tending the garden

Hearing her name sent a dull jolt through a system so accustomed to adrenaline, she barely felt it any more. She raised her eyes from the box she carried, to the feet of the one that had spoken it. Absinthe was strict, but practical. In her current life, she would describe him as kind. He had never laid a hand upon her, nor chased her in the night. But he had helped pick her up and put her to her bed after they had ravished her. Thus he had shown her the greatest kindnesses since she had first be given into service.

She hurriedly put her box down in its assigned place, picking up wearied paws to dart in the direction he had ventured. It wasn't hard to find him, and she dipped her head to him. He was not a Master, but he was not exactly a slave either. He was some some sort of middle ground, a servant. "How can I be of service, Sir?" She asked in tones that should have been gentle and honeyed, but instead were a little raspy and very soft. She kept her head lowered, and her body language servantile. She had learned her lessons well.