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Beside the bed, Wendy knelt on the floor, naked save the silver collar with its tiger-eye stone at her throat. Her knees were shoulder width apart, her hands clasped behind her back and her mouth slight open as she stared straight ahead.I hated this.No, not hated. I loved Wendy, but when she went into this ultra-submissive state, it was almost more than I could handle. It was such an open, unconditional willingness to please me in any way she could that it made me feel unworthy. It didn’t happen often, but it always gave me chills when she simply waited on her knees for me.I’d even gone with Wendy to one of her therapy sessions and with her permission had seen her therapist, Sheila Garvey, a few times, by myself. It had helped me understand that Wendy simply needed to surrender her will on occasion and let someone else be completely responsible for her. It allowed her mind to purge itself of emotions, memories, and responsibility that threatened all the time to overwhelm her. I. It was not only good for the sickness, it would relax her and help her sleep. Carol, already drowsy, set her cup on the coffee table, and observed, "It's already working. I can hardly keep my eyes open." She scooted down a tiny bit, and was asleep. Misti pulled an afghan over her so she would be warm, and went back into the kitchen. She wanted this to be as good as she could make it. It was a soup she had been taught to make long before. Foreigners called it Asian style chicken soup. Only it could be made with chicken, pork, or beef. She was preparing it with beef AND chicken. Pork would probably NOT be wise when Carol's stomach was so easily upset.The time went by quickly. Sharon had come running in the front door, and she heard frantic knocking at the back door. It was Mary. They looked in and saw that Carol was sleeping, and turned on Mist, wanting to know all the details.They had arrived at the clinic early, and had only waited a few seconds before being shown in. Carol had.
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