We are dressed to go out for the evening, elegant, impeccable. You place your hand on my chest, lightly caressing the expanse of milky skin before your deft fingers dip beneath the bodice of my dress, appraising a rigid nipple.
“You are mine,” you say, with the matter-of-fact intonation of custom. “You belong to me and you will do as I say.”
My body responds. I am wet. My heart skips a beat. I feel divine intoxicating weakness claim me. I nod and whisper “yes.”