His Routine.

I wake up naked. 

This has always had a profound effect on me; it is just comfortable enough to sleep like a baby and just uncomfortable enough to feel like a whore. Everyday for the past fourteen years I have woken up naked with my legs slightly parted. Nowadays I mutter the word *whore* under my breath. 

I dress the same everyday too. That's how he likes it and how he told me to dress. Most people I know don't have rules like this for life but I like it. I don't just like it, it betters my life as well. I don't have a routine at work or anything else so following the routine he set for me fulfills a need that all human beings seem to have, and resist. We function better if we have a routine, at least, a little bit of a routine; a morning routine for some people, a routined day for others or just a sleep routine. It lends a little bit of safety to our days when we add eventualities.  The eventualities I added for him comprise the routine I adore; the one that keeps me safe. 

After I wake up I shower and make the coffee. And then I pick out one of the dozen A-line black skirts from my cupboard and pair it with one of the dozen lilac shirts that I have. He loves lilacs; I even grow them for him in the garden. After I get dressed and before I put on my black shoes I pick out a bunch of lilacs from the garden and leave them for him in a vase in the kitchen. 

Before I leave for work I remove my night collar which is made of thick studded leather and put on my day collar. He likes being the only one who sees or touches my night collar. It makes me feel like he owns my sexuality; I like possessive men. The day collar is delicate silver that clings to my neck. It is kind of like me, he once told me, it is gentle and beautiful. 

Once I leave for work there isn't much of a routine I can follow but everyday right before I take a break for lunch, I find a quiet corner and think of him. It's a strange thing that he likes me to do but once I started doing it I found I truly enjoyed it. He is my favorite thing to think about; thinking about him is meditative. Having done it gets me through the rest of the day. 

Once I am home in the evening, I shower and remain naked through the evening. He relishes nudity and enjoys watching me in my entirety. Most of the time I don't even notice him staring at me. The only time I put on clothing is when I'm cooking; I wear the lilac and black apron he bought me. I was so touched when he bought it for me, that might have been the moment I decided to become his. 

The last part of my routine was added by me six years ago but I know that he approves. Right before I go to bed, I go to his study and kneel before him. Time was he used to acknowledge me and tell me that I pleased him immensely. 

But such is my lament that ashes in an urn can't talk. 

Still I tell him about my day and ask him if there's anything he wants to do me or wants me to do for him. He won't answer, I know but maybe someday I'll hear him anyway. 

It doesn't matter that he's gone. 

His control over me is still alive; I may not be with him but I'm still his. 

I'm his widow.

I'm still his. 

....... 

(This is fiction)