The Bank of Darcy

I headed over to Darcy’s to spruce the place up. I had done some work on Friday afternoon, but still had those few touches that I had intended to do on Saturday. Unfortunately, I was house-cleaned out on Saturday and had other duties to attend to like paying bills.

I had to do double duty as maid and cook, so I started dinner. Darcy said she’d be back “about 6-ish” so I had to prepare something that could be brought to completion on short notice. A standard fare of salad, steak, potatoes and veggies fit the bill. The nice thing about potatoes is that it is virtually impossible to overcook them the can be kept in waiting, like me sometimes, indefinitely. All was prepositioned and ready long before Darcy’s anticipated arrival.

I got a call from Darcy on my cell phone about 5:30 saying that she’d be home in about a half an hour. She was in the car with her sister, so she couldn’t talk too freely. “I forgot to tell you that I was going to have a couple of my friends contact you this weekend,” she stated.

“You mean Patricia?”

“Yes, I told her that you could clean up her mess and iron things out.”

“And Carol?”

“Yes.”

“And Nancy.”

“Oh yeah. Carol told me about her. She needed her help to complete the project. After I checked her out, I approved her. I didn’t have time to issue new instructions. I figured you could ‘handle’ things.”

“OK.”

“So were you able to help them out with their business objectives?”

“Yes I did.”

“And were they satisfied with the results?”

“I believe they were.”

“Oh good. In that case I think I can arrange other work for you as well.”

I just swallowed hard and made no response.

“OK, we’ll be home shortly. Love you, sweetie.”

“Love you, too.”

The clock was ticking, and I was a flurry of last minute preparation. The grill was match-ready and I soon had the fire going. I figured that if I put the steaks on when Darcy arrived, we could be sitting down to dinner almost immediately. Well, she can sit down immediately. I still had to complete cooking and serve the meal. The table was set: flowers, candles, wine open and “breathing,” salad losing its refrigerated chill, veggies on low heat in the kitchen, plates, napkins and utensils laid out all in proper fashion (it took me about a week of research and practice to get that right). Oh yes, “Bolero” on the stereo, cued for the moment she arrived at the door.

I could hear the car arrive. I quickly threw the steaks on, switched on the stereo, undressed faster than Superman in a phone booth, putting my clothes on the shelf in the closet and waited in my usual position by the door. That would be down on my knees. I fondled myself into an erection, although the physical stimulation was hardly necessary. The anticipation of Darcy’s arrival was enough.

She came through the door and held it open momentarily as she waved good-bye to her sister. I was hoping nobody else was around to look in. She closed it and then paid attention to me. I bowed and she patted me on the head like a puppy that was waiting at the door for the arrival of his mistress.

I got up and followed her into the living room. “Oh, it all looks so nice,” she said.

She sat down. “I’m exhausted. Mom had more junk than I could imagine a woman of her age could accumulate. I should have taken you along. But then you wouldn’t have been able to take care of those other assignments I gave you.”

She put her feet up and I removed her sneakers. I gently rubbed her feet. “Mmm,” she melted, “I’m going to need a nice hot bath before going to bed tonight.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” I apologized, “I have to get dressed and take care of the steaks.”

She dismissed me with a wave of her hand. “You can stay dressed until you sit down for dinner.”

“Thank you ma’am.”

“MA’AM” – that’s my title for her. “Mistress is too mysterious a word. It conjures up thoughts of whips and chains and leather and dungeons. That isn’t our style. “Ma’am” is simple but respectful which is who we are: two people who respect each other where she is the one in charge, and I am the one who voluntarily obeys. She loves me and I know it. She shows it by dominating me and allowing me to submit to her.

Moments later she was seated as I served her dinner and set my place as well. We ate and dined and caught up on news of the week. Her trip to her mom’s left us behind in the knowledge in what had been going on in each other’s lives recently. She complimented me on the meal and the setting.

I got up to clean the table, but beyond getting the perishables away was ordered, “Leave it for later. Come rub my shoulders.”

She sat at the table as I stood behind her, naked, fingers in her flesh, feeling for the striations in her muscles, gently urging her blood on its journey to her heart. After several minutes of this, she said, “Let’s do this right.” She stood up, took me by the hand and led me to her bedroom.

I assisted her getting undressed, kissing each part of her body as I exposed it. There was a slight saltiness from her sweat since she had obviously been working out at her mother’s house. It tasted pleasant. There was a strong scent of womanhood when I got to her lower lips, but it was her. I would recognize her unique aroma anywhere. But clitoral worship was not on the menu for this evening; at least not yet.

Once she was naked, she laid down on the bed on her stomach. I got my special massaging tools: racquet balls. The balls were easy for me to manipulate – I can roll them about in the palms of my hands and keep my fingers from tiring. They spread the pressure of my rubbing onto a perfect footprint (or should that be ballprint) on her body. The soft, rough, rubber surface gently grips into her skin, tingling it and making it come alive. By the time I finish, the balls are gray with the exfoliated skin cells. That’s the other nice thing about the balls: they are easy for me to wash and clean up.

I did her back, and then she rolled over and I did her front. She likes the feel of these blue rubber spheres on her breasts – I take extra care there and sometimes just hold the ball and tickle rather than roll it along the skin. I am even more cautious with her labia. It took a lot of practice to learn just the right amount of pressure, the right tempo, and the right rubbing technique to bring her to orgasm. I did not disappoint her this time.

She again thanked me and curled up in a blanket with the command, “Draw my bath, please.” Bath is a jacuzzi big enough for the both of us. However, tonight she would be bathing solo.

I went to this task as well as cleared out the remnants of dinner. By the time I got back, she was sleeping. I hated to awake her, but I knew that she would be disappointed if I did not. I kissed her gently and announced, “Your bath is ready, ma’am.” Indeed it was, complete with light provided only by the scented candles discretely placed around the room.

I assisted her into the tub, and used the soft nylon ball to complete the job that the rubber balls had started. She had only her freshest skin exposed, and it was absorbing the scented bath oils. She then slumped into the tub to enjoy the swirling, surging sensations of the water against her.

I suggested, “Wine ma’am?”

“Good idea,” she said, “fetch some for yourself, too.”

I sat and she laid, both of us sipping our wine continuing the conversations from dinner. At last when she had enough of both water and wine, I assisted her up, wrapped her in a towel and patted her dry.

We retired to the bedroom. This time clitoral worship WAS on the menu both before and after my special treat.