his expression tonight, however pained it may be. I see him struggling with what he wants to say, and cannot imagine how he could ever find it difficult to speak to me.
“What is the predicament, Sir?” My soft words seem to ease something in him, he visibly relaxes, and I feel a smile pull at the corners of my mouth. The realization that I fully desire to please Him is not lost on me. Or Him.
He smiles as well, and reaches up again to touch my cheek, but this time, he doesn’t pull away. “Good girl,” He whispers. And those two little words melt into me like chocolate. Their delicious sweetness is quite enough for me to realize His dilemma.
“I have developed a crush on you, sweet Chelsea.” His smile broadens, as I lean into his hand on my cheek. But it fades quickly, and His fingers slide away from me and into His lap. “And therein lies my predicament.
…to be continued.