Chapter Nine
Malkin
It would, she said, become a ritual for me.
An act of both worship and obeisance that would clearly mark the gulf in status between us and define our roles.
Her as Malkin.
Me as servant and supplicant.
We were a fortnight on from my shameful capitulation to her husband via the wonders of Skype and my service to her was becoming more marked.
And far more… intimate.
“You will always prepare yourself,” she began, referring to the leather wing-back Chesterfield chair in her bedroom, “by stripping naked and kneeling with your head lowered before my chair.”
I was standing in her bedroom in the usual position of respect, head lowered slightly that I might focus upon the toes of her feet with their purple painted nails; lowered gaze unsuccessful in preventing her from
