Like many submissives (and, I think, many women) I’m susceptible to anxiety and perfectionism. I tend to set myself unrealistically high standards, and then succumb to stress at the fear I’ll fail to meet them. It’s arrogant in a way – trying to be the best rather than aiming for a more moderate achievement. But there’s the desire to please in there, as well as to excel. And if left unchecked it can amount to self-sabotage, as the pressure mounts up and negatively affects performance.

When I experience this in my working or creative life, D/S can be a remarkably efficient tool to help me break the cycle. But when D/S is the subject of my anxiety, the usual solution isn’t so straightforward.

Tom was coming to visit early last week, and I knew that he and D had been plotting. Both of them had let slip, independently, that the plan was to give me the opportunity to earn my Domestic Service kinky merit badge. A roast dinner was mentioned, to be served in sexy lingerie and heels, and while the debauchery to follow wasn’t explicitly mentioned, it was certainly implicit.

It all sounded good to me. I love this stuff: I naturally incline towards feeding and looking after my loved ones, and doing so within the carefully negotiated space of a kink scene not only explicitly sexes it up, but it also lifts it above the back-and-forth of caring for each other in daily life, and enshrines my efforts in a way that makes me feel very appreciated.

For one reason and another – work stress, coming down with a cold, a flare-up of my chronic back pain – the preparations for this particular evening were inexplicably difficult. Some early misunderstandings and changes of plan left me emotionally unstable, and I ended up putting myself under far too much pressure. Every time we renegotiated expectations to something I felt like I could manage, I felt even guiltier about my inability to cope.

By the time the evening arrived, I felt overwhelmed by the idea of juggling both sides of it simultaneously. Under normal circumstances, I thought I could probably manage to calm myself down, take some painkillers, have a long soak in the bath, get dressed up and then feel relaxed, pretty and sexy and ready to play a scene with my doms. Or, perhaps in this sort of state I’d be able to cook a three course meal that was edible, serve it nicely, and then crash out with my boys, drink some wine and rest my aching back. But both, when I was this physically and emotionally fragile? It seemed impossible.

D kept reassuring me that they didn’t have lofty expectations and it would be okay. But this nagging voice at the back of my mind kept telling me that it had to be special, more so than just a normal evening where I cooked for people, or I wouldn’t deserve the badge and it would be pointless. I told the voice that my best would be good enough; that the point was the effort, not the result; that my boyfriends loved me and I loved them and an evening together would always be special.

When Tom arrived, I wasn’t sure if me or my doubts were winning. It was lovely to see him and all of us were trying to make it work, with Tom adding his voice to D’s that they had no intention to put pressure on me and would be happy with something simple. Tom even gave me a massage to help my back ache, and (at D’s suggestion) a spanking to help everything else. Gradually, with their help, my tearfulness and panic subsided, leaving me feeling a little more settled, but even after the spanking I was still tired out and downbeat.

During all of this it I realised that it was already 6pm and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so I decided to serve the soup early and see if some calories helped. I’d made leek, potato, carrot and bacon with homemade vegetable stock, and I served it with cream and black pepper. It went down well, and D and I finished the pot while Tom ran his bath. I did feel better after I’d eaten.

Once the chicken was in the oven (olive oil, black pepper, thyme and a little salt rubbed into the skin; a lemon and a sprig of fresh rosemary in the cavity) I started to regain some confidence: I was halfway through the cooking and nothing had gone wrong yet. I took the white wine out of the fridge and asked if Tom wanted a glass in the bath: he said yes. So I did, at least, get to serve him one drink properly, going onto one knee. He looked very tempting in his steamy nakedness, damp black hair curling on his chest, and I offered to soap his back.

I think that was the first moment I really felt properly connected with what we were doing that evening. Funny that it wasn’t the spanking, but this: squeezing raspberry-scented shower gel onto my palms and massaging the lather over Tom’s smooth upper chest, his solid arms, the soft skin down his sides. The sensuality of my sensitive palms describing circles in the lightly curled hairs on his tummy. I soaped his armpits, his neck, reaching up behind his ears. He stood up in the bath, co-operating fully, this smile sort of twinkling down at me. He turned around and I ran my hands thoroughly over his thighs and buttocks and back, savouring the intimacy. He knelt down again to let me rinse. Suddenly everything was okay. I felt wrapped in his dominance, his gentle enjoyment, his love.

Back in the kitchen, I sipped my own glass of wine and chattered to D, who’d decided to keep me company while I cooked. I accepted his cuddles, his rather toppy kisses and his offer of help with the vegetables. The chicken was smelling great. I served it with suede and carrot mash, broccoli, cabbage and gravy.

I put my heels back on to serve up, made sure everyone had a drink, and we fell to. The meal was informal, relaxed and convivial. So lovely to be able to spend time with both of them at once; to watch both of them enjoying my cooking. There was more than enough for everyone, and the wine was a rather nice bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

I was entirely unsurprised, not long after we’d finished eating, to find myself being offered dessert in the form of D’s delicious cock. Mmmm, my favourite. I made sure to put on a bit of a show for Tom, enjoying the erotic thrill of their combined appreciative gaze.

When Tom suggested I kneel on the sofa before carrying on, I knew what was coming. Hot, difficult and scary all at once: my hips bent and bottom exposed to Tom’s hard hand; with each smack, focussing on making sure my jaw stayed exactly where I’d put it. In some ways I prefer to be able to make the most of a single task at once, but the combined force of their attention was electrifying. Tom spanked me slowly, thoroughly; D was achingly turned on, and so was I. Rather than risk him with my teeth it seemed simplest to let him hold my head while I concentrated on relaxing my throat. This wasn’t about me putting on a pleasing performance any more, but simply about surrendering to their will. I was suspended between them, a conduit for the kinetic energy travelling through Tom’s arm, my bottom and transmitting itself through my throat into D’s cock.

After a while D let me up and signalled that Tom should take his place. I was delighted to find him as hard and ready as D had been, and applied myself to accommodating a different shape of cock and technique. Again, however, my grasp on things quickly slipped as D began distracting me with various sensations. I identified the sting of a riding crop finding the upturned curve of one buttock, then the other; seeking out the tender skin at the tops of my thighs. His palm provided a smooth, warm contrast. Tom’s hand on the back of my neck held me still, his thick cock filling my mouth, as D brought out the wide leather strap I love. Wordless communications crackled unseen above my head, and the solid impact of the strap was frightening, joyful and deeply satisfying. I lifted my hips and let the pain wash over me.

Then, D’s hands moving over the tingling skin of my bottom; his fingers finding my wetness, and then his cock. I had no control left at this point, no responsibilities except to keep from doing Tom an injury, and very little poise; just grateful, horny acceptance of the journey I was being taken on. Our fucking was emotionally and physically intense. They moved me as they would and I couldn’t even vocalise my reactions, except in the brief moments when I gasped for breath.

After D had taken his pleasure Tom took over, and I rested my elbows on the back of the sofa and took advantage of being able to cry out as much as I liked.

Sometime later I recovered myself enough to stumble to the kitchen, Dazed, tousled and feeling very, very lucky, I topped up our wineglasses, and settled back onto the sofa for some serious cuddling.

Still, although my mood had been thoroughly lifted, I did end up making one last, unplanned effort towards the service thing. It involved some gleefully spontaneous kitchen adventures, but in under an hour I was able to present an unexpected, somewhat improved homemade chocolate fudge cake, decorated with chocolate buttons and fudge icing. I daresay they’d have given me the badge without it, but it at least helped reassure myself that I’d earned it. (It’s telling that the two unplanned service gestures of the evening – the bathing and the baking – were both the most positive, in the end. Something I need to remember, I think.)

The rest of Tom’s visit was a joy: he and D got on well, the three of us had a great time together, and sharing a bed with him was bliss (especially that first night, when our horny mood continued not only before we went to sleep, but the next morning too). When, halfway through Tuesday, I suddenly came down with a stinking cold, at least it went some way towards explaining my fragility the day before.

Despite being ill, emotionally I ended Tom’s visit feeling far better than I started it. With both my boyfriends looking after me; the memories of what had turned out to be an excellent evening; Tom’s visibly improved health and the affection and relaxation between the three of us, I had a lot of things to feel good about. Plus, of course, the pleasure of being given another badge to add to my collection, even though earning it hadn’t looked exactly like I’d expected.