This... Ch. 04

The following days rather blur together in my memory. Partly this is because that night, and several of the following nights, I got relatively little sleep. I worked, instead, long hours complying with Her instructions. I cleaned the master suite of all of my personal possessions, preparing it to be the Mistress's Suite. I ran a number of errands after work, scouring local stores for high-end linens that spoke of femininity. And I cleaned the house ... furiously, for hours. I had contemplated hiring someone to do this. Indeed, off and on, I'd employed a cleaning lady for some time. It was nothing regular, but when the house would get a bit out of hand or when I was planning some sort of social event, I would call her -- she worked for a colleague -- and arrange for her to come by and give the place a good once over. But this ... well, this felt more like a personal task I had to undertake. Not just having the house cleaned for Her, but cleaning it myself. It was almost as though the act of cleaning the house was also an act of purification for me.

Of course, the other reason the following days passed in something of a daze is that I began to doubt whether what I remembered happening had actually happened. Had I really been picked up at a munch by a Domme who -- in all but the collaring -- had claimed me as Her own? Had the evening really passed as I recalled? The diner? The conversation? The visit to my house? I actually began to doubt myself. But I clung to those clues that I had, those indisputable facts that provided a link to the reality of it all. My car, which I picked up the next afternoon, was still parked at the community center. I even had the ticket, which I paid immediately, as proof that it had been there overnight. And every now and again, walking around the house, moving something to the guest room or dusting a piece of furniture, I'd catch a whiff, just a hint, of Her perfume ... and I would take comfort in the fact that She had been here.

But I didn't hear from Her. Not that every time my cell phone buzzed with a text or rang with a call, I didn't start with the anticipation that this time it could be Her. Then, early in the evening, four days later, it was Her. My cell phone buzzed, an unknown local number popped up on the screen, followed by a short text: "ready for the next step, boy?"

My heart felt as though it was pounding against my chin as I fumbled with the keys, typing out my response. "Yes, Mistress."

Her reply was longer, and I savored it as I read it. "Good boy. Enter this number in your address under 'Mistress.' I expect you to answer immediately when I call or text, regardless of the day or time. If you are delayed, I expect an explanation. And it had best be convincing. If I call and you are able, I expect you to answer 'yes, Mistress.' If you answer otherwise, I will take it that you are busy and may well hang up."

"Yes, Mistress," I typed in my response.

After several minutes, which I spent with my eyes glued to the small screen, a final message from Her appeared. "you have an appointment tomorrow at 6 p.m. This is the address: 1787 N Montcrief. Don't be late. I will speak to you afterwards."

"Yes, Mistress," I replied, frantically typing the address into google, which showed me the location on the near northside, but gave me no indication of what was located there. And I waited in vain for any more from Her. But I had my instructions and I would obey them.

Work the next day dragged, as I spent half of the day watching the clock and willing time to speed up. Finally, leaving the office a bit early, I made my way through slow, late afternoon traffic to Montcrief Street. It was a good thing that I'd given myself time, for parking in that neighborhood proved challenging. But finally I found a spot, parked my car, and rushed to the address, bare minutes before 6 p.m. When I saw that the place was a small piercing and tattoo parlor, I slowed to a stop, then walked by several times, trying to look unobtrusive as I tried to glance in through the partially obscured windows ... and gave serious thought to turning around, walking away. But I couldn't, and I entered the shop.

Stepping through the door, I again had the instinct to flee. This was not my kind of place. The few people in the waiting area were considerably younger, considerably more edgy than I. I'd had an earring while in college, but that was bush league here. My business attire and short hair were distinctly out of place among the inked, pierced, dark Goth fashion of those flipping through the tattoo design books.

"Help you?" This was directed at me by a large, young woman with dyed dark hair and more piercings on her face than I could easily count who sat behind the counter.

"Yes," I said, almost literally shaking my head to force myself to focus. "I have an appointment," giving her my name.

"Oh, yes," she said, her tone indicating -- or was it my imagination -- that she'd wagered I wouldn't show. "C'mon back."

Leading me behind the counter, through a door, down a short corridor, and into a small, surprisingly clean room, she indicated something that looked like a doctor's examination table. "Hop up there."

As I did so, my trepidation growing, she consulted a file she'd brought with her and said. "OK. Take off your right shoe and sock, and roll up your pant leg." While I was doing so, she stepped out, returning maybe a minute later with a small box in her hands, which she opened and placed on the counter, lifting from it a relatively small, open, metal hoop, with some sort of decorative device on it.

Maybe responding to the quizzical look on my face, she held it up. "Know what this is?" When I shook my head, she answered. "Well, for you it's going to be an anklet. Someone wants to keep good track of where you are, though, because this" -- she pointed to the decoration -- "is a GPS locator."

At first, this didn't quite sink it, but when it did after several seconds, my cheeks flushed. She grinned at me, rather maliciously. "I'm going to take a wild guess. This is your Mistress's idea? Or your Master's."

Cheeks flushing darker, I nodded, stammering, "yes, my Mistress's."

Her tone, like her look, turned dark. "Then that's 'yes, Ma'am, my Mistress's,' when you speak to me, boy." I swallowed, mouth dry, and croaked out, "yes, Ma'am."

"Good. Now lie back. I have instructions to solder this onto your ankle." And that's what She proceeded to do; shielding my flesh with a towel, She attached the metal anklet permanently to my leg, saying nothing, concentrating on the task.

Finished, she put the small welding set away and let my new piece of jewelry cool, speaking to me as She did so. "This is high-tech, but sturdy. It should hold up to sweat and exercise and showers. And let your Owner track where you are and where you've been." Touching the metal to ensure that it had cooled enough, She continued. "All done now. Your Owner paid for the device, but you owe me for the attachment. I'll meet you back out front to pay."

Slowly, I sat up, lowered my pants leg, put my sock back on, pulling it up over the anklet, and slipped back into my dress loafers. As I stood, I felt the small, locked ring sit around my anklet, not heavy but noticeable ... with every step, I knew it was there, almost a part of me, relaying my whereabouts to the One who increasingly owned me.

Exiting to the front of the building, I tried to control both my gait and my face, trying not to betray what was happening to me. At the front counter, the Woman made me wait, purposefully and obviously dealing with two female patrons out of turn before presenting me with a bill for $75. Handing me my change, She held my eye for a moment and said, loud enough for everyone in the front of the shop to hear, "Good luck, son ... you're doing to need it." Sputtering out my thanks, I hastened from the shop, trying to get to my car as quickly as I could.

Just as I settled in behind the wheel, my phone rang, and I saw it was Mistress. Answering quickly, I choked out the greeting She expected: "yes, Mistress." "Good boy," the pleasure in Her voice was obvious. "You know, I thought about just getting you chipped ... like my poodle is chipped. But I didn't think you were ready for that ... but this is a step in that direction. You understand, don't you, that I can now track you, can see where you are anytime I choose to check, and can see where you've been?"

"Yes, Mistress," I replied. "I understand."

"Good. Then get your sweet little ass home. I will talk to you later." And with that, the line went dead.