Working From Home
[Conversational], [Exhibitionism], [Chastity], [Petplay], [Baked Goods]
I have a desk in my bedroom, but it’s rare that I have work to do that requires my complete focus. In fact, I currently have a few weeks where I have no need to actually leave my home to get my job done. I'm prepping for the next series I'll be working on. In the mornings, the light and the atmosphere in the kitchen is perfect for reading through scripts, and lazily answering any emails that arrive before they go stale. And if I sit here with my laptop open on the table, then I get to enjoy whatever company happens upon me as the early hours pass.
The first of my paramours to rise is Eleanor. She rides her bicycle to some soulless, out-of-town office complex five days a week. She's some kind of IT tech, and is destined to spend far more time with her fingertips clacking at a keyboard than I am today. Both our day-jobs mean we share a proclivity for short fingernails, working long hours, and being totally caffeine-fueled.
“Morning Elle,” I greet her in still-sleepy tone. “Coffee’s fresh and hot.”
“Love you working from home. Top up?”
“I’m good, thank you. There’s also baked oatmeal on the counter.”
“Cake for breakfast? Vee continental.”
“It isn’t cake, it’s cereal and it's leftovers. It even has fruit,” I reply with mock indignation. Eleanor tells me my distant Italian heritage is the reason I get by on hot drinks and baked goods in the morning. Truthfully I have forever woken up with motivation to do something interesting with my day and always feel like spending that time cooking is a waste.
“Any plans after work?” I ask. She sits at the table across from me, coffee already in a travel mug with a screw lid. A thin slice of the baked oatmeal cupped in her hands so she doesn't need to wash a plate.
“None. Maybe long route home again. Good exercise.”
“It’s good for your butt,” I suggest. I reach across to brush my fingers against her free hand but she playfully swats at it.
“You're a terrible flirt. Like… you flirt a lot, so it's weird you're bad at it.
“Guilty. Let me know when you’re headed home and I’ll help you unwind.”
“Deal!” she says, before nimbly hopping back to her feet. In one fluid motion her rucksack is thrown over her shoulders, her helmet is squashed down on her hair.
“Wait, what colour today?” She stops at the kitchen door. She glances behind her with a coy smile and hooks both thumbs into the waistband of skin-tight lycra cycling shorts and tugs them down to just below her butt cheeks. Powder pink, lace boy-shorts are pulled taut across her perfect black ass.
“Now who’s a flirt?” I ask, knowing she’s waiting for my approval as much as she knows she has it. “Very nice, though.”
“Thanks!” She wiggles her hips as she covers up, already moving again.
“Stay safe,” I call out after her.
“I will! See you later.” Next I hear her grab her bike from the entranceway and the commotion of her navigating the door. All falls quiet.
I find the last night’s episode of a political news show and lean back so I can enjoy the bemusement of the two hosts. They talk about the latest goings on in Westminster and the White House, back and forth across the ocean. This pair has great chemistry and like a good serial they don’t waste too much time with the basics, trusting the viewer to know what happened last week.
The whole episode has passed before I hear Shaun stirring upstairs. His bedroom is above the kitchen so his heavy-footed trip to his bathroom treats me to a few creaking floorboards and the trickle of water running in the sink. I can tell he’s sitting on the toilet while he's brushing his teeth.
The last fluff story from the news show is playing on the Alexa. I get up to boil some water for tea. I set out a tall, ceramic mug styled after a paper takeaway cup and add two round tea bags, a spoonful of sugar and the bubbling water. He’s on the stairs when I’m adding a drop of milk and fishing out the spent bags. I return to the table and place the cup at the spot opposite me where Eleanor had been sat less than an hour ago.
“Hi,” he offers. He stops in the kitchen doorway and engages in a habitual, sleepy stretch that leads into a yawn.
“Hi. You’re like a cat, you know that?”
“I am?” He seizes the frying pan and starts the back burner.
“You are. I should get you a little jingly bell.”
He has his back to me, chopping a potato, a couple of mushrooms, but I know he’s smiling and I know his cheeks are flushed already. His hair is in a loose ponytail and I can see the steel collar he’s wearing for me. There’s always something wrapped securely around his throat when he’s home, or a simple silver chain when he’s not. My other lovers have collars that match this one, the familiar circular, stainless steel bands that fasten with a grub screw, but only Shaun is obliged to wear it at all times.
The veggies are pushed off the wooden chopping board with the back of the knife and the warm oil already in the pan begins to sizzle. Cheese is grated. Eggs are broken, seasoned, and whisked.
“I know you don’t want breakfast, but do you want breakfast?”
“No. I don’t want breakfast.”
“Okay. I won’t make you breakfast.”
“Thank you. Staying home today?”
“Uhuh,” he confirms, and we lull into silence as he cooks. Eventually the pan comes off the heat and slides under the broiler where the cheese atop Shaun’s makeshift Spanish omelette can bubble and brown.
“There’s a few phone calls I’m expecting that could come any time in the next few hours, and a lot of mind-numbing graph drafting and document formatting I have to do, so I’m killing two birds with one stone.”
“Poor dear. Can I help make it less dull? Do you need me to chain you to your desk again?” He is leaning against the worktop, looking at me, having seized his tea with both hands.
“Not unless it pleases you, Mistress.”
I take the gentle let-down graciously and we talk about a local sports team instead. Neither he nor I take any particular interest in the scores, but the team has become embroiled in some drama. A player publically took offense at some online commentary from a fan, and a rival’s wife weighed in during a gossip mag interview.
Lurking in the comment threads of online news outlets was once a crutch that sapped far too much of my time. I broke the habit when Shaun and I realised that we could get far more satisfying and reasoned conversation from each other.
“I want you to have a good day. Would you like some cage-free time?” I suggest, as he clears his plate.
“That would be nice. Actually, I have a date later this afternoon.”
“No way! The girl from last week?”
“Sadly not. I was ghosted. Is that lame?”
“No. Tinder is lame. People see it as disposable, so many just stop checking it. I did.”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe it isn’t me.”
“You aren’t alone, Shaun. You have people that love you.” We sit in a pregnant silence until he gets up to wash his plate.
“I know. Can I really have the key?”
“It’s on the fireplace mantle, in my bedroom. Be good?”
“I will be. Thank you, Mistress.”
He leaves me with the silence of the kitchen and the time to ponder his situation. Shaun is a truly submissive guy. He’s deeply motivated by my tendency to dress him up in humiliating outfits, take control of his pleasure, fuck him, and beat him, but there are so many men like him in that regard.
Who knows what wires are crossed in his head that make him want those things? Some people get deeply analytical about their kinks, wanting to know where those needs originate from. I suspect that self-reflection comes from a desire to be rid of the fetishes entirely, as so many of those individuals live in a place of shame.
Shaun and I once bonded over a lack of shame. Neither he nor I would ever want to give up our kinks for some semblance of being accepted. I’m comfortable with who I am, and so is he, and we surround ourselves with people who are already happy to accept us so we can live as much of our life as possible without hiding anything.
When I say that Shaun is a truly submissive guy, though, I don’t mean that he enjoys these strange and humiliating experiences and sensations. When Shaun and I aren’t playing together that way he spends time going out of his way to serve me (and by extension, the girls) in a multitude of different ways.
We all benefit from it; he gets his warm-fuzzy feelings from running errands for me, cooking for us often, and manages our communal grocery expenditure. Hannah’s idea to send him to a workshop where he learned to affix temporary acrylic nails, gel varnish and associated paraphernalia was inspired; he was already so good at detailed work with a paintbrush!
Shaun’s predicament is that he professes to want an all-consuming relationship. He wants to be solely devoted to one lucky girl who understands all his needs, most importantly the one where he dotes on her. However, he selfishly also wants a family, a house in the suburbs, a golden retriever, all the trappings of a normal life. On that front he hasn’t found much joy.
I find music to listen to and take my time deleting a dozen useless work emails; inane Risk Assessments for locations I won’t visit, memos for production meetings I won’t attend.
Hannah is the last to rise, but the person I’m most eager to spend time with today. I know that last night she was meeting a potential client and arrived home late enough that we didn’t decompress together. She pads softly into the kitchen wearing a dressing gown and slippers, telegraphing that unlike Eleanor and Shaun she isn’t preparing to jump into work this morning.
“Hey, sweet girl,“ I say, as I get up to greet her, bringing my mug and selecting another for her from above the coffee machine. Her arms wrap around my waist from behind and she gently kisses my shoulder.
“I missed you last night. I should have asked to come to bed with you.”
“You can get cozy with me this morning, though.”
“That sounds good.”
“More kisses please.”
Her hand tugs the collar of my t-shirt aside so she can use her lips and tongue against my neck and shoulder. She knows the perfect balance between hungry aggression and polite tenderness that never fails to make me sink back into her. My hands reach back to rest on her hips and we stay in that moment together so she can shower me with affection.
Eventually I have to stop her, turning around and rewarding her with a deep kiss on her lips. My tongue goes from there to her jaw, following it to her ear where I whisper “Later. Let’s talk first, or else we’ll just ignore the whole thing.”
She nods in agreement. Moments later we are sat opposite each other at the table with two mugs and two generous cubes of baked oatmeal between us.
“He was pretty up front about what he wants. Weirdly.”
“That’s because he’s not like Shaun. He’s not submissive, he’s a pervert.”
“You make it sound like being a pervert isn’t a bad thing.”
“I don’t think it is. He’s not aggressive, or spiteful, or too pushy, right?”
“No. I don’t think so. He was fine.”
“Fine?” I challenge her. I’ve told her that ‘fine’ is a word people use when they’re avoiding actually having a real opinion.
“Sorry,” is her immediate response. I give her a moment to consider before asking again.
“Is he too pushy?”
“No. He was happy to meet in public, he was happy to talk about his desires and he was a gentleman.”
“Good. Did you show him pictures?”
“Yes. Thank you for sending them. Are you sure about that part?”
“Absolutely. There’s a dozen reasons to use the playrooms here for this.”
“It’s safer. Compared to hotels.”
“Exactly. Someone else can be around. It’s cheaper, too, and I’m sure you can charge more this way.”
“Okay.”
I give her a moment of pause. I'm a little interested in her client, especially if he'll be in my home. But I'm more interested in how she's feeling. I gently touch her wrist before I go on.
“And what about you? What do you feel?”
“Ummm.” She puts her cup down and polishes off her share of breakfast, considering her response again. “I am fine. Sorry. I am good, yesterday was a whammy. I didn’t want to meet him after work.”
“Rough day?”
“No. I know it wasn’t. Work is easy. What’s hard is changing gears so quickly. It’s going from making lattes and pretending to care about customer service, to getting myself together in a bathroom, to putting on this show of being a top and having all of my shit together.”
“That’s imposter syndrome. You are a top at least some of the time and you do have your shit together.”
“I have a degree in history and a job where I wear a name tag.”
“At least the tips suck,” I offer. I hide my smile behind my coffee cup. She just sighs heavily. Her chin sinks all the way to the table as she dramatically deflates, stretching her arms out across the table towards me where her wrists offer themselves to my hands.
“Can we snuggle now?”
“No. I want to get some more work done, but you can go get your bed, kitten.”
She beams at what might seem like dismissal and retrieves an extra large pet bed from a hiding spot in the laundry room. When she returns to me I’m pointing to indicate the space by my feet, under the table; otherwise I’m focused on the white light of the computer screen.