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I have this recurring fantasy of waking up a billionaire. Yeah, unique, I know.

I will move to Atlanta again, somewhere in north Atlanta. I’ve fantasized about it so many times that I can see the property, see the cottage-style house- deceptively small-looking on the outside- the heavy oak tree off to one side, the 4-stall barn behind and the 5-7 acres of pasture around it. I can see the roses twining up the arbor and smell their heady perfume as they mingle with night-blooming jasmine and morning glories to shade me while I take my tea beneath their flowers. I can see my Lipizzaner gelding in the pasture, tail twitching lazily while he grazes alongside 2 mares, and I can see the graceful, comfortable furniture on my front porch, inviting my guests to sit for a while with a glass of sweet tea.

Inside my house, I can see the sitting room, with its original hardwood floors and simple lines of elegantly comfortable furniture, a warm rug of alpaca wool, and the polished bookshelves alongside the stone fireplace, filled with my favorite books- an eclectic mixture of fiction and reference, fantasy and science. I can see my kitchen- the heart of my home- with its bright breakfast nook bathed in warm sunlight, and the kitchen-proper with its big island and granite countertops where all of my favorite cooking toys will stay. Then, completing the circuit I walk through my home, there is the formal dining room with its simple, old-fashioned elegance, the heavy wooden table that was my grandmothers, large enough to seat 16 with the leaves put in, surrounded by china cabinets in each corner displaying my teacup collection that was hers, as well as my antique crystal, silver, and the set of antique china I don’t use. The floor here is softened by a thick Turkish carpet, and above the shining length of table hangs an elegant chandelier, a thing of gentle curves and subtle beauty. Continuing back around to the front door, is a small room, a creation of light- all huge, sunny windows and filled with plants and comfortable, overstuffed chairs. The door to this room stays closed, a private retreat where only a few intimates are ever invited.

Continuing up the stairs, the visitor finds 4 bedrooms, the master mine of course- again, simply elegant and comfortable. A huge bed, large enough to sleep 4 comfortably, with crisp white sheets and a simple white spread that glows against the dark wood of the posts (of course it’s 4-poster- and reinforced- what did you expect?) and the swooping headboard which rises from behind the mound of pillows dominates one side of the room, with an antique dresser off to one side, and an ancient seachest at the foot of it. The other side of the room is a small sitting area, facing my small fireplace and flanked by comfortable, overstuffed chairs and another thick, soft alpaca rug.

My bathroom lies to one side, a large room with a sunken garden tub and a huge window that overlooks my property, surrounded by plants and mixing in with my various lotions and unguents. Beyond my bedroom and down the hall a little, are three more rooms. One is clearly my library and study, another light-filled room but the windows carefully tinted to protect the books from UV rays and another small fireplace backing up to my own, and every spare inch of the walls covered in bookshelves and overflowing with books. Books on politics, sociology, religions, biology, astronomy, veterinary medicine, anthropology, geography, and every novel I have ever loved. This room is almost masculine in nature, the chairs designed for long stays and study sessions, and a desk tucked into one corner with the various bits of technology I enjoy. The last two rooms are almost plain by contrast: one is clearly a guest bedroom, decorated in soft yellowy creams and light blues, colors to appeal to either gender, the bed covered in an antique quilt and large, fluffy pillows and a dresser matching the bed to one side beside a small bookcase and desk, clearly waiting for my next guest. This bedroom shares another large, airy, bathroom with one last room. This is clearly a bedroom as well, made up to the tastes of its occupant but its details are never clear to me. Only one thing is always utterly clear: the collar that sits on the dresser beneath the mirror, waiting for its occupant.


When I visit my home in my dreams, my boy is always there with me. I don’t know yet who he is, or where I will find him. But in my dreams, he is there. He greets me at the door when I come home, slipping gracefully to his knees and pressing his face into my hand as I stroke his cheek in greeting. His collar is smooth and cool beneath my fingertips, and he takes whatever I am carrying and puts it away.

Sometimes, he comes home with me, as though we spend the days together. As soon as we arrive home, he puts our things away and goes to strip and get his accoutrements while I fix a cup of tea. While it’s steeping, I curl up on the sofa with a deep sigh of contentment, knowing that as soon as its ready, it will be brought to me, steaming and perfectly prepared. Once its brought to me, I sip it, savoring the warm weight of his head in my lap as I stroke him gently, sipping my tea and unwinding.

Later, we’ll play. Later, we’ll fix dinner and we’ll discuss our days. But in my dreams, this little ritual is sacred and nothing short of a pressing emergency will interrupt it.
How he spends his days while I’m in class (yes, even as a billionaire I’ll stay in school. That nerd thing, remember?) is never completely clear… perhaps he will have a part-time job, or be in grad school. He won’t need to worry about income, certainly, but perhaps he will be one of those who needs to work to be happy.

But every day, when I come home, once the teacup is empty, in my dreams I hand it back to him and he goes and washes it out, and he returns to me, kneeling and waiting expectantly. His eyes are bright, and so are mine. I reach for what he’s fetched from his bedroom this afternoon, as he does every afternoon. His buttplug, a small bottle of warming lube, a length of silk rope, a small towel, his gag, and the nipple clamps. First, he presents his ass to me, and I slip the plug in easily, many evenings in it having taught his body to accommodate the device easily. This is secured by a simple rope harness around his waist, separating around the front to cup his cock and balls and place them on display for me even as they hold the plug in tightly. Once this is settled, and he’s kneeling back up for me, the gag is fitted into place, the phallic head to it slipping easily between his parted lips. He closes his eyes as it stretches his mouth just a little, and I buckle it comfortable, leaving a black expanse backing with a small eyebolt starkly silver against it. From here, the clamps are attached, and the way he winces and shifts a little delights me every single day, especially as I thread the chain between the clamps through the eyebolt on the outside of the gag, ensuring his careful attention to how he moves at all times. Now, now he is ready to begin the evening’s chores while I study. His nuzzles my hand one last time before rising gracefully, carefully, to begin cleaning while I take my books to the library to study until it’s time to make dinner.

Later, after dinner, perhaps we'll visit the playroom beneath the main floor.