“Your dinner, my lady.”

I handed the box of pizza to her.

“Ah, thank you. You may stand by.”

My lady granted me some slight autonomy today. I still wore the maid dress she gave me, and I still felt compelled to follow her orders. But I was allowed emotion today. She wanted me to feel frustration, consternation, pain, and some slight humiliation at granting something as lowbrow as a greasy fast food pizza the high honor of her dinner.

I was also allowed to feel the discomfort of standing at attention. My body was stiff and would not move, as she had commanded. I faced away from her towards the reruns of old sitcoms she was watching, only being able to hear her loudly scarf her meal.

Hmph! The baseness. The lack of manners.

If I were deeper into trance, as was the norm, I would be mentally numb to all of this. But my lady had the generous audacity to trap me with my own thoughts, if they could be said to be my thoughts at all and not some subconsciously-adopted kayfabe of formal servitude.

Ugh! Kayfabe. I wish I had a more dignified word for it-

“Maid!” My lady, yelled, mouth full of crust and snapping her fingers.

I turned to her. “Yes, my lady?” I calmly asked, fighting my attitude.

“Footstool,” she ordered, pointing at the ground in front of her.

“Of course,” I replied with a bow. I stepped in front of her and knelt on all fours. She put her bare feet up on my back.

My knees and hands almost instantly ached. Again, a deeper trance would numb me to this, but my lady did not grant me that mercy.

I grunted.

“Shh!” my lady commanded, and then laughed at the buffoonery of one of the characters of her show.

Sigh. The things I do for servitude.