Good Boy by Mouse

I am not allowed to look up at her. My eyes are downcast. My wrists are crossed at the small of my back. My cock aches against the seam of my jeans. Goosebumps crawl across my bare back as the silence stretches.

My gaze is locked on her shoes. They're not heels. Not this woman. She is not the type to tolerate any discomfort for fashion. Or to wear anything, let's face it, for my sake.

I admit my tastes have changed since I met her six months ago. My snapshot fantasy of a latex-clad dominatrix has been slowly dismantled. Although I still have a stirring respect for that imagery, it's my soul that responds to this down-to-earth woman whose power has nothing to do with her costume.

She's wearing walking shoes, heavy and practical, and blue jeans that fit snugly to her broad thighs and hips. Her hands are shoved in her pockets as she looks down at me. And I don't allow my eyes to look any further up than this.

"Do you have to kneel?" she asks me, finally. Her voice is soft, but the question is pointed.

"No, Miss," I say quietly.

"Do you have to call me 'Miss'?" she asks in the same tone.

I close my eyes and my heart thuds in my chest. Finally, I shake my head. "No," I say, but I hear the hesitation after I answer, where I want to give her the title. The absence of the word is a loud silence in my ears.

"Why."

"Because they're both just symbols," I tell her quietly, my eyes still down. I know in my heart that everything we've talked about is true. But it's hard. I hope she can hear that I really do understand.

"Kneeling is a... is a physical metaphor," I say haltingly. "Kneeling lets me use my body to tell you that I feel beneath you, in your control. And the title is the same thing. It's a... a verbal symbol, so that every statement I make reinforces that I am beneath you, in your control. But that's... that's all they are. They don't create the truth, they just reinforce it. They're just symbols. Even if I stand, even if I don't call you by anything but your name, you, you.... still own me." My voice drops to a whisper. "It's true... all... the time."

"That's right," she says. Her hand enters my line of vision. She's offering to help me to my feet. I grasp her small hand in mine and she pulls me up. She is looking up at me as I look down at her. Reflexively, I cross my wrists behind my back and stand at something like parade rest, my eyes looking out into the middle distance. This old protocol comes to me so easily that I hardly notice. But her cool hand smooths across my chest and she says, "Look at me."

I look down into her warm brown eyes. She's not smiling. I feel myself blushing faintly and I abandon the pose, standing more naturally beside her. I hope it looks casual, normal. She smiles and pushes a shirt against my bare chest. "Wear the green."

"Yes, M--" I say, then stop. No title. "I mean, sure."

She watches me as I button the shirt in front of the full-length mirror. It's not too bad. I look a little shaggy, maybe. I rub the stubble on my cheek and chin and she says, "You have nothing to worry about."

"A long weekend," I tell her, looking at her reflection in the mirror. "That's four days."

"Three nights," she agrees.

"And your parents," I add.

"You'll be fine," she says with a smile. But she can see the way I'm looking at her. Her expression changes, her tone changes, and she says, lower, "You WILL be fine. Do you understand me?"

"Yes--" Halted. The absence of the word is so loud. I know I'm blushing. But I know an order when I hear one.

"Good boy," she says.