Domestic Service

As I’m sweeping the floor, I find myself thinking of last night, how you grabbed my hair as I sucked you off and thrust until you came, wild with desire. You’d been so gentle until that moment, polite. I run the thought over in my head, polishing it like a stone, lording over the fact that I’ve learned your body well enough to draw out your animal instincts, the latent beast within a gentleman. I mop the floor, change the laundry over, think of you biting my lip, forcing me on my knees when you get home, using me. I vacuum the living room, take out the trash, do the dishes. I want to be pinned beneath you with your full weight on me. I want you to bite my neck, call me a whore. I cook dinner. Take out the trash.

I’m wet by the time you get home, each task I accomplish another gift I can’t wait to give you. You come in the door and smile. You pull me in for a hug. “This looks wonderful.” You kiss me. “Good girl.”

From the way you’re touching me, I know what my reward will be, that we’re both turned on by a clean house

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