The Auction

Green

Amelia's POV:

Our bedroom door shuts firmly behind me.

Atlas doesn't even turn his head, remaining prone, face down on our bed.

A small whine leaves me as I climb into bed, finally drawing his attention to me.

I frown at the bags under his eyes, trying to not get upset all over again.

His sad and tired gaze reminds me the tenderness of both our emotional and metal states.

"I'm going to put some ointment on your bottom..." Usually it wouldn't be a question, but I feel the need to leave it open ended since he still is in the yellow.

"Thank you, Mistress," he says softly, hesitating for a moment before reaching to caress the side of my leg.

"If you do not color back to green by tomorrow, should I assume you are green, or do you want me to wait?" I ask quietly, already applying ointment to him.

"I will color back to green before we go to bed... If we cuddle and you run your fingers through my hair, maybe you'll color back to green too."

"I'm green now, thank you," I assure him, calmed by being able to care for my submissive, slowly get him back on his feet.

He just nods, relaxing a bit too.

His cane marks are a light purple, only the start of a good bruise. Had he not been so tired, I think he would have liked it.

As I cap the ointment, Atlas turns to observe me.

"Are you going to reduce my hours, Mistress?" Atlas asks dejectedly, avoiding my gaze.

I consider his question seriously for a moment.

If we had a traditional relationship this wouldn't even be a question. For the sake of his chores, another dominant would sacrifice his passions and dreams. I would not though.

My father raised me better.

"...No..." I admit, making his gaze finally raise to mine.

"Thank you, Mistress. I promise I will work it out," Atlas assures.

"We will work it out... You know my mother doesn't do all the house work..." I draw slowly, receiving the sharp look of disapproval from my submissive despite his exhaustion.

"No, Mistress. They was never our deal and I am a man of my word. I meant it when I said I never wanted you in the kitchen or doing any homely things. Chores are my responsibility and work is my passion. I could never ask you to sacrifice your time because I didn't manage my passion and responsibilities," Atlas asserts.

"I didn't say that as your wife, Atlas," I remind softly, although the firmness of my words is not lost on him.

He opens and closes his mouth like he wants to argue.

"What will you do?" he finally asks, seeming lost and befuddled.

"Do? If you don't listen?" I question, mildly amused. Atlas has never resisted like this before, he rarely argued when I made decisions as a dominant.

"No, I mean... What will you do, come home and... cook?" I almost laugh at his words. He sounds so uncomfortable by the idea.

"You do it."

"I was raised that way though,  Mistress. That's the whole thing for dominants, you work hard all day but when you come home you don't have to lift a finger. It's not fair to you."

"And working my submissive to death is what you think is fair?" I question softly.

"Work is my—"

"Passion," I interject, knowing already exactly what he is going to say. He sighs, knowing what I am going to say too.

"You're not changing your mind, are you, Mistress?" Atlas finally asks.

"I get the sense you would almost me rather decrease your work hours?" I admit. He doesn't say anything, simply shaking his head. "Are you always going to feel guilty for working?"

"...Yes," he admits after a short moment. "It wasn't something I ever foresaw, but I also didn't think my mistress would want to work too."

"Maybe we can work on that... the guilt..." I suggest softly.

"How... Does it bother your mother that she doesn't perform as a submissive should?" Atlas finally asks after a moment. A protectiveness of her bubbles in me unexpectedly at his question and I quickly push it down, knowing he didn't mean it in an insulting way, insinuating that my mother wasn't a good submissive.

"My mother had much different upbringing, she wasn't raised as a submissive. She grew up in the Republic, my father trained her," I explain.

"And he trained her to not... perform as a traditional submissive?"

"My mother didn't want to be a service submissive really, not in the full time sense. She didn't want to be expected to do all the chores and household things, she wanted to work too, just like you. A dominant and submissive relationship is give and take, some submissives give differently just like some dominants. I'm not like your mother, that doesn't mean I don't fulfill the role of your mistress, right?"

"Of course not, Mistress," Atlas ponders softly, considering my words.

"And you serve me differently than other submissives, you contribute financially. Don't you think that means I as the dominant then give differently considering those circumstances?"

To him, he saw being allowed to work as a favor, but it was still work, still a responsibility, but one we now shared.

"I don't know what to think, Mistress," Atlas finally admits in a whisper.

"...Well, maybe you'll end up liking it..." I suggest.

He turns onto his back to look at me, putting his arms out, waiting for me to lay down with him.

Setting aside the balm I had been applying to him, I accept his embrace, laying in his arms.

"Maybe, Mistress... So what now?"

"Tomorrow I'll make you a new schedule with expectations and tasks, things I still expect of you. Maybe I'll pair up and cook dinner with my mom," I ponder.

"Maybe... maybe, Mistress. I could still cook dinners," Atlas interjects quickly.

My brows raised, the concern in his tone at my suggestion not lost on me.

"You don't like my cooking?" I'm not a submissive, I wasn't ever really raised to cook or clean. My mother didn't really cook either so she didn't teach me. I'm not offended, more amused, but now I wonder what my family has been telling him.

"No, that's not what I mean at all, Mistress. You've never cooked for me. I'm sure it would be delicious of course—"

"What has Eden said?" I demand, now wanting to know who ratted me out.

"Nothing, she said nothing. Toby may have just warned me—he was very polite though that you cook like... your mother?" Atlas struggles to find the words.

"I do not!" I cry indignantly, feeling the need to defend myself despite the truth to his words.

I really do cook like her, maybe worse.

"Of course not, Mistress. I am mistaken—" A finger over his lips silences him. Instead of nervous wide eyes before, a small grin spreads when he sees my playful smirk.

"Another word and you can choke down me and my mother's cooking for the next week," I tease.

He chuckles as I pull my hand away, running it through his tussled hair.

"Yes, Mistress..." he yawns, nuzzling his face into my hair. "Green..." he whispers softly, placing a kiss to my head.

A tension I hadn't realized I was holding releases and a happy sigh leaves me.

"I love you... I'm going to take care of us," I promise. His arms tighten around me and his lips graze my crown. I expect a protest almost from my submissive, but all I receive from him is an almost relieved sigh.