A little more on service that doesn't include sex

Non sexual service isn't something I've ever even pretended to understand before, if you said that was your thing, I'd probably have given you a funny look, been confused, pondered for a while, and then given up any kind of attempt to understand. 

Not so much any more. It would appear that for the right person, any form of service can appeal, and be fulfilling, and meaningful, and beautiful. My Sir does not demand that I kneel to offer him tea if I make it, I do it because it is my place, because when I am kneeling he can look down at me and smile and say 'thank you pet' in his soft, smooth rich voice. Then I can stand, and smile, and take care of his breakfast, or whatever else he might need. 

I know it doesn't make sense from the outside. Let me try again. Tell me that you want me to be something, and I'll try if I care about you at all, but eventually, I'll probably shrug and give up, yawn, get bored, and tell you to make your own damn tea. Let me watch the beauty of service from someone else, the way she kneels before you, the way the service is so natural, so effortless, and so perfect. Don't tell me that this is what you want from me, don't expect it, and somehow, apparently, the need grows in me to serve you. Not out of a desire to be her, or out of any jealous feelings, but because I aspire to please you to the best of my ability. This seems a new way for me to please you, and therefore I want to learn it. I want to perfect the art of service. Though don't get me wrong, I still want you to fuck my brains out, just not while I'm carrying your tea. 

Someone once tried to convince me that I was a pain slut. He said I was, that he would show me, that I would learn, that one day I would beg him for pain, I would beg him to make me bleed just with the strokes of the cane every week. He would beat me with the cane until I cried and begged him to stop, and then he would carry on. But somehow, all that time, I never let a safe word pass my lips. I just came to resent him, hate him even, for the pain he caused me again and again. I swore I would never be a pain slut. 

Then I met my Sir. And he didn't ask me to be a pain slut, nor did he tell me to. He didn't hurt me more than I could handle. In fact, he hurt me not quite enough, until I wanted more, and more and more, and he let me ask him, beg him, to hurt me. That, I think, is how I came to orgasm from a single punch. That is how I came to beg my Sir for pain, to ask him to hurt me, to beg him for his rage, to try to calm him from his frustrations by telling him that nobody would be as grateful as I for his anger. 

I am sure that service not including sex is not something everyone would enjoy. But for the right person, even making tea can be an act of love, an act to put love into. Receiving the tea can be an act of love just as much as an acceptance of it. Giving the punch as much an act of love as its receipt.