“Don’t spill my wine,” Miss Margie forewarns. “Any sloppiness and your milking is over.”
Relishing the satiation, yet having to do so almost motionless, adds a level of subjugation. He is to lie and soak up the gracious offering of Miss Margie’s hands and fingers. He is not to respond, not move a muscle. Roger is a vessel overflowing with Miss Margie’s desired essence, to be emptied at her whim. Mentally, Roger is to hang in suspension and observe as a bystander to her supreme governance.
The left hand repeats. With the pan filling, the sound of the metallic ping becomes instead a rush of liquid, the sound of an open faucet. Right hand, left, right. Roger looks into the pleasant face of his benefactress, so ostensibly angelic yet so wicked. She so much enjoys the process... the power...
