Good Slave, Chained Slave
Several nights ago he said to me that I was not as anxiety ridden as I had been
the day before. I admitted this was true and said that actually I was more
relaxed than I'd been in a long time. His response was that I was a slave and as
such could never be truly relaxed.
I suppose I may have mentally shrugged off that statement, perhaps too quickly,
and did not understand the importance of what he said.
I am not a disobedient slave. I remember the way he prefers things; his choices
in food and drink; I keep his clothing clean and in good repair. I do not
question him. I am decidedly not a mouthy brat.
It confused me yesterday when, after I did all these things and more, it
occurred to me that he had not looked at me all day. It began to trouble me and
so I put on an enticing lip color, fixed my hair and made certain to move in a
graceful, overtly sensual manner when he entered the wagon. He kept his back to
me. When he spoke, he did not turn around. He wanted me to beg.
I have trouble with this begging thing. It simply does not occur to me to beg
him to look at me ... beg to allow me to be pleasing ... beg to be used. I
begged for his attention last night and was more than fully rewarded for my
efforts.
I fell asleep, relaxed and thinking I had been a good slave ... that he was well
pleased with me. He seemed so. I forgot about whim. Whim is the reason a slave
cannot ever truly be relaxed.
I did not expect to be rewarded. I also did not expect to wake chained. Chained!
Not just chained ... but chained so that I could not even stand. With great
effort, I could get as far as my knees. I could not even pull at the chain
without hurting myself. Chained! I remember cursing and dropping back to lay on
the floor of the wagon. I could hear him outside talking. It did occur to me
that if I could hear him ... he could hear me. Perhaps cursing was not such a
good idea.