The Happiness Scale
There is so much to our lives that can be misunderstood. I recognized that the first time I exerted my authority and Pura accepted it. She was fine. I was an emotional wreck. I was so afraid that I would become just another abuser in her life. Furthermore, I thought that there must be something really wrong with me to even allow this kind of thing to go on. That's when we developed the concept of The Happiness Scale. Here's the story:
Hold up there, Mistress! I think I should say for the benefit of the readers that the happiness scale was never my idea and though I do answer honestly every time, this is not a gauging method that will work for everyone. We still have to talk about how we feel and communicate on a deeper level.
Yes, of course we do. The Happiness Scale is simply a quick-check method to reassure ourselves that everything is still on course and we're both fine.
But mostly you. *Grins wickedly* I am always fine.
*Arches brows* Always?
*Deafening silence*
Here's the story:
It is amazing how quickly people can become accustomed even to bizarre things. Slave-owning was something I never would have ever believed I was capable of, but within a matter of a few weeks, I hardly even thought of it as odd anymore.
It was a fairly simple arrangement: I worked, I went to classes, and I came home. Pura went to classes, then she cleaned, did the laundry, and cooked the meals. When I came home, she was more attentive than a lover, although no sexual relationship had yet arisen between us. She took my bags from me, and my jacket and hat, sometimes removed my shoes, and then sat on her knees in front of me as she questioned me about my day and I got the details of hers.
I would do my homework while she prepared dinner. Sometimes I found her distracting, because she wore so little while in the house; she was fun to watch. Most days she wore strappy dresses or little shorts and tank-tops. And she thought she was hilarious, so sometimes she distracted me on purpose, singing at the top of her lungs on a wooden spoon microphone, or dancing around making up new words to familiar old tunes.
One such day, in the middle of a particularly heart-wrenching version of “Spaghetti Sauce” to the tune of “Oh Danny Boy” I teasingly growled, “Stop that, or I’ll never get this paper written!”
She immediately put the spoon down, smiled at me, and said, “Yes Mistress.”
It was the first time I had given a direction of the sort. Her contrite obedience haunted me. I could not focus on my paper and finally I stood up and walked away. Twenty minutes later, she tapped softly on my bedroom door.
“Mistress, may I come in?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” I answered. I was watching TV in my bed, but I turned it off as she came through the door and approached. She knelt on the floor. It was an action I was actually accustomed to, but today it pained me to see her lower herself. I was no better than she was; she should feel free to sit on the bed or on the bench at the end of the bed.
She sat in what I would soon discover was her contrition pose; head high but eyes downcast, back straight, hips on her feet, hands palm-down near her knees. “Mistress,” she began. “I fear I must have done something to upset you. If so, I beg you tell me at once and I will correct my offensive behavior.”
I cringed and climbed off my bed, on my knees in front of her. “No,” I insisted. “You have done nothing wrong. I am the one who should be changing my behavior. I should never have agreed to this. You are a perfectly sweet girl and you have beautiful talents you can offer the world, and I have you caged here like an animal away from them. It’s as if I am saying I deserve you, and I don’t. This needs to stop.”
Pura grabbed my hands in a desperate clench and lowered herself to kiss them. “You deserve my service, Mistress. You do! And I give it willingly and with love. Please don’t send me away. Please don’t release me. Please!”
“You are more than this,” I argued. “You are more than one little apartment and one silly friend who allowed herself to be talked into this lunacy.”
Pura kissed my hands again. “I have never been happier than I am dedicated to you. I can think of nothing nobler for my life and my talents than this service. But if I do not make you happy...”
Her tears came so abruptly, spilling over my hands, that I was alarmed. “It’s not that I think you are not doing a good job. You have been perfect in every respect. I just don’t think you deserve this. You deserve more.”
She held my hands so tightly I could not release them, and she cried over my hands as if they belonged to a dead lover. “Please Mistress!” she cried. “Please don’t release me. I will do better. Please, please, please.” Everything else she said became incoherent behind her tears. She had not even been this upset the day her car was repossessed and she lost her apartment. I had done this.
This was the moment when I realized exactly what I had agreed to when I accepted her pledge of service. She was my responsibility now and, even if it was sometimes hard or I felt guilty, it was too late to just back away. Pura was devoted to her role, and I needed to step up as well.
I could watch her weep only a moment before I drew her into my arms.
“I’m sorry,” I said, truly contrite. I held her against my shoulder and ran a hand through her hair. “I’m sorry, Pura. You are doing just right. I just got scared, but I’ll be better. Okay? I’ll get better at this.”
I held her until the tears stopped, horrified that I had caused her this pain. After several minutes, she pulled back from me, softly fingering my dress-shirt where the tears had stained it. I gave her a little smile and stood up. “It’s fine,” I told her. I looked down at her thoughtfully and I said, "I want you to be able to do the things that make you happy.”
Pura smiled. “Serving you is what makes me happy, Mistress.”
After several silent moments, I said, “Let’s make a happiness scale, Pura. Every day I am going to ask you if you are happy and you are going to tell me a number between 1 and 10. 1 is very unhappy and you wish you had never suggested becoming a slave and you might like to be freed. 10 is deliriously happy and you could not be more satisfied with your life in my household. How does that sound?”
Pura speculated. “I do not think my answer will change much day to day, Mistress.”
Did you note the bratty answer? You can tell this was the beginning of our relationship, because she was so good at trying to evade my questions. She doesn't do that as well these days.
I brushed away her objections and said, “This is important to me. I want a check-in system so I can know that you are happy with me.”
“I am always happy with you,” Pura answered, refusing to be pulled into my suggestion.
I put my fork down and crossed my arms on the table. “Pura, if you belong to me completely than you must be willing to do things I ask you to do.”
“I am,” she replied.
"What level of happiness are you right now?”
“Ten,” she replied instantly.
I sighed in frustration. “You’re not taking me seriously. If you cannot do this for me, I will never be able to be the mistress you think I can be.”
Pura looked repentant.
Finally.
I think you're painting me unfairly, Mistress, if you don't mind me saying so. It wasn't that your suggestion was a bad one or that I'm a brat. *Grrr* It was that I honestly could not imagine that you could ever make me unhappy.
My apologies. Readers, Pura is not (usually) a brat.
Pura looked repentant. “I am sorry, Mistress. But I was being realistic. I am deliriously happy…” she trailed off at the doubtful look on my face. How could she be deliriously happy when she had just spent half an hour tearfully afraid I was breaking our pact?
“Alright,” she said softly. “I will answer thoughtfully as my mistress commands me to do. Right now, at this very moment, I am… Nine.”
That was pretty high, and I thought maybe the two of us had different ideas of what the scale represented. “Alright,” I said with a nod. “How about earlier today, when you came in to my room to get me for dinner?”
“When I walked in I was maybe at four,” she said. That was more like it! “And when you said I would have to leave your service I was at a two.”
“Not at one?” I asked.
She glanced up at me. “No Mistress. You told me that one is most unhappy and wishing I had never suggested becoming your servant. That was the opposite of what I was feeling.”
I had to accept that. I nodded. “Okay. What about even earlier? Like…when you were doing laundry.”
She thought about it. “Seven, probably.”
Seven was still pretty high, all things considered, but I was a little concerned. “You don’t like to do laundry?”
Pura responded with an insistent shake of her head. “No, it’s not that, Mistress. I am happy to do the laundry. I like the smell of detergent and bleach. I like to fold clothes. I only said Seven in comparison to how I feel now. I am always several points happier when you are home.”
I smiled at that.
It still makes me smile.
It's still true.
I hope so. *Smile* Happiness level?
Ten.
Hold up there, Mistress! I think I should say for the benefit of the readers that the happiness scale was never my idea and though I do answer honestly every time, this is not a gauging method that will work for everyone. We still have to talk about how we feel and communicate on a deeper level.
Yes, of course we do. The Happiness Scale is simply a quick-check method to reassure ourselves that everything is still on course and we're both fine.
But mostly you. *Grins wickedly* I am always fine.
*Arches brows* Always?
*Deafening silence*
Here's the story:
It is amazing how quickly people can become accustomed even to bizarre things. Slave-owning was something I never would have ever believed I was capable of, but within a matter of a few weeks, I hardly even thought of it as odd anymore.
It was a fairly simple arrangement: I worked, I went to classes, and I came home. Pura went to classes, then she cleaned, did the laundry, and cooked the meals. When I came home, she was more attentive than a lover, although no sexual relationship had yet arisen between us. She took my bags from me, and my jacket and hat, sometimes removed my shoes, and then sat on her knees in front of me as she questioned me about my day and I got the details of hers.
I would do my homework while she prepared dinner. Sometimes I found her distracting, because she wore so little while in the house; she was fun to watch. Most days she wore strappy dresses or little shorts and tank-tops. And she thought she was hilarious, so sometimes she distracted me on purpose, singing at the top of her lungs on a wooden spoon microphone, or dancing around making up new words to familiar old tunes.
One such day, in the middle of a particularly heart-wrenching version of “Spaghetti Sauce” to the tune of “Oh Danny Boy” I teasingly growled, “Stop that, or I’ll never get this paper written!”
She immediately put the spoon down, smiled at me, and said, “Yes Mistress.”
It was the first time I had given a direction of the sort. Her contrite obedience haunted me. I could not focus on my paper and finally I stood up and walked away. Twenty minutes later, she tapped softly on my bedroom door.
“Mistress, may I come in?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” I answered. I was watching TV in my bed, but I turned it off as she came through the door and approached. She knelt on the floor. It was an action I was actually accustomed to, but today it pained me to see her lower herself. I was no better than she was; she should feel free to sit on the bed or on the bench at the end of the bed.
She sat in what I would soon discover was her contrition pose; head high but eyes downcast, back straight, hips on her feet, hands palm-down near her knees. “Mistress,” she began. “I fear I must have done something to upset you. If so, I beg you tell me at once and I will correct my offensive behavior.”
I cringed and climbed off my bed, on my knees in front of her. “No,” I insisted. “You have done nothing wrong. I am the one who should be changing my behavior. I should never have agreed to this. You are a perfectly sweet girl and you have beautiful talents you can offer the world, and I have you caged here like an animal away from them. It’s as if I am saying I deserve you, and I don’t. This needs to stop.”
Pura grabbed my hands in a desperate clench and lowered herself to kiss them. “You deserve my service, Mistress. You do! And I give it willingly and with love. Please don’t send me away. Please don’t release me. Please!”
“You are more than this,” I argued. “You are more than one little apartment and one silly friend who allowed herself to be talked into this lunacy.”
Pura kissed my hands again. “I have never been happier than I am dedicated to you. I can think of nothing nobler for my life and my talents than this service. But if I do not make you happy...”
Her tears came so abruptly, spilling over my hands, that I was alarmed. “It’s not that I think you are not doing a good job. You have been perfect in every respect. I just don’t think you deserve this. You deserve more.”
She held my hands so tightly I could not release them, and she cried over my hands as if they belonged to a dead lover. “Please Mistress!” she cried. “Please don’t release me. I will do better. Please, please, please.” Everything else she said became incoherent behind her tears. She had not even been this upset the day her car was repossessed and she lost her apartment. I had done this.
This was the moment when I realized exactly what I had agreed to when I accepted her pledge of service. She was my responsibility now and, even if it was sometimes hard or I felt guilty, it was too late to just back away. Pura was devoted to her role, and I needed to step up as well.
I could watch her weep only a moment before I drew her into my arms.
“I’m sorry,” I said, truly contrite. I held her against my shoulder and ran a hand through her hair. “I’m sorry, Pura. You are doing just right. I just got scared, but I’ll be better. Okay? I’ll get better at this.”
I held her until the tears stopped, horrified that I had caused her this pain. After several minutes, she pulled back from me, softly fingering my dress-shirt where the tears had stained it. I gave her a little smile and stood up. “It’s fine,” I told her. I looked down at her thoughtfully and I said, "I want you to be able to do the things that make you happy.”
Pura smiled. “Serving you is what makes me happy, Mistress.”
After several silent moments, I said, “Let’s make a happiness scale, Pura. Every day I am going to ask you if you are happy and you are going to tell me a number between 1 and 10. 1 is very unhappy and you wish you had never suggested becoming a slave and you might like to be freed. 10 is deliriously happy and you could not be more satisfied with your life in my household. How does that sound?”
Pura speculated. “I do not think my answer will change much day to day, Mistress.”
Did you note the bratty answer? You can tell this was the beginning of our relationship, because she was so good at trying to evade my questions. She doesn't do that as well these days.
I brushed away her objections and said, “This is important to me. I want a check-in system so I can know that you are happy with me.”
“I am always happy with you,” Pura answered, refusing to be pulled into my suggestion.
I put my fork down and crossed my arms on the table. “Pura, if you belong to me completely than you must be willing to do things I ask you to do.”
“I am,” she replied.
"What level of happiness are you right now?”
“Ten,” she replied instantly.
I sighed in frustration. “You’re not taking me seriously. If you cannot do this for me, I will never be able to be the mistress you think I can be.”
Pura looked repentant.
Finally.
I think you're painting me unfairly, Mistress, if you don't mind me saying so. It wasn't that your suggestion was a bad one or that I'm a brat. *Grrr* It was that I honestly could not imagine that you could ever make me unhappy.
My apologies. Readers, Pura is not (usually) a brat.
Pura looked repentant. “I am sorry, Mistress. But I was being realistic. I am deliriously happy…” she trailed off at the doubtful look on my face. How could she be deliriously happy when she had just spent half an hour tearfully afraid I was breaking our pact?
“Alright,” she said softly. “I will answer thoughtfully as my mistress commands me to do. Right now, at this very moment, I am… Nine.”
That was pretty high, and I thought maybe the two of us had different ideas of what the scale represented. “Alright,” I said with a nod. “How about earlier today, when you came in to my room to get me for dinner?”
“When I walked in I was maybe at four,” she said. That was more like it! “And when you said I would have to leave your service I was at a two.”
“Not at one?” I asked.
She glanced up at me. “No Mistress. You told me that one is most unhappy and wishing I had never suggested becoming your servant. That was the opposite of what I was feeling.”
I had to accept that. I nodded. “Okay. What about even earlier? Like…when you were doing laundry.”
She thought about it. “Seven, probably.”
Seven was still pretty high, all things considered, but I was a little concerned. “You don’t like to do laundry?”
Pura responded with an insistent shake of her head. “No, it’s not that, Mistress. I am happy to do the laundry. I like the smell of detergent and bleach. I like to fold clothes. I only said Seven in comparison to how I feel now. I am always several points happier when you are home.”
I smiled at that.
It still makes me smile.
It's still true.
I hope so. *Smile* Happiness level?
Ten.
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