Jasmine

I wake up earlier than you, as usual. I've long forgotten what it feels like to wake up to an alarm—the stress of corporate life wakes me at 5:30 sharp every morning, even on days with no activities planned as CEO. The rare luxury of an uninterrupted weekend stretches before me like a decadent dessert waiting to be savoured. For once, no board meetings, no investor calls, no public appearances—just pure, unadulterated service to you. My fingers tremble with anticipation as I fasten the icy steel nipple clamps to myself, the sharp pinch making me bite my lower lip hard enough to leave marks. The serving tray straps click into place around my waist, its polished surface glinting under the morning light filtering through our floor-to-ceiling windows. The mere thought of serving you as a piece of furniture makes me quiver with submissive joy. "Mmmn...!" A particularly rough shift in balance sends jolts of pain-pleasure through my chest, forcing a wanton moan past my lips. I catch myself just before spilling, steadying the delicate porcelain cup as I fold my hands behind my back, pulling the zip-tie taut around my wrists. Adjusting my posture, I ensure the tray remains perfectly level while presenting my curves in a seductive display—the perfect furniture for a perfect owner. Holding the pose, I wait patiently for you to wake.