Servitude

It’s that time of year again, My birthday. The day that exists purely for My pleasure. My indulgence. My elevation.

And your role?
Yours is the role of the serving sub.
Which means one thing: you exist to make it perfect for Me.

No hesitation. No half-measures. No “what would you like, Miss?” nonsense. You should already know.

You’ve been watching. Listening. Taking notes. You know the scent I adore and the heels I’ve been eyeing.
You know where I like to be touched and more importantly, where I like to be left alone unless invited.

This isn’t about creativity, pet. This is about precision.

You begin the day early. Flowers. A handwritten card. A gift that shows you’ve paid attention. My favourite champagne, chilled and ready. Breakfast? Of course. Served on a tray, with care. Quietly. Kneeling.

I don’t lift a finger. I don’t need to. That’s your job.
Fetch My shoes. Iron My dress. Draw My bath, scent it just right and lay my robe across the bed like it’s waiting to be worn by someone divine.
Because it is.

You ask for nothing. Expect nothing. You serve with reverence, not reward.
And perhaps if your offerings please me you’ll be permitted to watch Me unwrap your gift.
From the floor. Hands folded. Eyes down.
Because this day, pet, is not about you.

It’s about My pleasure. My power. My celebration.

If I want to be worshipped, you’ll kiss every inch of me I allow.
If I want space, you’ll kneel by the door until I call for you.
If I want to be taken to dinner, you’ll carry My coat and speak only when spoken to.
And if I want a massage, you’ll use the oil I like and you’ll know when to stop before I even have to say it.

And maybe, if the entire day has been flawless.
If the gifts are perfect, the energy correct, your service faultless.
I’ll let you sleep at the foot of my bed.
Collared. Content.
Knowing you did exactly what you were meant to do.

You didn’t just remember My birthday.

You served it.

Good boy.