The chauffeur opens the back door. She emerges. She wears a bespoke suit, sheer hose, a soie-de-chine blouse, with jewelry tastefully abundant and entirely genuine. Her stiletto heels are so tall that her feet are nearly en pointe; she is so accustomed to them that her stride is long and confident. She exemplifies a template: debutante, sorority sister, socialite, trophy.
He waits at the front door, watching her approach. She holds his eyes until they are close, then drops her gaze. He stands back to let her in.
He grips her hair and pulls downward; she sinks to her knees. He strokes her face and, when her mouth opens in response, puts three fingers inside her, stroking her tongue as she struggles against reflexes.
He says: “Welcome. Your room is on the third floor. Turn left at the top of the stairs, and look for the door with a bow on it. Your uniform of the day is laid out on your bed. You may have an hour to freshen up and change.
“I do not expect to hear your voice until I ask you a direct question, or cause you to cry out. You may go.”
He watches her as she ascends the stairs to her new life.
— Frenulum
No comments:
Post a Comment