The day after a session I am always so… productive.
In the soft light of my bedroom the sun peeks through the purple blackout curtains and for once my eyelids don’t fight to stay closed when my alarm starts singing. I let it play to the end of a Norse lullaby as I stand and stretch and make the bed, tucking the corners in just the right way. I pick out my scrubs and dress slowly, savoring the sensation of each piece of fabric caressing my still tender skin. I loosen my still braided hair one side at a time and comb through it with my fingers before the loose waves are pulled into a single neat pony tail and fastened high on my head.
I slip into the bathroom just outside the bedroom door, careful not to wake the kids up before I’m ready. I take inventory of each ache and every bruise left behind from the night before. Turning in the mirror counting the lines on my back, thighs and ass and checking for marks on my wrists; is today a watch or a bracelet day? I pick up my toothbrush and laugh at my reflection. He nearly carried me to the shower last night, well used and legs weak. He steadied me and rinsed and washed me, but he likes to leave my make up smeared. And I like waking up with the immediate visible reminder. I wash the leftover mascara streaks from my cheeks and remove any remaining traces of deep red from my lips.
I rush through the rest of my morning; dressing toddlers and fighting with teenagers to take their coats but I still leave earlier than usual, having skipped ‘snoozing’ my alarm the usual three times. Coffee in hand, purse on the floorboard, I slow at every yellow light and take my time getting where I’m going. I make it to work 15 minutes early and eat my breakfast at my desk while logging in to all my needed applications.
My messenger alerts as soon as I log in. ‘Good morning Pet’ I read and my heart skips a beat. Sir has been up for hours and was at work well before I woke up. I greet Him and He asks how I am feeling. I tell Him in as much detail as I have time…which is minimal. My Doctor has arrived and it’s time to start the day. Chit chat and prescriptions will fill my next several hours.
I want to tell Him I feel divine. I want to tell him how sitting in my office chair with last nights bruises still spreading is heavenly and that standing from that chair is straining my thighs deliciously. I want to count how many individual welts I can feel beneath my scrubs and describe exactly how each feels. The ache of each superb. I feel sexy and alive and ready. Instead, I tell Him I feel great.
My mind is clearer than it’s been in weeks, none of the worries and stresses and wonderings that had piled up before present in my post-session bliss. The clarity is rare and I am hyper-focused on my work. I am finished with the majority of my daily assignments well before noon; at this point I am just waiting for each patient to show up. This gives me some time to talk with Him. We plan our evening; who is picking up which kid and what we’re having for dinner. All the excitingly mundane day to day tasks. All the plans are set and for once the day doesn’t drag by.
I’ve got the kids, dinner is ordered, and I’m racing home; I usually make it about 30 minutes before He arrives. Today I make it home with 45 minutes between us. Fifteen extra minutes and dinner is scheduled to get there just in time to be plated and on the table when He walks in. So forty-five minutes, a clear head, and seemingly endless energy. I put it to good use.
I start with the laundry; which He washes and I am tasked with sorting and folding. I realize I’ve been slacking on this chore as there are three baskets worth waiting for my attention. Each item is placed in its respective owners basket and sent off to their rooms to be put away. His are folded and sorted into his drawers, then mine. It takes less than 10 minutes to do it all. I move to the next task and set the kids to their chores.
The house is nearly spotless; I’ve cleared the surfaces and swept the floors, done the dishes and straightened the cushions. Dinner is on the table, and I’m popping the top off of His favorite brew as He pulls into the drive. He notes that I’ve been busy as I open the door to Him. I just smile and welcome Him home with a quick kiss.
We eat and chat with the kids about school and friends and what they’ve learned and things to come. We play a game or watch a movie before baths and showers and off to bed and then we are alone again.
Side by side on the sofa, His arm around my shoulders with my head on His chest. I breathe Him in. He thanks me for taking care of things today and kisses my forehead gently. He asks how I am feeling and instead of answering I slide His hand up my thigh beneath my nightgown, placing His fingers between my lips. He chuckles and delves His fingers into me. Just once, a quick swirl, then gone. He looks down at me with one brow raised and I know He’s expecting a verbal response to His question.
I tell Him that sitting still is uncomfortable in a delicious kind of way and that the movement of my scrubs against my skin has driven me wild since I put them on. I tell Him in spite of trying to stay busy and occupy myself today that all I’ve thought about is Him filling me and using me again and again and again. I tell Him I’ve spent the day dripping wet and miserably aroused. I tell Him this knowing He will not use me the way He did last night again tonight. He will count the bruises Himself as soon as He is able and He will tell me to rest and heal some before we play again. I know this, and I tell Him anyway.
I look up at Him innocently, gauging His reaction to my, maybe overly detailed, response and watch as His pupils dilate. He says nothing, but stands and walks a few steps before turning to face me. Our eyes lock and He stares at me for a long moment before I notice His hand.
Immediately I am on my knees, back straight, palms up.
‘Good girl’ He growls as He starts towards me.
Another productive day tomorrow?