Connor was washing a small plate when he heard the whirring. The sound of the garage door opening was unmistakable. His Master was home.

He quickly dried his hands on the dish towel and scurried over to the door. He only had a few seconds to get into position. Master never rushed to get out of the car, but the garage was only so big and being unprepared when his Master opened the door was not an option.

The boy made it to the door in record time, and let himself fall onto the ground, knees crashing into the gray-blue tile. Owwww. In the next few seconds, Connor assumed the position. Shoulders back. Chest forwards. Eyes on the ground. Hands behind, just by the hips. Kneeling. Presenting. Just as his Master ordered. Just the way Master liked it.

Then, he waited.

It might have been less than a minute before the door actually opened, but to Connor it felt like an eternity. Every moment seemed to drag on forever, time slushing from one second to the next, as Connor waited for his Master to open the door. The deafening silence of the house did little to drown out the noises in Connor’s head. Master is back. Master is home. Master is safe. Master is —

“Boy,” his Master growled, his voice slicing through Connor’s thoughts.

Connor said nothing. He knew better from his training. He just stayed there, kneeling on the floor, letting the cold air from the garage rush over his naked body. The chill caused the hairs on the boy’s arms and neck to prick up, staying taunt and upright even as his Master ran his callused hands over the skin.

After a few moments, his Master stepped back, his tall figure towering over the much-smaller boy.

“Good. Now get to it, slave.”

Connor didn’t need to be told twice. In the blink of an eye, he was crouched over his Master’s dress shoes, licking every surface until it was spotless. Connor did the left shoe first, ensuring he got as much dirt off as possible — not that there was much dirt to begin with — before moving onto the right. He used his tongue to spread a bit of the saliva over the top of each shoe, so the water could gleam in the light. Just as his Master liked it.

The foot pulled away. Connor’s job was done. He sat back up, still silent, careful to keep this eyes on the floor and avoiding catching his Master’s gaze.

“Report, boy,” his Master thundered.

“The laundry’s all done, folded, and put away, Master,” said Connor, crisply. “The kitchen and bathroom floors have been vacuumed and mopped; the living room dusted; and most of the dishes are drying in the dishwasher. It was just washing the hand-wash-only items when you returned, Master.”

His Master didn’t reply immediately. In the silence that followed, Connor couldn’t tell if his Master was pleased or disappointed. The boy hoped that his Master would be satisfied with that amount of work. But you couldn’t be sure. Master had high standards, and Connor knew he would raise them as soon as he felt his slave houseboy was getting complacent.

Was he going to be praised? Punished? Or just ignored? Connor’s heart was beating with so much anxiety that the boy swore it was going to break out of his chest.

Then: “Good job, slave boy. Get back to it.”

Connor scurried back to the kitchen in a flash. “Yes, Master!”

Praised. Definitely praised.

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