Another stab at Aisling Weaver‘s FuckMeFriday prompts.
I watch the way you look at them, your eyes on her hand as she feeds him, your brow creasing as she simpers.
Placing my hand on your thigh beneath your skirt, close to the rope you wear beneath your clothes, I lean in close to whisper in your ear, “Down, Pet.”
You automatically still, relaxing all the corners of your face.
You do not need to serve me openly or to flaunt what you are.
Across the table, she giggles, but this time you don’t frown. This time, your mouth creeps up into a secret smile.
And I can’t wait til we get home so I can fuck it off your face.