Silver / clay

⊱ 5 ⊰

"Yes, Mistress Eboni," said Caleb.

He knelt when she commanded him to kneel. Held his mouth open when instructed. Moved where she wanted him to move. Performed how she demanded. He followed her every beckoning call, as if reading a script, with no autonomy of his own. But this was why he was here, what he was paying for.

It felt good, yet...

The entire process felt deficient in some indescribable way, the shine taken off. Was it just a lack of variety that caused these existential questions to bobble around his mind, or something more fundamental? He had the sense, deep down, that even if he changed dommes, that freshness wouldn't return. Even with his Mistress' vulva pressed hard against his face, there remained a stark distance between them, as if their relationship floated on the surface of the ocean, just above water teeming with marine life.

"Maybe we should try a different...I don't know," said Caleb, firmly entrenched in after-care.

"Different what?" said Mistress Eboni. "Position?"

"I don't know. Or act. I don't know."

"Really?" said Mistress Eboni. "Where did this come from?"

The response struck Caleb as strange, since she'd alluded to the potential for just that in their previous session. At the time he felt she could sense a problem in his psyche because she knew him so well, but perhaps she was simply adept at reading body language.

"What?" said Mistress Eboni.

His face had betrayed his bewilderment. "Nothing," he said.

"OK," said Mistress Eboni. "I'll make a note of it."

"A note?" he said. It rubbed him the wrong way, though he wasn't completely sure why.

"I have a good memory, but it's easier to keep it all in order this way," said Mistress Eboni.

This wasn't a minor quirk they were talking about. It could lead to a wholesale change in their dynamic.

"Have you been seeing someone else?" she added.

He hesitated. "I..."

"A professional, I mean," said Mistress Eboni.

"No," said Caleb.

She narrowed her gaze, almost in a comical manner, making clear her disbelief. "Who owns you?"

Caleb subconsciously felt for the leather choker around his neck, gliding fingers over the locked stainless steel rivet. "You do," he said.

"Who!?" she said, getting in his face.

"Mistress Eboni owns me," said Caleb, staunchly.

As she leaned in closer, he studied her face, his focus conduced into her hazel eyes by gold eyeshadow. His stare deepened, intensified, a probe for the spiritual. Instead, those small brown spots reflected mere void, reinforcing a rapport only of the somatic. He cried out for more but her insipid response made it seem as if the seas had frosted over. A revelation took hold and he immediately understood the deficiency that had hid itself from his consciousness.

"How about..." said Caleb, stuttering to a gulping pause. He swallowed hard. "What do you think about me helping out?"

"Helping out what?" said Mistress Eboni, returning to her accoutrements.

He was trawling the depths for a bounty to share, hoping to merge it with the icy surface. "Around the house," he said. "Or whatever."

"The house?" said Mistress Eboni. "Which house?"

"Yours," said Caleb, clearing his throat. "Or outside it, either way."

Her cautious intrigue flipped to stern indignation, as if switching currents on command; it could happen in an instant. "I don't need another personal slave," she burst out. "And if I did, I'd demand it."

"A personal something else, then," he said, scrambling. Anything to be closer, to form that deeper connection.

"What do you think this is?" said Mistress Eboni.

It was enough of an answer that he didn't try further.