My freedom lives in my illusion.
Marta had me write this one hundred times, in my finest cursive, everyday for a week, every day at four AM, in only the light afforded by the LED lamp. This was my first daily gesture to her power over me and my service to her. Eventually I needed very little light to do this task.
Each night, before I went to bed in my cell, she placed a pen, filled with the color of ink she chose, to symbolize some facet of my service for that day, red for passionate reckless enthusiasm, black for total completeness, green for renewal of passion gone stale. The spectrum of colors was hardly tested at all.
My illusion, of course, is that I am not a slave, but a free man. I can leave her service at any time. My cell is not locked. My clothes, neatly displayed on a chair valet, are ready to be put on. My car keys, wallet, cell phone are all ready to be taken up. My car is in the driveway, gas tank full, battery charged. My money is in my bank account, the investment portfolio produces the dividend checks every month.
My freedom lies in serving Her. Slavery exists in the world I fled; where I earned my wealth from every client I dutifully served, writing the software they needed to oblige their customers to need them. How I hated the lost sleep, the swill I ate from burger joints and chili parlors, the power suits and shiny shoes, the cell phone that symbolized my thralldom.
My freedom comes from playing her game her way, by her rules, in her house. The rewards are her smile, a caress well earned, an orgasm she draws out of me, as I draw one from her.
By whatever means she chooses.