You are sitting on the couch, the latest book you’ve been pitched sitting in your hands as you read. The sunlight through the window dapples your long, smooth legs which are curled beside you on the couch as you read. It has been a few hours now, and the book is fine. It will not win any awards, but if you waited for the next Rowling or King, you’d never get anything published. That said, you could definitely use a break.
You call my name, and my voice carries from the kitchen, “Yes?”
“I need your help,” you say, and because of your tone and the words, I know what kind of help you need. I quickly toss a towel over the masa dough in the bowl and wash my hands. Then I hurry into the room.
“Come here,” you say, curling a finger at me and then putting it at the floor beside you. I blink and raise an eyebrow, my cheeks burning and kneel in the spot.
“Good boy,” you say and my cheeks burn hotter and my cock strains against the denim of my jeans.
“Thank you, ma’am.”