I never thought of myself as a service submissive. The first time my lover started talking about being chauffeured, served drinks, given manicures, and so forth, my brain nearly exploded. I couldn’t see the connection between any of that and sex.

These days . . . well, I’ll simply say that he has a way of making certain points extremely vivid, and that we both have active imaginations. So I have come to learn to serve him in some limited ways, and I am open to doing more.

The most regular and routine service I give him is massages—foot, back, hand, face . . . and anywhere else he likes.

In Bed Waiting

These massages have required an attitude adjustment. Sexy massages were a staple of my pre-BDSM [?] erotic repetoire. In fact, when I gave a man a massage, I was Very Much In Charge. The more I had my victim partner pinned down, the better. The more sexy and teasing things were, the more I got off. From running my tongue along his back to rubbing my breasts across it to sweeping it with my hair, I toyed with how much teasing he could take.

These things really do not work on my present lover. When I try them, I feel him almost immediately tense up. I’ve asked him why this is so; I never get an answer I’m satisfied with, but I am sure it goes to the root of things between us, to who’s in control and who is giving or taking pleasure in what ways.

But because it is so natural for me to go to that sexy-slutty place while giving backrubs, I have had to “train” myself out of it, and to concentrate on serving him instead of on seducing him. And to do that, I have to put myself in slave mode. And to do that . . . well, I have to haul out some of my mental porn, the animated images of my own desires, looping endlessly and variedly in my brain . . .

I am in a tent. It is, perhaps, the desert. It is hot. I am sitting on the ground in a shift. Soldiers are at the corners of the large space—alert and on guard as much as they can be in the afternoon heat. From time to time they steal glances at my body, which is on the verge of escaping its insubstantial coverings.

augustus.jpgI am waiting for the General. We are in Imperial Rome, and he is leading a campaign. All day he goes out and fights, and sweats, and bleeds, and directs his troops. Near evening, when events permit, he comes back to his tent, and dines, and bathes, and has me massage his aching muscles endlessly, endlessly. There is no point in complaining. Why complain? I am lucky to even be alive; it is a great honor to serve the general; if I complain I will simply be disposed of in one unpleasant way or another; and so I do as I am told, as best I can. I concentrate on his needs and on making him feel well enough to face another day of battle. And as I rub the sun-warmed oil into his skin, and feel the old scars from wars past, I feel myself warming from the touch.

And in real life, as I am stroking his back hard, deep, the way he likes, and working out the kinks and knots of the day, I feel the scars from old accidents under my hands, and the difference between my imagination and my reality fades to a thin membrane. I stroke his hair, cut short, grown forward—a Roman skull, a stubborn and brilliant brain inside. I massage his neck and feel the signs of relief and release and know I am there for his pleasure, and that in itself is satisfying, arousing. I fade back into the tent . . . .

Where the general may or may not take advantage of me, use me, that night or any other night in the future, as he pleases. He may leave me for his men to use . . . my lover likes to think of that, describe it to me as well, and I shiver and wonder what the general would do, unbound by the ties of affection and love we share. He might . . .

Hm, but those are secrets for another day.

 

P. S. Naked male bodies here . . .