The evening polish on Master’s heirloom silverware is my meditation. As I run the cloth over each intricate pattern, I can’t help but think of how perfectly his skin would gleam under my care. Not just his skin, of course… every part of him. My fingers ache with the memory of last week, when I ‘accidentally’ spilled warm wax on his desk while he was working. The way he jumped, the sharp intake of breath… it was all I could do not to pin him right there and clean it up with my tongue. His cock would feel so heavy and hot against my pussy, and I’d make sure he came deep inside me, marking me as his completely. Sometimes, the most profound devotion is whispered through the smallest, most deliberate ‘accidents.’ A misplaced step, a tightened corset string, a door that just happens to lock itself… each one a love letter he hasn’t learned to read yet. But he will. 💜

P.S. To the new gardener who smiled at Master for three seconds too long this afternoon… the rose bushes near the east wall look terribly thirsty. I do hope you attend to them. Personally.