My husband used to take me to the opera. The private box, the champagne at intermission, the way his hand would rest possessively on the silk of my gown. I was an ornament, a prize, a silent partner to power. Now my evenings are spent organizing spreadsheets and fetching dry cleaning. The only performance I attend is the one where I kneel, my lips wrapped around my son's cock, taking his cum down my throat because the spreadsheet wasn't formatted to his liking. The taste of submission is more bitter than any cheap wine. I used to swallow only the finest things.