The boy thinks he is done. His owner’s car makes a soft ticking sound as the engine cools. The boy rests momentarily, gazing blankly through the window at his master’s condo: he’s not lost in thought, just blanking out as his subconscious finishes computing.
Eventually he realizes he’s doing nothing and, with a start, opens the door and steps out to a musty, overly bright afternoon. It isn’t hot outside, but there is no wind, and the slave’s sun-dazzled eyes conspire with his mental state to make the building and lawn out of focus, their colors muted and washed out.
The clunk of the front door closing behind him is the next thing his conscious mind is aware of. He begins to correct his state of dress even before the gentle dimness of his master’s home, lit only by the daylight that escapes the windows’ shades, can salve his addled mind. Shoes, socks, shirt, pants, undergarments all fold neatly in to a stack, as cuffs and tail plug are retreived from their own neat home in the entryway and make their way on to the boy’s body; together with the collar and chastity cage the boy had already been wearing they completed the only wardrobe he was truly meant to wear.
By the time he kneels and grips the stack of worn clothes with his teeth his mind is back up and running. The boy hopes his arrival home, thirteen minutes before scheduled, is ok; he wasn’t sure if he should have taken another passenger, but doubted he had time to do a full ride before he needed to be back home to await his master’s return.
The slave crawls to the stairs and up them slowly, still uncertain, and accidentally drops the underwear originally pressed down on to his shirt by his teeth. He has to stop and re-arrange his clothes in to a slightly less tidy bundle to be able to get a secure grip on them with his mouth before he finishes his crawl up the stairs and to the laundry hamper. The return trip is less dignified, backing his way on all fours down the stairs as his master demands. The slave can feel his tail plug sway haphazardly with the awkward motion, and with a twinge of desire wishes his owner were there, hopefully to enjoy the spectacle he knows he is presenting.
Downstairs, he crawls to his spot on the floor next to where his owner sits on the couch and rests on his knees a moment as he tries to recall his first chore for the afternoon. He believes it to be to clean the bath; he crawls to the kitchen sink to retreive the cleaning supplies and stacks them in his drawstring carry bag. Slipping the bag onto his back, he again climbs the stairs.
At the top he opens the bag and, as he has been told to do, stands on his feet to begin cleaning the room from the top down. He has just begun cleaning the toilet when he hears the door open and close downstairs; his master does not summon him, so he continues his chores.
Later, when he has finished, he is allowed to kneel, leaning against the couch, and rest his head against his master’s feet. The boy is asked how his first day of work away from home went. He isn’t sure, though; and tries to say as much. Eventually his owner gets him to realize that he didn’t really care for it; it was an interruption, but at least it wasn’t an unpleasant one. No one even commented on his collar, though his master expects that will change after giving more people rides.
His master says he did the right thing by returning early, and the slave nuzzles the bottoms of his owner’s feet, enjoying his place there; his own small celebration of his owner’s approval.
Painting with Knifestrikes 