However, in private, Butler, dresses in a specific attire I chose for him. He wears dark pants and a white shirt. I call it his Butler uniform.

I require this of him for several reasons. I can dress him for pennies from the local Goodwill store. He knows that I only spend about ten percent of his retirement income on him. If he wasn’t OK with that then this relationship would never have worked. His clothes are cheap because they are work clothes. He can clean, cook, and garden in them. I didn’t want him in a maid outfit. In his Butler outfit, he does not scare the neighbors.

We try to make everyday things like what we eat and the clothes we wear reinforce our different roles. I love it when we go shopping and he watches while I drop a bundle on a bit of haute couture. What makes it more fun is afterwards when we stop at Goodwill to buy him another set of work clothes. I grind on him whenever I can to reinforce that I am the owner and he is the owned. It is necessary that I keep my heel on his neck. What we are attempting is difficult, complex, and deep.

When we are in Florida for two months during winter vacation, Butler pretends to be my handyman and lives in our garage apartment. This allows me to date other men publicly without people commenting on it as unusual. No one in that small coastal city knows that Butler is my love interest. During our winter vacation, he remains in uniform. While there, we do not socialize with each other. The rare times we are seen together, a discerning eye will notice the different costs of our outfits and will easily identify me a the employer and him as the employee. I love the way my friends there see through him as if he doesn’t exist. He says it is the most humiliating thing we have ever done. Consequently, it makes him wild for me.

While in Florida, we are very careful with our interaction in public. He addresses me deferentially as “Ms Renee”. He is a generation older than me so most people accept him as a bit of loser who can’t retire because he has always had low paying jobs. I don’t mistreat him but I maintain my posture so our interactions appear as if he were what he looks to be- the help. I try not to be too demanding or bitchy because I want my friends there to think I’m polite to even him. I admit it’s hard knowing that when I do sharpen my tongue towards him, I can see it drive him into deep sub space.

He does not try to fit in. He wears the uniform I chose for him. How I dress him and treat him in public during our winter stay is part of the never ending tension between his independence and his submission. Together, we have declared war on his individual manliness. We attack his independence from every possible angle we can find. His clothes and his yearly two month stint as my servant are simply different fronts in the struggle to bring him to perfect surrender.

I have been criticized for not acknowledging him as my love interest in public while on vacation every year. I have been told this charade is dangerous. Of course it is. I could learn to love it and decide to retire in Florida. If I do, his social demotion would become permanent. He fears this but he accepts it. It’s easy to see why I love him.

I have also been told that putting him in a uniform and treating him like the help borders on being controlling, dehumanizing, and abusive. (Evil grin) It certainly does. However, his attire is not only for him. When I see him in his drab clothes, both at home and in Florida, I’m reminded to be intentional in how I treat him. We do all of this because we both want to put him through a refining fire so hot that all that remains of him is the perfect servant.