The Saturday Morning Ritual

The alarm clock chimes. It is Saturday, mid-morning, and warm yellow sunlight shines through the white linen curtains against the bedroom window. I untangle myself from my lover enough to place a soft kiss on her forehead - her first gentle signal that morning has come, and that I will soon expect her awake and conducting our typical Saturday morning - and slide out of bed. I pause at the bedside to look at her as she sleeps.

She is beautiful, even in these ungraceful morning hours, and I love to see her like this. Angelic.

I head to the en-suite to don my workout clothing and pull my hair up, and then head out. Through trial and error, I have discovered that exercising first thing in the morning gives me a sense of command over my day in a way that both improves my mood and helps me smoothly transition into a dominant headspace for the day ahead. While I exercise, either running or doing strength-based work, I empower myself with positive affirmations, remind myself of my authority and prowess, and push myself to meet and exceed my goals. Then, I stretch out for a few minutes and meditate on my plans for the day ahead. We typically plan and negotiate what we're looking for the night before, outside of a scene, so we can be sure that we want what we say we want and we verbalize all the things we don't want. I review our discussion the next morning before waking her to ensure that I can meet both our needs and play within discussed boundaries.

Afterwards, I return inside to the bedroom to give my girl one last warning kiss on the forehead. I press my lips a little firmer to her soft forehead this time, and she responds by clenching her eyes a few times. I smile as I pull away, trying not to laugh and disturb her too much, watching a wide yawn escape her.

I take a warm, leisurely shower, and towel myself off. After some simple skincare, I wrap myself in a fluffy pink robe and slide on matching slippers. I exit the bathroom some twenty minutes after giving my girl her second kiss and see the bed empty but beautifully made - just as I instructed her to do - and smile to myself as I inspect it. The edges are crisp and there is nary a wrinkle in the outermost blanket. The pillows are carefully and symmetrically arranged, and have been freshly fluffed. The sheets are folded down precisely an inch over the comforter. It is perfect, and beautiful, and I feel gratitude for her attention to detail and dedication... and yet, also, I deviously think she has deprived me of a reason to correct her. I walk around the bed to her side and see her suitcase leaning tidily against the wall. Oh well, I'm sure there will be more opportunities later.

I leave the bedroom and walk slowly down the hallway, at a speed and loudness so as to announce my imminent arrival and to give her as much time as possible to complete her tasks before that time. It makes my heart flutter happily to hear her typical shuffling noises as she gets into position and probably wiggles out some excited energy before coming into view.

I pause at the end of the hallway to observe her. She probably knows I am there, but dares not raise her gaze up to confirm her suspicions. She sits just in front and to the side of my wingback chair, kneeling, and nude - I increased the temperature in the house to seventy-five in anticipation of this. Her shoulders are drawn back proudly to present her delightful breasts, and her posture is impeccable. Her elegant hands, facing upward in her lap, are holding a cup of coffee for me. The cup is a delicate china, resting atop a matching saucer, and the set is one I save just for our ritual Saturday mornings. I like to think it adds to the fantasy; for me, its luxurious weight and delicate details reaffirm my position as a superior, almost a noble, living richly with her personal girl servant. For her, its fragility brings her attention squarely on the task at hand and her servitude, and thus reinforces her submission. As with nearly all of our ritual tasks, we have rehearsed this moment many, many times; she knows exactly what is expected of her to the most minute detail. Obedience is required. Even so, sometimes the girl likes to "forget" a rule, and receive a subsequent punishment. I would be lying if I said I didn't also thoroughly enjoy her bratty side as the wonderful excuse to chastise and even torture my darling. It was something to be expected occasionally, anyway, since we had negotiated ways to include that dynamic in our relationship while still respecting the power exchange. So far, however, it did not seem to be a bratty day. My careful eyes saw no error in her presentation nor posture.

Aware of the strain kneeling puts on her, I limit my time observing her from the corridor and begin to stride over to the wine-colored wingback chair beside her. She looks deliciously nervous, with excited energy, but restrains herself to maintain her position. She is trying to keep her smile behind her lips, which makes me smile. I sit down, cross my legs away from her, and speak: "Good morning, pet. How lovely you look waiting for me so obediently."

It's almost as if her ears perk up hearing the phrase that gives her permission to move and speak. Being careful to not interrupt - a disrespectful transgression - she girlishly flicks her eyes up to me and, while raising the coffee cup up to me with both hands and bowing her head humbly, says "Good morning, Miss."

I love to hear it. Her voice is soft, higher-pitched than the voice she uses in the world outside our private and indulgent fantasy, and it betrays her eagerness. It stokes the fire in my stomach and makes me imagine her gasps and moans as I roughly kiss her, pulling her head back to bite her neck ... No, not yet.

I make eye contact as I accept the warm cup from her small hands, which gracefully fall back to her lap, where they rest upturned in silent submission. Beautiful.

"Have you slept well?"

"Very well, Miss, thank you."

"And how are you feeling this morning?"

"Your servant is feeling well and eager to please you, Miss."

I allow a small, but still distant smile, to pass over my face, though inside it brings me so much fulfillment to hear her speak to me this way without reservation. I nod slightly and look to my coffee. This, too, has a specific, prescribed formula she is to follow without exception. The color, light brown, looks right to me. I raise the cup to my lips and take a long, slow sip. It is smooth, slightly bitter and strong, just as I like it. Three parts black coffee to one-part almond milk. No cream, no sugar. I find no fault in it this morning.

"Is the coffee to your liking, Miss?" She asks, as she is allowed to do.

"It is, pet. Thank you," I respond, and I see her smile out of the corner of my eye.

If she had not made it properly, I would have indicated my displeasure with her immediately, upon which she would begin to apologize in the appropriate position. If the mistake was accidental, I would order her to rectify it, and if it was intentional, she would be promptly castigated however seemed appropriate and was prior negotiated as acceptable correction. As I drink another sip of coffee, I remember such a moment, in which she put a small spoon of sugar in, without stirring, so that I would not notice until the last sip of thick sugared coffee. I promptly demanded an explanation. She, flexing her brat muscle, responded politely that I had seemed so cross and tough lately that she thought a little sugar would help me be sweeter toward her, and she was only trying to help her beloved Miss. Oh, it makes me both excited and angry at the thought all over again, her challenging my authority. The ensuing punishment was great fun. I marched her to the kitchen, heartily chastising her disobedience and complaining about the devilishness of servant girls who are not strictly kept in line, bent her over the counter, and gave her ten heavy swats with the wooden spoon. After each hit to her increasingly red bottom, she recited, as instructed: "I am a naughty, disobedient little girl and Miss's wooden spoon will teach me to be good." I loved watching her skin bright and warm, and especially seeing her palpable arousal between her slutty legs afterward. No clothing to hide her from me, or keep my hands from humbling her. Recalling the memory, I almost wished she hadn't been so obedient today.

"You may eat, pet," I say as I set the coffee back in the saucer on my lap.

"Thank you, Miss," she says, and nibbles on some red grapes she had set on the table beside us. She slides them between her supple lips and chews carefully to avoid making any mess or unnecessary noise. Adorable.

"Now, my sweet girl," I begin, "have you been good this week?"

"Yes, Miss," she bites her lip. "I feel that I have been good."

I tilt my head and lock eyes with her. "Have you actually been good?"

"Your servant has tried her best to be good for you, Miss."

Aha. "And did my servant succeed?"

She looks nervous. "Not entirely, Miss."

"Did you neglect to care for my property by drinking enough water, sleeping enough each night, or not procrastinating on important work?" My tone has become somewhat harsher, and the edge of an impending punishment is obvious.

"No, Miss."

"Did you fail to remind yourself of your Miss's authority by cumming without permission outside of your allowed masturbation times, or not conducting your anal training?"

She is unable to hold eye contact in her shame - and arousal - and looks down to the grapes in her lap. A peachy flush has spread over her cheeks. "Yes, Miss," she almost whispers.

"What was that?" I say with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, Miss," she squeaks out immediately.

"Tell me precisely in what way you have been disobedient, girl."

She looks like she wants to squirm, or shift her weight, and I can tell she is getting increasingly horny. The flush has spread to her chest. She is quiet. She doesn't want to admit her mistakes.

"What a naughty little servant girl," I tease, taking a sip of my coffee. "Look at how turned on you are admitting your sins to me, how embarrassing. Thinking about your punishment and feeling embarrassed about how much you secretly enjoy it. You need to be corrected. Tell your Miss how you disobeyed so that she can make a good little slut out of you."

She is breathing heavily and squirming slightly as she listens to my teasing. I lick my lips watching her avoid my gaze. Fuck, I'm turned on.

"I," she stumbles after some time and the pressure of my eyes on her. "I did not do my anal training, Miss, on, um, on Wednesday."

I let her squirm in silence as I continue to stare her down.

"I see," I say quietly. "Do you have anything to say for yourself, little girl?"

"I'm sorry, Miss," she says, looking up at me from between her lashes in embarrassed bursts. "I'm very sorry for being naughty and disobedient. Please forgive me, Miss."

"Why should I forgive you, pet? Will you continue to disobey?"

"Oh, Miss," she practically moans, "Please forgive me for being such a naughty girl, and getting so horny when you punish me, I'm a very bad girl and I just can't help but be bad sometimes," she says and her chest rises and falls heavily with the labor of her lusty breathing. She locks eyes with me and licks the corner of her lip while she does. "Miss, please help your slut to be a good servant girl for you."

It feels almost orgasmic to hear her beg for it.

I drink the last sip of coffee, watching her pitifully ply me with her big puppy dog eyes. I leisurely set the cup and saucer on the side table, and then stand. Her eyes track me as I look down at her, facing her. I caress her cheek and she presses her face into my hand, fluttering her dark wet eyelashes. She moans softly, almost whining.

"Say it again," I stroke her cheek with my thumb. "Beg for forgiveness."

"Oh, oh, please, Miss," she stretches the syllables out as she says it, "Please punish me for giving in to my insolent nature and disrespecting you," her tongue darts out to lightly lick my fingertip. "I need my Miss to humble me and make me good. Please punish me."

"Get up and bend over the armchair. Keep your back arched and keep your fingertips pressed to the floor. Now."

She scrambles as quickly as she can to comply. She arches her back almost cartoonishly, so excited and so horny that she can't be anything but good for me. I love it. I love that she gives me these opportunities.

I stand at her side and tug upward on her hips so that she is forced on tip toe. She knows instinctively that I expect her to keep her feet on the ground but her heels lifted. I run a fingertip from between her tense shoulder blades to the small of her back and lift just before reaching her sweet little rosebud. She gasps and tries to push her hips up even a little bit higher so that my hand would give her some release. I don't reward her, but I appreciate the effort.

I caress the tender flesh where her buttock meets the top of her thigh. She struggles not to squirm too much, but does wiggle a bit to the point where she nearly gets the pleasure of feeling my fingers against her wet labia. I quickly slap her skin where I caressed it and she yelps unexpectedly.

"No," Is all I say, and she knows it isn't up for debate. I feel a sticky wetness between my legs.

"I will give you twenty hits. You will count each hit. You will apologize each time and say: 'I am sorry for being a naughty little girl. May I please have another, Miss?' Is that understood?"

"Yes, Miss, your servant understands."

"Good."

I pause and let her struggle under the anticipation for a few breaths.

Then I begin. SLAP. She winces, but doesn't make a noise, aside from her prescribed phrase.

"One, Miss. I am sorry for being a naughty little girl. May I please have another, Miss?"

"You may."

Again.

And again.

And again.

Six hits in, her voice is quivering and her left cheek is reddening deliciously. She is taking more time after each stroke to restore the arch of her back that I command of her. I know her face is red because I can hear her gasps and imagine her nibbling her lower lip to keep from whimpering.

I keep going, and at the tenth mark I move to the next cheek, for which she is visibly grateful.

When we hit twenty, she has a thin sheen of sweat at the base of her neck and on the tops of her taut shoulders, and her calves are twitching from the strain. I can tell she does not want to ask for another, because she doesn't know if she will get it, but she has no choice.

"Tuh, twenty, Miss. I am sorry for being a naughty little girl," she takes a deep breath and braces. "May I please have another, Miss?"

I pause as if contemplating her request. She remains braced.

"Have you had enough to be good, my little imp?" I rub both warm, sore cheeks, and she pushes back into my hands like a stretching cat.

"Yes, yes please, Miss, I'll be good," she pleads, moaning into my hands.

"Good girl. You may rest your heels and back and put your arms up on the armrest, but remain bent over the chair. Spread your legs. You are not to move beyond that. Understood?"

"Yes, Miss!" She moves into position and relaxes her body.

I quickly, but not hurriedly, go to the bedroom and retrieve a small black towel, a bottle of lube, the largest anal plug I know she can tolerate comfortably and pleasurably, and return to the wingback chair. She is faced away from me and does not see me or what I've got in my hands, but she hears my approaching footsteps and I imagine her heartbeat picking up in anticipation.

I quietly squirt some lube onto my fingertips and begin to stroke her pink asshole. She moans and arches her back, attempting to push herself onto my fingers and maximize her sensation. I play coy and don't give her what she wants yet, instead clicking my tongue at her. She breathes heavy into the armchair.

I press firmly against her asshole and then gently slide my finger in up to the first knuckle, then move in a small circular motion to help her relax. She moans softly and frequently, like dreamy sighs.

"We have catching up to do, pet," I say, pushing a little deeper, "since you failed to follow your regimen."

"Oh, yes, yes, Misssss," she moans as I work the entire finger into her well-trained hole and then begin to gently fuck her. "Yes, yes, please."

"Good girl," I coo, rubbing her thigh with my idle hand and begin to work my second finger into her and stretch her out. She takes it easily to the first knuckle, pushing against my hand.

"Do you want me to rub your clit while I fuck your ass?"

"Oh yes, pleaaaaaaase, please Miss," she moans, wiggling her cute red bum at me.

"Please what, little lady?"

"Please rub my clit while you fuck my ass, Miss!"

And so I did. I move the hand that had been on her thigh onto her clit and make small slow circles around it as I slide my two fingers knuckle-deep into her ass.

"Fuck yourself on my fingers," I command, and she instantly braces herself against the armchair and starts thrusting her ass back onto my fingers and off while I rub her sloppy clit. Her moans become primal, loud, and more frequent, with plenty of "Oh thank you Miss" and "Please more" in between. I keep my same rhythm as she grows more desperate and put on more of a show for me. I love this moment.

I can tell she is close. "Oh, are you going to cum, little whore? Do you want to cum while you fuck your ass on Miss's fingers?"

She begs me please, moans, begs again. I can tell she is a half minute out, so I stop rubbing her clit. She keeps fucking herself on my fingers. Good girl.

She notices the lack of clit stimulation, and, needing it to cum, whines pitifully and shamelessly. I lightly spank her tender ass in the same spot as earlier, earning me a yelp and a tortured moan.

"No complains, pet. This is punishment. Only good girls get to cum."

She whines again, but keeps fucking, even more exaggerated as she tries to compensate and bring herself back to orgasm, unsuccessfully.

"Do you want to cum, my darling?"

"Oh, pleaaaaase, Miss," she sounds almost like she's going to cry. The sadist part of me flashes bright inside.

"Do you want to obey me?"

"Yes, yes, Miss, more than anything," she pants out.

Hahahaha, I laugh internally. She's going to regret that choice of words.

"Good girl. Very good girl. Stop."

She stops, realizing what is about to happen.

"I'm very glad you want to obey me more than you want to cum. That makes your Miss very proud."

She almost groans but stops herself. I want to laugh out loud at her suffering but decide that's a little too cruel.

"Good, good girl. Keep being good, and Miss will let you cum," I say in a sing-songy voice while rubbing her asshole with my lubed fingers once more, and she mewls, pleased by her prospects.

"Now, spread your asshole for me. Training isn't over."

She gasps but does as she's told. I lube up the large butt plug and then press it against her thoroughly warmed-up hole. I can hear her smile through her delightfully submissive moans.

"See who's such a good girl after a good spanking? Who's a good little girl for her Miss? Who wants this big plug in her tight little ass?"

"Me me me me me, Oh, me, Miss, your good giiiiiiirl," she moans happily as the plug slowly progresses into her until her sphincter clears the widest part and grips the stem. She sighs, pleased with her new fullness. I rub her shoulders and kiss her back, praising her.

It's going to be a lovely day, I think, as I grip the rounded base of the plug and alternately pull and press on it to hear her delicious song.