Proper Care of Your submissive miss

       After wrestling with it for two or three hours, I was possibly two or three minutes away from finally getting a critical piece of software I'd installed to work properly, when there was a rustle of skirt in the doorway behind me.

       "Sir."  I didn't need to look round - I could feel her head bowed.

       I growled impatiently, "What the hell is it, Priscilla?  I'm right in the middle of something I'm about to slit my wrists over, and if you make me lose my train of thought, I might have to kill ya."

       "Sir, this wretched whore requests permission to take a bath."

       Still without turning round, I waved a hand back at her dismissively, and said, "Sure - sounds great - now take your rubber ducky and get the hell out of here."

       "Yes, Sir.  Thank you, Sir."

       I heard the sound coming from her, but I didn't want to hear it.  Damn it, I needed to finish doing this.  Awwww...hell.  She'd turned round, and was almost out the door when I spun my chair and stopped her.  "Priscilla!"

       She slowly turned herself back toward me, and bowed her head again.  "Yes, Sir?"  I could hear her lips trembling.

       "You're crying, Pris.  What are you crying about?  What's wrong?"

       She shook her head and mumbled, "It's nothing, Sir.  I'm sorry, Sir."

       I motioned impatiently to her with my hand.  "Come here, Pris.  Get the hell over here, now."

       She approached somewhat like a child fearful of being punished, knelt in front of me, and pressed her forehead to my knee - my left knee, if I recall correctly.  I said, "Hey, look at me.  What's wrong?"

       Her eyes were brimming with tears as she lifted her head, and intoned, "Sir, I'm a wicked, sinful girl."

       I confess that one of my many character flaws is that my usual immediate response to anyone else being ultra-serious is to be flip.  "Well, hell, Pris, I know that.  You think you could be a bit more specific?"

       As the tears spilled over from her eyes onto her cheeks, she said, "I shouldn't bother you, Sir.  I'm sorry."

       I reached out a hand to lift her chin, and said - this time, in all seriousness, looking directly into her eyes, "Hey, you.  Here's the thing, Pris...God save me from ever forgetting that at every moment of the day, you are the most important thing in my life."

       She managed a weak smile, as she pressed my hand to her face.

       It's not really important what Priscilla was crying about that night.  It doesn't even matter if it was nothing more than she'd suddenly become emotionally devastated over finding a deceased caterpillar on the doorstep.  What matters, the only thing that matters, really, is that - despite the fact that I didn't exactly "feel like it" - I attended to her when she needed my attention.

       That's what you do when you love someone.  And that's what matters.