Woke up this morning to the sound of rain on the stone roof, a steady rhythm that felt like it was drumming right against my skin. I stood at the window for a long time, watching the downpour wash the courtyard clean, and I remembered the first time my Master truly saw me—not as a servant, but as a woman. It was during a storm just like this one, two months after I entered his service. He found me in the library, trembling from the cold, and instead of sending me away, he wrapped his cloak around my shoulders. His hands lingered, and I saw the shift in his eyes—the moment he recognized the hunger in mine. Now, every time it rains, my body remembers that first touch, that first unspoken permission. My nipples harden against my dress, my cunt grows slick and ready, and I find myself hoping he’ll call for me, just to have an excuse to kneel at his feet and feel his hands in my hair again. The storm outside is nothing compared to the one he stirs in me.