I have previously described how my position as the philosopher’s slave requires me to serve as his alarm clock. We are both bemused by how this simple task triggers in me such intense feelings of submission and erotic stimulation, not to mention fear of failure. The calls are usually a weekday event, made from work, which means there is always the chance that an incoming phone call will delay or cut short my own call to the cell phone for which I alone have the number. At least I don’t usually worry about forgetting to call, since my computer has been programmed to provide me with a series of reminders. On those occasions when I call from home – such as when he gives me the gift of allowing me to awaken him on the weekend – I am possessed by a cunt-tingling tension that I will somehow miss the exact minute.
My master’s wake-up time has varied. In the early days, he wanted me to ring him from bed at my own ungodly wake-up time of 6:30 am, after which he would go back to sleep. Except for the unbearably Type A members of the species, neither grad students nor professors are inclined to get up any earlier than they absolutely have to. Eventually, despite his delight at hearing my sleepy voice talking from his pillow to mine, the philosopher came to his senses , and the calls were ordered for his real wake-up time of 10:30. They have inched slowly earlier since then, and starting today we are experimenting with (gasp!) 9:00 am. Which is when I am due at work.
Except – and here’s the problem – I don’t usually make it to work by 9 am. I have developed this ridiculous tendency in the last decade of always being a little late. I horrified my master when he was here with my tendency to dither, as he called it. I always came up with something else I needed to do before we could leave the house. The delay in getting to work is even weirder, as I always manage to be just 10 minutes late, for no good reason at all. Whatever I need to do spreads out to fill that extra 10 minutes. Good thing the trip itself is only 10 minutes long!
However, starting today, I have a very powerful impetus to leave the house on time. If I don’t get to the office door by 9:00, I’ll be faced with the not very attractive choice of either calling my master late (obviously not an option when you are an alarm clock) or starting the call on my way up to the office, necessitating exposing the other people waiting for the elevator to a recitation of what I am wearing (pink panties and all) and then losing the call as the elevator heads upwards.
Do I have to tell you what happened this morning?
9:00 am. Right on time. There I was, unlocking the office door as I pressed #2 on my speed dial.
At last. When no one else could, my master found a way to cure my dilatory ways.
And thus the benefits of being a sex-slave flow over to the vanilla side of my life.
Thank you, master.
Thank you for your exquisite control.
I am such a lucky slave kitten!