There’s a stereotype of Dominatrix serviced by men eager to please, men doing everything for their Goddess so she need never left a finger around the house. Hats off to any Domme who has managed to achieve this, mostly I’ve found so called ‘domestic subs’ or ‘service subs’ take more work then they are worth. Whether intentionaly or not, they often do a terrible job of cleaning, citing lack of education for their ineptitude (hint: it’s not that hard guys, and if it really confounds you there are endless websites dedicated to the subject). They then come looking for praise or punishment, rewards in time spent or acts given. The cleaning is never really about helping me, but about them. What can they get for doing this for me?
Don’t get me wrong, that can be fun, and if you pay for a session we can totally indulge that fantasy. But, if I welcome you into my home and don’t charge you I expect you to do a fucking good job, without taking up my time. It’s not that difficult to just do it myself or hire a cleaner.
Whenever possible I enjoy having a domestic sub because I get a kick out of someone giving up their time to help me with NO dream of reward, I love knowing that my house has been lovingly cleaned as opposed to given a once over by a low paid cleaner or someone looking for cheap thrills. It delights me to know my happiness is driving everything that person does, it is behind every decision they make in my house. A good domestic sub is a rare thing to find, and an absolute treasure. I’m lucky enough to have one at the moment, and below he has written an account of his experience of cleaning my bathroom.
It is a Tuesday, and I go to work with my gym bag slung over my shoulder. The bag is heavier than most days, containing not gym gear but an assortment of cleaning products, sprays, bleaches, sponges, cloths and a cheap toothbrush, bought specifically for one task.
Today I’m cleaning for Sir Claire Black.
As soon as my work day is over, there is no time to go home or eat. Instead, I rush from SW London to Finsbury Park, and just over an hour after shutting down my PC I’m ringing the doorbell and being ushered in. I say hello, how are you, as Sir Claire settles on their sofa to study their laptop. Probably, hopefully, I’m already invisible to Sir as, without invitation, I strip down and make my way to the bathroom. Sir Claire will not see or hear from me again for an hour, perhaps two, unless they check my progress. I unpack my supplies, size up the room, decide on my plan. I have only a small window of Sir’s time and have to do this properly.
I carefully clear the room of a large pot plant (who I’ve named Colin), beauty products, toiletries, toothbrushes, a free standing mirror, and various bric-a-brac, placing everything on the kitchen table and start by emptying most of a bottle of descaling solution into the toilet. It needs deep cleaning, so I will leave that to work for at least an hour. I wipe down surfaces, starting with windows, getting rid of dust, debris, brushing it to the floor, which will be cleaned last. My eye is super-critical. I don’t expect praise from Sir, but would be mortified if Sir spots anything I’ve missed. Next I bleach grouting, and leave that to work for a moment. I’m not wearing gloves for this. My hands and bare feet will be bleached clean white by the end of the task. My eyes smart a little from the fumes.
As a domestic sub, I might claim that my mind has entered a Zen-like state, and in fact there is a lightening of my worries, but my mind isn’t Zen-like. I am thinking of Sir, always, and I am driven to do my best and be useful to Sir. I want this room clean so that Sir doesn’t have to clean it, SHOULDN’T have to clean it. Lighten Sir’s burdens, if only by a small percentage.
Whilst the bleach is working on the grout, I turn my attention to a large hinged shower screen. It is covered in a layer of ingrained soap scum and cleaning this will require some time. I make my first attack, spraying it and wiping it down without making much impression. I spray it again, focusing on one small area, and put my back into it. Rubbing. Buffing. Rubbing. I’m still thinking of Sir, but it’s like a background thing as I wrestle with the shower screen.
I cannot explain how I got here. I originally came to Sir Claire as a masochist, interested in Sir’s fists and boots, and had been given what I needed, my body bruised, and my mind expanded. Walking a fine line between gratitude and obsession, I tried other fetishes. Domestic Sub wasn’t one of them, but I found that more and more I wanted to be on Team Sir, to be helpful, useful. So, when I was asked to clean, I cleaned, and found that my mentality fitted the role almost perfectly.
The shower screen looks a bit better, but more work needed there. I don’t pause, don’t rest. No time. Keep moving. I go back to the grouting and start scrubbing it with a Sainsbury’s economy toothbrush. That same brush I will use on corners and where the bath joins the floor. Stains and mould give in. I wipe, then have another go at the shower screen. As I do so, I start thinking about the floor, the mini-bin, the toilet brush. All need attention. I find myself kneeling over the toilet, and think to myself that there must be a lot of subs out there who’d envy me right now. I feel happy, content. I’m not here for any reward, DEFINITELY not here hoping for Claire Time or free pain. The satisfaction is in the moment itself. Hmm, maybe there IS a Zen thing going on. I empty the bin of sanitary towels, pink-stained with Sir’s blood, used toilet rolls, other rubbish. I sweep behind the basin then wipe it. I bleach the toilet brush, clean its stand, then leave a pool of bleach in it to keep it clean between uses.
I attack the shower screen a fourth time, and descale the shower head, clean the soap dish, shine the taps. I clean the bath. Everything that I removed from the room is now returned, but arranged neatly, almost with feng shui precision. I check Colin’s soil and return the plant to its spot. I buff the mirror. I am vaguely aware of a shadow at my shoulder, Sir Claire looking in on me on silent feet. I hope with silent approval. I check the time. 120 minutes have passed in a flash.
I am cleaning the floor now, finding what I mistake for a gold-wrapped candy bar (it was a tampon), some coins, a forgotten sock. The toilet is flushed of chemicals, scrubbed by hand, flushed again. It looks better.
I have finished, or so I thought, but Sir Claire spots some dust on the window frame that I quickly clean up, mortified, and then I really am done. Not physically arduous but I feel a sense of muscle ache mixed with well-being, like a good gym session, my act of virtual worship complete. I realise I’m hungry and in need of a sugar rush. Time to go home. I get dressed and am gone, forgotten of course, I’m just the visiting help. Sitting on the train I feel a glow, a deep sense of fulfilment, not that different from the feeling after a good Sir Claire Black beatdown. My gratitude to Sir wells up again, and I look at Amazon for a suitable gift of thanks …