It’s Always Submission O’Clock

Some time ago I made a video of myself performing an obscene, degrading act and sent a brief clip to My Lady. The obscene act was one that I’d been ordered to perform, but the video was my idea. My Lady is usually satisfied with written descriptions of the things I do in response to her instructions, and in this case she’d left the method of documentation up to me. Nevertheless, ambition got the better of me and I decided that a video would be just the thing.

The video didn’t work out especially well. The big problem was that I practised a key part of the obscene act with my right hand while I was figuring out how to position the camera, but in the heat of the moment I performed the same action with my left. As a result (I’m skipping steps here, but the details aren’t important) the climax of the obscene act wasn’t fully in the camera’s field of view. I presented the botched clip to My Lady with a wry comment about not being a cinematographer.

I’m under orders to show My Lady different views of my slave quarters (that is, my little apartment) when taking photos and videos for her, and in this case there was a clock in the background as I performed the obscene act. Unlike the act, the clock was clearly visible in the video. It wasn’t – and isn’t – anything fancy, just a plain, cheap, round plastic wall clock that was there when I moved in. However, My Lady noticed it in the video, and mentioned that she felt more connected to me because she could see what time it had been when I was carrying out her instructions.

Despite being rather touched by that thought, I had to reply with a confession. The clock ran out of batteries fairly soon after I moved into my slave quarters, I explained sheepishly, and I never bothered to put new ones in. I have a wristwatch, an alarm clock next to my bed, and a clock on the laptop I’m using to type this blog post; if anything, I can hardly escape knowing what time it is, and the clock on the wall has always seemed superfluous. I was more than content to have it be right twice a day (at 12:13). This prompted a rather curt response from My Lady:

Even so, I like analog wall clocks. Get a battery for it.

Nothing could be more mundane than putting a battery in a stopped clock, but that instruction made me feel the weight of My Lady’s yoke. There was no “please” or “if you don’t mind”, no choice in the matter, just a blunt command issued in the full expectation that I would obey. My own feelings about analogue wall clocks (less than enthusiastic, as it happens) were totally irrelevant, because My Lady is the dominant and I’m the submissive. In other words, I’m the one in the collar, and I do what she says.

It turned out that the clock only needed a single AA battery, and I happened to have one on hand. It’s been running fine ever since. When my slave quarters are otherwise silent I can hear a very faint electronic ticking, which I could live without, but it doesn’t bother me much and is completely inaudible when the air conditioning is on. When I want to know the time, I still look at my computer, my wristwatch or my alarm clock, depending on exactly where I am. But the wall clock is there, implacably ticking off the seconds, minutes and hours, reminding me who’s boss. Around here it’s always submission o’clock.