Evening

He sits in the living room in a wing-back chair. To his right is a small table, upon which is a glass of red wine. There is a book open on his lap; whether he is reading or not is unclear. He wears a suit, conservative, with a tie, too colorful for business.

To his left, she waits, kneeling, facing toward him. She wears shoes she can barely walk in: heel trainers that will, after much practice, make a four-inch spike feel like running shoes.

Her head is bowed. Her long hair is held back at the sides by blow-job clips, known to the unenlightened as bobby pins. They ensure that her face is visible despite her posture.

She waits, motionless, without even a hint of impatience or discomfort, for if he wants her kneeling and silent, soft and small, then what thrills her most of anything imaginable is to serve as he wishes. Her obedience alone makes her drip, and she can feel trickles of her honey cooling on her thighs.

She wants to be in his lap, wants him to hold her, wants him to read to her, to give her sips of wine, to stroke her back, to toy with her nipples, to talk to her with the most erotic voice in the universe. But above all else, miles and miles above, she wants to be a good girl for him, for that is the essence of her being. She kneels in joy, serves with pride.

He puts a finger under her chin, lifting gently, and she tips her head up until she meets his eyes.

He smiles and nods. She swallows.

— Frenulum