Ebony’s Rituals
Rituals had something unbelievably calming to them. They were all that really held Ebony’s world together at this point. She got up, brought in the morning newspaper and always hurled it across the room into exactly the same spot. If she missed by even a fraction of an inch, her day was ruined. But of course she did not miss. That was unthinkable. She went on into the kitchen and drank exactly one glass of orange juice, revolting at the same old bitter taste in the same way as any morning. A pan of scrambled eggs along with exactly two slices of bacon completed her mornings.
She donned her suit—heaven’s forbid that she ever wore something different to work!—and grabbed her bag, placed exactly into the same spot for the past three years. Her family had joked it had already worn a dent into the wood of the small table. She had wanted to replace it that same day. But she could not—for several reasons.
The way to the office was hell. Rituals were all that held her world together as it was. But as usual with traffic in this god forsaken city there was no chance of two consecutive days seeing the busses drive around the same time. And calling a cab would force her to spend money she was sure could be used more sensibly.
She arrived at the office exactly five minutes before she had to, same as every day. And from there on out it was the same old treadmill of chewing out lazy employees, signing documents and leading negotiations over the phone. It wasn’t until more than nine hours later she finally called it quits and left the office. Same as every day.
She could have left earlier. She was the boss. But she did not. She arrived earlier than she had to. And she stayed longer than most anyone. Anything less and her world came tumbling down.
Her way home was another example of her ritualized days yet again. She took the same bus line home, each day. By now, the driver even had added a ritual of his own. He always greeted her with a reserved nod—polite, yet in a way more acknowledgement of her presence than she had received all day at work. “Congratulations, Ma’am,” his eyes seemed to say, “You survived yet another day.” She would drive the same time along the same streets and get home at the same time. As worn-out and drained as every day. Another ritual, though perhaps one that Ebony would not have missed had it been gone. Rituals had something unbelievably reassuring to them. They were the last thread that held Ebony’s world together.
They, and just one more thing.
She opened the door and placed her bag in the same spot near the entrance. And there, right next to it, she would find the same note as every day. Rinse and renew. She didn’t know it happened, but the same relieved smile would blossom on her face that she showed every day when she found the note in its usual place. She was aware that her hands would take off her suit one piece at a time, putting them all in their respective places, neatly folded even when she put them in the laundry. But it felt like she watched someone else do it, like her hands had a live of their own and were catering to her needs. And at every single stop, there was another note, reading: “Good girl.” And at every single note, her smile grew just a smidgen wider, just a tad more honest. She would sink into the prepared bath tub almost as if her body carried her into the hot water, the heat permeating every cell of her body just as yet another note permeated her mind, reading: “Good girls melt for Master.”
And melting was just the right word. By the time that she heard the polite knock from the door she felt like a puddle of blissful warmth, too happy and comfy to even move of her own volition. Yet the knock may as well have been an order and hearing it her body spun into fluent motion. She got out of the water and dried herself off with a fluffy towel she had no memory of preparing. Even without a note she knew that Good girls keep themselves clean for Master and paid attention without even noticing to making herself presentable. Next to the towel there would always be a choice of clothing. Often it was a set of lingerie. Sometimes it was a selection of comfortable house wear, occasionally even pajamas. Seldom it was a dress. Today she found a pretty, see-through negligee that she had no recollection of possessing. But whether she recognized it or not, her hands did not miss a single beat helping her slip into the outfit before picking up the final article. This one she remembered possessing and the memory caused a different kind of heat to rise in her, flushing her cheeks with the faintest echo of shame even as a hint of excitement flickered over her face. Her fingers brought the leather collar to her neck, clasping it shut even as she idly wondered why with all her meticulous rituals she had no recollection of where it was stored during the day. Only to arrive at the same answer as every day: “Because this collar and whatever it is placed on belong to Master. And only Master.”
Washed, dried and dressed she stepped out of the bath and made her way towards the kitchen. There she found a tray with steaming hot, freshly cooked food. Same as every day. Today she saw it was a stew. But that did not matter near as much as the note that stuck to the boards above the tray: “Good girls serve.” Before she even would have had time to think about it—provided she had wanted to think—Ebony bowed before the note. Had she been aware of the action, she might have wondered if she did so as practice. Or because it was yet another ritual, remains of mockery that time and training had turned into merely a different kind of submission. Or because her need to obey was just that strong. But she did not think about it. Because thoughts were a distraction for a good girl with a task. She picked up the tray, carrying it over into the living room where she set it down in the designated spot.
Demurely casting down her gaze she waited half a heartbeat for his voice to tell her: “Good girl.” And even though she knew better than to raise her eyes without permission, her smile still grew wider at the praise. Sitting down with his permission he filled her plate and for a few minutes they ate in silence. It was a silence that she loved. Not the dreaded silence of a lonely evening. Not the terrifying silence of people that had nothing to say.
It was a silence that wrapped them like a blanket, allowing her thoughts to dissolve completely in the motion of chewing and swallowing, in the sounds of his breathing and the security of his presence.
It was not before they had finished dinner that he would address her again, beckoning her over to him. As she sank down to her knees for him he would lift up her face and lock eyes with her. She adored his eyes. Eyes that looked at her like she was the single most important thing in the world. Eyes that saw past the face she upheld all day, that saw the frail weak girl she truly felt she was. And that saw past even that, seeing someone that was truly deserving of his undivided attention.
She knew he was talking to her in these moments. Telling her things. Instructing her as much as just wrapping her in soothing words. She knew she was letting him do with her thoughts as he wished in this time of the day.
And she loved it.
Sometimes her lips formed words before she even realized it. There was only one that registered in her mind: “Yes.” Over and over nothing but ‘Yes’. She loved the way her voice sounded when she responded to the things he told her. So vacant and drowsy. So little thought. And so very much obedience. She knew not what she agreed to. And she didn’t want to know. She knew he wanted only the best for her and so whatever she agreed to was something that would make her feel great.
On some days this concluded the ritual. On some days after spending a length of time on her knees just listening to his words and accepting them in place of her thoughts he would lead her to bed and lay her down. On those days she drifted off into deep, deep sleep within moments. She was not worried about how short her time with him was on those days. Because even this was a way of serving him, of doing whatever he wanted her to do. Yet there was also a different kind of day. And it would be a lie to say she was not most eagerly looking forward to them.
On most days he allowed her to be aware of things other than his eyes. He would sit down before the television, watching a show whilst she nuzzled into his legs, sitting down to his feet. Sometimes he was busy and had to finish work. At those times he brought her with him to his desk and instruct her to use various toys of his choosing while he watched. But those, beautiful as they were, were not the kind of things she looked forward to.
What she loved the most of all were the days when Master took her hand and guided it down between her legs whilst still holding her gaze. When he began to ask her if she wanted to be his good girl—“Yes.”—and if she loved losing her will to his eyes—“Yes.”—and if she knew that was her brain dripping out of her around her fingers—“Yes!”—and told her that his words took more and more place in her mind with every single day—“Yesyesyesyes!”—until she was his perfect hypnotized slave—“Ohgod, yeeeeeessss!”—who lived to serve and obey.
And then, when the constant teasing and the words in her ears had long since let the line between waking and dreaming blur, when there was no telling for her what was real and what was only fabricated by his husked will in her head, then he snapped her back to attention just barely enough to let her hear the words she spend each day so eagerly waiting for without even knowing it herself: “Good girls are Master’s toy.” The moment that one phrase passed through her head everything else just fell away, leaving her nothing but a body. A needy, tingling body that was acutely aware of even the faintest breeze on her skin, the lightest touch setting her nerves ablaze, the sloshing sounds it made to keep her fingers moving in and out of her slick cunt. Nothing else mattered but feeling the rough texture of the carpet as he fixed a leash to her collar and led her through the room on all fours, telling her that this was where she belonged. To his feet, guided by his hand, fueled by his will. Safe in his words. Sometimes he had her stop just to watch how the moment she no longer needed to crawl her body snapped back into a straightened position, her fingers diving for her clit to resume her masturbation.
Sometimes he had her repeat phrases when she did so. Sometimes he just watched. But always, always he was there with her and whatever she did she devoted to him. No need to second-guess, to make plans or decisions. His will was all that mattered. If she had to do something, he would tell her. And if he said nothing, then he simply wanted her to do nothing but stare and rub even more of her brain into that gooey puddle between her legs. She often was panting and in a feverish daze by the time he dropped his clothes. But none of that mattered. The moment she saw his cock, the pulsing flesh jumping with joy at her submission, it became the center of her world. All of her existed solely to serve and give pleasure to this cock and her owner.
And as with a chuckle he took one deliberate step after the next backwards, tugging on her leash more for the ritual than because prompting was needed, she could do nothing but fall to all fours and follow. Her eyes transfixed on the bouncing cock before her she crawled and obeyed, forgetting about the world.
Ebony would often wake sore and with a salty aftertaste in her mouth. But that was nothing a glass of fresh, bitter orange juice and a serving of bacon and eggs would not fix. She remembered nothing of where the collar had gone by the time she woke. In the beginning she had searched for it. But by now finding it only when he wanted her to put it on was just as much of a ritual as the rest of her day.
Rituals had a wonderfully satisfying component to them. Without them, Ebony was sure her world as a busy, independent woman would already have crumbled apart. But each day anew, she yearned for that a little bit more.
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