This week I walked into an empty house. I sat alone at my second home. No Drew. No Axel. No dogs (you know what I mean). Multiple aspects of my personality like structure and control. One side can’t fathom the thought of giving up control. The other thrives on giving it all away. 

Everyone is out of town but me. I’m on my own at this home. I know I have chores that are expected do be done, but this slave was given no other instruction besides “just do whatever needs to be done.” 

When I got home from work, I got the things done first that required actual clothes. However, clothes are quite bothersome and uncomfortable, so I decided only my shorts and shoes would be necessary for the chores that needing doing on the street facing section of the yard. Once out of street view and behind the gates, shoes and my uniform were all that was necessary. I was proud to be in my uniform. Honestly, I’m more comfortable in my uniform than clothes. 

I finished the work needing done in the back yard and went inside. No pets greeted me. No Master working at the desk. No Daddy wrapping up patient files for the day in his usual spot. They’ve been gone less than 24 hours, and I miss them horribly. 

I sat in the floor and texted them to see how they were and make sure they were safely where they were going and send a picture of myself in uniform. I felt sad for a moment. I thought about many ways my Master has trained me and made me better. I grinned and squeezed the plug I was carrying a little tighter because he feels it when I do that, despite any distance. My phone chimes in reply to my text and he told me how good the squeeze felt to him. I swooned. I began to do my regular chores. 

I looked around satisfied with the job I had done with my daily chores and my titanium strained, filling with the dick I no longer own. I know my service in such daily things is kind of boring, but it makes my Master and Daddy happy.

I grabbed the kettlebell that is often shackled to my ankle. I carried it with me, as my Master wasn’t there to lock it around my ankle. I started upstairs, dusting, cleaning bathrooms, doing laundry (and remembering that the custom tailored dress shirts only air dry- I’ll be damned if that didn’t turn me on even more or if I ever make that mistake again). I vacuumed. I made the bed. I washed the dishes. I even cleaned the stainless appliances and the trash cans. 

I loved every fucking minute of this service. It gives me a purpose, a task, something to be proud of. The thought of greeting two of the most amazing men in the world as they returned home to a clean home, a home that smelled like the leather scented room spray we all love, a fully Diet Coke stocked fridge, a clean office, and freshly shaved slave on his knees and in uniform made me grin (and it turns out it did them too). I squeezed the plug and leaked a bit from my titanium tube. The service itself brought me mentally closer to my Master, despite the geographical distance. In retrospect, I could feel his presence as if he were there. 

Service is not a means of degrading me. It is my way of showing love, thanks, growing, learning, and strengthening our family bond and love.

When everyone returned home this weekend, I asked my Master if the clean house made him proud of me. His reply was that “no, it made him happy”. He then said he is ALWAYS proud of me, to own me, and to tell others that I belong to him. As I still feel the lingering pain of the reward he gave me for a job well done, I know that service is a source of pride, belonging, and growing all of us stronger.

Between you and me, it allows me to show them every day how I love them even more than yesterday.